No More Learning

I have a better right to it than any
other man! '

I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I
could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calm himself
a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair, beating his
head, trying to force me from him, and to force himself from me, not
answering a word, not looking at or seeing anyone; blindly striving
for he knew not what, his face all staring and distorted--a frightful
spectacle.

I conjured him, incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner, not
to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hear me. I besought him to
think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to recollect how Agnes and I
had grown up together, how I honoured her and loved her, how she was his
pride and joy. I tried to bring her idea before him in any form; I even
reproached him with not having firmness to spare her the knowledge of
such a scene as this. I may have effected something, or his wildness may
have spent itself; but by degrees he struggled less, and began to look
at me--strangely at first, then with recognition in his eyes. At length
he said, 'I know, Trotwood! My darling child and you--I know! But look
at him! '

He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evidently very much
out in his calculations, and taken by surprise.

'Look at my torturer,' he replied. 'Before him I have step by step
abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home. '

'I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your peace and
quiet, and your house and home too,' said Uriah, with a sulky, hurried,
defeated air of compromise. 'Don't be foolish, Mr. Wickfield. If I
have gone a little beyond what you were prepared for, I can go back, I
suppose? There's no harm done. '

'I looked for single motives in everyone,' said Mr. Wickfield, and I was
satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But see what he
is--oh, see what he is! '

'You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can,' cried Uriah,
with his long forefinger pointing towards me. 'He'll say something
presently--mind you! --he'll be sorry to have said afterwards, and you'll
be sorry to have heard! '

'I'll say anything! ' cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate air. 'Why
should I not be in all the world's power if I am in yours? '

'Mind! I tell you! ' said Uriah, continuing to warn me. 'If you don't
stop his mouth, you're not his friend! Why shouldn't you be in all the
world's power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you have got a daughter. You and
me know what we know, don't we? Let sleeping dogs lie--who wants to
rouse 'em? I don't. Can't you see I am as umble as I can be? I tell you,
if I've gone too far, I'm sorry. What would you have, sir? '

'Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood! 'exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing his hands.
'What I have come down to be, since I first saw you in this house! I was
on my downward way then, but the dreary, dreary road I have traversed
since! Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence in remembrance, and
indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief for my child's mother
turned to disease; my natural love for my child turned to disease. I
have infected everything I touched. I have brought misery on what I
dearly love, I know--you know! I thought it possible that I could truly
love one creature in the world, and not love the rest; I thought it
possible that I could truly mourn for one creature gone out of the
world, and not have some part in the grief of all who mourned. Thus the
lessons of my life have been perverted! I have preyed on my own morbid
coward heart, and it has preyed on me. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my
love, sordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both, oh see
the ruin I am, and hate me, shun me! '

He dropped into a chair, and weakly sobbed. The excitement into which he
had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his corner.

'I don't know all I have done, in my fatuity,' said Mr. Wickfield,
putting out his hands, as if to deprecate my condemnation. 'He knows
best,' meaning Uriah Heep, 'for he has always been at my elbow,
whispering me. You see the millstone that he is about my neck. You
find him in my house, you find him in my business. You heard him, but a
little time ago. What need have I to say more! '

'You haven't need to say so much, nor half so much, nor anything at
all,' observed Uriah, half defiant, and half fawning. 'You wouldn't have
took it up so, if it hadn't been for the wine. You'll think better of
it tomorrow, sir. If I have said too much, or more than I meant, what of
it? I haven't stood by it! '

The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige of colour in
her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily said, 'Papa, you are
not well. Come with me! '

He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed with heavy
shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an instant, yet
I saw how much she knew of what had passed.

'I didn't expect he'd cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,' said Uriah.
'But it's nothing. I'll be friends with him tomorrow. It's for his good.
I'm umbly anxious for his good. '

I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the quiet room where Agnes
had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me until late
at night. I took up a book, and tried to read. I heard the clocks strike
twelve, and was still reading, without knowing what I read, when Agnes
touched me.

'You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood! Let us say good-bye,
now! '

She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful!

'Heaven bless you! ' she said, giving me her hand.

