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his credit be it written), quite as well as I did.

CHAPTER 37. A LITTLE COLD WATER

My new life had lasted for more than a week, and I was stronger than

ever in those tremendous practical resolutions that I felt the crisis

required. I continued to walk extremely fast, and to have a general idea

that I was getting on. I made it a rule to take as much out of myself

as I possibly could, in my way of doing everything to which I applied

my energies. I made a perfect victim of myself. I even entertained some

idea of putting myself on a vegetable diet, vaguely conceiving that, in

becoming a graminivorous animal, I should sacrifice to Dora.

As yet, little Dora was quite unconscious of my desperate firmness,

otherwise than as my letters darkly shadowed it forth. But another

Saturday came, and on that Saturday evening she was to be at Miss

Mills’s; and when Mr. Mills had gone to his whist-club (telegraphed to

me in the street, by a bird-cage in the drawing-room middle window), I

was to go there to tea.

By this time, we were quite settled down in Buckingham Street, where Mr.

Dick continued his copying in a state of absolute felicity. My aunt had

obtained a signal victory over Mrs. Crupp, by paying her off, throwing

the first pitcher she planted on the stairs out of window, and

protecting in person, up and down the staircase, a supernumerary whom

she engaged from the outer world. These vigorous measures struck such

terror to the breast of Mrs. Crupp, that she subsided into her own

kitchen, under the impression that my aunt was mad. My aunt being

supremely indifferent to Mrs. Crupp’s opinion and everybody else’s, and

rather favouring than discouraging the idea, Mrs. Crupp, of late the

bold, became within a few days so faint-hearted, that rather than

encounter my aunt upon the staircase, she would endeavour to hide her

portly form behind doors--leaving visible, however, a wide margin of

flannel petticoat--or would shrink into dark corners. This gave my aunt

such unspeakable satisfaction, that I believe she took a delight in

prowling up and down, with her bonnet insanely perched on the top of her

head, at times when Mrs. Crupp was likely to be in the way.

My aunt, being uncommonly neat and ingenious, made so many little

improvements in our domestic arrangements, that I seemed to be richer

instead of poorer. Among the rest, she converted the pantry into a

dressing-room for me; and purchased and embellished a bedstead for my

occupation, which looked as like a bookcase in the daytime as a bedstead

could. I was the object of her constant solicitude; and my poor mother

herself could not have loved me better, or studied more how to make me

happy.

Peggotty had considered herself highly privileged in being allowed to

participate in these labours; and, although she still retained something

of her old sentiment of awe in reference to my aunt, had received so

many marks of encouragement and confidence, that they were the best

friends possible. But the time had now come (I am speaking of the

Saturday when I was to take tea at Miss Mills’s) when it was necessary

for her to return home, and enter on the discharge of the duties she had

undertaken in behalf of Ham. ‘So good-bye, Barkis,’ said my aunt, ‘and

take care of yourself! I am sure I never thought I could be sorry to

lose you!’

I took Peggotty to the coach office and saw her off. She cried at

parting, and confided her brother to my friendship as Ham had done. We

had heard nothing of him since he went away, that sunny afternoon.

‘And now, my own dear Davy,’ said Peggotty, ‘if, while you’re a

prentice, you should want any money to spend; or if, when you’re out of

your time, my dear, you should want any to set you up (and you must do

one or other, or both, my darling); who has such a good right to ask

leave to lend it you, as my sweet girl’s own old stupid me!’

I was not so savagely independent as to say anything in reply, but that

if ever I borrowed money of anyone, I would borrow it of her. Next to

accepting a large sum on the spot, I believe this gave Peggotty more

comfort than anything I could have done.

‘And, my dear!’ whispered Peggotty, ‘tell the pretty little angel that

I should so have liked to see her, only for a minute! And tell her that

before she marries my boy, I’ll come and make your house so beautiful

for you, if you’ll let me!’

I declared that nobody else should touch it; and this gave Peggotty such

delight that she went away in good spirits.

