No More Learning

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.



CHAPTER 43. ANOTHER RETROSPECT


Once again, let me pause upon a memorable period of my life. Let me
stand aside, to see the phantoms of those days go by me, accompanying
the shadow of myself, in dim procession.

Weeks, months, seasons, pass along. They seem little more than a summer
day and a winter evening. Now, the Common where I walk with Dora is all
in bloom, a field of bright gold; and now the unseen heather lies in
mounds and bunches underneath a covering of snow. In a breath, the river
that flows through our Sunday walks is sparkling in the summer sun, is
ruffled by the winter wind, or thickened with drifting heaps of ice.
Faster than ever river ran towards the sea, it flashes, darkens, and
rolls away.

Not a thread changes, in the house of the two little bird-like ladies.
The clock ticks over the fireplace, the weather-glass hangs in the hall.
Neither clock nor weather-glass is ever right; but we believe in both,
devoutly.

I have come legally to man's estate. I have attained the dignity of
twenty-one. But this is a sort of dignity that may be thrust upon one.
Let me think what I have achieved.

I have tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make a respectable
income by it. I am in high repute for my accomplishment in all
pertaining to the art, and am joined with eleven others in reporting
the debates in Parliament for a Morning Newspaper. Night after night, I
record predictions that never come to pass, professions that are never
fulfilled, explanations that are only meant to mystify. I wallow in
words. Britannia, that unfortunate female, is always before me, like a
trussed fowl: skewered through and through with office-pens, and bound
hand and foot with red tape. I am sufficiently behind the scenes to know
the worth of political life. I am quite an Infidel about it, and shall
never be converted.

My dear old Traddles has tried his hand at the same pursuit, but it
is not in Traddles's way. He is perfectly good-humoured respecting his
failure, and reminds me that he always did consider himself slow. He has
occasional employment on the same newspaper, in getting up the facts of
dry subjects, to be written about and embellished by more fertile minds.
He is called to the bar; and with admirable industry and self-denial
has scraped another hundred pounds together, to fee a Conveyancer whose
chambers he attends. A great deal of very hot port wine was consumed at
his call; and, considering the figure, I should think the Inner Temple
must have made a profit by it.

I have come out in another way. I have taken with fear and trembling
to authorship. I wrote a little something, in secret, and sent it to a
magazine, and it was published in the magazine. Since then, I have taken
heart to write a good many trifling pieces. Now, I am regularly paid for
them. Altogether, I am well off, when I tell my income on the fingers
of my left hand, I pass the third finger and take in the fourth to the
middle joint.

We have removed, from Buckingham Street, to a pleasant little cottage
very near the one I looked at, when my enthusiasm first came on. My
aunt, however (who has sold the house at Dover, to good advantage), is
not going to remain here, but intends removing herself to a still more
tiny cottage close at hand. What does this portend? My marriage? Yes!

Yes! I am going to be married to Dora! Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa
have given their consent; and if ever canary birds were in a flutter,
they are. Miss Lavinia, self-charged with the superintendence of my
darling's wardrobe, is constantly cutting out brown-paper cuirasses, and
differing in opinion from a highly respectable young man, with a long
bundle, and a yard measure under his arm. A dressmaker, always stabbed
in the breast with a needle and thread, boards and lodges in the house;
and seems to me, eating, drinking, or sleeping, never to take her
thimble off. They make a lay-figure of my dear. They are always sending
for her to come and try something on. We can't be happy together for
five minutes in the evening, but some intrusive female knocks at the
door, and says, 'Oh, if you please, Miss Dora, would you step upstairs! '

Miss Clarissa and my aunt roam all over London, to find out articles of
furniture for Dora and me to look at. It would be better for them to buy
the goods at once, without this ceremony of inspection; for, when we go
to see a kitchen fender and meat-screen, Dora sees a Chinese house for
Jip, with little bells on the top, and prefers that. And it takes a
long time to accustom Jip to his new residence, after we have bought it;
whenever he goes in or out, he makes all the little bells ring, and is
horribly frightened.

Peggotty comes up to make herself useful, and falls to work immediately.
Her department appears to be, to clean everything over and over again.
She rubs everything that can be rubbed, until it shines, like her own
honest forehead, with perpetual friction. And now it is, that I begin to
see her solitary brother passing through the dark streets at night, and
looking, as he goes, among the wandering faces. I never speak to him at
such an hour. I know too well, as his grave figure passes onward, what
he seeks, and what he dreads.

Why does Traddles look so important when he calls upon me this afternoon
in the Commons--where I still occasionally attend, for form's sake, when
I have time?
The realization of my boyish day-dreams is at hand. I am
going to take out the licence.