'Dearest Agnes! ' I returned, 'I see you ask me not to speak of
tonight--but is there nothing to be done? '

'There is God to trust in! ' she replied.

'Can I do nothing--I, who come to you with my poor sorrows? '

'And make mine so much lighter,' she replied. 'Dear Trotwood, no! '

'Dear Agnes,' I said, 'it is presumptuous for me, who am so poor in all
in which you are so rich--goodness, resolution, all noble qualities--to
doubt or direct you; but you know how much I love you, and how much I
owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to a mistaken sense of duty,
Agnes? '

More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her, she took her hands
from me, and moved a step back.

'Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes! Much more than sister!
Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a love as
yours! '

Oh! long, long afterwards, I saw that face rise up before me, with its
momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, not regretting. Oh, long,
long afterwards, I saw that look subside, as it did now, into the lovely
smile, with which she told me she had no fear for herself--I need have
none for her--and parted from me by the name of Brother, and was gone!

It was dark in the morning, when I got upon the coach at the inn door.
The day was just breaking when we were about to start, and then, as
I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach side, through the
mingled day and night, Uriah's head.

'Copperfield! ' said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung by the iron
on the roof, 'I thought you'd be glad to hear before you went off, that
there are no squares broke between us. I've been into his room already,
and we've made it all smooth. Why, though I'm umble, I'm useful to him,
you know; and he understands his interest when he isn't in liquor! What
an agreeable man he is, after all, Master Copperfield! '

I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology.

'Oh, to be sure! ' said Uriah. 'When a person's umble, you know, what's
an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose,' with a jerk, 'you have sometimes
plucked a pear before it was ripe, Master Copperfield? '

'I suppose I have,' I replied.

'I did that last night,' said Uriah; 'but it'll ripen yet! It only wants
attending to. I can wait! '

Profuse in his farewells, he got down again as the coachman got up. For
anything I know, he was eating something to keep the raw morning
air out; but he made motions with his mouth as if the pear were ripe
already, and he were smacking his lips over it.



CHAPTER 40. THE WANDERER


We had a very serious conversation in Buckingham Street that night,
about the domestic occurrences I have detailed in the last chapter. My
aunt was deeply interested in them, and walked up and down the room with
her arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards. Whenever she was
particularly discomposed, she always performed one of these pedestrian
feats; and the amount of her discomposure might always be estimated by
the duration of her walk. On this occasion she was so much disturbed in
mind as to find it necessary to open the bedroom door, and make a course
for herself, comprising the full extent of the bedrooms from wall to
wall; and while Mr. Dick and I sat quietly by the fire, she kept passing
in and out, along this measured track, at an unchanging pace, with the
regularity of a clock-pendulum.

When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick's going out to
bed, I sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. By that time
she was tired of walking, and sat by the fire with her dress tucked up
as usual. But instead of sitting in her usual manner, holding her glass
upon her knee, she suffered it to stand neglected on the chimney-piece;
and, resting her left elbow on her right arm, and her chin on her left
hand, looked thoughtfully at me. As often as I raised my eyes from what
I was about, I met hers. 'I am in the lovingest of tempers, my dear,'
she would assure me with a nod, 'but I am fidgeted and sorry! '

I had been too busy to observe, until after she was gone to bed, that
she had left her night-mixture, as she always called it, untasted on
the chimney-piece. She came to her door, with even more than her usual
affection of manner, when I knocked to acquaint her with this discovery;
but only said, 'I have not the heart to take it, Trot, tonight,' and
shook her head, and went in again.

She read my letter to the two old ladies, in the morning, and approved
of it. I posted it, and had nothing to do then, but wait, as patiently
as I could, for the reply. I was still in this state of expectation, and
had been, for nearly a week; when I left the Doctor's one snowy night,
to walk home.

It had been a bitter day, and a cutting north-east wind had blown for
some time. The wind had gone down with the light, and so the snow had
come on. It was a heavy, settled fall, I recollect, in great flakes; and
it lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of people were as hushed, as
if the streets had been strewn that depth with feathers.

