CHAPTER 42. MISCHIEF

I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this manuscript

is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at that tremendous

short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it, in my sense of

responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only add, to what I have

already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a

patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me,

and which I know to be the strong part of my character, if it have any

strength at all, that there, on looking back, I find the source of my

success. I have been very fortunate in worldly matters; many men have

worked much harder, and not succeeded half so well; but I never could

have done what I have done, without the habits of punctuality, order,

and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one

object at a time, no matter how quickly its successor should come upon

its heels, which I then formed. Heaven knows I write this, in no spirit

of self-laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I do mine,

in going on here, from page to page, had need to have been a good man

indeed, if he would be spared the sharp consciousness of many talents

neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted

feelings constantly at war within his breast, and defeating him. I

do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I have not abused. My

meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have

tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself

to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in

small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed

it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from

the companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and

hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment on this

earth. Some happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the

two sides of the ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of that

ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no

substitute for thorough-going, ardent, and sincere earnestness. Never

to put one hand to anything, on which I could throw my whole self; and

never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was; I find, now,

to have been my golden rules.

How much of the practice I have just reduced to precept, I owe to Agnes,

I will not repeat here. My narrative proceeds to Agnes, with a thankful

love.

She came on a visit of a fortnight to the Doctor’s. Mr. Wickfield was

the Doctor’s old friend, and the Doctor wished to talk with him, and

do him good. It had been matter of conversation with Agnes when she was

last in town, and this visit was the result. She and her father came

together. I was not much surprised to hear from her that she had engaged

to find a lodging in the neighbourhood for Mrs. Heep, whose rheumatic

complaint required change of air, and who would be charmed to have it in

such company. Neither was I surprised when, on the very next day, Uriah,

like a dutiful son, brought his worthy mother to take possession.

‘You see, Master Copperfield,’ said he, as he forced himself upon my

company for a turn in the Doctor’s garden, ‘where a person loves, a

person is a little jealous--leastways, anxious to keep an eye on the

beloved one.’

‘Of whom are you jealous, now?’ said I.

‘Thanks to you, Master Copperfield,’ he returned, ‘of no one in

particular just at present--no male person, at least.’

‘Do you mean that you are jealous of a female person?’

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

‘Really, Master Copperfield,’ he said, ‘--I should say Mister, but I

know you’ll excuse the abit I’ve got into--you’re so insinuating, that

you draw me like a corkscrew! Well, I don’t mind telling you,’ putting

his fish-like hand on mine, ‘I’m not a lady’s man in general, sir, and I

never was, with Mrs. Strong.’

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

‘What do you mean?’ said I.

‘Why, though I am a lawyer, Master Copperfield,’ he replied, with a dry

grin, ‘I mean, just at present, what I say.’

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

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

by my look?’

‘Yes,’ said I. ‘By your look.’

He seemed very much amused, and laughed as heartily as it was in his

nature to laugh. After some scraping of his chin with his hand, he went

on to say, with his eyes cast downward--still scraping, very slowly:

‘When I was but an umble clerk, she always looked down upon me. She was

for ever having my Agnes backwards and forwards at her ouse, and she was

for ever being a friend to you, Master Copperfield; but I was too far

beneath her, myself, to be noticed.’

‘Well?’ said I; ‘suppose you were!’

‘--And beneath him too,’ pursued Uriah, very distinctly, and in a

meditative tone of voice, as he continued to scrape his chin.

‘Don’t you know the Doctor better,’ said I, ‘than to suppose him

conscious of your existence, when you were not before him?’

He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance again, and he made

his face very lantern-jawed, for the greater convenience of scraping, as

he answered:

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

Maldon!’

My heart quite died within me. All my old doubts and apprehensions on

that subject, all the Doctor’s happiness and peace, all the mingled

possibilities of innocence and compromise, that I could not unravel, I

saw, in a moment, at the mercy of this fellow’s twisting.

‘He never could come into the office, without ordering and shoving me

about,’ said Uriah. ‘One of your fine gentlemen he was! I was very meek

and umble--and I am. But I didn’t like that sort of thing--and I don’t!’

He left off scraping his chin, and sucked in his cheeks until they

seemed to meet inside; keeping his sidelong glance upon me all the

while.