It is a little document to do so much; and Traddles contemplates it,
as it lies upon my desk, half in admiration, half in awe. There are the
names, in the sweet old visionary connexion, David Copperfield and Dora
Spenlow; and there, in the corner, is that Parental Institution,
the Stamp Office, which is so benignantly interested in the various
transactions of human life, looking down upon our Union; and there is
the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking a blessing on us in print, and
doing it as cheap as could possibly be expected.

Nevertheless, I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hurried dream. I
can't believe that it is going to be; and yet I can't believe but that
everyone I pass in the street, must have some kind of perception, that I
am to be married the day after tomorrow. The Surrogate knows me, when
I go down to be sworn; and disposes of me easily, as if there were a
Masonic understanding between us. Traddles is not at all wanted, but is
in attendance as my general backer.

'I hope the next time you come here, my dear fellow,' I say to Traddles,
'it will be on the same errand for yourself. And I hope it will be
soon. '

'Thank you for your good wishes, my dear Copperfield,' he replies. 'I
hope so too. It's a satisfaction to know that she'll wait for me any
length of time, and that she really is the dearest girl--'

'When are you to meet her at the coach? ' I ask.

'At seven,' says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver watch--the
very watch he once took a wheel out of, at school, to make a water-mill.
'That is about Miss Wickfield's time, is it not? '

'A little earlier. Her time is half past eight. ' 'I assure you, my dear
boy,' says Traddles, 'I am almost as pleased as if I were going to
be married myself, to think that this event is coming to such a happy
termination. And really the great friendship and consideration of
personally associating Sophy with the joyful occasion, and inviting
her to be a bridesmaid in conjunction with Miss Wickfield, demands my
warmest thanks. I am extremely sensible of it. '

I hear him, and shake hands with him; and we talk, and walk, and dine,
and so on; but I don't believe it. Nothing is real.

Sophy arrives at the house of Dora's aunts, in due course. She has the
most agreeable of faces,--not absolutely beautiful, but extraordinarily
pleasant,--and is one of the most genial, unaffected, frank, engaging
creatures I have ever seen. Traddles presents her to us with great
pride; and rubs his hands for ten minutes by the clock, with every
individual hair upon his head standing on tiptoe, when I congratulate
him in a corner on his choice.

I have brought Agnes from the Canterbury coach, and her cheerful and
beautiful face is among us for the second time. Agnes has a great liking
for Traddles, and it is capital to see them meet, and to observe the
glory of Traddles as he commends the dearest girl in the world to her
acquaintance.

Still I don't believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are
supremely happy; but I don't believe it yet. I can't collect myself. I
can't check off my happiness as it takes place. I feel in a misty and
unsettled kind of state; as if I had got up very early in the morning a
week or two ago, and had never been to bed since. I can't make out when
yesterday was. I seem to have been carrying the licence about, in my
pocket, many months.

Next day, too, when we all go in a flock to see the house--our
house--Dora's and mine--I am quite unable to regard myself as its
master. I seem to be there, by permission of somebody else. I half
expect the real master to come home presently, and say he is glad to see
me. Such a beautiful little house as it is, with everything so bright
and new; with the flowers on the carpets looking as if freshly gathered,
and the green leaves on the paper as if they had just come out; with the
spotless muslin curtains, and the blushing rose-coloured furniture, and
Dora's garden hat with the blue ribbon--do I remember, now, how I loved
her in such another hat when I first knew her! --already hanging on its
little peg; the guitar-case quite at home on its heels in a corner;
and everybody tumbling over Jip's pagoda, which is much too big for the
establishment. Another happy evening, quite as unreal as all the rest
of it, and I steal into the usual room before going away. Dora is not
there. I suppose they have not done trying on yet. Miss Lavinia peeps
in, and tells me mysteriously that she will not be long. She is rather
long, notwithstanding; but by and by I hear a rustling at the door, and
someone taps.

I say, 'Come in! ' but someone taps again.

I go to the door, wondering who it is; there, I meet a pair of bright
eyes, and a blushing face; they are Dora's eyes and face, and Miss
Lavinia has dressed her in tomorrow's dress, bonnet and all, for me to
see. I take my little wife to my heart; and Miss Lavinia gives a little
scream because I tumble the bonnet, and Dora laughs and cries at once,
because I am so pleased; and I believe it less than ever.

'Do you think it pretty, Doady? ' says Dora.

Pretty! I should rather think I did.

'And are you sure you like me very much? ' says Dora.

The topic is fraught with such danger to the bonnet, that Miss Lavinia
gives another little scream, and begs me to understand that Dora is only
to be looked at, and on no account to be touched. So Dora stands in a
delightful state of confusion for a minute or two, to be admired; and
then takes off her bonnet--looking so natural without it! --and runs away
with it in her hand; and comes dancing down again in her own familiar
dress, and asks Jip if I have got a beautiful little wife, and whether
he'll forgive her for being married, and kneels down to make him stand
upon the cookery-book, for the last time in her single life.