I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Commons all day, by

a variety of devices, and at the appointed time in the evening repaired

to Mr. Mills’s street. Mr. Mills, who was a terrible fellow to fall

asleep after dinner, had not yet gone out, and there was no bird-cage in

the middle window.

He kept me waiting so long, that I fervently hoped the Club would fine

him for being late. At last he came out; and then I saw my own Dora hang

up the bird-cage, and peep into the balcony to look for me, and run

in again when she saw I was there, while Jip remained behind, to bark

injuriously at an immense butcher’s dog in the street, who could have

taken him like a pill.

Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me; and Jip came scrambling

out, tumbling over his own growls, under the impression that I was a

Bandit; and we all three went in, as happy and loving as could be. I

soon carried desolation into the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to

do it, but that I was so full of the subject--by asking Dora, without

the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar?

My pretty, little, startled Dora! Her only association with the word was

a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a wooden leg, or

a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or something of that kind; and

she stared at me with the most delightful wonder.

‘How can you ask me anything so foolish?’ pouted Dora. ‘Love a beggar!’

‘Dora, my own dearest!’ said I. ‘I am a beggar!’

‘How can you be such a silly thing,’ replied Dora, slapping my hand, ‘as

to sit there, telling such stories? I’ll make Jip bite you!’

Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world to me, but it

was necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly repeated:

‘Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!’

‘I declare I’ll make Jip bite you!’ said Dora, shaking her curls, ‘if

you are so ridiculous.’

But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shaking her curls, and laid

her trembling little hand upon my shoulder, and first looked scared

and anxious, then began to cry. That was dreadful. I fell upon my knees

before the sofa, caressing her, and imploring her not to rend my heart;

but, for some time, poor little Dora did nothing but exclaim Oh dear! Oh

dear! And oh, she was so frightened! And where was Julia Mills! And oh,

take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until I was almost beside

myself.

At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I got Dora

to look at me, with a horrified expression of face, which I gradually

soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek was lying

against mine. Then I told her, with my arms clasped round her, how I

loved her, so dearly, and so dearly; how I felt it right to offer to

release her from her engagement, because now I was poor; how I never

could bear it, or recover it, if I lost her; how I had no fears of

poverty, if she had none, my arm being nerved and my heart inspired by

her; how I was already working with a courage such as none but lovers

knew; how I had begun to be practical, and look into the future; how a

crust well earned was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much

more to the same purpose, which I delivered in a burst of passionate

eloquence quite surprising to myself, though I had been thinking about

it, day and night, ever since my aunt had astonished me.

‘Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?’ said I, rapturously, for I knew

by her clinging to me that it was.

‘Oh, yes!’ cried Dora. ‘Oh, yes, it’s all yours. Oh, don’t be dreadful!’

I dreadful! To Dora!

‘Don’t talk about being poor, and working hard!’ said Dora, nestling

closer to me. ‘Oh, don’t, don’t!’

‘My dearest love,’ said I, ‘the crust well-earned--’

‘Oh, yes; but I don’t want to hear any more about crusts!’ said Dora.

‘And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelve, or he’ll die.’

I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fondly explained to Dora

that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his accustomed regularity.

I drew a picture of our frugal home, made independent by my

labour--sketching in the little house I had seen at Highgate, and my

aunt in her room upstairs.

‘I am not dreadful now, Dora?’ said I, tenderly.

‘Oh, no, no!’ cried Dora. ‘But I hope your aunt will keep in her own

room a good deal. And I hope she’s not a scolding old thing!’

If it were possible for me to love Dora more than ever, I am sure I did.

But I felt she was a little impracticable. It damped my new-born ardour,

to find that ardour so difficult of communication to her. I made another

trial. When she was quite herself again, and was curling Jip’s ears, as

he lay upon her lap, I became grave, and said:

‘My own! May I mention something?’

‘Oh, please don’t be practical!’ said Dora, coaxingly. ‘Because it

frightens me so!’

‘Sweetheart!’ I returned; ‘there is nothing to alarm you in all this. I

want you to think of it quite differently. I want to make it nerve you,

and inspire you, Dora!’