‘She is one of your lovely women, she is,’ he pursued, when he had

slowly restored his face to its natural form; ‘and ready to be no friend

to such as me, I know. She’s just the person as would put my Agnes up

to higher sort of game. Now, I ain’t one of your lady’s men, Master

Copperfield; but I’ve had eyes in my ed, a pretty long time back. We

umble ones have got eyes, mostly speaking--and we look out of ‘em.’

I endeavoured to appear unconscious and not disquieted, but, I saw in

his face, with poor success.

‘Now, I’m not a-going to let myself be run down, Copperfield,’ he

continued, raising that part of his countenance, where his red eyebrows

would have been if he had had any, with malignant triumph, ‘and I shall

do what I can to put a stop to this friendship. I don’t approve of it.

I don’t mind acknowledging to you that I’ve got rather a grudging

disposition, and want to keep off all intruders. I ain’t a-going, if I

know it, to run the risk of being plotted against.’

‘You are always plotting, and delude yourself into the belief that

everybody else is doing the like, I think,’ said I.

‘Perhaps so, Master Copperfield,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve got a motive, as

my fellow-partner used to say; and I go at it tooth and nail. I mustn’t

be put upon, as a numble person, too much. I can’t allow people in my

way. Really they must come out of the cart, Master Copperfield!’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said I.

‘Don’t you, though?’ he returned, with one of his jerks. ‘I’m astonished

at that, Master Copperfield, you being usually so quick! I’ll try to be

plainer, another time.---Is that Mr. Maldon a-norseback, ringing at the

gate, sir?’

‘It looks like him,’ I replied, as carelessly as I could.

Uriah stopped short, put his hands between his great knobs of knees, and

doubled himself up with laughter. With perfectly silent laughter. Not

a sound escaped from him. I was so repelled by his odious behaviour,

particularly by this concluding instance, that I turned away without any

ceremony; and left him doubled up in the middle of the garden, like a

scarecrow in want of support.

It was not on that evening; but, as I well remember, on the next evening

but one, which was a Sunday; that I took Agnes to see Dora. I had

arranged the visit, beforehand, with Miss Lavinia; and Agnes was

expected to tea.

I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety; pride in my dear little

betrothed, and anxiety that Agnes should like her. All the way to

Putney, Agnes being inside the stage-coach, and I outside, I pictured

Dora to myself in every one of the pretty looks I knew so well; now

making up my mind that I should like her to look exactly as she looked

at such a time, and then doubting whether I should not prefer her

looking as she looked at such another time; and almost worrying myself

into a fever about it.

I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty, in any case; but

it fell out that I had never seen her look so well. She was not in the

drawing-room when I presented Agnes to her little aunts, but was shyly

keeping out of the way. I knew where to look for her, now; and sure

enough I found her stopping her ears again, behind the same dull old

door.

At first she wouldn’t come at all; and then she pleaded for five minutes

by my watch. When at length she put her arm through mine, to be taken

to the drawing-room, her charming little face was flushed, and had never

been so pretty. But, when we went into the room, and it turned pale, she

was ten thousand times prettier yet.

Dora was afraid of Agnes. She had told me that she knew Agnes was

‘too clever’. But when she saw her looking at once so cheerful and so

earnest, and so thoughtful, and so good, she gave a faint little cry of

pleased surprise, and just put her affectionate arms round Agnes’s neck,

and laid her innocent cheek against her face.

I never was so happy. I never was so pleased as when I saw those two sit

down together, side by side. As when I saw my little darling looking up

so naturally to those cordial eyes. As when I saw the tender, beautiful

regard which Agnes cast upon her.

Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa partook, in their way, of my joy. It was

the pleasantest tea-table in the world. Miss Clarissa presided. I cut

and handed the sweet seed-cake--the little sisters had a bird-like

fondness for picking up seeds and pecking at sugar; Miss Lavinia looked

on with benignant patronage, as if our happy love were all her work; and

we were perfectly contented with ourselves and one another.

The gentle cheerfulness of Agnes went to all their hearts. Her quiet

interest in everything that interested Dora; her manner of making

acquaintance with Jip (who responded instantly); her pleasant way, when

Dora was ashamed to come over to her usual seat by me; her modest grace

and ease, eliciting a crowd of blushing little marks of confidence from

Dora; seemed to make our circle quite complete.

‘I am so glad,’ said Dora, after tea, ‘that you like me. I didn’t think

you would; and I want, more than ever, to be liked, now Julia Mills is

gone.’

