第 90 页

‘On Dora?’ said I.

‘Assuredly.’

‘Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,’ said I, a little embarrassed, ‘that

Dora is rather difficult to--I would not, for the world, say, to rely

upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth--but rather difficult

to--I hardly know how to express it, really, Agnes. She is a timid

little thing, and easily disturbed and frightened. Some time ago, before

her father’s death, when I thought it right to mention to her--but I’ll

tell you, if you will bear with me, how it was.’

Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about the

cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of it.

‘Oh, Trotwood!’ she remonstrated, with a smile. ‘Just your old headlong

way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get on in the world,

without being so very sudden with a timid, loving, inexperienced girl.

Poor Dora!’

I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed in a voice,

as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen her

admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me, by

her considerate protection, for my hot haste in fluttering that little

heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating artlessness,

caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxingly appealing against me,

and loving me with all her childish innocence.

I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw those two

together, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends, each

adorning the other so much!

‘What ought I to do then, Agnes?’ I inquired, after looking at the fire

a little while. ‘What would it be right to do?’

‘I think,’ said Agnes, ‘that the honourable course to take, would be to

write to those two ladies. Don’t you think that any secret course is an

unworthy one?’

‘Yes. If YOU think so,’ said I.

‘I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters,’ replied Agnes, with

a modest hesitation, ‘but I certainly feel--in short, I feel that your

being secret and clandestine, is not being like yourself.’

‘Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me, Agnes, I am

afraid,’ said I.

‘Like yourself, in the candour of your nature,’ she returned; ‘and

therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate, as plainly

and as openly as possible, all that has taken place; and I would ask

their permission to visit sometimes, at their house. Considering that

you are young, and striving for a place in life, I think it would be

well to say that you would readily abide by any conditions they might

impose upon you. I would entreat them not to dismiss your request,

without a reference to Dora; and to discuss it with her when they should

think the time suitable. I would not be too vehement,’ said Agnes,

gently, ‘or propose too much. I would trust to my fidelity and

perseverance--and to Dora.’

‘But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speaking to her,’

said I. ‘And if Dora were to cry, and say nothing about me!’

‘Is that likely?’ inquired Agnes, with the same sweet consideration in

her face.

‘God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird,’ said I. ‘It might

be! Or if the two Miss Spenlows (elderly ladies of that sort are odd

characters sometimes) should not be likely persons to address in that

way!’

‘I don’t think, Trotwood,’ returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes

to mine, ‘I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only to

consider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do it.’

I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart, though

with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task, I devoted

the whole afternoon to the composition of the draft of this letter; for

which great purpose, Agnes relinquished her desk to me. But first I went

downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heep.

I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling office, built out

in the garden; looking extraordinarily mean, in the midst of a quantity

of books and papers. He received me in his usual fawning way, and

pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr. Micawber; a

pretence I took the liberty of disbelieving. He accompanied me into Mr.

Wickfield’s room, which was the shadow of its former self--having been

divested of a variety of conveniences, for the accommodation of the new

partner--and stood before the fire, warming his back, and shaving his

chin with his bony hand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings.

‘You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Canterbury?’ said Mr.

Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah for his approval.

‘Is there room for me?’ said I.

‘I am sure, Master Copperfield--I should say Mister, but the other

comes so natural,’ said Uriah,--‘I would turn out of your old room with

pleasure, if it would be agreeable.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Why should you be inconvenienced? There’s

another room. There’s another room.’ ‘Oh, but you know,’ returned Uriah,

with a grin, ‘I should really be delighted!’

To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room or none at

all; so it was settled that I should have the other room; and, taking my

leave of the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again.

I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. But Mrs. Heep had

asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the fire, in

that room; on pretence of its having an aspect more favourable for

her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the drawing-room or

dining-parlour. Though I could almost have consigned her to the mercies

of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the Cathedral, without remorse, I

made a virtue of necessity, and gave her a friendly salutation.

‘I’m umbly thankful to you, sir,’ said Mrs. Heep, in acknowledgement of

my inquiries concerning her health, ‘but I’m only pretty well. I haven’t

much to boast of. If I could see my Uriah well settled in life, I

couldn’t expect much more I think. How do you think my Ury looking,

sir?’

I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I saw no

change in him.

‘Oh, don’t you think he’s changed?’ said Mrs. Heep. ‘There I must umbly

beg leave to differ from you. Don’t you see a thinness in him?’

‘Not more than usual,’ I replied.

‘Don’t you though!’ said Mrs. Heep. ‘But you don’t take notice of him

with a mother’s eye!’

His mother’s eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I thought as

it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him; and I believe she and her

son were devoted to one another. It passed me, and went on to Agnes.

‘Don’t YOU see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield?’ inquired

Mrs. Heep.

‘No,’ said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she was engaged.

‘You are too solicitous about him. He is very well.’

Mrs. Heep, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting.

She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived early in the

day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner; but she sat

there, plying her knitting-needles as monotonously as an hour-glass

might have poured out its sands. She sat on one side of the fire; I sat

at the desk in front of it; a little beyond me, on the other side, sat

Agnes. Whensoever, slowly pondering over my letter, I lifted up my

eyes, and meeting the thoughtful face of Agnes, saw it clear, and beam

encouragement upon me, with its own angelic expression, I was conscious

presently of the evil eye passing me, and going on to her, and coming

back to me again, and dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the

knitting was, I don’t know, not being learned in that art; but it looked

like a net; and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of

knitting-needles, she showed in the firelight like an ill-looking

enchantress, baulked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but

getting ready for a cast of her net by and by.

