第 95 页

I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions.

‘Sister Clarissa,’ said Miss Lavinia, ‘the rest is with you.’

Miss Clarissa, unfolding her arms for the first time, took the notes and

glanced at them.

‘We shall be happy,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘to see Mr. Copperfield to

dinner, every Sunday, if it should suit his convenience. Our hour is

three.’

I bowed.

‘In the course of the week,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘we shall be happy to

see Mr. Copperfield to tea. Our hour is half-past six.’

I bowed again.

‘Twice in the week,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘but, as a rule, not oftener.’

I bowed again.

‘Miss Trotwood,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘mentioned in Mr. Copperfield’s

letter, will perhaps call upon us. When visiting is better for the

happiness of all parties, we are glad to receive visits, and return

them. When it is better for the happiness of all parties that no

visiting should take place, (as in the case of our brother Francis, and

his establishment) that is quite different.’

I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted to make their

acquaintance; though I must say I was not quite sure of their getting

on very satisfactorily together. The conditions being now closed, I

expressed my acknowledgements in the warmest manner; and, taking the

hand, first of Miss Clarissa, and then of Miss Lavinia, pressed it, in

each case, to my lips.

Miss Lavinia then arose, and begging Mr. Traddles to excuse us for a

minute, requested me to follow her. I obeyed, all in a tremble, and was

conducted into another room. There I found my blessed darling stopping

her ears behind the door, with her dear little face against the wall;

and Jip in the plate-warmer with his head tied up in a towel.

Oh! How beautiful she was in her black frock, and how she sobbed and

cried at first, and wouldn’t come out from behind the door! How fond we

were of one another, when she did come out at last; and what a state of

bliss I was in, when we took Jip out of the plate-warmer, and restored

him to the light, sneezing very much, and were all three reunited!

‘My dearest Dora! Now, indeed, my own for ever!’

‘Oh, DON’T!’ pleaded Dora. ‘Please!’

‘Are you not my own for ever, Dora?’

‘Oh yes, of course I am!’ cried Dora, ‘but I am so frightened!’

‘Frightened, my own?’

‘Oh yes! I don’t like him,’ said Dora. ‘Why don’t he go?’

‘Who, my life?’

‘Your friend,’ said Dora. ‘It isn’t any business of his. What a stupid

he must be!’

‘My love!’ (There never was anything so coaxing as her childish ways.)

‘He is the best creature!’

‘Oh, but we don’t want any best creatures!’ pouted Dora.

‘My dear,’ I argued, ‘you will soon know him well, and like him of all

things. And here is my aunt coming soon; and you’ll like her of all

things too, when you know her.’

‘No, please don’t bring her!’ said Dora, giving me a horrified

little kiss, and folding her hands. ‘Don’t. I know she’s a naughty,

mischief-making old thing! Don’t let her come here, Doady!’ which was a

corruption of David.

Remonstrance was of no use, then; so I laughed, and admired, and was

very much in love and very happy; and she showed me Jip’s new trick of

standing on his hind legs in a corner--which he did for about the space

of a flash of lightning, and then fell down--and I don’t know how long I

should have stayed there, oblivious of Traddles, if Miss Lavinia had not

come in to take me away. Miss Lavinia was very fond of Dora (she told

me Dora was exactly like what she had been herself at her age--she must

have altered a good deal), and she treated Dora just as if she had been

a toy. I wanted to persuade Dora to come and see Traddles, but on my

proposing it she ran off to her own room and locked herself in; so I

went to Traddles without her, and walked away with him on air.

‘Nothing could be more satisfactory,’ said Traddles; ‘and they are very

agreeable old ladies, I am sure. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you

were to be married years before me, Copperfield.’

‘Does your Sophy play on any instrument, Traddles?’ I inquired, in the

pride of my heart.

‘She knows enough of the piano to teach it to her little sisters,’ said

Traddles.

‘Does she sing at all?’ I asked.

‘Why, she sings ballads, sometimes, to freshen up the others a little

when they’re out of spirits,’ said Traddles. ‘Nothing scientific.’

‘She doesn’t sing to the guitar?’ said I.

‘Oh dear no!’ said Traddles.

‘Paint at all?’

‘Not at all,’ said Traddles.

I promised Traddles that he should hear Dora sing, and see some of her

flower-painting. He said he should like it very much, and we went home

arm in arm in great good humour and delight. I encouraged him to talk

about Sophy, on the way; which he did with a loving reliance on her

that I very much admired. I compared her in my mind with Dora, with

considerable inward satisfaction; but I candidly admitted to myself that

she seemed to be an excellent kind of girl for Traddles, too.

Of course my aunt was immediately made acquainted with the successful

issue of the conference, and with all that had been said and done in the

course of it. She was happy to see me so happy, and promised to call on

Dora’s aunts without loss of time. But she took such a long walk up and

down our rooms that night, while I was writing to Agnes, that I began to

think she meant to walk till morning.

My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful one, narrating all the

good effects that had resulted from my following her advice. She wrote,

by return of post, to me. Her letter was hopeful, earnest, and cheerful.

She was always cheerful from that time.

I had my hands more full than ever, now. My daily journeys to Highgate

considered, Putney was a long way off; and I naturally wanted to go

there as often as I could. The proposed tea-drinkings being quite

impracticable, I compounded with Miss Lavinia for permission to visit

every Saturday afternoon, without detriment to my privileged Sundays.