‘Oh, but that’s so shocking!’ cried Dora.

‘My love, no. Perseverance and strength of character will enable us to

bear much worse things.’ ‘But I haven’t got any strength at all,’

said Dora, shaking her curls. ‘Have I, Jip? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be

agreeable!’

It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him up to me for

that purpose, putting her own bright, rosy little mouth into kissing

form, as she directed the operation, which she insisted should be

performed symmetrically, on the centre of his nose. I did as she bade

me--rewarding myself afterwards for my obedience--and she charmed me out

of my graver character for I don’t know how long.

‘But, Dora, my beloved!’ said I, at last resuming it; ‘I was going to

mention something.’

The judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in love with her,

to see her fold her little hands and hold them up, begging and praying

me not to be dreadful any more.

‘Indeed I am not going to be, my darling!’ I assured her. ‘But, Dora, my

love, if you will sometimes think,--not despondingly, you know; far from

that!--but if you will sometimes think--just to encourage yourself--that

you are engaged to a poor man--’

‘Don’t, don’t! Pray don’t!’ cried Dora. ‘It’s so very dreadful!’

‘My soul, not at all!’ said I, cheerfully. ‘If you will sometimes think

of that, and look about now and then at your papa’s housekeeping, and

endeavour to acquire a little habit--of accounts, for instance--’

Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something that was half a

sob and half a scream.

‘--It would be so useful to us afterwards,’ I went on. ‘And if you would

promise me to read a little--a little Cookery Book that I would send

you, it would be so excellent for both of us. For our path in life, my

Dora,’ said I, warming with the subject, ‘is stony and rugged now, and

it rests with us to smooth it. We must fight our way onward. We must be

brave. There are obstacles to be met, and we must meet, and crush them!’

I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand, and a most

enthusiastic countenance; but it was quite unnecessary to proceed. I had

said enough. I had done it again. Oh, she was so frightened! Oh, where

was Julia Mills! Oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please!

So that, in short, I was quite distracted, and raved about the

drawing-room.

I thought I had killed her, this time. I sprinkled water on her face.

I went down on my knees. I plucked at my hair. I denounced myself as a

remorseless brute and a ruthless beast. I implored her forgiveness.

I besought her to look up. I ravaged Miss Mills’s work-box for a

smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind applied an ivory needle-case

instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora. I shook my fists at Jip,

who was as frantic as myself. I did every wild extravagance that could

be done, and was a long way beyond the end of my wits when Miss Mills

came into the room.

‘Who has done this?’ exclaimed Miss Mills, succouring her friend.

I replied, ‘I, Miss Mills! I have done it! Behold the destroyer!’--or

words to that effect--and hid my face from the light, in the sofa

cushion.

At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarrel, and that we were verging

on the Desert of Sahara; but she soon found out how matters stood, for

my dear affectionate little Dora, embracing her, began exclaiming that I

was ‘a poor labourer’; and then cried for me, and embraced me, and asked

me would I let her give me all her money to keep, and then fell on Miss

Mills’s neck, sobbing as if her tender heart were broken.

Miss Mills must have been born to be a blessing to us. She ascertained

from me in a few words what it was all about, comforted Dora, and

gradually convinced her that I was not a labourer--from my manner of

stating the case I believe Dora concluded that I was a navigator,

and went balancing myself up and down a plank all day with a

wheelbarrow--and so brought us together in peace. When we were quite

composed, and Dora had gone up-stairs to put some rose-water to her

eyes, Miss Mills rang for tea. In the ensuing interval, I told Miss

Mills that she was evermore my friend, and that my heart must cease to

vibrate ere I could forget her sympathy.

I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavoured, so very

unsuccessfully, to expound to Dora. Miss Mills replied, on general

principles, that the Cottage of content was better than the Palace of

cold splendour, and that where love was, all was.

I said to Miss Mills that this was very true, and who should know

it better than I, who loved Dora with a love that never mortal had

experienced yet? But on Miss Mills observing, with despondency, that