"Not now, Mama," she pleaded in a low tone.
"My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most ridiculous persons in the world," returned her mother, "and perhaps the most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should have heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself. Do you call that confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong? I am surprised. You ought to know better."
The letter was reluctantly produced, and, as I handed it to the old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it trembled.
"Now let us see," said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her eye, "where the passage is. The remembrance of old times, my dearest Annie'--and so forth--it's not there. The amiable old Proctor'--who's he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin Maldon writes, and how stupid I am! 'Doctor,' of course. Ah! amiable indeed!" Here she left off to kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was looking at us in a state of placid satisfaction. "Now, I have found it. 'You may not be surprised to hear, Annie,'--no, to be sure, knowing that he never was really strong; what did I say just now?--'that I have undergone so much in this distant place, as to have decided to leave it at all hazards, on sick leave, if I can, on total resignation, if that is not to be obtained. What I have endured, and do endure here, is insupportable.' And but for the promptitude of that best of creatures," said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before, and refolding the letter, "it would be insupportable to me to think of."
Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him as if for his commentary on this intelligence, but sat severely silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject was dismissed, and other topics occupied us, he remained so, seldom raising his eyes, unless to rest them for a moment, with a thoughtful frown, upon the Doctor, or his wife, or both.
The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness and expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang together, and played duets together, and we had quite a little concert. But I remarked two things: first, that though Annie soon recovered her composure, and was quite herself, there was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield which separated them wholly from each other; secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemed to dislike the intimacy between her and Agnes, and to watch it with uneasiness. And now, I must confess, the recollection of what I had seen on that night when Mr. Maldon went away, first began to return upon me with a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The innocent beauty of her face was not as innocent to me as it had been; I mistrusted the natural grace and charm of her manner; and when I looked at Agnes by her side, and thought how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose within me that it was an ill-assorted friendship.
She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other was so happy too, that they made the evening fly away as if it were but an hour. It closed in an incident which I well remember. They were taking leave of each other, and Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss her, when Mr. Wickfield stepped between them, as if by accident, and drew Agnes quickly away. Then I saw, as though all the intervening time had been cancelled, and I were still standing in the doorway on the night of the departure, the expression of that night in the face of Mrs. Strong, as it confronted his.
I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how impossible I found it, when I thought of her afterwards, to separate her from this look, and remember her face in its innocent loveliness again. It haunted me when I got home. I seemed to have left the Doctor's roof with a dark cloud lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his grey head was mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous to him, and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending shadow of a great affliction, and a great disgrace that had no distinct form in it yet, fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I had worked and played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure in thinking, any more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-trees which remained shut up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trim smooth grass-plot, and the stone. urns, and the Doctor's Walk, and the congenial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as if the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my face, and its peace and honour given to the winds.
But morning brought with it my parting from the old house, which Agnes had filled with her influence, and that occupied my mind sufficiently. I should be there again soon, no doubt; I might sleep again--perhaps often--in my old room, but the days of my inhabiting there were gone, and the old time was past. I was heavier at heart, when I packed up such of my books and clothes as still remained there to be sent to Dover, than I cared to show to Uriah Heep, who was so officious to help me, that I uncharitably thought him mighty glad that I was going.
I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an indifferent show of being very manly, and took my seat upon the box of the London coach. I was so softened and forgiving, going through the town, that I had half a mind to nod to my old enemy, the butcher, and throw him five shillings to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he stood scraping the great block in the shop, and moreover, his appearance was so little improved by the loss of a front tooth which I had knocked out, that I thought it best to make no advances.
The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the road, was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to speak extremely gruff. The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience, but I stuck to it, because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing.
"You are going through, sir?" said the coachman.
"Yes, William," I said, condescendingly (I knew him), "I am going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards."
"Shooting, sir?" said the coachman.
He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of year, I was going down there whaling, but I felt complimented, too.
"I don't know," I said, pretending to be undecided, "whether I shall take a shot or not."
"Birds is got wery shy, I'm told," said William.
"So I understand," said I.
"Is Suffolk your county, sir?" said William.
"Yes," I said, with some importance. "Suffolk's my county."
"I'm told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there," said William.
I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity with them, so I shook my head, as much as to say, "I believe you!"
"And the Punches," said William. "There's cattle! A Suffolk Punch, when he's a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?"
"N--no," I said, "not exactly."
"Here's a gen'lm'n behind me, I'll pound it," said William, "as has bred 'em by wholesale."
The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint, and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with a narrow flat brim, and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the way up outside his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over the coachman's shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickled the back of my head, and as I looked round at him, he leered at the leaders with the eye with which he didn't squint, in a very knowing manner.
"Ain't you?" asked William.
"Ain't I what?" said the gentleman behind.
"Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?"
"I should think so," said the gentleman. "There ain't no sort of orse that I ain't bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is some men's fancy. They're wittles and drink to me--lodging, wife, and children--reading, writing, and 'rithmetic --snuff, tobacker, and sleep."
"That ain't a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it though?" said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.
I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.
"Well, if you don't mind, sir," said William, "I think it would be mor
e correct."
I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life. When I booked my place at the coach-office, I had had "Box Seat" written against the entry, and had given the book-keeper half-a-crown. I was got up in a special greatcoat and shawl, expressly to do honour to that distinguished eminence, had glorified myself upon it a good deal, and had felt that I was a credit to the coach, And here, in the very first stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who had no other merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across me, more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a canter!
A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury coach. It was in vain to take refuge in graffness of speech. I spoke from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.