I have omitted to mention it, by the by. Miss Mills had sailed, and Dora

and I had gone aboard a great East Indiaman at Gravesend to see her;

and we had had preserved ginger, and guava, and other delicacies of that

sort for lunch; and we had left Miss Mills weeping on a camp-stool on

the quarter-deck, with a large new diary under her arm, in which the

original reflections awakened by the contemplation of Ocean were to be

recorded under lock and key.

Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an unpromising

character; but Dora corrected that directly.

‘Oh no!’ she said, shaking her curls at me; ‘it was all praise. He

thinks so much of your opinion, that I was quite afraid of it.’

‘My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to some people whom he

knows,’ said Agnes, with a smile; ‘it is not worth their having.’

‘But please let me have it,’ said Dora, in her coaxing way, ‘if you

can!’

We made merry about Dora’s wanting to be liked, and Dora said I was a

goose, and she didn’t like me at any rate, and the short evening flew

away on gossamer-wings. The time was at hand when the coach was to call

for us. I was standing alone before the fire, when Dora came stealing

softly in, to give me that usual precious little kiss before I went.

‘Don’t you think, if I had had her for a friend a long time ago, Doady,’

said Dora, her bright eyes shining very brightly, and her little right

hand idly busying itself with one of the buttons of my coat, ‘I might

have been more clever perhaps?’

‘My love!’ said I, ‘what nonsense!’

‘Do you think it is nonsense?’ returned Dora, without looking at me.

‘Are you sure it is?’

‘Of course I am!’ ‘I have forgotten,’ said Dora, still turning the

button round and round, ‘what relation Agnes is to you, you dear bad

boy.’

‘No blood-relation,’ I replied; ‘but we were brought up together, like

brother and sister.’

‘I wonder why you ever fell in love with me?’ said Dora, beginning on

another button of my coat.

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

‘Suppose you had never seen me at all,’ said Dora, going to another

button.

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

I wondered what she was thinking about, as I glanced in admiring silence

at the little soft hand travelling up the row of buttons on my coat, and

at the clustering hair that lay against my breast, and at the lashes of

her downcast eyes, slightly rising as they followed her idle fingers. At

length her eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood on tiptoe to

give me, more thoughtfully than usual, that precious little kiss--once,

twice, three times--and went out of the room.

They all came back together within five minutes afterwards, and Dora’s

unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone then. She was laughingly resolved

to put Jip through the whole of his performances, before the coach came.

They took some time (not so much on account of their variety, as Jip’s

reluctance), and were still unfinished when it was heard at the door.

There was a hurried but affectionate parting between Agnes and herself;

and Dora was to write to Agnes (who was not to mind her letters being

foolish, she said), and Agnes was to write to Dora; and they had a

second parting at the coach door, and a third when Dora, in spite of

the remonstrances of Miss Lavinia, would come running out once more to

remind Agnes at the coach window about writing, and to shake her curls

at me on the box.

The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Garden, where we were

to take another stage-coach for Highgate. I was impatient for the short

walk in the interval, that Agnes might praise Dora to me. Ah! what

praise it was! How lovingly and fervently did it commend the pretty

creature I had won, with all her artless graces best displayed, to my

most gentle care! How thoughtfully remind me, yet with no pretence of

doing so, of the trust in which I held the orphan child!

Never, never, had I loved Dora so deeply and truly, as I loved her that

night. When we had again alighted, and were walking in the starlight

along the quiet road that led to the Doctor’s house, I told Agnes it was

her doing.

‘When you were sitting by her,’ said I, ‘you seemed to be no less her

guardian angel than mine; and you seem so now, Agnes.’

‘A poor angel,’ she returned, ‘but faithful.’

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

to me to say:

‘The cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes (and to no one else that

ever I have seen), is so restored, I have observed today, that I have

begun to hope you are happier at home?’

‘I am happier in myself,’ she said; ‘I am quite cheerful and

light-hearted.’

I glanced at the serene face looking upward, and thought it was the

stars that made it seem so noble.

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

‘No fresh reference,’ said I, ‘to--I wouldn’t distress you, Agnes, but I

cannot help asking--to what we spoke of, when we parted last?’

‘No, none,’ she answered.

‘I have thought so much about it.’

‘You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple love

and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me, Trotwood,’ she added,

after a moment; ‘the step you dread my taking, I shall never take.’

Although I think I had never really feared it, in any season of cool

reflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to have this assurance

from her own truthful lips. I told her so, earnestly.

