No More Learning

Her quiet
interest in everything that interested Dora; her manner of making
acquaintance with Jip (who responded instantly); her pleasant way, when
Dora was ashamed to come over to her usual seat by me; her modest grace
and ease, eliciting a crowd of blushing little marks of confidence from
Dora; seemed to make our circle quite complete.

'I am so glad,' said Dora, after tea, 'that you like me. I didn't think
you would; and I want, more than ever, to be liked, now Julia Mills is
gone. '

I have omitted to mention it, by the by. Miss Mills had sailed, and Dora
and I had gone aboard a great East Indiaman at Gravesend to see her;
and we had had preserved ginger, and guava, and other delicacies of that
sort for lunch; and we had left Miss Mills weeping on a camp-stool on
the quarter-deck, with a large new diary under her arm, in which the
original reflections awakened by the contemplation of Ocean were to be
recorded under lock and key.

Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an unpromising
character; but Dora corrected that directly.

'Oh no! ' she said, shaking her curls at me; 'it was all praise. He
thinks so much of your opinion, that I was quite afraid of it. '

'My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to some people whom he
knows,' said Agnes, with a smile; 'it is not worth their having. '

'But please let me have it,' said Dora, in her coaxing way, 'if you
can! '

We made merry about Dora's wanting to be liked, and Dora said I was a
goose, and she didn't like me at any rate, and the short evening flew
away on gossamer-wings. The time was at hand when the coach was to call
for us. I was standing alone before the fire, when Dora came stealing
softly in, to give me that usual precious little kiss before I went.

'Don't you think, if I had had her for a friend a long time ago, Doady,'
said Dora, her bright eyes shining very brightly, and her little right
hand idly busying itself with one of the buttons of my coat, 'I might
have been more clever perhaps? '

'My love! ' said I, 'what nonsense! '

'Do you think it is nonsense? ' returned Dora, without looking at me.
'Are you sure it is? '

'Of course I am! ' 'I have forgotten,' said Dora, still turning the
button round and round, 'what relation Agnes is to you, you dear bad
boy. '

'No blood-relation,' I replied; 'but we were brought up together, like
brother and sister. '

'I wonder why you ever fell in love with me? ' said Dora, beginning on
another button of my coat.

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

'Suppose you had never seen me at all,' said Dora, going to another
button.

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

I wondered what she was thinking about, as I glanced in admiring silence
at the little soft hand travelling up the row of buttons on my coat, and
at the clustering hair that lay against my breast, and at the lashes of
her downcast eyes, slightly rising as they followed her idle fingers. At
length her eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood on tiptoe to
give me, more thoughtfully than usual, that precious little kiss--once,
twice, three times--and went out of the room.

They all came back together within five minutes afterwards, and Dora's
unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone then. She was laughingly resolved
to put Jip through the whole of his performances, before the coach came.
They took some time (not so much on account of their variety, as Jip's
reluctance), and were still unfinished when it was heard at the door.
There was a hurried but affectionate parting between Agnes and herself;
and Dora was to write to Agnes (who was not to mind her letters being
foolish, she said), and Agnes was to write to Dora; and they had a
second parting at the coach door, and a third when Dora, in spite of
the remonstrances of Miss Lavinia, would come running out once more to
remind Agnes at the coach window about writing, and to shake her curls
at me on the box.

The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Garden, where we were
to take another stage-coach for Highgate. I was impatient for the short
walk in the interval, that Agnes might praise Dora to me. Ah! what
praise it was! How lovingly and fervently did it commend the pretty
creature I had won, with all her artless graces best displayed, to my
most gentle care! How thoughtfully remind me, yet with no pretence of
doing so, of the trust in which I held the orphan child!

Never, never, had I loved Dora so deeply and truly, as I loved her that
night. When we had again alighted, and were walking in the starlight
along the quiet road that led to the Doctor's house, I told Agnes it was
her doing.

'When you were sitting by her,' said I, 'you seemed to be no less her
guardian angel than mine; and you seem so now, Agnes. '

'A poor angel,' she returned, 'but faithful. '

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

'The cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes (and to no one else that
ever I have seen), is so restored, I have observed today, that I have
begun to hope you are happier at home? '

'I am happier in myself,' she said; 'I am quite cheerful and
light-hearted. '

I glanced at the serene face looking upward, and thought it was the
stars that made it seem so noble.

