DAVID
COPPERFIELD
PART 33
CHAPTER 33. BLISSFUL
All this
time, I had gone on loving Dora, harder than ever. Her idea was my refuge in
disappointment and distress, and made some amends to me, even for the loss of
my friend. The more I pitied myself, or pitied others, the more I sought for
consolation in the image of Dora. The greater the accumulation of deceit and
trouble in the world, the brighter and the purer shone the star of Dora high
above the world. I don't think I had any definite idea where Dora came from, or
in what degree she was related to a higher order of beings; but I am quite sure
I should have scouted the notion of her being simply human, like any other
young lady, with indignation and contempt.
If I may
so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears in
love with her, but I was saturated through and through. Enough love might have
been wrung out of me, metaphorically speaking, to drown anybody in; and yet
there would have remained enough within me, and all over me, to pervade my
entire existence.
The first
thing I did, on my own account, when I came back, was to take a night-walk to
Norwood, and, like the subject of a venerable riddle of my childhood, to go
'round and round the house, without ever touching the house', thinking about
Dora. I believe the theme of this incomprehensible conundrum was the moon. No
matter what it was, I, the moon-struck slave of Dora, perambulated round and
round the house and garden for two hours, looking through crevices in the
palings, getting my chin by dint of violent exertion above the rusty nails on
the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically calling
on the night, at intervals, to shield my Dora—I don't exactly know what from, I
suppose from fire. Perhaps from mice, to which she had a great objection.
My love
was so much in my mind and it was so natural to me to confide in Peggotty, when
I found her again by my side of an evening with the old set of industrial
implements, busily making the tour of my wardrobe, that I imparted to her, in a
sufficiently roundabout way, my great secret. Peggotty was strongly interested,
but I could not get her into my view of the case at all. She was audaciously
prejudiced in my favour, and quite unable to understand why I should have any
misgivings, or be low-spirited about it. 'The young lady might think herself
well off,' she observed, 'to have such a beau. And as to her Pa,' she said,
'what did the gentleman expect, for gracious sake!'
I
observed, however, that Mr. Spenlow's proctorial gown and stiff cravat took
Peggotty down a little, and inspired her with a greater reverence for the man
who was gradually becoming more and more etherealized in my eyes every day, and
about whom a reflected radiance seemed to me to beam when he sat erect in Court
among his papers, like a little lighthouse in a sea of stationery. And by the
by, it used to be uncommonly strange to me to consider, I remember, as I sat in
Court too, how those dim old judges and doctors wouldn't have cared for Dora,
if they had known her; how they wouldn't have gone out of their senses with
rapture, if marriage with Dora had been proposed to them; how Dora might have
sung, and played upon that glorified guitar, until she led me to the verge of
madness, yet not have tempted one of those slow-goers an inch out of his road!
I
despised them, to a man. Frozen-out old gardeners in the flower-beds of the
heart, I took a personal offence against them all. The Bench was nothing to me
but an insensible blunderer. The Bar had no more tenderness or poetry in it,
than the bar of a public-house.
Taking
the management of Peggotty's affairs into my own hands, with no little pride, I
proved the will, and came to a settlement with the Legacy Duty-office, and took
her to the Bank, and soon got everything into an orderly train. We varied the
legal character of these proceedings by going to see some perspiring Wax-work,
in Fleet Street (melted, I should hope, these twenty years); and by visiting
Miss Linwood's Exhibition, which I remember as a Mausoleum of needlework,
favourable to self-examination and repentance; and by inspecting the Tower of
London; and going to the top of St. Paul's. All these wonders afforded Peggotty
as much pleasure as she was able to enjoy, under existing circumstances:
except, I think, St. Paul's, which, from her long attachment to her work-box,
became a rival of the picture on the lid, and was, in some particulars,
vanquished, she considered, by that work of art.
