第 33 页

having a good-humoured jest with me. So I laughed, and he laughed, and

we parted the best friends possible.

‘Well, child,’ said my aunt, when I went downstairs. ‘And what of Mr.

Dick, this morning?’

I informed her that he sent his compliments, and was getting on very

well indeed.

‘What do you think of him?’ said my aunt.

I had some shadowy idea of endeavouring to evade the question, by

replying that I thought him a very nice gentleman; but my aunt was

not to be so put off, for she laid her work down in her lap, and said,

folding her hands upon it:

‘Come! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told me what she thought

of anyone, directly. Be as like your sister as you can, and speak out!’

‘Is he--is Mr. Dick--I ask because I don’t know, aunt--is he at all out

of his mind, then?’ I stammered; for I felt I was on dangerous ground.

‘Not a morsel,’ said my aunt.

‘Oh, indeed!’ I observed faintly.

‘If there is anything in the world,’ said my aunt, with great decision

and force of manner, ‘that Mr. Dick is not, it’s that.’

I had nothing better to offer, than another timid, ‘Oh, indeed!’

‘He has been CALLED mad,’ said my aunt. ‘I have a selfish pleasure in

saying he has been called mad, or I should not have had the benefit of

his society and advice for these last ten years and upwards--in fact,

ever since your sister, Betsey Trotwood, disappointed me.’

‘So long as that?’ I said.

‘And nice people they were, who had the audacity to call him mad,’

pursued my aunt. ‘Mr. Dick is a sort of distant connexion of mine--it

doesn’t matter how; I needn’t enter into that. If it hadn’t been for me,

his own brother would have shut him up for life. That’s all.’

I am afraid it was hypocritical in me, but seeing that my aunt felt

strongly on the subject, I tried to look as if I felt strongly too.

‘A proud fool!’ said my aunt. ‘Because his brother was a little

eccentric--though he is not half so eccentric as a good many people--he

didn’t like to have him visible about his house, and sent him away to

some private asylum-place: though he had been left to his particular

care by their deceased father, who thought him almost a natural. And a

wise man he must have been to think so! Mad himself, no doubt.’

Again, as my aunt looked quite convinced, I endeavoured to look quite

convinced also.

‘So I stepped in,’ said my aunt, ‘and made him an offer. I said, “Your

brother’s sane--a great deal more sane than you are, or ever will be, it

is to be hoped. Let him have his little income, and come and live with

me. I am not afraid of him, I am not proud, I am ready to take care

of him, and shall not ill-treat him as some people (besides the

asylum-folks) have done.” After a good deal of squabbling,’ said my

aunt, ‘I got him; and he has been here ever since. He is the most

friendly and amenable creature in existence; and as for advice!--But

nobody knows what that man’s mind is, except myself.’

My aunt smoothed her dress and shook her head, as if she smoothed

defiance of the whole world out of the one, and shook it out of the

other.

‘He had a favourite sister,’ said my aunt, ‘a good creature, and very

kind to him. But she did what they all do--took a husband. And HE did

what they all do--made her wretched. It had such an effect upon the mind

of Mr. Dick (that’s not madness, I hope!) that, combined with his fear

of his brother, and his sense of his unkindness, it threw him into a

fever. That was before he came to me, but the recollection of it is

oppressive to him even now. Did he say anything to you about King

Charles the First, child?’

‘Yes, aunt.’

‘Ah!’ said my aunt, rubbing her nose as if she were a little vexed.

‘That’s his allegorical way of expressing it. He connects his illness

with great disturbance and agitation, naturally, and that’s the figure,

or the simile, or whatever it’s called, which he chooses to use. And why

shouldn’t he, if he thinks proper!’

I said: ‘Certainly, aunt.’

‘It’s not a business-like way of speaking,’ said my aunt, ‘nor a worldly

way. I am aware of that; and that’s the reason why I insist upon it,

that there shan’t be a word about it in his Memorial.’

‘Is it a Memorial about his own history that he is writing, aunt?’

‘Yes, child,’ said my aunt, rubbing her nose again. ‘He is memorializing

the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Somebody or other--one of those people,

at all events, who are paid to be memorialized--about his affairs. I

suppose it will go in, one of these days. He hasn’t been able to draw

it up yet, without introducing that mode of expressing himself; but it

don’t signify; it keeps him employed.’

