No More Learning

'

Mr. Micawber tapped himself with the ruler. 'I did, when I got the key
from you as usual--but a little earlier--and opened it this morning. '

'Don't be uneasy,' said Traddles. 'They have come into my possession. I
will take care of them, under the authority I mentioned. '

'You receive stolen goods, do you? ' cried Uriah.

'Under such circumstances,' answered Traddles, 'yes. '

What was my astonishment when I beheld my aunt, who had been profoundly
quiet and attentive, make a dart at Uriah Heep, and seize him by the
collar with both hands!

'You know what I want? ' said my aunt.

'A strait-waistcoat,' said he.

'No. My property! ' returned my aunt. 'Agnes, my dear, as long as
I believed it had been really made away with by your father, I
wouldn't--and, my dear, I didn't, even to Trot, as he knows--breathe a
syllable of its having been placed here for investment. But, now I know
this fellow's answerable for it, and I'll have it! Trot, come and take
it away from him! '

Whether my aunt supposed, for the moment, that he kept her property in
his neck-kerchief, I am sure I don't know; but she certainly pulled at
it as if she thought so. I hastened to put myself between them, and to
assure her that we would all take care that he should make the utmost
restitution of everything he had wrongly got. This, and a few moments'
reflection, pacified her; but she was not at all disconcerted by what
she had done (though I cannot say as much for her bonnet) and resumed
her seat composedly.

During the last few minutes, Mrs. Heep had been clamouring to her son
to be 'umble'; and had been going down on her knees to all of us in
succession, and making the wildest promises. Her son sat her down in his
chair; and, standing sulkily by her, holding her arm with his hand, but
not rudely, said to me, with a ferocious look:

'What do you want done? '

'I will tell you what must be done,' said Traddles.

'Has that Copperfield no tongue? ' muttered Uriah, 'I would do a good
deal for you if you could tell me, without lying, that somebody had cut
it out. '

'My Uriah means to be umble! ' cried his mother. 'Don't mind what he
says, good gentlemen! '

'What must be done,' said Traddles, 'is this. First, the deed of
relinquishment, that we have heard of, must be given over to me
now--here. '

'Suppose I haven't got it,' he interrupted.

'But you have,' said Traddles; 'therefore, you know, we won't suppose
so. ' And I cannot help avowing that this was the first occasion on
which I really did justice to the clear head, and the plain, patient,
practical good sense, of my old schoolfellow. 'Then,' said Traddles,
'you must prepare to disgorge all that your rapacity has become
possessed of, and to make restoration to the last farthing. All the
partnership books and papers must remain in our possession; all your
books and papers; all money accounts and securities, of both kinds. In
short, everything here. '

'Must it? I don't know that,' said Uriah. 'I must have time to think
about that. '

'Certainly,' replied Traddles; 'but, in the meanwhile, and until
everything is done to our satisfaction, we shall maintain possession
of these things; and beg you--in short, compel you--to keep to your own
room, and hold no communication with anyone. '

'I won't do it! ' said Uriah, with an oath.

'Maidstone jail is a safer place of detention,' observed Traddles; 'and
though the law may be longer in righting us, and may not be able to
right us so completely as you can, there is no doubt of its punishing
YOU. Dear me, you know that quite as well as I! Copperfield, will you go
round to the Guildhall, and bring a couple of officers? '

Here, Mrs. Heep broke out again, crying on her knees to Agnes to
interfere in their behalf, exclaiming that he was very humble, and it
was all true, and if he didn't do what we wanted, she would, and much
more to the same purpose; being half frantic with fears for her darling.
To inquire what he might have done, if he had had any boldness, would
be like inquiring what a mongrel cur might do, if it had the spirit of
a tiger. He was a coward, from head to foot; and showed his dastardly
nature through his sullenness and mortification, as much as at any time
of his mean life.