Peggotty's
business, which was what we used to call 'common-form business' in the Commons (and
very light and lucrative the common-form business was), being settled, I took
her down to the office one morning to pay her bill. Mr. Spenlow had stepped
out, old Tiffey said, to get a gentleman sworn for a marriage licence; but as I
knew he would be back directly, our place lying close to the Surrogate's, and
to the Vicar-General's office too, I told Peggotty to wait.
We were a
little like undertakers, in the Commons, as regarded Probate transactions;
generally making it a rule to look more or less cut up, when we had to deal
with clients in mourning. In a similar feeling of delicacy, we were always
blithe and light-hearted with the licence clients. Therefore I hinted to
Peggotty that she would find Mr. Spenlow much recovered from the shock of Mr. Barkis's
decease; and indeed he came in like a bridegroom.
But
neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for him, when we saw, in company with him, Mr.
Murdstone. He was very little changed. His hair looked as thick, and was
certainly as black, as ever; and his glance was as little to be trusted as of
old.
'Ah,
Copperfield?' said Mr. Spenlow. 'You know this gentleman, I believe?'
I made my
gentleman a distant bow, and Peggotty barely recognized him. He was, at first,
somewhat disconcerted to meet us two together; but quickly decided what to do,
and came up to me.
'I hope,'
he said, 'that you are doing well?'
'It can
hardly be interesting to you,' said I. 'Yes, if you wish to know.'
We looked
at each other, and he addressed himself to Peggotty.
'And
you,' said he. 'I am sorry to observe that you have lost your husband.'
'It's not
the first loss I have had in my life, Mr. Murdstone,' replied Peggotty,
trembling from head to foot. 'I am glad to hope that there is nobody to blame
for this one,—nobody to answer for it.'
'Ha!'
said he; 'that's a comfortable reflection. You have done your duty?'
'I have
not worn anybody's life away,' said Peggotty, 'I am thankful to think! No, Mr.
Murdstone, I have not worrited and frightened any sweet creetur to an early
grave!'
He eyed
her gloomily—remorsefully I thought—for an instant; and said, turning his head
towards me, but looking at my feet instead of my face:
'We are
not likely to encounter soon again;—a source of satisfaction to us both, no
doubt, for such meetings as this can never be agreeable. I do not expect that
you, who always rebelled against my just authority, exerted for your benefit
and reformation, should owe me any good-will now. There is an antipathy between
us—'
'An old
one, I believe?' said I, interrupting him.
He
smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come from his dark eyes.
'It
rankled in your baby breast,' he said. 'It embittered the life of your poor
mother. You are right. I hope you may do better, yet; I hope you may correct
yourself.'
Here he
ended the dialogue, which had been carried on in a low voice, in a corner of
the outer office, by passing into Mr. Spenlow's room, and saying aloud, in his
smoothest manner:
'Gentlemen
of Mr. Spenlow's profession are accustomed to family differences, and know how
complicated and difficult they always are!' With that, he paid the money for
his licence; and, receiving it neatly folded from Mr. Spenlow, together with a
shake of the hand, and a polite wish for his happiness and the lady's, went out
of the office.
I might
have had more difficulty in constraining myself to be silent under his words,
if I had had less difficulty in impressing upon Peggotty (who was only angry on
my account, good creature!) that we were not in a place for recrimination, and
that I besought her to hold her peace. She was so unusually roused, that I was
glad to compound for an affectionate hug, elicited by this revival in her mind
of our old injuries, and to make the best I could of it, before Mr. Spenlow and
the clerks.
Mr.
Spenlow did not appear to know what the connexion between Mr. Murdstone and
myself was; which I was glad of, for I could not bear to acknowledge him, even
in my own breast, remembering what I did of the history of my poor mother. Mr.
Spenlow seemed to think, if he thought anything about the matter, that my aunt
was the leader of the state party in our family, and that there was a rebel
party commanded by somebody else—so I gathered at least from what he said,
while we were waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make out Peggotty's bill of costs.