It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there, behind four horses, well-educated, well-dressed, and with plenty of money in my pocket, and to look out for the places where I had slept on my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the tramps whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered style of face turned up, I felt as if the tinker's blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt again. When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I caught a glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster lived who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my money. When we came, at last, within a stage of London, and passed the veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy hand, I would have given all I had for lawful permission to get down and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.
We went to the Golden Cross, at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into the coffee-room, and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedchamber, which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault. I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe of me at all, the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.
"Well now," said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, "what would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general; have a fowl!"
I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn't in the humour for a fowL
"Ain't you?" said the waiter. "Young gentlemen is generally tired of beef and mutton; have a veal cutlet!"
I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest anything else.
"Do you care for taters?" said the waiter, with an insinuating smile, and his head on one side. "Young gentlemen generally has been overdosed with taters."
I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and potatoes, and all things fitting, and to inquire at the bar if there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire--which I knew there were not, and couldn't be, but thought it manly to appear to expect.
He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much surprised), and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with, it, and on my replying "Half-a-pint of sherry," thought it a favourable opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this opinion because, while I was reading the newspaper, I observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one, like a chemist and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I thought it flat, and it certainly had more English crumbs in it than were to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state, but I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.
Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer that poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process), I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden Theatre that I chose, and there, from the back of a centre box, I saw Julius Caesar and the new Pantomime. To have all those noble Romans alive before me, and walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern taskmasters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightful effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show, the influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company, the smooth stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so dazzling, and opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I came out into the rainy street, at twelve o'clock at night, I felt as if I had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a romantic life for ages, to a bawling, splashing, link-lighted, umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking, muddy, miserable world.
I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street for a little while, as if I really were a stranger upon earth, but the unceremonious pushing and hustling that I received soon recalled me to myself, and put me in the road back to the hotel, whither I went, revolving the glorious vision all the way, and where, after some porter and oysters, I sat revolving it still, at past one o'clock, with my eyes on the coffee-room fire.
I was so filled with the play, and with the past--for it was, in a manner, like a shining transparency, through which I saw my earlier life moving along--that I don't know when the figure of a handsome well-formed young man, dressed with a tasteful easy negligence which I have reason to remember very well, became a real presence to me. But I recollect being conscious of his company without having noticed his coming in--and my still sitting, musing, over the coffee-room fire.
At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy waiter, who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twisting them, and hitting them, and putting them through all kinds of contortions in his small pantry. In going towards the door, I passed the person who had come in, and saw him plainly. I turned directly, came back, and looked again. He did not know me, but I knew him in a moment.
At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision to speak to him, and might have put it off until next day, and might have lost him. But, in the then condition of my mind, where the play was still running high, his former protection of me appeared so deserving of my gratitude, and my old love for him overflowed my breast so freshly and spontaneously, that I went up to him at once, with a fast-beating heart, and said:
"Steerforth! won't you speak to me?"
He looked at me--just as he used to look, sometimes--but I saw no recognition in his face.
"You don't remember me, I am afraid," said I.
"My God!" he suddenly exclaimed. "It's little Copperfield!"
I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go. But for very shame, and the fear that it might displease him, I could have held him round the neck and cried.
"I never, never, never, was so glad! My dear Steerforth, I am so overjoyed to see you!"
"And I am rejoiced to see you, too!" he said, shaking my hands heartily. "Why, Copperfield, old boy, don't be overpowered!" And yet he was glad, too, I thought, to see how the delight I had in meeting him affected me.
I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had not been able to keep back, and I made. a clumsy laugh of it, and we sat down together, side-by-side.
"Why, how do you come to be here?" said Steerforth, clapping me on the shoulder.
"I came here by the Canterbury coach, today. I have been adopted by an aunt down in that part of the country, and have just finished my education there. How do you come to be here, Steerforth?"
"Well, I am what they call an Oxford man," he returned, "that is to say, I get bored to death down there, periodically --and I am on my way now to my mother's. You're a devilish amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. Just what you used to be, now
I look at you! Not altered in the least!"
"I knew you immediately," I said, "but you are more easily remembered."
He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of his hair, and said gaily:
"Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way out of town, and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our house tedious enough, I remained here tonight instead of going on. I have not been in town half-a-dozen hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling away at the play."
"I have been at the play, too," said I. "At Covent Garden. What a delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steerforth!"
Steerforth laughed heartily.
"My dear young Davy," he said, clapping me on the shoulder again, "you are a very Daisy. The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is not fresher than you are! I have been at Covent Garden, too, and there never was a more miserable business. Holloa, you sir!"
This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to our recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially.
"Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield?" said Steerforth.
"Beg your pardon, sir?"
"Where does he sleep? What's his number? You know what I mean," said Steerforth.
"Well, sir," said the waiter, with an apologetic air, "Mr. Copperfield is at present in forty-four, sir."
"And what the devil do you mean," retorted Steerforth, "by putting Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?"
"Why, you see we wasn't aware, sir," returned the waiter, still apologetically, "as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We can give Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, sir, if it would be preferred. Next you, sir."
"Of course it would be preferred," said Steerforth. "And do it at once."
The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steerforth, very much amused at my having been put into forty-four laughed again, and clapped me on the shoulder again, and invited me to breakfast with him next morning at ten o'clock--an invitation I was only too proud and happy to accept. It being now pretty late, we took our candles and went upstairs, where we parted with friendly heartiness at his door, and where I found my new room a great improvement on my old one, it not being at all musty, and having an immense four-post bedstead in it, which was quite a little landed estate. Here, among pillows enough for six, I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed of ancient Rome, Steerforth, and friendship, until the early morning coaches, rumbling out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and the gods.
David Copperfield Page 34