At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same unwinking eyes. After

dinner, her son took his turn; and when Mr. Wickfield, himself, and I

were left alone together, leered at me, and writhed until I could hardly

bear it. In the drawing-room, there was the mother knitting and watching

again. All the time that Agnes sang and played, the mother sat at the

piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad, which she said her Ury

(who was yawning in a great chair) doted on; and at intervals she looked

round at him, and reported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the

music. But she hardly ever spoke--I question if she ever did--without

making some mention of him. It was evident to me that this was the duty

assigned to her.

This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son, like two

great bats hanging over the whole house, and darkening it with their

ugly forms, made me so uncomfortable, that I would rather have remained

downstairs, knitting and all, than gone to bed. I hardly got any sleep.

Next day the knitting and watching began again, and lasted all day.

I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes, for ten minutes. I could

barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out with me; but

Mrs. Heep repeatedly complaining that she was worse, Agnes charitably

remained within, to bear her company. Towards the twilight I went out

by myself, musing on what I ought to do, and whether I was justified

in withholding from Agnes, any longer, what Uriah Heep had told me in

London; for that began to trouble me again, very much.

I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town, upon the

Ramsgate road, where there was a good path, when I was hailed, through

the dust, by somebody behind me. The shambling figure, and the scanty

great-coat, were not to be mistaken. I stopped, and Uriah Heep came up.

‘Well?’ said I.

‘How fast you walk!’ said he. ‘My legs are pretty long, but you’ve given

‘em quite a job.’

‘Where are you going?’ said I.

‘I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you’ll allow me the

pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.’ Saying this, with a jerk

of his body, which might have been either propitiatory or derisive, he

fell into step beside me.

‘Uriah!’ said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence.

‘Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah.

‘To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended), I came Out

to walk alone, because I have had so much company.’

He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin, ‘You mean

mother.’

‘Why yes, I do,’ said I.

‘Ah! But you know we’re so very umble,’ he returned. ‘And having such a

knowledge of our own umbleness, we must really take care that we’re not

pushed to the wall by them as isn’t umble. All stratagems are fair in

love, sir.’

Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed them

softly, and softly chuckled; looking as like a malevolent baboon, I

thought, as anything human could look.

‘You see,’ he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant way,

and shaking his head at me, ‘you’re quite a dangerous rival, Master

Copperfield. You always was, you know.’

‘Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her home no home,

because of me?’ said I.

‘Oh! Master Copperfield! Those are very arsh words,’ he replied.

‘Put my meaning into any words you like,’ said I. ‘You know what it is,

Uriah, as well as I do.’

‘Oh no! You must put it into words,’ he said. ‘Oh, really! I couldn’t

myself.’

‘Do you suppose,’ said I, constraining myself to be very temperate

and quiet with him, on account of Agnes, ‘that I regard Miss Wickfield

otherwise than as a very dear sister?’

‘Well, Master Copperfield,’ he replied, ‘you perceive I am not bound

to answer that question. You may not, you know. But then, you see, you

may!’

Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of his shadowless

eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw.

‘Come then!’ said I. ‘For the sake of Miss Wickfield--’

‘My Agnes!’ he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular contortion of himself.

‘Would you be so good as call her Agnes, Master Copperfield!’

‘For the sake of Agnes Wickfield--Heaven bless her!’

‘Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield!’ he interposed.

‘I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances, as soon

have thought of telling to--Jack Ketch.’

‘To who, sir?’ said Uriah, stretching out his neck, and shading his ear

with his hand.

‘To the hangman,’ I returned. ‘The most unlikely person I could think

of,’--though his own face had suggested the allusion quite as a natural

sequence. ‘I am engaged to another young lady. I hope that contents

you.’

‘Upon your soul?’ said Uriah.

I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confirmation he

required, when he caught hold of my hand, and gave it a squeeze.

‘Oh, Master Copperfield!’ he said. ‘If you had only had the

condescension to return my confidence when I poured out the fulness of

my art, the night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping before

your sitting-room fire, I never should have doubted you. As it is, I’m

sure I’ll take off mother directly, and only too appy. I know you’ll

excuse the precautions of affection, won’t you? What a pity, Master

Copperfield, that you didn’t condescend to return my confidence! I’m

sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never have condescended to

me, as much as I could have wished. I know you have never liked me, as I

have liked you!’

All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp fishy fingers,

while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But I was

quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his mulberry-coloured

great-coat, and I walked on, almost upon compulsion, arm-in-arm with

him.

‘Shall we turn?’ said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face about towards

the town, on which the early moon was now shining, silvering the distant

windows.

‘Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,’ said I, breaking

a pretty long silence, ‘that I believe Agnes Wickfield to be as far

above you, and as far removed from all your aspirations, as that moon

herself!’

‘Peaceful! Ain’t she!’ said Uriah. ‘Very! Now confess, Master

Copperfield, that you haven’t liked me quite as I have liked you. All

along you’ve thought me too umble now, I shouldn’t wonder?’