'Miss
Trotwood,' he remarked, 'is very firm, no doubt, and not likely to give way to
opposition. I have an admiration for her character, and I may congratulate you,
Copperfield, on being on the right side. Differences between relations are much
to be deplored—but they are extremely general—and the great thing is, to be on
the right side': meaning, I take it, on the side of the moneyed interest.
'Rather a
good marriage this, I believe?' said Mr. Spenlow.
I
explained that I knew nothing about it.
'Indeed!'
he said. 'Speaking from the few words Mr. Murdstone dropped—as a man frequently
does on these occasions—and from what Miss Murdstone let fall, I should say it
was rather a good marriage.'
'Do you
mean that there is money, sir?' I asked.
'Yes,'
said Mr. Spenlow, 'I understand there's money. Beauty too, I am told.'
'Indeed!
Is his new wife young?'
'Just of
age,' said Mr. Spenlow. 'So lately, that I should think they had been waiting
for that.'
'Lord
deliver her!' said Peggotty. So very emphatically and unexpectedly, that we
were all three discomposed; until Tiffey came in with the bill.
Old
Tiffey soon appeared, however, and handed it to Mr. Spenlow, to look over. Mr.
Spenlow, settling his chin in his cravat and rubbing it softly, went over the
items with a deprecatory air—as if it were all Jorkins's doing—and handed it
back to Tiffey with a bland sigh.
'Yes,' he
said. 'That's right. Quite right. I should have been extremely happy,
Copperfield, to have limited these charges to the actual expenditure out of
pocket, but it is an irksome incident in my professional life, that I am not at
liberty to consult my own wishes. I have a partner—Mr. Jorkins.'
As he
said this with a gentle melancholy, which was the next thing to making no
charge at all, I expressed my acknowledgements on Peggotty's behalf, and paid
Tiffey in banknotes. Peggotty then retired to her lodging, and Mr. Spenlow and
I went into Court, where we had a divorce-suit coming on, under an ingenious
little statute (repealed now, I believe, but in virtue of which I have seen
several marriages annulled), of which the merits were these. The husband, whose
name was Thomas Benjamin, had taken out his marriage licence as Thomas only;
suppressing the Benjamin, in case he should not find himself as comfortable as
he expected. NOT finding himself as comfortable as he expected, or being a
little fatigued with his wife, poor fellow, he now came forward, by a friend,
after being married a year or two, and declared that his name was Thomas
Benjamin, and therefore he was not married at all. Which the Court confirmed,
to his great satisfaction.
I must
say that I had my doubts about the strict justice of this, and was not even
frightened out of them by the bushel of wheat which reconciles all anomalies.
But Mr. Spenlow argued the matter with me. He said, Look at the world, there
was good and evil in that; look at the ecclesiastical law, there was good and evil
in THAT. It was all part of a system. Very good. There you were!
I had not
the hardihood to suggest to Dora's father that possibly we might even improve
the world a little, if we got up early in the morning, and took off our coats
to the work; but I confessed that I thought we might improve the Commons. Mr.
Spenlow replied that he would particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from
my mind, as not being worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would be
glad to hear from me of what improvement I thought the Commons susceptible?
