No More Learning

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divorce-suit coming on, under an ingenious little statute (repealed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



CHAPTER 34. MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME


I wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her a long
letter, in which I tried to make her comprehend how blest I was, and
what a darling Dora was. I entreated Agnes not to regard this as a
thoughtless passion which could ever yield to any other, or had the
least resemblance to the boyish fancies that we used to joke about. I
assured her that its profundity was quite unfathomable, and expressed my
belief that nothing like it had ever been known.

Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my open window, and
the remembrance of her clear calm eyes and gentle face came stealing
over me, it shed such a peaceful influence upon the hurry and agitation
in which I had been living lately, and of which my very happiness
partook in some degree, that it soothed me into tears. I remember that
I sat resting my head upon my hand, when the letter was half done,
cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes were one of the elements of my
natural home. As if, in the retirement of the house made almost sacred
to me by her presence, Dora and I must be happier than anywhere. As if,
in love, joy, sorrow, hope, or disappointment; in all emotions; my heart
turned naturally there, and found its refuge and best friend.

Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had been sad grief
at Yarmouth, on account of Emily's flight; and that on me it made a
double wound, by reason of the circumstances attending it. I knew how
quick she always was to divine the truth, and that she would never be
the first to breathe his name.

To this letter, I received an answer by return of post. As I read it, I
seemed to hear Agnes speaking to me. It was like her cordial voice in my
ears. What can I say more!

While I had been away from home lately, Traddles had called twice or
thrice. Finding Peggotty within, and being informed by Peggotty (who
always volunteered that information to whomsoever would receive
it), that she was my old nurse, he had established a good-humoured
acquaintance with her, and had stayed to have a little chat with her
about me. So Peggotty said; but I am afraid the chat was all on her
own side, and of immoderate length, as she was very difficult indeed to
stop, God bless her! when she had me for her theme.

This reminds me, not only that I expected Traddles on a certain
afternoon of his own appointing, which was now come, but that Mrs. Crupp
had resigned everything appertaining to her office (the salary excepted)
until Peggotty should cease to present herself. Mrs. Crupp, after
holding divers conversations respecting Peggotty, in a very high-pitched
voice, on the staircase--with some invisible Familiar it would appear,
for corporeally speaking she was quite alone at those times--addressed a
letter to me, developing her views. Beginning it with that statement
of universal application, which fitted every occurrence of her life,
namely, that she was a mother herself, she went on to inform me that
she had once seen very different days, but that at all periods of her
existence she had had a constitutional objection to spies, intruders,
and informers. She named no names, she said; let them the cap fitted,
wear it; but spies, intruders, and informers, especially in widders'
weeds (this clause was underlined), she had ever accustomed herself to
look down upon. If a gentleman was the victim of spies, intruders, and
informers (but still naming no names), that was his own pleasure. He
had a right to please himself; so let him do. All that she, Mrs. Crupp,
stipulated for, was, that she should not be 'brought in contract'
with such persons. Therefore she begged to be excused from any further
attendance on the top set, until things were as they formerly was, and
as they could be wished to be; and further mentioned that her little
book would be found upon the breakfast-table every Saturday morning,
when she requested an immediate settlement of the same, with the
benevolent view of saving trouble 'and an ill-conwenience' to all
parties.

After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls on the
stairs, principally with pitchers, and endeavouring to delude Peggotty
into breaking her legs. I found it rather harassing to live in this
state of siege, but was too much afraid of Mrs. Crupp to see any way out
of it.