‘And when this visit is over,’ said I,--‘for we may not be alone another

time,--how long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, before you come to

London again?’

‘Probably a long time,’ she replied; ‘I think it will be best--for

papa’s sake--to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often, for

some time to come; but I shall be a good correspondent of Dora’s, and we

shall frequently hear of one another that way.’

We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor’s cottage. It was

growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs. Strong’s chamber,

and Agnes, pointing to it, bade me good night.

‘Do not be troubled,’ she said, giving me her hand, ‘by our misfortunes

and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than in your happiness. If

you can ever give me help, rely upon it I will ask you for it. God

bless you always!’ In her beaming smile, and in these last tones of her

cheerful voice, I seemed again to see and hear my little Dora in her

company. I stood awhile, looking through the porch at the stars, with

a heart full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly forth. I had

engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was going out at the

gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw a light in the Doctor’s

study. A half-reproachful fancy came into my mind, that he had been

working at the Dictionary without my help. With the view of seeing if

this were so, and, in any case, of bidding him good night, if he were

yet sitting among his books, I turned back, and going softly across the

hall, and gently opening the door, looked in.

The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober light of the

shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, with one of

his skeleton hands over his mouth, and the other resting on the Doctor’s

table. The Doctor sat in his study chair, covering his face with his

hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning

forward, irresolutely touching the Doctor’s arm.

For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I hastily advanced a

step under that impression, when I met Uriah’s eye, and saw what was the

matter. I would have withdrawn, but the Doctor made a gesture to detain

me, and I remained.

‘At any rate,’ observed Uriah, with a writhe of his ungainly person, ‘we

may keep the door shut. We needn’t make it known to ALL the town.’

Saying which, he went on his toes to the door, which I had left open,

and carefully closed it. He then came back, and took up his former

position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zeal in his voice

and manner, more intolerable--at least to me--than any demeanour he

could have assumed.

‘I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah, ‘to

point out to Doctor Strong what you and me have already talked about.

You didn’t exactly understand me, though?’

I gave him a look, but no other answer; and, going to my good old

master, said a few words that I meant to be words of comfort and

encouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulder, as it had been his

custom to do when I was quite a little fellow, but did not lift his grey

head.

‘As you didn’t understand me, Master Copperfield,’ resumed Uriah in

the same officious manner, ‘I may take the liberty of umbly mentioning,

being among friends, that I have called Doctor Strong’s attention to the

goings-on of Mrs. Strong. It’s much against the grain with me, I assure

you, Copperfield, to be concerned in anything so unpleasant; but really,

as it is, we’re all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn’t to be. That

was what my meaning was, sir, when you didn’t understand me.’ I wonder

now, when I recall his leer, that I did not collar him, and try to shake

the breath out of his body.

‘I dare say I didn’t make myself very clear,’ he went on, ‘nor you

neither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined to give such a subject

a wide berth. Hows’ever, at last I have made up my mind to speak plain;

and I have mentioned to Doctor Strong that--did you speak, sir?’

This was to the Doctor, who had moaned. The sound might have touched any

heart, I thought, but it had no effect upon Uriah’s.

‘--mentioned to Doctor Strong,’ he proceeded, ‘that anyone may see that

Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agreeable lady as is Doctor Strong’s

wife, are too sweet on one another. Really the time is come (we being at

present all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn’t to be), when Doctor

Strong must be told that this was full as plain to everybody as the sun,

before Mr. Maldon went to India; that Mr. Maldon made excuses to come

back, for nothing else; and that he’s always here, for nothing else.

When you come in, sir, I was just putting it to my fellow-partner,’

towards whom he turned, ‘to say to Doctor Strong upon his word and

honour, whether he’d ever been of this opinion long ago, or not. Come,

Mr. Wickfield, sir! Would you be so good as tell us? Yes or no, sir?

Come, partner!’

‘For God’s sake, my dear Doctor,’ said Mr. Wickfield again laying his

irresolute hand upon the Doctor’s arm, ‘don’t attach too much weight to

any suspicions I may have entertained.’

‘There!’ cried Uriah, shaking his head. ‘What a melancholy confirmation:

ain’t it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless your soul, when I was nothing

but a clerk in his office, Copperfield, I’ve seen him twenty times, if

I’ve seen him once, quite in a taking about it--quite put out, you know

(and very proper in him as a father; I’m sure I can’t blame him), to

think that Miss Agnes was mixing herself up with what oughtn’t to be.’