Taking
that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest to us—for our man was
unmarried by this time, and we were out of Court, and strolling past the
Prerogative Office—I submitted that I thought the Prerogative Office rather a
queerly managed institution. Mr. Spenlow inquired in what respect? I replied,
with all due deference to his experience (but with more deference, I am afraid,
to his being Dora's father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that the Registry
of that Court, containing the original wills of all persons leaving effects
within the immense province of Canterbury, for three whole centuries, should be
an accidental building, never designed for the purpose, leased by the
registrars for their Own private emolument, unsafe, not even ascertained to be
fire-proof, choked with the important documents it held, and positively, from
the roof to the basement, a mercenary speculation of the registrars, who took
great fees from the public, and crammed the public's wills away anyhow and
anywhere, having no other object than to get rid of them cheaply. That,
perhaps, it was a little unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of
profits amounting to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say nothing of
the profits of the deputy registrars, and clerks of seats), should not be
obliged to spend a little of that money, in finding a reasonably safe place for
the important documents which all classes of people were compelled to hand over
to them, whether they would or no. That, perhaps, it was a little unjust, that
all the great offices in this great office should be magnificent sinecures,
while the unfortunate working-clerks in the cold dark room upstairs were the
worst rewarded, and the least considered men, doing important services, in
London. That perhaps it was a little indecent that the principal registrar of
all, whose duty it was to find the public, constantly resorting to this place,
all needful accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist in virtue of that
post (and might be, besides, a clergyman, a pluralist, the holder of a staff in
a cathedral, and what not),—while the public was put to the inconvenience of
which we had a specimen every afternoon when the office was busy, and which we
knew to be quite monstrous. That, perhaps, in short, this Prerogative Office of
the diocese of Canterbury was altogether such a pestilent job, and such a
pernicious absurdity, that but for its being squeezed away in a corner of St.
Paul's Churchyard, which few people knew, it must have been turned completely
inside out, and upside down, long ago.
Mr.
Spenlow smiled as I became modestly warm on the subject, and then argued this
question with me as he had argued the other. He said, what was it after all? It
was a question of feeling. If the public felt that their wills were in safe
keeping, and took it for granted that the office was not to be made better, who
was the worse for it? Nobody. Who was the better for it? All the Sinecurists.
Very well. Then the good predominated. It might not be a perfect system;
nothing was perfect; but what he objected to, was, the insertion of the wedge.
Under the Prerogative Office, the country had been glorious. Insert the wedge
into the Prerogative Office, and the country would cease to be glorious. He
considered it the principle of a gentleman to take things as he found them; and
he had no doubt the Prerogative Office would last our time. I deferred to his
opinion, though I had great doubts of it myself. I find he was right, however; for
it has not only lasted to the present moment, but has done so in the teeth of a
great parliamentary report made (not too willingly) eighteen years ago, when
all these objections of mine were set forth in detail, and when the existing
stowage for wills was described as equal to the accumulation of only two years
and a half more. What they have done with them since; whether they have lost
many, or whether they sell any, now and then, to the butter shops; I don't
know. I am glad mine is not there, and I hope it may not go there, yet awhile.
I have
set all this down, in my present blissful chapter, because here it comes into
its natural place. Mr. Spenlow and I falling into this conversation, prolonged
it and our saunter to and fro, until we diverged into general topics. And so it
came about, in the end, that Mr. Spenlow told me this day week was Dora's
birthday, and he would be glad if I would come down and join a little picnic on
the occasion. I went out of my senses immediately; became a mere driveller next
day, on receipt of a little lace-edged sheet of note-paper, 'Favoured by papa.
To remind'; and passed the intervening period in a state of dotage.
I think I
committed every possible absurdity in the way of preparation for this blessed
event. I turn hot when I remember the cravat I bought. My boots might be placed
in any collection of instruments of torture. I provided, and sent down by the
Norwood coach the night before, a delicate little hamper, amounting in itself,
I thought, almost to a declaration. There were crackers in it with the
tenderest mottoes that could be got for money. At six in the morning, I was in
Covent Garden Market, buying a bouquet for Dora. At ten I was on horseback (I
hired a gallant grey, for the occasion), with the bouquet in my hat, to keep it
fresh, trotting down to Norwood.
I suppose
that when I saw Dora in the garden and pretended not to see her, and rode past
the house pretending to be anxiously looking for it, I committed two small
fooleries which other young gentlemen in my circumstances might have
committed—because they came so very natural to me. But oh! when I DID find the
house, and DID dismount at the garden-gate, and drag those stony-hearted boots
across the lawn to Dora sitting on a garden-seat under a lilac tree, what a
spectacle she was, upon that beautiful morning, among the butterflies, in a
white chip bonnet and a dress of celestial blue! There was a young lady with
her—comparatively stricken in years—almost twenty, I should say. Her name was
Miss Mills. And Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy
Miss Mills!