'Stop! ' he growled to me; and wiped his hot face with his hand. 'Mother,
hold your noise. Well! Let 'em have that deed. Go and fetch it! '

'Do you help her, Mr. Dick,' said Traddles, 'if you please. '

Proud of his commission, and understanding it, Mr. Dick accompanied her
as a shepherd's dog might accompany a sheep. But, Mrs. Heep gave him
little trouble; for she not only returned with the deed, but with the
box in which it was, where we found a banker's book and some other
papers that were afterwards serviceable.

'Good! ' said Traddles, when this was brought. 'Now, Mr. Heep, you can
retire to think: particularly observing, if you please, that I declare
to you, on the part of all present, that there is only one thing to be
done; that it is what I have explained; and that it must be done without
delay. '

Uriah, without lifting his eyes from the ground, shuffled across the
room with his hand to his chin, and pausing at the door, said:

'Copperfield, I have always hated you. You've always been an upstart,
and you've always been against me. '

'As I think I told you once before,' said I, 'it is you who have been,
in your greed and cunning, against all the world. It may be profitable
to you to reflect, in future, that there never were greed and cunning in
the world yet, that did not do too much, and overreach themselves. It is
as certain as death. '

'Or as certain as they used to teach at school (the same school where I
picked up so much umbleness), from nine o'clock to eleven, that labour
was a curse; and from eleven o'clock to one, that it was a blessing and
a cheerfulness, and a dignity, and I don't know what all, eh? ' said
he with a sneer. 'You preach, about as consistent as they did.
Won't umbleness go down? I shouldn't have got round my gentleman
fellow-partner without it, I think. --Micawber, you old bully, I'll pay
YOU! '

Mr. Micawber, supremely defiant of him and his extended finger, and
making a great deal of his chest until he had slunk out at the door,
then addressed himself to me, and proffered me the satisfaction of
'witnessing the re-establishment of mutual confidence between himself
and Mrs. Micawber'. After which, he invited the company generally to the
contemplation of that affecting spectacle.

'The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs. Micawber and
myself, is now withdrawn,' said Mr. Micawber; 'and my children and the
Author of their Being can once more come in contact on equal terms. '

As we were all very grateful to him, and all desirous to show that we
were, as well as the hurry and disorder of our spirits would permit, I
dare say we should all have gone, but that it was necessary for Agnes to
return to her father, as yet unable to bear more than the dawn of
hope; and for someone else to hold Uriah in safe keeping. So, Traddles
remained for the latter purpose, to be presently relieved by Mr. Dick;
and Mr. Dick, my aunt, and I, went home with Mr. Micawber. As I parted
hurriedly from the dear girl to whom I owed so much, and thought from
what she had been saved, perhaps, that morning--her better resolution
notwithstanding--I felt devoutly thankful for the miseries of my younger
days which had brought me to the knowledge of Mr. Micawber.

His house was not far off; and as the street door opened into the
sitting-room, and he bolted in with a precipitation quite his own,
we found ourselves at once in the bosom of the family. Mr. Micawber
exclaiming, 'Emma! my life! ' rushed into Mrs. Micawber's arms. Mrs.
Micawber shrieked, and folded Mr. Micawber in her embrace. Miss
Micawber, nursing the unconscious stranger of Mrs. Micawber's last
letter to me, was sensibly affected. The stranger leaped. The twins
testified their joy by several inconvenient but innocent demonstrations.
Master Micawber, whose disposition appeared to have been soured by
early disappointment, and whose aspect had become morose, yielded to his
better feelings, and blubbered.

'Emma! ' said Mr. Micawber. 'The cloud is past from my mind. Mutual
confidence, so long preserved between us once, is restored, to know
no further interruption. Now, welcome poverty! ' cried Mr. Micawber,
shedding tears. 'Welcome misery, welcome houselessness, welcome hunger,
rags, tempest, and beggary! Mutual confidence will sustain us to the
end! '

With these expressions, Mr. Micawber placed Mrs. Micawber in a chair,
and embraced the family all round; welcoming a variety of bleak
prospects, which appeared, to the best of my judgement, to be anything
but welcome to them; and calling upon them to come out into Canterbury
and sing a chorus, as nothing else was left for their support.