‘My dear Strong,’ said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice, ‘my good

friend, I needn’t tell you that it has been my vice to look for some one

master motive in everybody, and to try all actions by one narrow test. I

may have fallen into such doubts as I have had, through this mistake.’

‘You have had doubts, Wickfield,’ said the Doctor, without lifting up

his head. ‘You have had doubts.’

‘Speak up, fellow-partner,’ urged Uriah.

‘I had, at one time, certainly,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I--God forgive

me--I thought YOU had.’

‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor, in a tone of most pathetic grief.

‘I thought, at one time,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘that you wished to send

Maldon abroad to effect a desirable separation.’

‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor. ‘To give Annie pleasure, by making

some provision for the companion of her childhood. Nothing else.’

‘So I found,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I couldn’t doubt it, when you told

me so. But I thought--I implore you to remember the narrow construction

which has been my besetting sin--that, in a case where there was so much

disparity in point of years--’

‘That’s the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield!’ observed Uriah,

with fawning and offensive pity.

‘--a lady of such youth, and such attractions, however real her

respect for you, might have been influenced in marrying, by worldly

considerations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelings

and circumstances that may have all tended to good. For Heaven’s sake

remember that!’

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

‘Always observing her from one point of view,’ said Mr. Wickfield; ‘but

by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I entreat you to consider

what it was; I am forced to confess now, having no escape-’

‘No! There’s no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,’ observed Uriah,

‘when it’s got to this.’

‘--that I did,’ said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and distractedly

at his partner, ‘that I did doubt her, and think her wanting in her

duty to you; and that I did sometimes, if I must say all, feel averse

to Agnes being in such a familiar relation towards her, as to see what I

saw, or in my diseased theory fancied that I saw. I never mentioned

this to anyone. I never meant it to be known to anyone. And though it

is terrible to you to hear,’ said Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued, ‘if you

knew how terrible it is for me to tell, you would feel compassion for

me!’

The Doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out his hand. Mr.

Wickfield held it for a little while in his, with his head bowed down.

‘I am sure,’ said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence like a

Conger-eel, ‘that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to everybody.

But since we have got so far, I ought to take the liberty of mentioning

that Copperfield has noticed it too.’

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

‘Oh! it’s very kind of you, Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, undulating all

over, ‘and we all know what an amiable character yours is; but you know

that the moment I spoke to you the other night, you knew what I meant.

You know you knew what I meant, Copperfield. Don’t deny it! You deny it

with the best intentions; but don’t do it, Copperfield.’

I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon me for a moment,

and I felt that the confession of my old misgivings and remembrances

was too plainly written in my face to be overlooked. It was of no use

raging. I could not undo that. Say what I would, I could not unsay it.

We were silent again, and remained so, until the Doctor rose and walked

twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to where his

chair stood; and, leaning on the back of it, and occasionally putting

his handkerchief to his eyes, with a simple honesty that did him more

honour, to my thinking, than any disguise he could have effected, said:

‘I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to blame.

I have exposed one whom I hold in my heart, to trials and aspersions--I

call them aspersions, even to have been conceived in anybody’s inmost

mind--of which she never, but for me, could have been the object.’

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

‘Of which my Annie,’ said the Doctor, ‘never, but for me, could have

been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as you know; I do not feel,

tonight, that I have much to live for. But my life--my Life--upon the

truth and honour of the dear lady who has been the subject of this

conversation!’

I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the realization of

the handsomest and most romantic figure ever imagined by painter, could

have said this, with a more impressive and affecting dignity than the

plain old Doctor did.

‘But I am not prepared,’ he went on, ‘to deny--perhaps I may have been,

without knowing it, in some degree prepared to admit--that I may have

unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappy marriage. I am a man

quite unaccustomed to observe; and I cannot but believe that the

observation of several people, of different ages and positions, all too

plainly tending in one direction (and that so natural), is better than

mine.’

I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his benignant manner

towards his youthful wife; but the respectful tenderness he manifested

in every reference to her on this occasion, and the almost reverential

manner in which he put away from him the lightest doubt of her

integrity, exalted him, in my eyes, beyond description.

‘I married that lady,’ said the Doctor, ‘when she was extremely young. I

took her to myself when her character was scarcely formed. So far as it

was developed, it had been my happiness to form it. I knew her father

well. I knew her well. I had taught her what I could, for the love of

all her beautiful and virtuous qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear

I did, in taking advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and

her affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart!’

