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something for me to read--I think he would, oh, I think he would, if you

would only ask him, for he always was so brave and so forgiving--tell

him then (but not else), that when I hear the wind blowing at night,

I feel as if it was passing angrily from seeing him and uncle, and was

going up to God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and

oh, if I was fit, I would be so glad to die!) I would bless him and

uncle with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last

breath!’

Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It was

untouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same way.

Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of a reply,

which, although they betrayed the intervention of several hands, and

made it difficult to arrive at any very probable conclusion in reference

to her place of concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she had

written from that spot where she was stated to have been seen.

‘What answer was sent?’ I inquired of Mr. Peggotty.

‘Missis Gummidge,’ he returned, ‘not being a good scholar, sir, Ham

kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I was

gone to seek her, and what my parting words was.’

‘Is that another letter in your hand?’ said I.

‘It’s money, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way. ‘Ten

pound, you see. And wrote inside, “From a true friend,” like the fust.

But the fust was put underneath the door, and this come by the post, day

afore yesterday. I’m a-going to seek her at the post-mark.’

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He had found out,

at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country, and they had

drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very well understand. He

laid it between us on the table; and, with his chin resting on one hand,

tracked his course upon it with the other.

I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.

‘He works,’ he said, ‘as bold as a man can. His name’s as good, in all

that part, as any man’s is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone’s hand is

ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help them. He’s

never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister’s belief is [‘twixt

ourselves) as it has cut him deep.’

‘Poor fellow, I can believe it!’

‘He ain’t no care, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn

whisper--‘kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man’s wanted for

rough sarvice in rough weather, he’s theer. When there’s hard duty to

be done with danger in it, he steps for’ard afore all his mates. And yet

he’s as gentle as any child. There ain’t a child in Yarmouth that doen’t

know him.’

He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand;

put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in his breast

again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snow drifting

in; but nothing else was there.

‘Well!’ he said, looking to his bag, ‘having seen you tonight, Mas’r

Davy (and that doos me good!), I shall away betimes tomorrow morning.

You have seen what I’ve got heer’; putting his hand on where the little

packet lay; ‘all that troubles me is, to think that any harm might come

to me, afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost,

or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was never know’d by him

but what I’d took it, I believe the t’other wureld wouldn’t hold me! I

believe I must come back!’

He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again, before

going out.

‘I’d go ten thousand mile,’ he said, ‘I’d go till I dropped dead, to lay

that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em’ly, I’m content.

If I doen’t find her, maybe she’ll come to hear, sometime, as her loving

uncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life; and if I

know her, even that will turn her home at last!’

As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flit

away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held him in

conversation until it was gone.

He spoke of a traveller’s house on the Dover Road, where he knew he

could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him over

Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore. Everything

seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for him, as he

resumed his solitary journey through the snow.

I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the

face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow had

covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to be seen;

and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back

over my shoulder.

CHAPTER 41. DORA’S AUNTS

At last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They presented their

compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that they had given his

letter their best consideration, ‘with a view to the happiness of

both parties’--which I thought rather an alarming expression, not

only because of the use they had made of it in relation to the family

difference before-mentioned, but because I had (and have all my life)

observed that conventional phrases are a sort of fireworks, easily let

off, and liable to take a great variety of shapes and colours not at

all suggested by their original form. The Misses Spenlow added that they

begged to forbear expressing, ‘through the medium of correspondence’, an

opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield’s communication; but that if

Mr. Copperfield would do them the favour to call, upon a certain day

(accompanied, if he thought proper, by a confidential friend), they

would be happy to hold some conversation on the subject.

To this favour, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with his respectful

compliments, that he would have the honour of waiting on the Misses

Spenlow, at the time appointed; accompanied, in accordance with their

kind permission, by his friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the Inner Temple.

Having dispatched which missive, Mr. Copperfield fell into a condition

of strong nervous agitation; and so remained until the day arrived.

It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be bereaved, at this

eventful crisis, of the inestimable services of Miss Mills. But Mr.

Mills, who was always doing something or other to annoy me--or I felt

as if he were, which was the same thing--had brought his conduct to a

climax, by taking it into his head that he would go to India. Why should

he go to India, except to harass me? To be sure he had nothing to do

with any other part of the world, and had a good deal to do with that

part; being entirely in the India trade, whatever that was (I had

floating dreams myself concerning golden shawls and elephants’ teeth);

having been at Calcutta in his youth; and designing now to go out there

again, in the capacity of resident partner. But this was nothing to me.

However, it was so much to him that for India he was bound, and

Julia with him; and Julia went into the country to take leave of

her relations; and the house was put into a perfect suit of bills,

announcing that it was to be let or sold, and that the furniture (Mangle

and all) was to be taken at a valuation. So, here was another earthquake

of which I became the sport, before I had recovered from the shock of

its predecessor!

I was in several minds how to dress myself on the important day; being

divided between my desire to appear to advantage, and my apprehensions

of putting on anything that might impair my severely practical character

in the eyes of the Misses Spenlow. I endeavoured to hit a happy medium

between these two extremes; my aunt approved the result; and Mr. Dick

threw one of his shoes after Traddles and me, for luck, as we went

downstairs.

Excellent fellow as I knew Traddles to be, and warmly attached to him as

I was, I could not help wishing, on that delicate occasion, that he had

never contracted the habit of brushing his hair so very upright. It

gave him a surprised look--not to say a hearth-broomy kind of

expression--which, my apprehensions whispered, might be fatal to us.

