David Copperfield

by Charles Dickens

  "To--to Captain Bailey?" I have just enough power to ask.

  "No, to no Captain. To Mr. Chestle, a hop-grower."

  I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take off my ring, I wear my worst clothes, I use no bear's grease, and I frequently lament over the late Miss Larkins's faded flower. Being, by that time, rather tired of this kind of life, and having received new provocation from the butcher, I throw the flower away, go out with the butcher, and gloriously defeat him.

  This, and the resumption of my ring, as well as of the bear's grease in moderation, are the last marks I can discern, now, in my progress to seventeen.

  CHAPTER XIX

  I Look about Me, and Make a Discovery

  I AM DOUBTFUL WHETHER I WAS AT HEART GLAD OR SORRY, when my school-days drew to an end, and the time came for my leaving Doctor Strong's. I had been very happy there, I had a great attachment for the Doctor, and I was eminent and distinguished in that little world. For these reasons, I was sorry to go, but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, of the importance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of the wonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent animal, and the wonderful effects he could not fail to make upon society, lured me away. So powerful were these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that I seem, according to my present way of thinking, to have left school without natural regret. The separation has not made the impression on me that other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I felt about it, and what its circumstances were, but it is not momentous in my recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know that my juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then, and that life was more like a great fairy story, which I was just about to begin to read, than anything else.

  My aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the calling to which I should be devoted. For a year or more I had endeavoured to find a satisfactory answer to her often-repeated question, "What I would like to be?" But I had no particular liking, that I could discover, for anything. If I could have been inspired with a knowledge of the science of navigation, taken the command of a fast-sailing expedition, and gone round the world on a triumphant voyage of discovery, I think I might have considered myself completely suited. But in the absence of any such miraculous provision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuit that would not lie too heavily upon her purse, and to do my duty in it, whatever it might be.

  Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils, with a meditative and sage demeanour. He never made a suggestion but once, and on that occasion (I don't know what put it in his head), he suddenly proposed that I should be "a Brazier." My aunt received this proposal so very ungraciously, that he never ventured on a second, but ever afterwards confined himself to looking watchfully at her for her suggestions, and rattling his money.

  "Trot, I tell you what, my dear," said my aunt, one morning in the Christmas season when I left school, "as this knotty point is still unsettled, and as we must not make a mistake in our decision if we can help it, I think we had better take a little breathing-time. In the meanwhile, you must try to look at it from a new point of view, and not as a schoolboy."

  "I will, Aunt."

  "It has occurred to me," pursued my aunt, "that a little change, and a glimpse of life out-of-doors, may be useful in helping you to know your own mind, and form a cooler judgment. Suppose you were to take a little journey now. Suppose you were to go down into the old part of the country again, for instance, and see that--that out-of-the-way woman with the savagest of names," said my aunt, rubbing her nose, for she could never thoroughly forgive Peggotty for being so called.

  "Of all things in the world, Aunt, I should like it best!"

  "Well," said my aunt, "that's lucky, for I should like it too. But it's natural and rational that you should like it. And I am very well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will always be natural and rational."

  "I hope so, Aunt."

  "Your sister, Betsey Trotwood," said my aunt, "would have been as natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You'll be worthy of her, won't you?"

  "I hope I shall be worthy of you, Aunt. That will be enough for me."

  "It's a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours didn't live," said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, "or she'd have been so vain of her boy by this time, that her soft little head would have been completely turned, if there was anything of it left to turn." (My aunt always excused any weakness of her own in my behalf, by transferring it in this way to my poor mother.) "Bless me, Trotwood, how you do remind me of her!"

  "Pleasantly, I hope, Aunt?" said I.

  "He's as like her, Dick," said my aunt, emphatically, "he's as like her, as she was that afternoon, before she began to fret. Bless my heart, he's as like her, as he can look at me out of his two eyes!"

  "Is he indeed?" said Mr. Dick.

  "And he's like David, too," said my aunt, decisively.

  "He is very like David!" said Mr. Dick.

  "But what I want you to be, Trot," resumed my aunt, "--I don't mean physically, but morally, you are very well physically--is a firm fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With resolution," said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clenching her hand. "With determination. With character, Trot. With strength of character that is not to be influenced, except on good reason, by anybody, or by anything. That's what I want you to be. That's what your father and mother might both have been, Heaven knows, and been the better for it."

  I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described.

  "That you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance upon yourself, and to act for yourself," said my aunt, "I shall send you upon your trip alone. I did think, once, of Mr. Dick's going with you, but, on second thoughts, I shall keep him to take care of me."

  Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed, until the honour and dignity of having to take care of the most wonderful woman in the world, restored the sunshine to his face.

  "Besides," said my aunt, "there's the Memorial."