'My dear Copperfield,' cried Traddles, punctually appearing at my door,
in spite of all these obstacles, 'how do you do? '

'My dear Traddles,' said I, 'I am delighted to see you at last, and very
sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much engaged--'

'Yes, yes, I know,' said Traddles, 'of course. Yours lives in London, I
think. '

'What did you say? '

'She--excuse me--Miss D. , you know,' said Traddles, colouring in his
great delicacy, 'lives in London, I believe? '

'Oh yes. Near London. '

'Mine, perhaps you recollect,' said Traddles, with a serious look,
'lives down in Devonshire--one of ten. Consequently, I am not so much
engaged as you--in that sense. '

'I wonder you can bear,' I returned, 'to see her so seldom. '

'Hah! ' said Traddles, thoughtfully. 'It does seem a wonder. I suppose it
is, Copperfield, because there is no help for it? '

'I suppose so,' I replied with a smile, and not without a blush. 'And
because you have so much constancy and patience, Traddles. '

'Dear me! ' said Traddles, considering about it, 'do I strike you in that
way, Copperfield? Really I didn't know that I had. But she is such
an extraordinarily dear girl herself, that it's possible she may
have imparted something of those virtues to me. Now you mention it,
Copperfield, I shouldn't wonder at all. I assure you she is always
forgetting herself, and taking care of the other nine. '

'Is she the eldest? ' I inquired.

'Oh dear, no,' said Traddles. 'The eldest is a Beauty. '

He saw, I suppose, that I could not help smiling at the simplicity of
this reply; and added, with a smile upon his own ingenuous face:

'Not, of course, but that my Sophy--pretty name, Copperfield, I always
think? '

'Very pretty! ' said I.

'Not, of course, but that Sophy is beautiful too in my eyes, and would
be one of the dearest girls that ever was, in anybody's eyes (I should
think). But when I say the eldest is a Beauty, I mean she really is
a--' he seemed to be describing clouds about himself, with both hands:
'Splendid, you know,' said Traddles, energetically. 'Indeed! ' said I.

'Oh, I assure you,' said Traddles, 'something very uncommon, indeed!
Then, you know, being formed for society and admiration, and not being
able to enjoy much of it in consequence of their limited means, she
naturally gets a little irritable and exacting, sometimes. Sophy puts
her in good humour! '

'Is Sophy the youngest? ' I hazarded.

'Oh dear, no! ' said Traddles, stroking his chin. 'The two youngest are
only nine and ten. Sophy educates 'em. '

'The second daughter, perhaps? ' I hazarded.

'No,' said Traddles. 'Sarah's the second. Sarah has something the matter
with her spine, poor girl. The malady will wear out by and by, the
doctors say, but in the meantime she has to lie down for a twelvemonth.
Sophy nurses her. Sophy's the fourth. '

'Is the mother living? ' I inquired.

'Oh yes,' said Traddles, 'she is alive. She is a very superior woman
indeed, but the damp country is not adapted to her constitution, and--in
fact, she has lost the use of her limbs. '

'Dear me! ' said I.

'Very sad, is it not? ' returned Traddles. 'But in a merely domestic view
it is not so bad as it might be, because Sophy takes her place. She is
quite as much a mother to her mother, as she is to the other nine. '

I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young lady; and,
honestly with the view of doing my best to prevent the good-nature
of Traddles from being imposed upon, to the detriment of their joint
prospects in life, inquired how Mr. Micawber was?

'He is quite well, Copperfield, thank you,' said Traddles. 'I am not
living with him at present. '

'No? '

'No. You see the truth is,' said Traddles, in a whisper, 'he had changed
his name to Mortimer, in consequence of his temporary embarrassments;
and he don't come out till after dark--and then in spectacles. There was
an execution put into our house, for rent. Mrs. Micawber was in such
a dreadful state that I really couldn't resist giving my name to that
second bill we spoke of here. You may imagine how delightful it was to
my feelings, Copperfield, to see the matter settled with it, and Mrs.
Micawber recover her spirits. '

'Hum! ' said I. 'Not that her happiness was of long duration,' pursued
Traddles, 'for, unfortunately, within a week another execution came
in. It broke up the establishment. I have been living in a furnished
apartment since then, and the Mortimers have been very private indeed.
I hope you won't think it selfish, Copperfield, if I mention that
the broker carried off my little round table with the marble top, and
Sophy's flower-pot and stand?