But Mrs. Micawber having, in the strength of her emotions, fainted away,
the first thing to be done, even before the chorus could be considered
complete, was to recover her. This my aunt and Mr. Micawber did; and
then my aunt was introduced, and Mrs. Micawber recognized me.

'Excuse me, dear Mr. Copperfield,' said the poor lady, giving me her
hand, 'but I am not strong; and the removal of the late misunderstanding
between Mr. Micawber and myself was at first too much for me. '

'Is this all your family, ma'am? ' said my aunt.

'There are no more at present,' returned Mrs. Micawber.

'Good gracious, I didn't mean that, ma'am,' said my aunt. 'I mean, are
all these yours? '

'Madam,' replied Mr. Micawber, 'it is a true bill. '

'And that eldest young gentleman, now,' said my aunt, musing, 'what has
he been brought up to? '

'It was my hope when I came here,' said Mr. Micawber, 'to have got
Wilkins into the Church: or perhaps I shall express my meaning more
strictly, if I say the Choir. But there was no vacancy for a tenor in
the venerable Pile for which this city is so justly eminent; and he
has--in short, he has contracted a habit of singing in public-houses,
rather than in sacred edifices. '

'But he means well,' said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly.

'I dare say, my love,' rejoined Mr. Micawber, 'that he means
particularly well; but I have not yet found that he carries out his
meaning, in any given direction whatsoever. '

Master Micawber's moroseness of aspect returned upon him again, and he
demanded, with some temper, what he was to do? Whether he had been born
a carpenter, or a coach-painter, any more than he had been born a bird?
Whether he could go into the next street, and open a chemist's shop?
Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim himself a
lawyer? Whether he could come out by force at the opera, and succeed
by violence? Whether he could do anything, without being brought up to
something?

My aunt mused a little while, and then said:

'Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your thoughts to
emigration. '

'Madam,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'it was the dream of my youth, and the
fallacious aspiration of my riper years. ' I am thoroughly persuaded, by
the by, that he had never thought of it in his life.

'Aye? ' said my aunt, with a glance at me. 'Why, what a thing it would
be for yourselves and your family, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, if you were to
emigrate now. '

'Capital, madam, capital,' urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily.

'That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty, my dear Mr.
Copperfield,' assented his wife.

'Capital? ' cried my aunt. 'But you are doing us a great service--have
done us a great service, I may say, for surely much will come out of
the fire--and what could we do for you, that would be half so good as to
find the capital? '

'I could not receive it as a gift,' said Mr. Micawber, full of fire and
animation, 'but if a sufficient sum could be advanced, say at five per
cent interest, per annum, upon my personal liability--say my notes of
hand, at twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four months, respectively, to
allow time for something to turn up--'

'Could be? Can be and shall be, on your own terms,' returned my aunt,
'if you say the word. Think of this now, both of you. Here are some
people David knows, going out to Australia shortly. If you decide to go,
why shouldn't you go in the same ship? You may help each other. Think of
this now, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Take your time, and weigh it well. '

'There is but one question, my dear ma'am, I could wish to ask,' said
Mrs. Micawber. 'The climate, I believe, is healthy? '

'Finest in the world! ' said my aunt.