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

'No fresh reference,' said I, 'to--I wouldn't distress you, Agnes, but I
cannot help asking--to what we spoke of, when we parted last? '

'No, none,' she answered.

'I have thought so much about it. '

'You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple love
and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me, Trotwood,' she added,
after a moment; 'the step you dread my taking, I shall never take. '

Although I think I had never really feared it, in any season of cool
reflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to have this assurance
from her own truthful lips. I told her so, earnestly.

'And when this visit is over,' said I,--'for we may not be alone another
time,--how long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, before you come to
London again? '

'Probably a long time,' she replied; 'I think it will be best--for
papa's sake--to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often, for
some time to come; but I shall be a good correspondent of Dora's, and we
shall frequently hear of one another that way. '

We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor's cottage. It was
growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs. Strong's chamber,
and Agnes, pointing to it, bade me good night.

'Do not be troubled,' she said, giving me her hand, 'by our misfortunes
and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than in your happiness. If
you can ever give me help, rely upon it I will ask you for it. God
bless you always! ' In her beaming smile, and in these last tones of her
cheerful voice, I seemed again to see and hear my little Dora in her
company. I stood awhile, looking through the porch at the stars, with
a heart full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly forth. I had
engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was going out at the
gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw a light in the Doctor's
study. A half-reproachful fancy came into my mind, that he had been
working at the Dictionary without my help. With the view of seeing if
this were so, and, in any case, of bidding him good night, if he were
yet sitting among his books, I turned back, and going softly across the
hall, and gently opening the door, looked in.

The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober light of the
shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, with one of
his skeleton hands over his mouth, and the other resting on the Doctor's
table. The Doctor sat in his study chair, covering his face with his
hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning
forward, irresolutely touching the Doctor's arm.

For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I hastily advanced a
step under that impression, when I met Uriah's eye, and saw what was the
matter. I would have withdrawn, but the Doctor made a gesture to detain
me, and I remained.

'At any rate,' observed Uriah, with a writhe of his ungainly person, 'we
may keep the door shut. We needn't make it known to ALL the town. '

Saying which, he went on his toes to the door, which I had left open,
and carefully closed it. He then came back, and took up his former
position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zeal in his voice
and manner, more intolerable--at least to me--than any demeanour he
could have assumed.

'I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield,' said Uriah, 'to
point out to Doctor Strong what you and me have already talked about.
You didn't exactly understand me, though? '

I gave him a look, but no other answer; and, going to my good old
master, said a few words that I meant to be words of comfort and
encouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulder, as it had been his
custom to do when I was quite a little fellow, but did not lift his grey
head.

'As you didn't understand me, Master Copperfield,' resumed Uriah in
the same officious manner, 'I may take the liberty of umbly mentioning,
being among friends, that I have called Doctor Strong's attention to the
goings-on of Mrs. Strong. It's much against the grain with me, I assure
you, Copperfield, to be concerned in anything so unpleasant; but really,
as it is, we're all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn't to be. That
was what my meaning was, sir, when you didn't understand me. ' I wonder
now, when I recall his leer, that I did not collar him, and try to shake
the breath out of his body.

'I dare say I didn't make myself very clear,' he went on, 'nor you
neither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined to give such a subject
a wide berth. Hows'ever, at last I have made up my mind to speak plain;
and I have mentioned to Doctor Strong that--did you speak, sir? '

This was to the Doctor, who had moaned. The sound might have touched any
heart, I thought, but it had no effect upon Uriah's.

'--mentioned to Doctor Strong,' he proceeded, 'that anyone may see that
Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agreeable lady as is Doctor Strong's
wife, are too sweet on one another. Really the time is come (we being at
present all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn't to be), when Doctor
Strong must be told that this was full as plain to everybody as the sun,
before Mr. Maldon went to India; that Mr. Maldon made excuses to come
back, for nothing else; and that he's always here, for nothing else.
When you come in, sir, I was just putting it to my fellow-partner,'
towards whom he turned, 'to say to Doctor Strong upon his word and
honour, whether he'd ever been of this opinion long ago, or not. Come,
Mr. Wickfield, sir! Would you be so good as tell us? Yes or no, sir?
Come, partner! '

'For God's sake, my dear Doctor,' said Mr. Wickfield again laying his
irresolute hand upon the Doctor's arm, 'don't attach too much weight to
any suspicions I may have entertained. '