In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been for upwards

of ten years endeavouring to keep King Charles the First out of the

Memorial; but he had been constantly getting into it, and was there now.

‘I say again,’ said my aunt, ‘nobody knows what that man’s mind is

except myself; and he’s the most amenable and friendly creature in

existence. If he likes to fly a kite sometimes, what of that! Franklin

used to fly a kite. He was a Quaker, or something of that sort, if I

am not mistaken. And a Quaker flying a kite is a much more ridiculous

object than anybody else.’

If I could have supposed that my aunt had recounted these particulars

for my especial behoof, and as a piece of confidence in me, I should

have felt very much distinguished, and should have augured favourably

from such a mark of her good opinion. But I could hardly help observing

that she had launched into them, chiefly because the question was raised

in her own mind, and with very little reference to me, though she had

addressed herself to me in the absence of anybody else.

At the same time, I must say that the generosity of her championship

of poor harmless Mr. Dick, not only inspired my young breast with

some selfish hope for myself, but warmed it unselfishly towards her.

I believe that I began to know that there was something about my aunt,

notwithstanding her many eccentricities and odd humours, to be honoured

and trusted in. Though she was just as sharp that day as on the day

before, and was in and out about the donkeys just as often, and was

thrown into a tremendous state of indignation, when a young man, going

by, ogled Janet at a window (which was one of the gravest misdemeanours

that could be committed against my aunt’s dignity), she seemed to me to

command more of my respect, if not less of my fear.

The anxiety I underwent, in the interval which necessarily elapsed

before a reply could be received to her letter to Mr. Murdstone, was

extreme; but I made an endeavour to suppress it, and to be as agreeable

as I could in a quiet way, both to my aunt and Mr. Dick. The latter and

I would have gone out to fly the great kite; but that I had still no

other clothes than the anything but ornamental garments with which I

had been decorated on the first day, and which confined me to the house,

except for an hour after dark, when my aunt, for my health’s sake,

paraded me up and down on the cliff outside, before going to bed. At

length the reply from Mr. Murdstone came, and my aunt informed me, to my

infinite terror, that he was coming to speak to her herself on the next

day. On the next day, still bundled up in my curious habiliments, I sat

counting the time, flushed and heated by the conflict of sinking hopes

and rising fears within me; and waiting to be startled by the sight of

the gloomy face, whose non-arrival startled me every minute.

My aunt was a little more imperious and stern than usual, but I observed

no other token of her preparing herself to receive the visitor so much

dreaded by me. She sat at work in the window, and I sat by, with my

thoughts running astray on all possible and impossible results of Mr.

Murdstone’s visit, until pretty late in the afternoon. Our dinner had

been indefinitely postponed; but it was growing so late, that my aunt

had ordered it to be got ready, when she gave a sudden alarm of donkeys,

and to my consternation and amazement, I beheld Miss Murdstone, on a

side-saddle, ride deliberately over the sacred piece of green, and stop

in front of the house, looking about her.

‘Go along with you!’ cried my aunt, shaking her head and her fist at the

window. ‘You have no business there. How dare you trespass? Go along!

Oh! you bold-faced thing!’

My aunt was so exasperated by the coolness with which Miss Murdstone

looked about her, that I really believe she was motionless, and unable

for the moment to dart out according to custom. I seized the opportunity

to inform her who it was; and that the gentleman now coming near the

offender (for the way up was very steep, and he had dropped behind), was

Mr. Murdstone himself.

‘I don’t care who it is!’ cried my aunt, still shaking her head and

gesticulating anything but welcome from the bow-window. ‘I won’t be

trespassed upon. I won’t allow it. Go away! Janet, turn him round.

Lead him off!’ and I saw, from behind my aunt, a sort of hurried

battle-piece, in which the donkey stood resisting everybody, with all

his four legs planted different ways, while Janet tried to pull him

round by the bridle, Mr. Murdstone tried to lead him on, Miss Murdstone

struck at Janet with a parasol, and several boys, who had come to see

the engagement, shouted vigorously. But my aunt, suddenly descrying

among them the young malefactor who was the donkey’s guardian, and who

was one of the most inveterate offenders against her, though hardly in

his teens, rushed out to the scene of action, pounced upon him, captured

him, dragged him, with his jacket over his head, and his heels grinding

the ground, into the garden, and, calling upon Janet to fetch the

constables and justices, that he might be taken, tried, and executed on

the spot, held him at bay there. This part of the business, however, did

not last long; for the young rascal, being expert at a variety of feints

and dodges, of which my aunt had no conception, soon went whooping away,

leaving some deep impressions of his nailed boots in the flower-beds,

and taking his donkey in triumph with him.