He walked across the room, and came back to the same place; holding

the chair with a grasp that trembled, like his subdued voice, in its

earnestness.

‘I regarded myself as a refuge, for her, from the dangers and

vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal though we were in

years, she would live tranquilly and contentedly with me. I did not shut

out of my consideration the time when I should leave her free, and still

young and still beautiful, but with her judgement more matured--no,

gentlemen--upon my truth!’

His homely figure seemed to be lightened up by his fidelity and

generosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no other grace could

have imparted to it.

‘My life with this lady has been very happy. Until tonight, I have

had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her great

injustice.’

His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of these words,

stopped for a few moments; then he went on:

‘Once awakened from my dream--I have been a poor dreamer, in one way or

other, all my life--I see how natural it is that she should have some

regretful feeling towards her old companion and her equal. That she does

regard him with some innocent regret, with some blameless thoughts of

what might have been, but for me, is, I fear, too true. Much that I have

seen, but not noted, has come back upon me with new meaning, during

this last trying hour. But, beyond this, gentlemen, the dear lady’s name

never must be coupled with a word, a breath, of doubt.’

For a little while, his eye kindled and his voice was firm; for a little

while he was again silent. Presently, he proceeded as before:

‘It only remains for me, to bear the knowledge of the unhappiness I have

occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is she who should reproach; not

I. To save her from misconstruction, cruel misconstruction, that even my

friends have not been able to avoid, becomes my duty. The more retired

we live, the better I shall discharge it. And when the time comes--may

it come soon, if it be His merciful pleasure!--when my death shall

release her from constraint, I shall close my eyes upon her honoured

face, with unbounded confidence and love; and leave her, with no sorrow

then, to happier and brighter days.’

I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness and goodness,

so adorned by, and so adorning, the perfect simplicity of his manner,

brought into my eyes. He had moved to the door, when he added:

‘Gentlemen, I have shown you my heart. I am sure you will respect it.

What we have said tonight is never to be said more. Wickfield, give me

an old friend’s arm upstairs!’

Mr. Wickfield hastened to him. Without interchanging a word they went

slowly out of the room together, Uriah looking after them.

‘Well, Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah, meekly turning to me. ‘The thing

hasn’t took quite the turn that might have been expected, for the old

Scholar--what an excellent man!--is as blind as a brickbat; but this

family’s out of the cart, I think!’

I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly enraged as I never

was before, and never have been since.

‘You villain,’ said I, ‘what do you mean by entrapping me into your

schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now, you false rascal, as if we

had been in discussion together?’

As we stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy

exultation of his face, what I already so plainly knew; I mean that he

forced his confidence upon me, expressly to make me miserable, and had

set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter; that I couldn’t bear

it. The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly before me, and I struck

it with my open hand with that force that my fingers tingled as if I had

burnt them.

He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connexion, looking at

each other. We stood so, a long time; long enough for me to see the

white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of his cheek, and

leave it a deeper red.

‘Copperfield,’ he said at length, in a breathless voice, ‘have you taken

leave of your senses?’

‘I have taken leave of you,’ said I, wresting my hand away. ‘You dog,

I’ll know no more of you.’

‘Won’t you?’ said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek to put his

hand there. ‘Perhaps you won’t be able to help it. Isn’t this ungrateful

of you, now?’

‘I have shown you often enough,’ said I, ‘that I despise you. I have

shown you now, more plainly, that I do. Why should I dread your doing

your worst to all about you? What else do you ever do?’

He perfectly understood this allusion to the considerations that had

hitherto restrained me in my communications with him. I rather think

that neither the blow, nor the allusion, would have escaped me, but for

the assurance I had had from Agnes that night. It is no matter.

There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at me, seemed to

take every shade of colour that could make eyes ugly.

‘Copperfield,’ he said, removing his hand from his cheek, ‘you have

always gone against me. I know you always used to be against me at Mr.

Wickfield’s.’

‘You may think what you like,’ said I, still in a towering rage. ‘If it

is not true, so much the worthier you.’

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

I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, was going out to

bed, when he came between me and the door.

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

be one.’

‘You may go to the devil!’ said I.

‘Don’t say that!’ he replied. ‘I know you’ll be sorry afterwards. How

can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to show such a bad spirit?