Jip was
there, and Jip WOULD bark at me again. When I presented my bouquet, he gnashed
his teeth with jealousy. Well he might. If he had the least idea how I adored
his mistress, well he might!
'Oh,
thank you, Mr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!' said Dora.
I had had
an intention of saying (and had been studying the best form of words for three
miles) that I thought them beautiful before I saw them so near HER. But I
couldn't manage it. She was too bewildering. To see her lay the flowers against
her little dimpled chin, was to lose all presence of mind and power of language
in a feeble ecstasy. I wonder I didn't say, 'Kill me, if you have a heart, Miss
Mills. Let me die here!'
Then Dora
held my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip growled, and wouldn't smell them.
Then Dora laughed, and held them a little closer to Jip, to make him. Then Jip
laid hold of a bit of geranium with his teeth, and worried imaginary cats in
it. Then Dora beat him, and pouted, and said, 'My poor beautiful flowers!' as
compassionately, I thought, as if Jip had laid hold of me. I wished he had!
'You'll
be so glad to hear, Mr. Copperfield,' said Dora, 'that that cross Miss
Murdstone is not here. She has gone to her brother's marriage, and will be away
at least three weeks. Isn't that delightful?'
I said I
was sure it must be delightful to her, and all that was delightful to her was
delightful to me. Miss Mills, with an air of superior wisdom and benevolence,
smiled upon us.
'She is
the most disagreeable thing I ever saw,' said Dora. 'You can't believe how
ill-tempered and shocking she is, Julia.'
'Yes, I
can, my dear!' said Julia.
'YOU can,
perhaps, love,' returned Dora, with her hand on julia's. 'Forgive my not
excepting you, my dear, at first.'
I learnt,
from this, that Miss Mills had had her trials in the course of a chequered
existence; and that to these, perhaps, I might refer that wise benignity of
manner which I had already noticed. I found, in the course of the day, that
this was the case: Miss Mills having been unhappy in a misplaced affection, and
being understood to have retired from the world on her awful stock of
experience, but still to take a calm interest in the unblighted hopes and loves
of youth.
But now
Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora went to him, saying, 'Look, papa,
what beautiful flowers!' And Miss Mills smiled thoughtfully, as who should say,
'Ye Mayflies, enjoy your brief existence in the bright morning of life!' And we
all walked from the lawn towards the carriage, which was getting ready.
I shall
never have such a ride again. I have never had such another. There were only
those three, their hamper, my hamper, and the guitar-case, in the phaeton; and,
of course, the phaeton was open; and I rode behind it, and Dora sat with her
back to the horses, looking towards me. She kept the bouquet close to her on
the cushion, and wouldn't allow Jip to sit on that side of her at all, for fear
he should crush it. She often carried it in her hand, often refreshed herself
with its fragrance. Our eyes at those times often met; and my great
astonishment is that I didn't go over the head of my gallant grey into the
carriage.
There was
dust, I believe. There was a good deal of dust, I believe. I have a faint
impression that Mr. Spenlow remonstrated with me for riding in it; but I knew
of none. I was sensible of a mist of love and beauty about Dora, but of nothing
else. He stood up sometimes, and asked me what I thought of the prospect. I
said it was delightful, and I dare say it was; but it was all Dora to me. The
sun shone Dora, and the birds sang Dora. The south wind blew Dora, and the wild
flowers in the hedges were all Doras, to a bud. My comfort is, Miss Mills
understood me. Miss Mills alone could enter into my feelings thoroughly.
I don't
know how long we were going, and to this hour I know as little where we went.
Perhaps it was near Guildford. Perhaps some Arabian-night magician, opened up
the place for the day, and shut it up for ever when we came away. It was a
green spot, on a hill, carpeted with soft turf. There were shady trees, and
heather, and, as far as the eye could see, a rich landscape.