Miss Murdstone, during the latter portion of the contest, had

dismounted, and was now waiting with her brother at the bottom of the

steps, until my aunt should be at leisure to receive them. My aunt, a

little ruffled by the combat, marched past them into the house, with

great dignity, and took no notice of their presence, until they were

announced by Janet.

‘Shall I go away, aunt?’ I asked, trembling.

‘No, sir,’ said my aunt. ‘Certainly not!’ With which she pushed me into

a corner near her, and fenced Me in with a chair, as if it were a prison

or a bar of justice. This position I continued to occupy during the

whole interview, and from it I now saw Mr. and Miss Murdstone enter the

room.

‘Oh!’ said my aunt, ‘I was not aware at first to whom I had the pleasure

of objecting. But I don’t allow anybody to ride over that turf. I make

no exceptions. I don’t allow anybody to do it.’

‘Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers,’ said Miss Murdstone.

‘Is it!’ said my aunt.

Mr. Murdstone seemed afraid of a renewal of hostilities, and interposing

began:

‘Miss Trotwood!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ observed my aunt with a keen look. ‘You are the Mr.

Murdstone who married the widow of my late nephew, David Copperfield, of

Blunderstone Rookery!--Though why Rookery, I don’t know!’

‘I am,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

‘You’ll excuse my saying, sir,’ returned my aunt, ‘that I think it would

have been a much better and happier thing if you had left that poor

child alone.’

‘I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,’ observed Miss

Murdstone, bridling, ‘that I consider our lamented Clara to have been,

in all essential respects, a mere child.’

‘It is a comfort to you and me, ma’am,’ said my aunt, ‘who are getting

on in life, and are not likely to be made unhappy by our personal

attractions, that nobody can say the same of us.’

‘No doubt!’ returned Miss Murdstone, though, I thought, not with a very

ready or gracious assent. ‘And it certainly might have been, as you say,

a better and happier thing for my brother if he had never entered into

such a marriage. I have always been of that opinion.’

‘I have no doubt you have,’ said my aunt. ‘Janet,’ ringing the bell, ‘my

compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him to come down.’

Until he came, my aunt sat perfectly upright and stiff, frowning at the

wall. When he came, my aunt performed the ceremony of introduction.

‘Mr. Dick. An old and intimate friend. On whose judgement,’ said my

aunt, with emphasis, as an admonition to Mr. Dick, who was biting his

forefinger and looking rather foolish, ‘I rely.’

Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouth, on this hint, and stood among

the group, with a grave and attentive expression of face.

My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murdstone, who went on:

‘Miss Trotwood: on the receipt of your letter, I considered it an act of

greater justice to myself, and perhaps of more respect to you--’

‘Thank you,’ said my aunt, still eyeing him keenly. ‘You needn’t mind

me.’

‘To answer it in person, however inconvenient the journey,’ pursued Mr.

Murdstone, ‘rather than by letter. This unhappy boy who has run away

from his friends and his occupation--’

‘And whose appearance,’ interposed his sister, directing general

attention to me in my indefinable costume, ‘is perfectly scandalous and

disgraceful.’

‘Jane Murdstone,’ said her brother, ‘have the goodness not to interrupt

me. This unhappy boy, Miss Trotwood, has been the occasion of much

domestic trouble and uneasiness; both during the lifetime of my late

dear wife, and since. He has a sullen, rebellious spirit; a violent

temper; and an untoward, intractable disposition. Both my sister and

myself have endeavoured to correct his vices, but ineffectually. And

I have felt--we both have felt, I may say; my sister being fully in

my confidence--that it is right you should receive this grave and

dispassionate assurance from our lips.’

‘It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm anything stated by my

brother,’ said Miss Murdstone; ‘but I beg to observe, that, of all the