  "Oh, certainly," said Mr. Dick, in a hurry, "I intend, Trotwood, to get that done immediately--it really must be done immediately! And then it will go in, you know--and then--" said Mr. Dick, after checking himself, and pausing a long time, "there'll be a pretty kettle of fish I"

  In pursuance of my aunt's kind scheme, I was shortly afterwards fitted out with a handsome purse of money, and a port manteau, and tenderly dismissed upon my expedition. At parting, my aunt gave me some good advice, and a good many kisses, and said that, as her object was that I should look about me, and should think a little, she would recommend me to stay a few days in London, if I liked it, either on my way down into Suffolk, or in coming back. In a word, I was at liberty to do what I would, for three weeks or a month, and no other conditions were imposed upon my freedom than the before-mentioned thinking and looking about me, and a pledge to write three times a week and faithfully report myself.

  I went to Canterbury first, that I might take leave of Agnes and Mr. Wickfield (my old room in whose house I had not yet relinquished) and also of the good Doctor. Agnes was very glad to see me, and told me that the house had not been like itself since I had left it.

  "I am sure I -am not like myself when I am away," said I. "I seem to want my right hand, when I miss you. Though that's not saying much, for there's, no head in my right hand, and no heart. Everyone who knows you consults with you, and is guided by you, Agnes."

  "Everyone who knows me spoils me, I believe," she answered, smiling.

  "No. It's because you are like no one else. You are so good, and so sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and you are always right."

  "You talk," said Agnes, breaking into a pleasant laugh, as she sat at work, "as if I were the late Miss Larkins."

  "Come! It's not fair to abuse my confidence," I answered, reddening at the recollection of my blue enslaver. "But I shall confide in you, just the
same, Agnes. I can never grow out of that. Whenever I fall into trouble, or fall in love, I shall always tell you, if you'll let me--even when I come to fall in love in earnest."

  "Why, you have always been in earnest!" said Agnes, laughing again.

  "Ohl that was as a child, or a schoolboy," said I, laughing in my turn, not without being a little shame-faced. "Times are altering now, and I suppose I shall be in a terrible state of earnestness one day or other. My wonder is that you are not in earnest yourself, by this time, Agnes."

  Agnes laughed again, and shook her head.

  "Oh, I know you are not!" said I, "because if you had been, you would have told me. Or at least," for I saw a faint blush in her face, "you would have let me find it out for myself. But there is no one that I know of, who deserves to love you, Agnes. Someone of a nobler character, and more worthy altogether than anyone I have ever seen here, must rise up, before I give my consent. In the time to come, I shall have a wary eye on all admirers, and shall exact a great deal from the successful one, I assure you."

  We had gone on, so far, in a mixture of confidential jest and earnest, that had long grown naturally out of our familiar relations, begun as mere children. But Agnes, now suddenly lifting up her eyes to mine, and speaking in a different manner, said:

  "Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and that I may not have another opportunity of asking for a long time, perhaps. Something I would ask, I think, of no one else. Have you observed any gradual alteration in Papa?"

  I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she had too. I must have shown as much, now, in my face, for her eyes were in a moment cast down, and I saw tears in them.

  "Tell me what it is," she said, in a low voice.

  "I think--shall I be quite plain, Agnes, liking him so much?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "I think he does himself no good by the habit that has increased upon him since I first came here. He is often very nervous, or I fancy so."

  "It is not fancy," said Agnes, shaking her head.

  "His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes look wild. I have remarked that at those times, and when he is least like himself, he is most certain to be wanted on some business."

  "By Uriah," said Agnes.

  "Yes, and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having understood it, or of having shown his condition in spite of himself, seems to make him so uneasy, that next day he is worse, and next day worse, and so he becomes jaded and haggard. Do not be alarmed by what I say, Agnes, but in this state I saw him, only the other evening, lay down his head upon his desk, and shed tears like a child."

  Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speaking, and in a moment she had met her father at the door of the room, and was hanging on his shoulder. The expression of her face, as they both looked towards me, I felt to be very touching. There was such deep fondness for him, and gratitude to him for all his love and care, in her beautiful look, and there was such a fervent appeal to me to deal tenderly by him, even in my inmost thoughts, and to let no harsh construction find any place against him; she was, at once, so proud of him and devoted to him, yet so compassionate and sorry, and so reliant upon me to be so, too, that nothing she could have said would have expressed more to me, or moved me more.

  [He was in good spirits and looked well, and we dined together cheerfully. He talked of the time that had glided away since I first dined with him, and the change that had stolen imperceptibly upon myself and Agnes. He sometimes felt that he was changed too, he said, and not for the better, as we were, but let that pass--and he drank his wine. He talked of Uriah Heep, and of the flight of years over his red head (though the mention of its colour is mine as I write), and spoke of Uriah's time being out within a week or two, and of its seeming to have begun but yesterday.

  I took that occasion to thank Mr. Wickfield for all the friendship and protection I had received at his hands--not very eloquently, I felt too much for that, but very heartily. He made. light of it in the same spirit, and said, with a melancholy kind of smile, which always became him well, that his great hope in life had been to see his daughter grow up at his side to what she now was, and yet that he could be well content to live the last five years of his life again. Then Agnes and I fell to recalling a number of little incidents which had happened in the course of those five years, and appealing to his recollection about them; and I was glad to see that he was carried away from his wine by the current of our talk, and for the time forgot it.]