'There! ' cried Uriah, shaking his head. 'What a melancholy confirmation:
ain't it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless your soul, when I was nothing
but a clerk in his office, Copperfield, I've seen him twenty times, if
I've seen him once, quite in a taking about it--quite put out, you know
(and very proper in him as a father; I'm sure I can't blame him), to
think that Miss Agnes was mixing herself up with what oughtn't to be. '

'My dear Strong,' said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice, 'my good
friend, I needn't tell you that it has been my vice to look for some one
master motive in everybody, and to try all actions by one narrow test. I
may have fallen into such doubts as I have had, through this mistake. '

'You have had doubts, Wickfield,' said the Doctor, without lifting up
his head. 'You have had doubts. '

'Speak up, fellow-partner,' urged Uriah.

'I had, at one time, certainly,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'I--God forgive
me--I thought YOU had. '

'No, no, no! ' returned the Doctor, in a tone of most pathetic grief.
'I thought, at one time,' said Mr. Wickfield, 'that you wished to send
Maldon abroad to effect a desirable separation. '

'No, no, no! ' returned the Doctor. 'To give Annie pleasure, by making
some provision for the companion of her childhood. Nothing else. '

'So I found,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'I couldn't doubt it, when you told
me so. But I thought--I implore you to remember the narrow construction
which has been my besetting sin--that, in a case where there was so much
disparity in point of years--'

'That's the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield! ' observed Uriah,
with fawning and offensive pity.

'--a lady of such youth, and such attractions, however real her
respect for you, might have been influenced in marrying, by worldly
considerations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelings
and circumstances that may have all tended to good. For Heaven's sake
remember that! '

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

'Always observing her from one point of view,' said Mr. Wickfield; 'but
by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I entreat you to consider
what it was; I am forced to confess now, having no escape-'

'No! There's no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,' observed Uriah,
'when it's got to this. '

'--that I did,' said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and distractedly
at his partner, 'that I did doubt her, and think her wanting in her
duty to you; and that I did sometimes, if I must say all, feel averse
to Agnes being in such a familiar relation towards her, as to see what I
saw, or in my diseased theory fancied that I saw. I never mentioned
this to anyone. I never meant it to be known to anyone. And though it
is terrible to you to hear,' said Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued, 'if you
knew how terrible it is for me to tell, you would feel compassion for
me! '

The Doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out his hand. Mr.
Wickfield held it for a little while in his, with his head bowed down.

'I am sure,' said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence like a
Conger-eel, 'that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to everybody.
But since we have got so far, I ought to take the liberty of mentioning
that Copperfield has noticed it too. '

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

'Oh! it's very kind of you, Copperfield,' returned Uriah, undulating all
over, 'and we all know what an amiable character yours is; but you know
that the moment I spoke to you the other night, you knew what I meant.
You know you knew what I meant, Copperfield. Don't deny it! You deny it
with the best intentions; but don't do it, Copperfield. '

I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon me for a moment,
and I felt that the confession of my old misgivings and remembrances
was too plainly written in my face to be overlooked. It was of no use
raging. I could not undo that. Say what I would, I could not unsay it.

We were silent again, and remained so, until the Doctor rose and walked
twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to where his
chair stood; and, leaning on the back of it, and occasionally putting
his handkerchief to his eyes, with a simple honesty that did him more
honour, to my thinking, than any disguise he could have effected, said:

'I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to blame.
I have exposed one whom I hold in my heart, to trials and aspersions--I
call them aspersions, even to have been conceived in anybody's inmost
mind--of which she never, but for me, could have been the object. '

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

'Of which my Annie,' said the Doctor, 'never, but for me, could have
been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as you know; I do not feel,
tonight, that I have much to live for. But my life--my Life--upon the
truth and honour of the dear lady who has been the subject of this
conversation! '

I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the realization of
the handsomest and most romantic figure ever imagined by painter, could
have said this, with a more impressive and affecting dignity than the
plain old Doctor did.

'But I am not prepared,' he went on, 'to deny--perhaps I may have been,
without knowing it, in some degree prepared to admit--that I may have
unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappy marriage. I am a man
quite unaccustomed to observe; and I cannot but believe that the
observation of several people, of different ages and positions, all too
plainly tending in one direction (and that so natural), is better than
mine. '

I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his benignant manner
towards his youthful wife; but the respectful tenderness he manifested
in every reference to her on this occasion, and the almost reverential
manner in which he put away from him the lightest doubt of her
integrity, exalted him, in my eyes, beyond description.