But I forgive you.’

‘You forgive me!’ I repeated disdainfully.

‘I do, and you can’t help yourself,’ replied Uriah. ‘To think of your

going and attacking me, that have always been a friend to you! But there

can’t be a quarrel without two parties, and I won’t be one. I will be

a friend to you, in spite of you. So now you know what you’ve got to

expect.’

The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which was

very slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that the house might not be

disturbed at an unseasonable hour, did not improve my temper; though my

passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I should expect from

him what I always had expected, and had never yet been disappointed in,

I opened the door upon him, as if he had been a great walnut put there

to be cracked, and went out of the house. But he slept out of the house

too, at his mother’s lodging; and before I had gone many hundred yards,

came up with me.

‘You know, Copperfield,’ he said, in my ear (I did not turn my head),

‘you’re in quite a wrong position’; which I felt to be true, and that

made me chafe the more; ‘you can’t make this a brave thing, and you

can’t help being forgiven. I don’t intend to mention it to mother, nor

to any living soul. I’m determined to forgive you. But I do wonder

that you should lift your hand against a person that you knew to be so

umble!’

I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I knew myself. If

he had retorted or openly exasperated me, it would have been a relief

and a justification; but he had put me on a slow fire, on which I lay

tormented half the night.

In the morning, when I came out, the early church-bell was ringing,

and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressed me as if

nothing had happened, and I could do no less than reply. I had struck

him hard enough to give him the toothache, I suppose. At all events

his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief, which, with his hat

perched on the top of it, was far from improving his appearance. I heard

that he went to a dentist’s in London on the Monday morning, and had a

tooth out. I hope it was a double one.

The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and remained alone, for

a considerable part of every day, during the remainder of the visit.

Agnes and her father had been gone a week, before we resumed our usual

work. On the day preceding its resumption, the Doctor gave me with his

own hands a folded note not sealed. It was addressed to myself; and laid

an injunction on me, in a few affectionate words, never to refer to the

subject of that evening. I had confided it to my aunt, but to no

one else. It was not a subject I could discuss with Agnes, and Agnes

certainly had not the least suspicion of what had passed.

Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong then. Several weeks elapsed

before I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly, like a cloud

when there is no wind. At first, she seemed to wonder at the gentle

compassion with which the Doctor spoke to her, and at his wish that she

should have her mother with her, to relieve the dull monotony of her

life. Often, when we were at work, and she was sitting by, I would see

her pausing and looking at him with that memorable face. Afterwards, I

sometimes observed her rise, with her eyes full of tears, and go out

of the room. Gradually, an unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty, and

deepened every day. Mrs. Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage

then; but she talked and talked, and saw nothing.

As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the Doctor’s house,

the Doctor became older in appearance, and more grave; but the sweetness

of his temper, the placid kindness of his manner, and his benevolent

solicitude for her, if they were capable of any increase, were

increased. I saw him once, early on the morning of her birthday, when

she came to sit in the window while we were at work (which she had

always done, but now began to do with a timid and uncertain air that I

thought very touching), take her forehead between his hands, kiss it,

and go hurriedly away, too much moved to remain. I saw her stand where

he had left her, like a statue; and then bend down her head, and clasp

her hands, and weep, I cannot say how sorrowfully.

Sometimes, after that, I fancied that she tried to speak even to me,

in intervals when we were left alone. But she never uttered a word. The

Doctor always had some new project for her participating in amusements

away from home, with her mother; and Mrs. Markleham, who was very fond

of amusements, and very easily dissatisfied with anything else, entered

into them with great good-will, and was loud in her commendations. But

Annie, in a spiritless unhappy way, only went whither she was led, and

seemed to have no care for anything.

I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt; who must have walked,

at various times, a hundred miles in her uncertainty. What was strangest

of all was, that the only real relief which seemed to make its way into

the secret region of this domestic unhappiness, made its way there in

the person of Mr. Dick.

What his thoughts were on the subject, or what his observation was, I am

as unable to explain, as I dare say he would have been to assist me in

the task. But, as I have recorded in the narrative of my school days,

his veneration for the Doctor was unbounded; and there is a subtlety of

perception in real attachment, even when it is borne towards man by one

of the lower animals, which leaves the highest intellect behind. To this

mind of the heart, if I may call it so, in Mr. Dick, some bright ray of

the truth shot straight.