I go home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that I have hard by;
and get up very early in the morning, to ride to the Highgate road and
fetch my aunt.

I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed in
lavender-coloured silk, and has a white bonnet on, and is amazing. Janet
has dressed her, and is there to look at me. Peggotty is ready to go to
church, intending to behold the ceremony from the gallery. Mr. Dick,
who is to give my darling to me at the altar, has had his hair curled.
Traddles, whom I have taken up by appointment at the turnpike, presents
a dazzling combination of cream colour and light blue; and both he and
Mr. Dick have a general effect about them of being all gloves.

No doubt I see this, because I know it is so; but I am astray, and seem
to see nothing. Nor do I believe anything whatever. Still, as we drive
along in an open carriage, this fairy marriage is real enough to fill
me with a sort of wondering pity for the unfortunate people who have
no part in it, but are sweeping out the shops, and going to their daily
occupations.

My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we stop a little way
short of the church, to put down Peggotty, whom we have brought on the
box, she gives it a squeeze, and me a kiss.

'God bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer. I think of poor
dear Baby this morning. ' 'So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt. '

'Tut, child! ' says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflowing cordiality
to Traddles, who then gives his to Mr. Dick, who then gives his to me,
who then gives mine to Traddles, and then we come to the church door.

The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a steam-power loom
in full action, for any sedative effect it has on me. I am too far gone
for that.

The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.

A dream of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-opener arranging us,
like a drill-sergeant, before the altar rails; of my wondering, even
then, why pew-openers must always be the most disagreeable females
procurable, and whether there is any religious dread of a disastrous
infection of good-humour which renders it indispensable to set those
vessels of vinegar upon the road to Heaven.

Of the clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen and some
other people strolling in; of an ancient mariner behind me, strongly
flavouring the church with rum; of the service beginning in a deep
voice, and our all being very attentive.

Of Miss Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaid, being the
first to cry, and of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory of
Pidger, in sobs; of Miss Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of Agnes
taking care of Dora; of my aunt endeavouring to represent herself as
a model of sternness, with tears rolling down her face; of little Dora
trembling very much, and making her responses in faint whispers.

Of our kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora's trembling less
and less, but always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the service being
got through, quietly and gravely; of our all looking at each other in an
April state of smiles and tears, when it is over; of my young wife being
hysterical in the vestry, and crying for her poor papa, her dear papa.

Of her soon cheering up again, and our signing the register all round.
Of my going into the gallery for Peggotty to bring her to sign it; of
Peggotty's hugging me in a corner, and telling me she saw my own dear
mother married; of its being over, and our going away.

Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet wife
upon my arm, through a mist of half-seen people, pulpits, monuments,
pews, fonts, organs, and church windows, in which there flutter faint
airs of association with my childish church at home, so long ago.

Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple we are, and what
a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being so merry and talkative in
the carriage going back. Of Sophy telling us that when she saw Traddles
(whom I had entrusted with the licence) asked for it, she almost
fainted, having been convinced that he would contrive to lose it, or to
have his pocket picked. Of Agnes laughing gaily; and of Dora being so
fond of Agnes that she will not be separated from her, but still keeps
her hand.

Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things, pretty and
substantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake, as I should do in any
other dream, without the least perception of their flavour; eating
and drinking, as I may say, nothing but love and marriage, and no more
believing in the viands than in anything else.

Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, without having an idea
of what I want to say, beyond such as may be comprehended in the full
conviction that I haven't said it. Of our being very sociably and simply
happy (always in a dream though); and of Jip's having wedding cake, and
its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora's going away
to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remaining with us; and
our walking in the garden; and my aunt, who has made quite a speech at
breakfast touching Dora's aunts, being mightily amused with herself, but
a little proud of it too.

Of Dora's being ready, and of Miss Lavinia's hovering about her, loth to
lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant occupation.
Of Dora's making a long series of surprised discoveries that she
has forgotten all sorts of little things; and of everybody's running
everywhere to fetch them.

Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say
good-bye, looking, with their bright colours and ribbons, like a bed
of flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered among the flowers, and
coming out, laughing and crying both together, to my jealous arms.

Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us), and Dora's
saying no, that she must carry him, or else he'll think she don't like
him any more, now she is married, and will break his heart. Of our
going, arm in arm, and Dora stopping and looking back, and saying, 'If
I have ever been cross or ungrateful to anybody, don't remember it! ' and
bursting into tears.

Of her waving her little hand, and our going away once more. Of her
once more stopping, and looking back, and hurrying to Agnes, and giving
Agnes, above all the others, her last kisses and farewells.

We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I believe it at
last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, whom I love so well!

'Are you happy now, you foolish boy? ' says Dora, 'and sure you don't
repent? '


I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me. They are
gone, and I resume the journey of my story.