'I married that lady,' said the Doctor, 'when she was extremely young. I
took her to myself when her character was scarcely formed. So far as it
was developed, it had been my happiness to form it. I knew her father
well. I knew her well. I had taught her what I could, for the love of
all her beautiful and virtuous qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear
I did, in taking advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and
her affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart! '

He walked across the room, and came back to the same place; holding
the chair with a grasp that trembled, like his subdued voice, in its
earnestness.

'I regarded myself as a refuge, for her, from the dangers and
vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal though we were in
years, she would live tranquilly and contentedly with me. I did not shut
out of my consideration the time when I should leave her free, and still
young and still beautiful, but with her judgement more matured--no,
gentlemen--upon my truth! '

His homely figure seemed to be lightened up by his fidelity and
generosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no other grace could
have imparted to it.

'My life with this lady has been very happy. Until tonight, I have
had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her great
injustice. '

His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of these words,
stopped for a few moments; then he went on:

'Once awakened from my dream--I have been a poor dreamer, in one way or
other, all my life--I see how natural it is that she should have some
regretful feeling towards her old companion and her equal.
That she does
regard him with some innocent regret, with some blameless thoughts of
what might have been, but for me, is, I fear, too true. Much that I have
seen, but not noted, has come back upon me with new meaning, during
this last trying hour. But, beyond this, gentlemen, the dear lady's name
never must be coupled with a word, a breath, of doubt. '

For a little while, his eye kindled and his voice was firm; for a little
while he was again silent. Presently, he proceeded as before:

'It only remains for me, to bear the knowledge of the unhappiness I have
occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is she who should reproach; not
I. To save her from misconstruction, cruel misconstruction, that even my
friends have not been able to avoid, becomes my duty. The more retired
we live, the better I shall discharge it. And when the time comes--may
it come soon, if it be His merciful pleasure! --when my death shall
release her from constraint, I shall close my eyes upon her honoured
face, with unbounded confidence and love; and leave her, with no sorrow
then, to happier and brighter days. '

I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness and goodness,
so adorned by, and so adorning, the perfect simplicity of his manner,
brought into my eyes. He had moved to the door, when he added:

'Gentlemen, I have shown you my heart. I am sure you will respect it.
What we have said tonight is never to be said more. Wickfield, give me
an old friend's arm upstairs! '

Mr. Wickfield hastened to him. Without interchanging a word they went
slowly out of the room together, Uriah looking after them.

'Well, Master Copperfield! ' said Uriah, meekly turning to me. 'The thing
hasn't took quite the turn that might have been expected, for the old
Scholar--what an excellent man! --is as blind as a brickbat; but this
family's out of the cart, I think! '

I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly enraged as I never
was before, and never have been since.

'You villain,' said I, 'what do you mean by entrapping me into your
schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now, you false rascal, as if we
had been in discussion together? '

As we stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy
exultation of his face, what I already so plainly knew; I mean that he
forced his confidence upon me, expressly to make me miserable, and had
set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter; that I couldn't bear
it. The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly before me, and I struck
it with my open hand with that force that my fingers tingled as if I had
burnt them.

He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connexion, looking at
each other. We stood so, a long time; long enough for me to see the
white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of his cheek, and
leave it a deeper red.

'Copperfield,' he said at length, in a breathless voice, 'have you taken
leave of your senses? '

'I have taken leave of you,' said I, wresting my hand away. 'You dog,
I'll know no more of you. '

'Won't you? ' said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek to put his
hand there. 'Perhaps you won't be able to help it. Isn't this ungrateful
of you, now? '

'I have shown you often enough,' said I, 'that I despise you. I have
shown you now, more plainly, that I do. Why should I dread your doing
your worst to all about you? What else do you ever do? '

He perfectly understood this allusion to the considerations that had
hitherto restrained me in my communications with him. I rather think
that neither the blow, nor the allusion, would have escaped me, but for
the assurance I had had from Agnes that night. It is no matter.

There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at me, seemed to
take every shade of colour that could make eyes ugly.

'Copperfield,' he said, removing his hand from his cheek, 'you have
always gone against me. I know you always used to be against me at Mr.
Wickfield's. '

'You may think what you like,' said I, still in a towering rage. 'If it
is not true, so much the worthier you. '

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

I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, was going out to
bed, when he came between me and the door.

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

'You may go to the devil! ' said I.