He had proudly resumed his privilege, in many of his spare hours,

of walking up and down the garden with the Doctor; as he had been

accustomed to pace up and down The Doctor’s Walk at Canterbury. But

matters were no sooner in this state, than he devoted all his spare time

(and got up earlier to make it more) to these perambulations. If he had

never been so happy as when the Doctor read that marvellous performance,

the Dictionary, to him; he was now quite miserable unless the Doctor

pulled it out of his pocket, and began. When the Doctor and I were

engaged, he now fell into the custom of walking up and down with Mrs.

Strong, and helping her to trim her favourite flowers, or weed the

beds. I dare say he rarely spoke a dozen words in an hour: but his quiet

interest, and his wistful face, found immediate response in both their

breasts; each knew that the other liked him, and that he loved both; and

he became what no one else could be--a link between them.

When I think of him, with his impenetrably wise face, walking up and

down with the Doctor, delighted to be battered by the hard words in the

Dictionary; when I think of him carrying huge watering-pots after Annie;

kneeling down, in very paws of gloves, at patient microscopic work among

the little leaves; expressing as no philosopher could have expressed,

in everything he did, a delicate desire to be her friend; showering

sympathy, trustfulness, and affection, out of every hole in the

watering-pot; when I think of him never wandering in that better mind

of his to which unhappiness addressed itself, never bringing the

unfortunate King Charles into the garden, never wavering in his grateful

service, never diverted from his knowledge that there was something

wrong, or from his wish to set it right--I really feel almost ashamed

of having known that he was not quite in his wits, taking account of the

utmost I have done with mine.

‘Nobody but myself, Trot, knows what that man is!’ my aunt would proudly

remark, when we conversed about it. ‘Dick will distinguish himself yet!’

I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. While the

visit at the Doctor’s was still in progress, I observed that the postman

brought two or three letters every morning for Uriah Heep, who remained

at Highgate until the rest went back, it being a leisure time; and that

these were always directed in a business-like manner by Mr. Micawber,

who now assumed a round legal hand. I was glad to infer, from these

slight premises, that Mr. Micawber was doing well; and consequently was

much surprised to receive, about this time, the following letter from

his amiable wife.

‘CANTERBURY, Monday Evening.

‘You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to receive

this communication. Still more so, by its contents. Still more so, by

the stipulation of implicit confidence which I beg to impose. But my

feelings as a wife and mother require relief; and as I do not wish to

consult my family (already obnoxious to the feelings of Mr. Micawber),

I know no one of whom I can better ask advice than my friend and former

lodger.

‘You may be aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that between myself and Mr.

Micawber (whom I will never desert), there has always been preserved a

spirit of mutual confidence. Mr. Micawber may have occasionally given

a bill without consulting me, or he may have misled me as to the period

when that obligation would become due. This has actually happened.

But, in general, Mr. Micawber has had no secrets from the bosom of

affection--I allude to his wife--and has invariably, on our retirement

to rest, recalled the events of the day.

‘You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperfield, what the

poignancy of my feelings must be, when I inform you that Mr. Micawber is

entirely changed. He is reserved. He is secret. His life is a mystery to

the partner of his joys and sorrows--I again allude to his wife--and if

I should assure you that beyond knowing that it is passed from morning

to night at the office, I now know less of it than I do of the man in

the south, connected with whose mouth the thoughtless children repeat

an idle tale respecting cold plum porridge, I should adopt a popular

fallacy to express an actual fact.

‘But this is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose. He is severe. He is

estranged from our eldest son and daughter, he has no pride in his

twins, he looks with an eye of coldness even on the unoffending stranger

who last became a member of our circle. The pecuniary means of meeting

our expenses, kept down to the utmost farthing, are obtained from him

with great difficulty, and even under fearful threats that he will

Settle himself (the exact expression); and he inexorably refuses to give

any explanation whatever of this distracting policy.

‘This is hard to bear. This is heart-breaking. If you will advise me,

knowing my feeble powers such as they are, how you think it will be best

to exert them in a dilemma so unwonted, you will add another friendly

obligation to the many you have already rendered me. With loves from the

children, and a smile from the happily-unconscious stranger, I remain,

dear Mr. Copperfield,

‘Your afflicted,

‘EMMA MICAWBER.’

I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micawber’s experience

any other recommendation, than that she should try to reclaim Mr.

Micawber by patience and kindness (as I knew she would in any case); but

the letter set me thinking about him very much.