It was a
trying thing to find people here, waiting for us; and my jealousy, even of the
ladies, knew no bounds. But all of my own sex—especially one impostor, three or
four years my elder, with a red whisker, on which he established an amount of
presumption not to be endured—were my mortal foes.
We all
unpacked our baskets, and employed ourselves in getting dinner ready. Red
Whisker pretended he could make a salad (which I don't believe), and obtruded
himself on public notice. Some of the young ladies washed the lettuces for him,
and sliced them under his directions. Dora was among these. I felt that fate
had pitted me against this man, and one of us must fall.
Red Whisker
made his salad (I wondered how they could eat it. Nothing should have induced
ME to touch it!) and voted himself into the charge of the wine-cellar, which he
constructed, being an ingenious beast, in the hollow trunk of a tree. By and
by, I saw him, with the majority of a lobster on his plate, eating his dinner
at the feet of Dora!
I have
but an indistinct idea of what happened for some time after this baleful object
presented itself to my view. I was very merry, I know; but it was hollow
merriment. I attached myself to a young creature in pink, with little eyes, and
flirted with her desperately. She received my attentions with favour; but
whether on my account solely, or because she had any designs on Red Whisker, I
can't say. Dora's health was drunk. When I drank it, I affected to interrupt my
conversation for that purpose, and to resume it immediately afterwards. I
caught Dora's eye as I bowed to her, and I thought it looked appealing. But it
looked at me over the head of Red Whisker, and I was adamant.
The young
creature in pink had a mother in green; and I rather think the latter separated
us from motives of policy. Howbeit, there was a general breaking up of the
party, while the remnants of the dinner were being put away; and I strolled off
by myself among the trees, in a raging and remorseful state. I was debating
whether I should pretend that I was not well, and fly—I don't know where—upon
my gallant grey, when Dora and Miss Mills met me.
'Mr.
Copperfield,' said Miss Mills, 'you are dull.'
I begged
her pardon. Not at all.
'And
Dora,' said Miss Mills, 'YOU are dull.'
Oh dear
no! Not in the least.
'Mr.
Copperfield and Dora,' said Miss Mills, with an almost venerable air. 'Enough
of this. Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of
spring, which, once put forth and blighted, cannot be renewed. I speak,' said
Miss Mills, 'from experience of the past—the remote, irrevocable past. The
gushing fountains which sparkle in the sun, must not be stopped in mere
caprice; the oasis in the desert of Sahara must not be plucked up idly.'
I hardly
knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordinary extent; but I
took Dora's little hand and kissed it—and she let me! I kissed Miss Mills's
hand; and we all seemed, to my thinking, to go straight up to the seventh
heaven. We did not come down again. We stayed up there all the evening. At
first we strayed to and fro among the trees: I with Dora's shy arm drawn
through mine: and Heaven knows, folly as it all was, it would have been a happy
fate to have been struck immortal with those foolish feelings, and have stayed
among the trees for ever!
But, much
too soon, we heard the others laughing and talking, and calling 'where's Dora?'
So we went back, and they wanted Dora to sing. Red Whisker would have got the
guitar-case out of the carriage, but Dora told him nobody knew where it was,
but I. So Red Whisker was done for in a moment; and I got it, and I unlocked
it, and I took the guitar out, and I sat by her, and I held her handkerchief
and gloves, and I drank in every note of her dear voice, and she sang to ME who
loved her, and all the others might applaud as much as they liked, but they had
nothing to do with it!
I was
intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be real, and that I
should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and hear Mrs. Crupp clinking the
teacups in getting breakfast ready. But Dora sang, and others sang, and Miss
Mills sang—about the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory; as if she were
a hundred years old—and the evening came on; and we had tea, with the kettle
boiling gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever.