'Don't say that! ' he replied. 'I know you'll be sorry afterwards. How
can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to show such a bad spirit?
But I forgive you. '

'You forgive me! ' I repeated disdainfully.

'I do, and you can't help yourself,' replied Uriah. 'To think of your
going and attacking me, that have always been a friend to you! But there
can't be a quarrel without two parties, and I won't be one. I will be
a friend to you, in spite of you. So now you know what you've got to
expect. '

The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which was
very slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that the house might not be
disturbed at an unseasonable hour, did not improve my temper; though my
passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I should expect from
him what I always had expected, and had never yet been disappointed in,
I opened the door upon him, as if he had been a great walnut put there
to be cracked, and went out of the house. But he slept out of the house
too, at his mother's lodging; and before I had gone many hundred yards,
came up with me.

'You know, Copperfield,' he said, in my ear (I did not turn my head),
'you're in quite a wrong position'; which I felt to be true, and that
made me chafe the more; 'you can't make this a brave thing, and you
can't help being forgiven. I don't intend to mention it to mother, nor
to any living soul. I'm determined to forgive you. But I do wonder
that you should lift your hand against a person that you knew to be so
umble! '

I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I knew myself. If
he had retorted or openly exasperated me, it would have been a relief
and a justification; but he had put me on a slow fire, on which I lay
tormented half the night.

In the morning, when I came out, the early church-bell was ringing,
and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressed me as if
nothing had happened, and I could do no less than reply. I had struck
him hard enough to give him the toothache, I suppose. At all events
his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief, which, with his hat
perched on the top of it, was far from improving his appearance. I heard
that he went to a dentist's in London on the Monday morning, and had a
tooth out. I hope it was a double one.

The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and remained alone, for
a considerable part of every day, during the remainder of the visit.
Agnes and her father had been gone a week, before we resumed our usual
work. On the day preceding its resumption, the Doctor gave me with his
own hands a folded note not sealed. It was addressed to myself; and laid
an injunction on me, in a few affectionate words, never to refer to the
subject of that evening. I had confided it to my aunt, but to no
one else. It was not a subject I could discuss with Agnes, and Agnes
certainly had not the least suspicion of what had passed.

Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong then. Several weeks elapsed
before I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly, like a cloud
when there is no wind. At first, she seemed to wonder at the gentle
compassion with which the Doctor spoke to her, and at his wish that she
should have her mother with her, to relieve the dull monotony of her
life. Often, when we were at work, and she was sitting by, I would see
her pausing and looking at him with that memorable face. Afterwards, I
sometimes observed her rise, with her eyes full of tears, and go out
of the room. Gradually, an unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty, and
deepened every day. Mrs. Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage
then; but she talked and talked, and saw nothing.

As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the Doctor's house,
the Doctor became older in appearance, and more grave; but the sweetness
of his temper, the placid kindness of his manner, and his benevolent
solicitude for her, if they were capable of any increase, were
increased. I saw him once, early on the morning of her birthday, when
she came to sit in the window while we were at work (which she had
always done, but now began to do with a timid and uncertain air that I
thought very touching), take her forehead between his hands, kiss it,
and go hurriedly away, too much moved to remain. I saw her stand where
he had left her, like a statue; and then bend down her head, and clasp
her hands, and weep, I cannot say how sorrowfully.

Sometimes, after that, I fancied that she tried to speak even to me,
in intervals when we were left alone. But she never uttered a word. The
Doctor always had some new project for her participating in amusements
away from home, with her mother; and Mrs. Markleham, who was very fond
of amusements, and very easily dissatisfied with anything else, entered
into them with great good-will, and was loud in her commendations. But
Annie, in a spiritless unhappy way, only went whither she was led, and
seemed to have no care for anything.

I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt; who must have walked,
at various times, a hundred miles in her uncertainty. What was strangest
of all was, that the only real relief which seemed to make its way into
the secret region of this domestic unhappiness, made its way there in
the person of Mr. Dick.

What his thoughts were on the subject, or what his observation was, I am
as unable to explain, as I dare say he would have been to assist me in
the task. But, as I have recorded in the narrative of my school days,
his veneration for the Doctor was unbounded; and there is a subtlety of
perception in real attachment, even when it is borne towards man by one
of the lower animals, which leaves the highest intellect behind. To this
mind of the heart, if I may call it so, in Mr. Dick, some bright ray of
the truth shot straight.