My shortest way home,--and I naturally took the shortest way on such a
night--was through St. Martin's Lane. Now, the church which gives its
name to the lane, stood in a less free situation at that time; there
being no open space before it, and the lane winding down to the Strand.
As I passed the steps of the portico, I encountered, at the corner,
a woman's face. It looked in mine, passed across the narrow lane,
and disappeared. I knew it. I had seen it somewhere. But I could not
remember where. I had some association with it, that struck upon my
heart directly; but I was thinking of anything else when it came upon
me, and was confused.

On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of a man, who
had put down some burden on the smooth snow, to adjust it; my seeing the
face, and my seeing him, were simultaneous. I don't think I had stopped
in my surprise; but, in any case, as I went on, he rose, turned, and
came down towards me. I stood face to face with Mr. Peggotty!

Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emily had given the
money that night in the kitchen. Martha Endell--side by side with whom,
he would not have seen his dear niece, Ham had told me, for all the
treasures wrecked in the sea.

We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could speak a word.

'Mas'r Davy! ' he said, gripping me tight, 'it do my art good to see you,
sir. Well met, well met! '

'Well met, my dear old friend! ' said I.

'I had my thowts o' coming to make inquiration for you, sir, tonight,'
he said, 'but knowing as your aunt was living along wi' you--fur I've
been down yonder--Yarmouth way--I was afeerd it was too late. I should
have come early in the morning, sir, afore going away. '

'Again? ' said I.

'Yes, sir,' he replied, patiently shaking his head, 'I'm away tomorrow. '

'Where were you going now? ' I asked.

'Well! ' he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair, 'I was
a-going to turn in somewheers. '

In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the Golden
Cross, the inn so memorable to me in connexion with his misfortune,
nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the gateway, put my arm
through his, and we went across. Two or three public-rooms opened out of
the stable-yard; and looking into one of them, and finding it empty, and
a good fire burning, I took him in there.

When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his hair was long
and ragged, but that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He was greyer,
the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he had every
appearance of having toiled and wandered through all varieties
of weather; but he looked very strong, and like a man upheld by
steadfastness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out. He shook the snow
from his hat and clothes, and brushed it away from his face, while I was
inwardly making these remarks. As he sat down opposite to me at a table,
with his back to the door by which we had entered, he put out his rough
hand again, and grasped mine warmly.

'I'll tell you, Mas'r Davy,' he said,--'wheer all I've been, and
what-all we've heerd. I've been fur, and we've heerd little; but I'll
tell you! '

I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothing
stronger than ale; and while it was being brought, and being warmed
at the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine, massive gravity in his
face, I did not venture to disturb.

'When she was a child,' he said, lifting up his head soon after we were
left alone, 'she used to talk to me a deal about the sea, and about
them coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay a-shining and
a-shining in the sun. I thowt, odd times, as her father being drownded
made her think on it so much. I doen't know, you see, but maybe she
believed--or hoped--he had drifted out to them parts, where the flowers
is always a-blowing, and the country bright. '

'It is likely to have been a childish fancy,' I replied.

'When she was--lost,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'I know'd in my mind, as he
would take her to them countries. I know'd in my mind, as he'd have told
her wonders of 'em, and how she was to be a lady theer, and how he got
her to listen to him fust, along o' sech like. When we see his mother,
I know'd quite well as I was right. I went across-channel to France, and
landed theer, as if I'd fell down from the sky. '

I saw the door move, and the snow drift in.
I saw it move a little more,
and a hand softly interpose to keep it open.

'I found out an English gen'leman as was in authority,' said Mr.
Peggotty, 'and told him I was a-going to seek my niece. He got me them
papers as I wanted fur to carry me through--I doen't rightly know how
they're called--and he would have give me money, but that I was thankful
to have no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, I'm sure! "I've
wrote afore you," he says to me, "and I shall speak to many as will come
that way, and many will know you, fur distant from here, when you're
a-travelling alone. " I told him, best as I was able, what my gratitoode
was, and went away through France. '

'Alone, and on foot? ' said I.

