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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myself, is now withdrawn,’ said Mr.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!’