CHAPTER 44. OUR HOUSEKEEPING


It was a strange condition of things, the honeymoon being over, and the
bridesmaids gone home, when I found myself sitting down in my own
small house with Dora; quite thrown out of employment, as I may say, in
respect of the delicious old occupation of making love.

It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora always there. It was
so unaccountable not to be obliged to go out to see her, not to have any
occasion to be tormenting myself about her, not to have to write to her,
not to be scheming and devising opportunities of being alone with her.
Sometimes of an evening, when I looked up from my writing, and saw her
seated opposite, I would lean back in my chair, and think how queer it
was that there we were, alone together as a matter of course--nobody's
business any more--all the romance of our engagement put away upon a
shelf, to rust--no one to please but one another--one another to please,
for life.

When there was a debate, and I was kept out very late, it seemed so
strange to me, as I was walking home, to think that Dora was at home! It
was such a wonderful thing, at first, to have her coming softly down to
talk to me as I ate my supper. It was such a stupendous thing to know
for certain that she put her hair in papers. It was altogether such an
astonishing event to see her do it!

I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping
house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She
kept house for us. I have still a latent belief that she must have been
Mrs. Crupp's daughter in disguise, we had such an awful time of it with
Mary Anne.

Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to us, when we engaged
her, as being feebly expressed in her name. She had a written character,
as large as a proclamation; and, according to this document, could do
everything of a domestic nature that ever I heard of, and a great many
things that I never did hear of. She was a woman in the prime of life;
of a severe countenance; and subject (particularly in the arms) to
a sort of perpetual measles or fiery rash. She had a cousin in the
Life-Guards, with such long legs that he looked like the afternoon
shadow of somebody else. His shell-jacket was as much too little for him
as he was too big for the premises. He made the cottage smaller than it
need have been, by being so very much out of proportion to it. Besides
which, the walls were not thick, and, whenever he passed the evening at
our house, we always knew of it by hearing one continual growl in the
kitchen.

Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am therefore willing to
believe that she was in a fit when we found her under the boiler; and
that the deficient tea-spoons were attributable to the dustman.

But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt our inexperience, and
were unable to help ourselves. We should have been at her mercy, if she
had had any; but she was a remorseless woman, and had none. She was the
cause of our first little quarrel.

'My dearest life,' I said one day to Dora, 'do you think Mary Anne has
any idea of time? '

'Why, Doady? ' inquired Dora, looking up, innocently, from her drawing.

'My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four. '

Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she thought it was
too fast.

'On the contrary, my love,' said I, referring to my watch, 'it's a few
minutes too slow. '

My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and
drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I couldn't
dine off that, though it was very agreeable.

'Don't you think, my dear,' said I, 'it would be better for you to
remonstrate with Mary Anne? '

'Oh no, please! I couldn't, Doady! ' said Dora.

'Why not, my love? ' I gently asked.

'Oh, because I am such a little goose,' said Dora, 'and she knows I am! '

I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any
system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.

'Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy's forehead! ' said Dora, and still
being on my knee, she traced them with her pencil; putting it to her
rosy lips to make it mark blacker, and working at my forehead with a
quaint little mockery of being industrious, that quite delighted me in
spite of myself.

'There's a good child,' said Dora, 'it makes its face so much prettier
to laugh. ' 'But, my love,' said I.

'No, no! please! ' cried Dora, with a kiss, 'don't be a naughty Blue
Beard! Don't be serious! '

'My precious wife,' said I, 'we must be serious sometimes. Come! Sit
down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let
us talk sensibly. You know, dear'; what a little hand it was to hold,
and what a tiny wedding-ring it was to see! 'You know, my love, it is
not exactly comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner. Now, is
it? '

'N-n-no! ' replied Dora, faintly.

'My love, how you tremble! '

'Because I KNOW you're going to scold me,' exclaimed Dora, in a piteous
voice.

'My sweet, I am only going to reason. '

'Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding! ' exclaimed Dora, in despair.
'I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reason with such a
poor little thing as I am, you ought to have told me so, you cruel boy! '

I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and shook her
curls from side to side, and said, 'You cruel, cruel boy! ' so many
times, that I really did not exactly know what to do: so I took a few
turns up and down the room in my uncertainty, and came back again.

'Dora, my darling! '

'No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married
me, or else you wouldn't reason with me! ' returned Dora.

I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it
gave me courage to be grave.

'Now, my own Dora,' said I, 'you are very childish, and are talking
nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out
yesterday when dinner was half over; and that, the day before, I was
made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry;
today, I don't dine at all--and I am afraid to say how long we waited
for breakfast--and then the water didn't boil. I don't mean to reproach
you, my dear, but this is not comfortable. '

'Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife! ' cried Dora.

'Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that! '

'You said, I wasn't comfortable! ' cried Dora. 'I said the housekeeping
was not comfortable! '

'It's exactly the same thing!