'Mostly a-foot,' he rejoined; 'sometimes in carts along with people
going to market; sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day a-foot, and
often with some poor soldier or another, travelling to see his friends.
I couldn't talk to him,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'nor he to me; but we was
company for one another, too, along the dusty roads. '

I should have known that by his friendly tone.

'When I come to any town,' he pursued, 'I found the inn, and waited
about the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as know'd
English. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my niece, and they
told me what manner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I waited to see
any as seemed like her, going in or out. When it warn't Em'ly, I went on
agen. By little and little, when I come to a new village or that, among
the poor people, I found they know'd about me. They would set me down at
their cottage doors, and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show
me where to sleep; and many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has had a daughter
of about Em'ly's age, I've found a-waiting fur me, at Our Saviour's
Cross outside the village, fur to do me sim'lar kindnesses. Some has had
daughters as was dead. And God only knows how good them mothers was to
me! '

It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening face distinctly.
My dread was lest he should turn his head, and see her too.

'They would often put their children--particular their little girls,'
said Mr. Peggotty, 'upon my knee; and many a time you might have seen
me sitting at their doors, when night was coming in, a'most as if they'd
been my Darling's children. Oh, my Darling! '

Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling hand
upon the hand he put before his face. 'Thankee, sir,' he said, 'doen't
take no notice. '

In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his breast,
and went on with his story. 'They often walked with me,' he said, 'in
the morning, maybe a mile or two upon my road; and when we parted, and
I said, "I'm very thankful to you! God bless you! " they always seemed to
understand, and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. It warn't
hard, you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to work his way
over to Italy. When I got theer, I wandered on as I had done afore. The
people was just as good to me, and I should have gone from town to town,
maybe the country through, but that I got news of her being seen among
them Swiss mountains yonder. One as know'd his servant see 'em there,
all three, and told me how they travelled, and where they was. I made
fur them mountains, Mas'r Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I went,
ever so fur the mountains seemed to shift away from me. But I come up
with 'em, and I crossed 'em. When I got nigh the place as I had been
told of, I began to think within my own self, "What shall I do when I
see her? "'

The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still drooped at
the door, and the hands begged me--prayed me--not to cast it forth.

'I never doubted her,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'No! Not a bit! On'y let her
see my face--on'y let her heer my voice--on'y let my stanning still
afore her bring to her thoughts the home she had fled away from, and the
child she had been--and if she had growed to be a royal lady, she'd have
fell down at my feet! I know'd it well! Many a time in my sleep had I
heerd her cry out, "Uncle! " and seen her fall like death afore me. Many
a time in my sleep had I raised her up, and whispered to her, "Em'ly, my
dear, I am come fur to bring forgiveness, and to take you home! "'

He stopped and shook his head, and went on with a sigh.

'He was nowt to me now. Em'ly was all. I bought a country dress to put
upon her; and I know'd that, once found, she would walk beside me over
them stony roads, go where I would, and never, never, leave me more. To
put that dress upon her, and to cast off what she wore--to take her on
my arm again, and wander towards home--to stop sometimes upon the road,
and heal her bruised feet and her worse-bruised heart--was all that I
thowt of now. I doen't believe I should have done so much as look at
him. But, Mas'r Davy, it warn't to be--not yet! I was too late, and they
was gone. Wheer, I couldn't learn. Some said heer, some said theer.
I travelled heer, and I travelled theer, but I found no Em'ly, and I
travelled home. '

'How long ago? ' I asked.

'A matter o' fower days,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I sighted the old boat
arter dark, and the light a-shining in the winder. When I come nigh and
looked in through the glass, I see the faithful creetur Missis Gummidge
sittin' by the fire, as we had fixed upon, alone. I called out, "Doen't
be afeerd! It's Dan'l! " and I went in. I never could have thowt the old
boat would have been so strange! ' From some pocket in his breast, he
took out, with a very careful hand a small paper bundle containing two
or three letters or little packets, which he laid upon the table.

'This fust one come,' he said, selecting it from the rest, 'afore I had
been gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of paper, directed
to me, and put underneath the door in the night. She tried to hide her
writing, but she couldn't hide it from Me! '

He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in exactly
the same form, and laid it on one side.