He had proudly resumed his privilege, in many of his spare hours,
of walking up and down the garden with the Doctor; as he had been
accustomed to pace up and down The Doctor's Walk at Canterbury. But
matters were no sooner in this state, than he devoted all his spare time
(and got up earlier to make it more) to these perambulations. If he had
never been so happy as when the Doctor read that marvellous performance,
the Dictionary, to him; he was now quite miserable unless the Doctor
pulled it out of his pocket, and began. When the Doctor and I were
engaged, he now fell into the custom of walking up and down with Mrs.
Strong, and helping her to trim her favourite flowers, or weed the
beds. I dare say he rarely spoke a dozen words in an hour: but his quiet
interest, and his wistful face, found immediate response in both their
breasts; each knew that the other liked him, and that he loved both; and
he became what no one else could be--a link between them.

When I think of him, with his impenetrably wise face, walking up and
down with the Doctor, delighted to be battered by the hard words in the
Dictionary; when I think of him carrying huge watering-pots after Annie;
kneeling down, in very paws of gloves, at patient microscopic work among
the little leaves; expressing as no philosopher could have expressed,
in everything he did, a delicate desire to be her friend; showering
sympathy, trustfulness, and affection, out of every hole in the
watering-pot; when I think of him never wandering in that better mind
of his to which unhappiness addressed itself, never bringing the
unfortunate King Charles into the garden, never wavering in his grateful
service, never diverted from his knowledge that there was something
wrong, or from his wish to set it right--I really feel almost ashamed
of having known that he was not quite in his wits, taking account of the
utmost I have done with mine.

'Nobody but myself, Trot, knows what that man is! ' my aunt would proudly
remark, when we conversed about it. 'Dick will distinguish himself yet! '

I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. While the
visit at the Doctor's was still in progress, I observed that the postman
brought two or three letters every morning for Uriah Heep, who remained
at Highgate until the rest went back, it being a leisure time; and that
these were always directed in a business-like manner by Mr. Micawber,
who now assumed a round legal hand. I was glad to infer, from these
slight premises, that Mr. Micawber was doing well; and consequently was
much surprised to receive, about this time, the following letter from
his amiable wife.



'CANTERBURY, Monday Evening.

'You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to receive
this communication. Still more so, by its contents. Still more so, by
the stipulation of implicit confidence which I beg to impose. But my
feelings as a wife and mother require relief; and as I do not wish to
consult my family (already obnoxious to the feelings of Mr. Micawber),
I know no one of whom I can better ask advice than my friend and former
lodger.

'You may be aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that between myself and Mr.
Micawber (whom I will never desert), there has always been preserved a
spirit of mutual confidence. Mr. Micawber may have occasionally given
a bill without consulting me, or he may have misled me as to the period
when that obligation would become due. This has actually happened.
But, in general, Mr. Micawber has had no secrets from the bosom of
affection--I allude to his wife--and has invariably, on our retirement
to rest, recalled the events of the day.

'You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperfield, what the
poignancy of my feelings must be, when I inform you that Mr. Micawber is
entirely changed. He is reserved. He is secret. His life is a mystery to
the partner of his joys and sorrows--I again allude to his wife--and if
I should assure you that beyond knowing that it is passed from morning
to night at the office, I now know less of it than I do of the man in
the south, connected with whose mouth the thoughtless children repeat
an idle tale respecting cold plum porridge, I should adopt a popular
fallacy to express an actual fact.

'But this is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose. He is severe. He is
estranged from our eldest son and daughter, he has no pride in his
twins, he looks with an eye of coldness even on the unoffending stranger
who last became a member of our circle. The pecuniary means of meeting
our expenses, kept down to the utmost farthing, are obtained from him
with great difficulty, and even under fearful threats that he will
Settle himself (the exact expression); and he inexorably refuses to give
any explanation whatever of this distracting policy.

'This is hard to bear. This is heart-breaking. If you will advise me,
knowing my feeble powers such as they are, how you think it will be best
to exert them in a dilemma so unwonted, you will add another friendly
obligation to the many you have already rendered me. With loves from the
children, and a smile from the happily-unconscious stranger, I remain,
dear Mr. Copperfield,

Your afflicted,

'EMMA MICAWBER. '


I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micawber's experience
any other recommendation, than that she should try to reclaim Mr.
Micawber by patience and kindness (as I knew she would in any case); but
the letter set me thinking about him very much.



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.