  We were to drink tea at the Doctor's. We went there at the usual hour, and round the study-fireside found the Doctor, and his young wife, and her mother. The Doctor, who made as much of my going away as if I were going to China, received me as an honoured guest, and called for a log of wood to be thrown on the fire, that he might see the face of his old pupil reddening in the blaze.

  "I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood's stead, Wickfield," said the Doctor, warming his hands, "I am getting lazy, and want ease. I shall relinquish all my young people in another six months, and lead a quieter life."

  "You have said so, any time these ten years, Doctor," Mr. Wickfield answered.

  "But now I mean to do it," returned the Doctor. "My first master will succeed me--I am in earnest at last--so you'll soon have to arrange our contracts, and to bind us firmly to them, like a couple of knaves."

  "And to take care," said Mr. Wickfield, "that you're not imposed on, eh? As you certainly would be, in any contract you should make for yourself. Well! I am ready. There are worse tasks than that, in my calling."

  "I shall have nothing to think of, then," said the Doctor, with a smile, "but my Dictionary, and this other contract-bargain--Annie."

  As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards her, sitting at the tea-table by Agnes, she seemed to me to avoid his look with such unwonted hesitation and timidity, that his attention became fixed upon her, as if something were suggested to his thoughts.

  "There is a post come in from India, I observe," he said after a short silence.

  "By-the-by! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon!" said the Doctor.

  "Indeed!"

  "Poor dear Jack!" said Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head. "That trying climate! Like living, they tell me, on a sand-heap, underneath a burning-glass! He looked strong, but he wasn't. My dear Doctor, it was his spirit, not his constitution, that he ventured on so boldly. Annie, my dear, I am sure you must perfectly recollect that your cousin never was strong, not what can be called robust, you know," said Mrs. Markleham, with emphasis, and looking round upon us generally, "from the time when my daughter and himself were children, together, and walking about, arm-in-arm, the live-long day."

  Annie, thus addressed, made no reply.

  "Do I gather from what you say, ma'am, that Mr. Maldon is ill?" asked Mr. Wickfield.

  "Ill!" replied the Old Soldier. "My dear sir, he's all sorts of things."

  "Except well?" said Mr. Wickfield.

  "Except well, indeed!" said the Old Soldier. "He has had dreadful strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and agues, and every kind of thing you can mention. As to his liver," said the Old Soldier resignedly, "that, of course, he gave up altogether, when he first went out!"

  "Does he say all this?" asked Mr. Wickfield.

  "Say? My dear sir," returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head and her fan, "you little know my poor Jack Maldon when you ask that question. Say? Not be. You might drag him at the heels of four wild horses first."

  "Mama!" said Mrs. Strong.

  "Annie, my dear," returned her mother, "once for all, I must really beg that you will not interfere with me, unless it is to confirm what I say. You know as well as I do that your cousin Maldon would be dragged at the heels of any number of wild horses--why should I confine myself to four! I won't confine myself to four--eight, sixteen, two-and-thirty, rather than say anything calculated to overturn the Doctor's plans."

  "Wickfield's plans," said the Doctor, stroking his face, and
looking penitently at his adviser. "That is to say, our joint plans for him. I said myself, abroad or at home."

  "And I said," added Mr. Wickfield gravely, "abroad. I was the means of sending him abroad. It's my responsibility."

  "Oh! Responsibility!" said the Old Soldier. "Everything was done for the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield, everything was done for the kindest and best, we know. But if the dear fellow can't live there, he can't live there. And if he can't live there, he'll die there, sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans. I know him," said the Old Soldier, fanning herself, in a sort of calm prophetic agony, "and I know he'll die there, sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans."

  "Well, well, ma'am," said the Doctor cheerfully, "I am not bigoted to my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some other plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill health, he must not be allowed to go back, and we must endeavour to make some more suitable and fortunate provision for him in this country."

  Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech (which, I need not say, she had not at all expected or led up to) that she could only tell the Doctor it was like himself, and go several times through that operation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and then tapping his hand with it. After which she gently chid her daughter Annie, for not being more demonstrative when such kindnesses were showered, for her sake, on her old playfellow, and entertained us with some particulars concerning other deserving members of her family, whom it was desirable to set on their deserving legs.

  All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or lifted up her eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as she sat by his own daughter's side. It appeared to me that he never thought of being observed by anyone, but was so intent upon her, and upon his own thoughts in connexion with her, as to be quite absorbed. He now asked what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually written in reference to himself, and to whom he had written it?

  "Why, here," said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney-piece above the Doctor's head. "the dear fellow says to the Doctor himself--where is it? Oh!--'I am sorry to inform you that my health is suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessity of returning home for a time, as the only hope of restoration.' That's pretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie's letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again."