I was
happier than ever when the party broke up, and the other people, defeated Red
Whisker and all, went their several ways, and we went ours through the still
evening and the dying light, with sweet scents rising up around us. Mr. Spenlow
being a little drowsy after the champagne—honour to the soil that grew the
grape, to the grape that made the wine, to the sun that ripened it, and to the
merchant who adulterated it!—and being fast asleep in a corner of the carriage,
I rode by the side and talked to Dora. She admired my horse and patted him—oh,
what a dear little hand it looked upon a horse!—and her shawl would not keep
right, and now and then I drew it round her with my arm; and I even fancied
that Jip began to see how it was, and to understand that he must make up his
mind to be friends with me.
That
sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though quite used up, recluse; that
little patriarch of something less than twenty, who had done with the world,
and mustn't on any account have the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory
awakened; what a kind thing she did!
'Mr.
Copperfield,' said Miss Mills, 'come to this side of the carriage a moment—if
you can spare a moment. I want to speak to you.'
Behold
me, on my gallant grey, bending at the side of Miss Mills, with my hand upon
the carriage door!
'Dora is
coming to stay with me. She is coming home with me the day after tomorrow. If
you would like to call, I am sure papa would be happy to see you.' What could I
do but invoke a silent blessing on Miss Mills's head, and store Miss Mills's
address in the securest corner of my memory! What could I do but tell Miss
Mills, with grateful looks and fervent words, how much I appreciated her good
offices, and what an inestimable value I set upon her friendship!
Then Miss
Mills benignantly dismissed me, saying, 'Go back to Dora!' and I went; and Dora
leaned out of the carriage to talk to me, and we talked all the rest of the
way; and I rode my gallant grey so close to the wheel that I grazed his near
fore leg against it, and 'took the bark off', as his owner told me, 'to the
tune of three pun' sivin'—which I paid, and thought extremely cheap for so much
joy. What time Miss Mills sat looking at the moon, murmuring verses—and
recalling, I suppose, the ancient days when she and earth had anything in
common.
Norwood
was many miles too near, and we reached it many hours too soon; but Mr. Spenlow
came to himself a little short of it, and said, 'You must come in, Copperfield,
and rest!' and I consenting, we had sandwiches and wine-and-water. In the light
room, Dora blushing looked so lovely, that I could not tear myself away, but
sat there staring, in a dream, until the snoring of Mr. Spenlow inspired me
with sufficient consciousness to take my leave. So we parted; I riding all the
way to London with the farewell touch of Dora's hand still light on mine,
recalling every incident and word ten thousand times; lying down in my own bed
at last, as enraptured a young noodle as ever was carried out of his five wits
by love.
When I
awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passion to Dora, and know my
fate. Happiness or misery was now the question. There was no other question
that I knew of in the world, and only Dora could give the answer to it. I
passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness, torturing myself by putting
every conceivable variety of discouraging construction on all that ever had taken
place between Dora and me. At last, arrayed for the purpose at a vast expense,
I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a declaration.
How many
times I went up and down the street, and round the square—painfully aware of
being a much better answer to the old riddle than the original one—before I
could persuade myself to go up the steps and knock, is no matter now. Even
when, at last, I had knocked, and was waiting at the door, I had some flurried
thought of asking if that were Mr. Blackboy's (in imitation of poor Barkis),
begging pardon, and retreating. But I kept my ground.
Mr. Mills
was not at home. I did not expect he would be. Nobody wanted HIM. Miss Mills
was at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was
shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Jip was there. Miss
Mills was copying music (I recollect, it was a new song, called 'Affection's
Dirge'), and Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings, when I
recognized my own flowers; the identical Covent Garden Market purchase! I
cannot say that they were very like, or that they particularly resembled any
flowers that have ever come under my observation; but I knew from the paper
round them which was accurately copied, what the composition was.
Miss
Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at home: though
I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a
few minutes, and then, laying down her pen upon 'Affection's Dirge', got up,
and left the room.
I began
to think I would put it off till tomorrow.
'I hope
your poor horse was not tired, when he got home at night,' said Dora, lifting
up her beautiful eyes. 'It was a long way for him.'