'Just so,' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'Then my question arises. Now, are
the circumstances of the country such, that a man of Mr. Micawber's
abilities would have a fair chance of rising in the social scale? I will
not say, at present, might he aspire to be Governor, or anything of that
sort; but would there be a reasonable opening for his talents to
develop themselves--that would be amply sufficient--and find their own
expansion? '

'No better opening anywhere,' said my aunt, 'for a man who conducts
himself well, and is industrious. '

'For a man who conducts himself well,' repeated Mrs. Micawber, with her
clearest business manner, 'and is industrious. Precisely. It is
evident to me that Australia is the legitimate sphere of action for Mr.
Micawber! '

'I entertain the conviction, my dear madam,' said Mr. Micawber, 'that
it is, under existing circumstances, the land, the only land, for myself
and family; and that something of an extraordinary nature will turn up
on that shore. It is no distance--comparatively speaking; and though
consideration is due to the kindness of your proposal, I assure you that
is a mere matter of form. '

Shall I ever forget how, in a moment, he was the most sanguine of men,
looking on to fortune; or how Mrs. Micawber presently discoursed
about the habits of the kangaroo!
Shall I ever recall that street of
Canterbury on a market-day, without recalling him, as he walked
back with us; expressing, in the hardy roving manner he assumed, the
unsettled habits of a temporary sojourner in the land; and looking at
the bullocks, as they came by, with the eye of an Australian farmer!



CHAPTER 53. ANOTHER RETROSPECT


I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a figure in the
moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in its innocent
love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me--turn to look upon the
Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground!

I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in our
cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in
feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks
or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while.

They have left off telling me to 'wait a few days more'. I have begun
to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see my
child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip.

He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he misses in
his mistress, something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he
mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is
sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on
Dora's bed--she sitting at the bedside--and mildly licks her hand.

Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or
complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dear
old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has no
sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes, the
little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our
wedding-day, and all that happy time.

What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be--and in all
life, within doors and without--when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly
room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her
little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus;
but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind.


It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows me how
her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and bright it
is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears.

'Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,' she says, when I
smile; 'but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and
because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the
glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it.
Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one! '

'That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you,
Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was. '

'Ah! but I didn't like to tell you,' says Dora, 'then, how I had cried
over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run about
again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we
were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the old walks? And
not forget poor papa? '

'Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get
well, my dear. '

'Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don't know! '


It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the
same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smile
upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs
now. She lies here all the day.

'Doady! '

'My dear Dora! '

'You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you
told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well? I
want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her. '

'I will write to her, my dear. '

'Will you? '

'Directly. '

'What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear,
it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to
see her! '

'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to
come. '

'You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now? ' Dora whispers, with
her arm about my neck.

'How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair? '

'My empty chair! ' She clings to me for a little while, in silence. 'And
you really miss me, Doady? ' looking up, and brightly smiling. 'Even
poor, giddy, stupid me? '

'My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much? '

'Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry! ' creeping closer to me, and
folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, and
quite happy.

'Quite! ' she says. 'Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I
want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for. '

'Except to get well again, Dora. '

'Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think--you know I always was a silly little
thing! --that that will never be! '

'Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't think so! '

'I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear
boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife's empty chair! '


It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been among
us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with
Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dora
has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone.

Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me
so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts--but I am far from
sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have
withdrawn by myself, many times today, to weep. I have remembered Who
wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me
of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign
myself, and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done
imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end
will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine,
I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a
pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared.

'I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have
often thought of saying, lately. You won't mind? ' with a gentle look.

'Mind, my darling? '

'Because I don't know what you will think, or what you may have thought
sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am
afraid I was too young. '

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, and
speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken
heart, that she is speaking of herself as past.

'I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only, but
in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly little
creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only loved
each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think I
was not fit to be a wife. '

I try to stay my tears, and to reply, 'Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to be
a husband! '

'I don't know,' with the old shake of her curls. 'Perhaps! But if I had
been more fit to be married I might have made you more so, too. Besides,
you are very clever, and I never was. '

'We have been very happy, my sweet Dora. '

'I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have
wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less a companion
for him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting
in his home. She wouldn't have improved. It is better as it is. '

'Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems a
reproach! '

'No, not a syllable! ' she answers, kissing me. 'Oh, my dear, you never
deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word to
you, in earnest--it was all the merit I had, except being pretty--or you
thought me so. Is it lonely, down-stairs, Doady? '

'Very! Very! '

'Don't cry! Is my chair there? '

'In its old place. '

'Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise. I want
to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send her
up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come--not even aunt.
I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite
alone. '

I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my
grief.