'This come to Missis Gummidge,' he said, opening another, 'two or three
months ago. 'After looking at it for some moments, he gave it to me, and
added in a low voice, 'Be so good as read it, sir. '

I read as follows:


'Oh what will you feel when you see this writing, and know it comes from
my wicked hand! But try, try--not for my sake, but for uncle's goodness,
try to let your heart soften to me, only for a little little time! Try,
pray do, to relent towards a miserable girl, and write down on a bit of
paper whether he is well, and what he said about me before you left off
ever naming me among yourselves--and whether, of a night, when it is my
old time of coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of one
he used to love so dear. Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about
it! I am kneeling down to you, begging and praying you not to be as
hard with me as I deserve--as I well, well, know I deserve--but to be so
gentle and so good, as to write down something of him, and to send it to
me. You need not call me Little, you need not call me by the name I have
disgraced; but oh, listen to my agony, and have mercy on me so far as to
write me some word of uncle, never, never to be seen in this world by my
eyes again!

'Dear, if your heart is hard towards me--justly hard, I know--but,
listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most--him whose
wife I was to have been--before you quite decide against my poor poor
prayer! If he should be so compassionate as to say that you might write
something for me to read--I think he would, oh, I think he would, if you
would only ask him, for he always was so brave and so forgiving--tell
him then (but not else), that when I hear the wind blowing at night,
I feel as if it was passing angrily from seeing him and uncle, and was
going up to God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and
oh, if I was fit, I would be so glad to die! ) I would bless him and
uncle with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last
breath! '


Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It was
untouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same way.
Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of a reply,
which, although they betrayed the intervention of several hands, and
made it difficult to arrive at any very probable conclusion in reference
to her place of concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she had
written from that spot where she was stated to have been seen.

'What answer was sent? ' I inquired of Mr. Peggotty.

'Missis Gummidge,' he returned, 'not being a good scholar, sir, Ham
kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I was
gone to seek her, and what my parting words was. '

'Is that another letter in your hand? ' said I.

'It's money, sir,' said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way. 'Ten
pound, you see. And wrote inside, "From a true friend," like the fust.
But the fust was put underneath the door, and this come by the post, day
afore yesterday. I'm a-going to seek her at the post-mark. '

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He had found out,
at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country, and they had
drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very well understand. He
laid it between us on the table; and, with his chin resting on one hand,
tracked his course upon it with the other.

I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.

'He works,' he said, 'as bold as a man can. His name's as good, in all
that part, as any man's is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone's hand is
ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help them. He's
never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister's belief is ('twixt
ourselves) as it has cut him deep. '

'Poor fellow, I can believe it! '

'He ain't no care, Mas'r Davy,' said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn
whisper--'kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man's wanted for
rough sarvice in rough weather, he's theer. When there's hard duty to
be done with danger in it, he steps for'ard afore all his mates. And yet
he's as gentle as any child. There ain't a child in Yarmouth that doen't
know him. '

He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand;
put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in his breast
again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snow drifting
in; but nothing else was there.

'Well! ' he said, looking to his bag, 'having seen you tonight, Mas'r
Davy (and that doos me good! ), I shall away betimes tomorrow morning.
You have seen what I've got heer'; putting his hand on where the little
packet lay; 'all that troubles me is, to think that any harm might come
to me, afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost,
or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was never know'd by him
but what I'd took it, I believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold me! I
believe I must come back! '

He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again, before
going out.

'I'd go ten thousand mile,' he said, 'I'd go till I dropped dead, to lay
that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em'ly, I'm content.
If I doen't find her, maybe she'll come to hear, sometime, as her loving
uncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life; and if I
know her, even that will turn her home at last! '

As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flit
away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held him in
conversation until it was gone.

He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Road, where he knew he
could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him over
Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore. Everything
seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for him, as he
resumed his solitary journey through the snow.

I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the
face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow had
covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to be seen;
and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back
over my shoulder.