I began
to think I would do it today.
'It was a
long way for him,' said I, 'for he had nothing to uphold him on the journey.'
'Wasn't
he fed, poor thing?' asked Dora.
I began
to think I would put it off till tomorrow.
'Ye-yes,'
I said, 'he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable happiness
that I had in being so near you.'
Dora bent
her head over her drawing and said, after a little while—I had sat, in the
interval, in a burning fever, and with my legs in a very rigid state—
'You
didn't seem to be sensible of that happiness yourself, at one time of the day.'
I saw now
that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.
'You
didn't care for that happiness in the least,' said Dora, slightly raising her
eyebrows, and shaking her head, 'when you were sitting by Miss Kitt.'
Kitt, I
should observe, was the name of the creature in pink, with the little eyes.
'Though
certainly I don't know why you should,' said Dora, or why you should call it a
happiness at all. But of course you don't mean what you say. And I am sure no
one doubts your being at liberty to do whatever you like. Jip, you naughty boy,
come here!'
I don't
know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my
arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I
loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and
worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the time.
When Dora
hung her head and cried, and trembled, my eloquence increased so much the more.
If she would like me to die for her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready.
Life without Dora's love was not a thing to have on any terms. I couldn't bear
it, and I wouldn't. I had loved her every minute, day and night, since I first
saw her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her,
every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love
again; but no lover had loved, might, could, would, or should ever love, as I
loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us, in his own way,
got more mad every moment.
Well, well!
Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by, quiet enough, and Jip was lying
in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of
perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.
I suppose
we had some notion that this was to end in marriage. We must have had some,
because Dora stipulated that we were never to be married without her papa's
consent. But, in our youthful ecstasy, I don't think that we really looked
before us or behind us; or had any aspiration beyond the ignorant present. We
were to keep our secret from Mr. Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never entered
my head, then, that there was anything dishonourable in that.
Miss
Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora, going to find her, brought her
back;—I apprehend, because there was a tendency in what had passed to awaken
the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory. But she gave us her blessing,
and the assurance of her lasting friendship, and spoke to us, generally, as
became a Voice from the Cloister.
What an
idle time it was! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time it was!
When I
measured Dora's finger for a ring that was to be made of Forget-me-nots, and
when the jeweller, to whom I took the measure, found me out, and laughed over
his order-book, and charged me anything he liked for the pretty little toy,
with its blue stones—so associated in my remembrance with Dora's hand, that
yesterday, when I saw such another, by chance, on the finger of my own
daughter, there was a momentary stirring in my heart, like pain!
When I
walked about, exalted with my secret, and full of my own interest, and felt the
dignity of loving Dora, and of being beloved, so much, that if I had walked the
air, I could not have been more above the people not so situated, who were
creeping on the earth!
When we
had those meetings in the garden of the square, and sat within the dingy
summer-house, so happy, that I love the London sparrows to this hour, for
nothing else, and see the plumage of the tropics in their smoky feathers! When
we had our first great quarrel (within a week of our betrothal), and when Dora
sent me back the ring, enclosed in a despairing cocked-hat note, wherein she
used the terrible expression that 'our love had begun in folly, and ended in
madness!' which dreadful words occasioned me to tear my hair, and cry that all
was over!
When,
under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills, whom I saw by stealth in a back
kitchen where there was a mangle, and implored Miss Mills to interpose between
us and avert insanity. When Miss Mills undertook the office and returned with
Dora, exhorting us, from the pulpit of her own bitter youth, to mutual
concession, and the avoidance of the Desert of Sahara!
When we
cried, and made it up, and were so blest again, that the back kitchen, mangle
and all, changed to Love's own temple, where we arranged a plan of
correspondence through Miss Mills, always to comprehend at least one letter on
each side every day!
What an
idle time! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time! Of all the times of mine
that Time has in his grip, there is none that in one retrospect I can smile at
half so much, and think of half so tenderly.
To be continued