I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were walking to

Putney; and saying that if he WOULD smooth it down a little--

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, lifting off his hat, and rubbing

his hair all kinds of ways, ‘nothing would give me greater pleasure. But

it won’t.’

‘Won’t be smoothed down?’ said I.

‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Nothing will induce it. If I was to carry a

half-hundred-weight upon it, all the way to Putney, it would be up again

the moment the weight was taken off. You have no idea what obstinate

hair mine is, Copperfield. I am quite a fretful porcupine.’

I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly charmed by

his good-nature too. I told him how I esteemed his good-nature; and said

that his hair must have taken all the obstinacy out of his character,

for he had none.

‘Oh!’ returned Traddles, laughing. ‘I assure you, it’s quite an old

story, my unfortunate hair. My uncle’s wife couldn’t bear it. She said

it exasperated her. It stood very much in my way, too, when I first fell

in love with Sophy. Very much!’

‘Did she object to it?’

‘SHE didn’t,’ rejoined Traddles; ‘but her eldest sister--the one that’s

the Beauty--quite made game of it, I understand. In fact, all the

sisters laugh at it.’

‘Agreeable!’ said I.

‘Yes,’ returned Traddles with perfect innocence, ‘it’s a joke for us.

They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her desk, and is obliged to

shut it in a clasped book, to keep it down. We laugh about it.’

‘By the by, my dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘your experience may suggest

something to me. When you became engaged to the young lady whom you have

just mentioned, did you make a regular proposal to her family? Was there

anything like--what we are going through today, for instance?’ I added,

nervously.

‘Why,’ replied Traddles, on whose attentive face a thoughtful shade had

stolen, ‘it was rather a painful transaction, Copperfield, in my case.

You see, Sophy being of so much use in the family, none of them could

endure the thought of her ever being married. Indeed, they had quite

settled among themselves that she never was to be married, and they

called her the old maid. Accordingly, when I mentioned it, with the

greatest precaution, to Mrs. Crewler--’

‘The mama?’ said I.

‘The mama,’ said Traddles--‘Reverend Horace Crewler--when I mentioned it

with every possible precaution to Mrs. Crewler, the effect upon her was

such that she gave a scream and became insensible. I couldn’t approach

the subject again, for months.’

‘You did at last?’ said I.

‘Well, the Reverend Horace did,’ said Traddles. ‘He is an excellent man,

most exemplary in every way; and he pointed out to her that she ought,

as a Christian, to reconcile herself to the sacrifice (especially as it

was so uncertain), and to bear no uncharitable feeling towards me. As to

myself, Copperfield, I give you my word, I felt a perfect bird of prey

towards the family.’

‘The sisters took your part, I hope, Traddles?’

‘Why, I can’t say they did,’ he returned. ‘When we had comparatively

reconciled Mrs. Crewler to it, we had to break it to Sarah. You

recollect my mentioning Sarah, as the one that has something the matter

with her spine?’

‘Perfectly!’

‘She clenched both her hands,’ said Traddles, looking at me in dismay;

‘shut her eyes; turned lead-colour; became perfectly stiff; and

took nothing for two days but toast-and-water, administered with a

tea-spoon.’

‘What a very unpleasant girl, Traddles!’ I remarked.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Copperfield!’ said Traddles. ‘She is a very

charming girl, but she has a great deal of feeling. In fact, they all

have. Sophy told me afterwards, that the self-reproach she underwent

while she was in attendance upon Sarah, no words could describe. I know

it must have been severe, by my own feelings, Copperfield; which were

like a criminal’s. After Sarah was restored, we still had to break it

to the other eight; and it produced various effects upon them of a most

pathetic nature. The two little ones, whom Sophy educates, have only

just left off de-testing me.’

‘At any rate, they are all reconciled to it now, I hope?’ said I.

‘Ye-yes, I should say they were, on the whole, resigned to it,’ said

Traddles, doubtfully. ‘The fact is, we avoid mentioning the subject;

and my unsettled prospects and indifferent circumstances are a great

consolation to them. There will be a deplorable scene, whenever we

are married. It will be much more like a funeral, than a wedding. And

they’ll all hate me for taking her away!’

His honest face, as he looked at me with a serio-comic shake of his

head, impresses me more in the remembrance than it did in the reality,

for I was by this time in a state of such excessive trepidation

and wandering of mind, as to be quite unable to fix my attention on

anything. On our approaching the house where the Misses Spenlow lived,

I was at such a discount in respect of my personal looks and presence of

mind, that Traddles proposed a gentle stimulant in the form of a glass

of ale. This having been administered at a neighbouring public-house, he

conducted me, with tottering steps, to the Misses Spenlow’s door.

I had a vague sensation of being, as it were, on view, when the maid

opened it; and of wavering, somehow, across a hall with a weather-glass

in it, into a quiet little drawing-room on the ground-floor, commanding

a neat garden. Also of sitting down here, on a sofa, and seeing

Traddles’s hair start up, now his hat was removed, like one of those

obtrusive little figures made of springs, that fly out of fictitious

snuff-boxes when the lid is taken off. Also of hearing an old-fashioned

clock ticking away on the chimney-piece, and trying to make it keep time

to the jerking of my heart,--which it wouldn’t. Also of looking round

the room for any sign of Dora, and seeing none. Also of thinking that

Jip once barked in the distance, and was instantly choked by somebody.

Ultimately I found myself backing Traddles into the fireplace, and

bowing in great confusion to two dry little elderly ladies, dressed in