CHAPTER 41. DORA'S AUNTS


At last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They presented their
compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that they had given his
letter their best consideration, 'with a view to the happiness of
both parties'--which I thought rather an alarming expression, not
only because of the use they had made of it in relation to the family
difference before-mentioned, but because I had (and have all my life)
observed that conventional phrases are a sort of fireworks, easily let
off, and liable to take a great variety of shapes and colours not at
all suggested by their original form. The Misses Spenlow added that they
begged to forbear expressing, 'through the medium of correspondence', an
opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield's communication; but that if
Mr. Copperfield would do them the favour to call, upon a certain day
(accompanied, if he thought proper, by a confidential friend), they
would be happy to hold some conversation on the subject.

To this favour, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with his respectful
compliments, that he would have the honour of waiting on the Misses
Spenlow, at the time appointed; accompanied, in accordance with their
kind permission, by his friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the Inner Temple.
Having dispatched which missive, Mr. Copperfield fell into a condition
of strong nervous agitation; and so remained until the day arrived.

It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be bereaved, at this
eventful crisis, of the inestimable services of Miss Mills. But Mr.
Mills, who was always doing something or other to annoy me--or I felt
as if he were, which was the same thing--had brought his conduct to a
climax, by taking it into his head that he would go to India. Why should
he go to India, except to harass me? To be sure he had nothing to do
with any other part of the world, and had a good deal to do with that
part; being entirely in the India trade, whatever that was (I had
floating dreams myself concerning golden shawls and elephants' teeth);
having been at Calcutta in his youth; and designing now to go out there
again, in the capacity of resident partner. But this was nothing to me.
However, it was so much to him that for India he was bound, and
Julia with him; and Julia went into the country to take leave of
her relations; and the house was put into a perfect suit of bills,
announcing that it was to be let or sold, and that the furniture (Mangle
and all) was to be taken at a valuation. So, here was another earthquake
of which I became the sport, before I had recovered from the shock of
its predecessor!

I was in several minds how to dress myself on the important day; being
divided between my desire to appear to advantage, and my apprehensions
of putting on anything that might impair my severely practical character
in the eyes of the Misses Spenlow. I endeavoured to hit a happy medium
between these two extremes; my aunt approved the result; and Mr. Dick
threw one of his shoes after Traddles and me, for luck, as we went
downstairs.

Excellent fellow as I knew Traddles to be, and warmly attached to him as
I was, I could not help wishing, on that delicate occasion, that he had
never contracted the habit of brushing his hair so very upright. It
gave him a surprised look--not to say a hearth-broomy kind of
expression--which, my apprehensions whispered, might be fatal to us.

I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were walking to
Putney; and saying that if he WOULD smooth it down a little--

'My dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, lifting off his hat, and rubbing
his hair all kinds of ways, 'nothing would give me greater pleasure. But
it won't. '

'Won't be smoothed down? ' said I.

'No,' said Traddles. 'Nothing will induce it. If I was to carry a
half-hundred-weight upon it, all the way to Putney, it would be up again
the moment the weight was taken off. You have no idea what obstinate
hair mine is, Copperfield. I am quite a fretful porcupine. '

I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly charmed by
his good-nature too. I told him how I esteemed his good-nature; and said
that his hair must have taken all the obstinacy out of his character,
for he had none.

'Oh! ' returned Traddles, laughing. 'I assure you, it's quite an old
story, my unfortunate hair. My uncle's wife couldn't bear it. She said
it exasperated her. It stood very much in my way, too, when I first fell
in love with Sophy. Very much! '

'Did she object to it? '

'SHE didn't,' rejoined Traddles; 'but her eldest sister--the one that's
the Beauty--quite made game of it, I understand. In fact, all the
sisters laugh at it. '

'Agreeable! ' said I.

'Yes,' returned Traddles with perfect innocence, 'it's a joke for us.
They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her desk, and is obliged to
shut it in a clasped book, to keep it down. We laugh about it. '

'By the by, my dear Traddles,' said I, 'your experience may suggest
something to me. When you became engaged to the young lady whom you have
just mentioned, did you make a regular proposal to her family? Was there
anything like--what we are going through today, for instance?