'I said that it was better as it is! ' she whispers, as she holds me in
her arms. 'Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have loved your
child-wife better than you do; and, after more years, she would so have
tried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to love
her half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better
as it is! '

Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I give her the
message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip.

His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed of
flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear.
As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my undisciplined
heart is chastened heavily--heavily.

I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those
secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of every
little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles
make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance, is the
image of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love,
and by her own, with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would
it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and a
girl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply!

How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my child-wife's
old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house,
and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go upstairs.

'Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight! '

He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim eyes
to my face.

'Oh, Jip! It may be, never again! '

He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with
a plaintive cry, is dead.

'Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here! ' --That face, so full of pity, and of
grief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn
hand upraised towards Heaven!

'Agnes? '

It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all things
are blotted out of my remembrance.



CHAPTER 54. Mr. MICAWBER'S TRANSACTIONS


This is not the time at which I am to enter on the state of my mind
beneath its load of sorrow. I came to think that the Future was walled
up before me, that the energy and action of my life were at an end, that
I never could find any refuge but in the grave. I came to think so, I
say, but not in the first shock of my grief. It slowly grew to that.
If the events I go on to relate, had not thickened around me, in the
beginning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my affliction, it is
possible (though I think not probable), that I might have fallen at once
into this condition. As it was, an interval occurred before I fully knew
my own distress; an interval, in which I even supposed that its sharpest
pangs were past; and when my mind could soothe itself by resting on
all that was most innocent and beautiful, in the tender story that was
closed for ever.

When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or how it came to be
agreed among us that I was to seek the restoration of my peace in change
and travel, I do not, even now, distinctly know. The spirit of Agnes so
pervaded all we thought, and said, and did, in that time of sorrow, that
I assume I may refer the project to her influence. But her influence was
so quiet that I know no more.

And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old association of her with
the stained-glass window in the church, a prophetic foreshadowing of
what she would be to me, in the calamity that was to happen in the
fullness of time, had found a way into my mind. In all that sorrow, from
the moment, never to be forgotten, when she stood before me with her
upraised hand, she was like a sacred presence in my lonely house. When
the Angel of Death alighted there, my child-wife fell asleep--they told
me so when I could bear to hear it--on her bosom, with a smile. From my
swoon, I first awoke to a consciousness of her compassionate tears, her
words of hope and peace, her gentle face bending down as from a purer
region nearer Heaven, over my undisciplined heart, and softening its
pain.

Let me go on.

I was to go abroad. That seemed to have been determined among us from
the first. The ground now covering all that could perish of my
departed wife, I waited only for what Mr. Micawber called the 'final
pulverization of Heep'; and for the departure of the emigrants.

At the request of Traddles, most affectionate and devoted of friends in
my trouble, we returned to Canterbury: I mean my aunt, Agnes, and I. We
proceeded by appointment straight to Mr. Micawber's house; where, and at
Mr. Wickfield's, my friend had been labouring ever since our explosive
meeting. When poor Mrs. Micawber saw me come in, in my black clothes,
she was sensibly affected. There was a great deal of good in Mrs.
Micawber's heart, which had not been dunned out of it in all those many
years.

'Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber,' was my aunt's first salutation after we
were seated. 'Pray, have you thought about that emigration proposal of
mine? '

'My dear madam,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'perhaps I cannot better express
the conclusion at which Mrs. Micawber, your humble servant, and I may
add our children, have jointly and severally arrived, than by borrowing
the language of an illustrious poet, to reply that our Boat is on the
shore, and our Bark is on the sea. '

'That's right,' said my aunt.