So, the close of every week was a delicious time for me; and I got

through the rest of the week by looking forward to it.

I was wonderfully relieved to find that my aunt and Dora’s aunts

rubbed on, all things considered, much more smoothly than I could have

expected. My aunt made her promised visit within a few days of the

conference; and within a few more days, Dora’s aunts called upon her,

in due state and form. Similar but more friendly exchanges took place

afterwards, usually at intervals of three or four weeks. I know that my

aunt distressed Dora’s aunts very much, by utterly setting at naught the

dignity of fly-conveyance, and walking out to Putney at extraordinary

times, as shortly after breakfast or just before tea; likewise by

wearing her bonnet in any manner that happened to be comfortable to her

head, without at all deferring to the prejudices of civilization on that

subject. But Dora’s aunts soon agreed to regard my aunt as an eccentric

and somewhat masculine lady, with a strong understanding; and although

my aunt occasionally ruffled the feathers of Dora’s aunts, by expressing

heretical opinions on various points of ceremony, she loved me too

well not to sacrifice some of her little peculiarities to the general

harmony.

The only member of our small society who positively refused to adapt

himself to circumstances, was Jip. He never saw my aunt without

immediately displaying every tooth in his head, retiring under a chair,

and growling incessantly: with now and then a doleful howl, as if she

really were too much for his feelings. All kinds of treatment were tried

with him, coaxing, scolding, slapping, bringing him to Buckingham

Street (where he instantly dashed at the two cats, to the terror of all

beholders); but he never could prevail upon himself to bear my

aunt’s society. He would sometimes think he had got the better of his

objection, and be amiable for a few minutes; and then would put up his

snub nose, and howl to that extent, that there was nothing for it but

to blind him and put him in the plate-warmer. At length, Dora regularly

muffled him in a towel and shut him up there, whenever my aunt was

reported at the door.

One thing troubled me much, after we had fallen into this quiet train.

It was, that Dora seemed by one consent to be regarded like a pretty toy

or plaything. My aunt, with whom she gradually became familiar, always

called her Little Blossom; and the pleasure of Miss Lavinia’s life was

to wait upon her, curl her hair, make ornaments for her, and treat her

like a pet child. What Miss Lavinia did, her sister did as a matter of

course. It was very odd to me; but they all seemed to treat Dora, in her

degree, much as Dora treated Jip in his.

I made up my mind to speak to Dora about this; and one day when we were

out walking (for we were licensed by Miss Lavinia, after a while, to

go out walking by ourselves), I said to her that I wished she could get

them to behave towards her differently.

‘Because you know, my darling,’ I remonstrated, ‘you are not a child.’

‘There!’ said Dora. ‘Now you’re going to be cross!’

‘Cross, my love?’

‘I am sure they’re very kind to me,’ said Dora, ‘and I am very happy--’

‘Well! But my dearest life!’ said I, ‘you might be very happy, and yet

be treated rationally.’

Dora gave me a reproachful look--the prettiest look!--and then began to

sob, saying, if I didn’t like her, why had I ever wanted so much to be

engaged to her? And why didn’t I go away, now, if I couldn’t bear her?

What could I do, but kiss away her tears, and tell her how I doted on

her, after that!

‘I am sure I am very affectionate,’ said Dora; ‘you oughtn’t to be cruel

to me, Doady!’

‘Cruel, my precious love! As if I would--or could--be cruel to you, for

the world!’

‘Then don’t find fault with me,’ said Dora, making a rosebud of her

mouth; ‘and I’ll be good.’

I was charmed by her presently asking me, of her own accord, to give

her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to show her how to keep

accounts as I had once promised I would. I brought the volume with me on

my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to make it look less dry

and more inviting); and as we strolled about the Common, I showed her an

old housekeeping-book of my aunt’s, and gave her a set of tablets, and

a pretty little pencil-case and box of leads, to practise housekeeping

with.

But the cookery-book made Dora’s head ache, and the figures made her

cry. They wouldn’t add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew

little nosegays and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets.

Then I playfully tried verbal instruction in domestic matters, as we

walked about on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, for example, when we

passed a butcher’s shop, I would say:

‘Now suppose, my pet, that we were married, and you were going to buy a

shoulder of mutton for dinner, would you know how to buy it?’

My pretty little Dora’s face would fall, and she would make her mouth

into a bud again, as if she would very much prefer to shut mine with a

kiss.

‘Would you know how to buy it, my darling?’ I would repeat, perhaps, if

I were very inflexible.

Dora would think a little, and then reply, perhaps, with great triumph:

‘Why, the butcher would know how to sell it, and what need I know? Oh,

you silly boy!’

So, when I once asked Dora, with an eye to the cookery-book, what she

would do, if we were married, and I were to say I should like a nice

Irish stew, she replied that she would tell the servant to make it; and

then clapped her little hands together across my arm, and laughed in

such a charming manner that she was more delightful than ever.

Consequently, the principal use to which the cookery-book was devoted,

was being put down in the corner for Jip to stand upon. But Dora was so

pleased, when she had trained him to stand upon it without offering to

come off, and at the same time to hold the pencil-case in his mouth,

that I was very glad I had bought it.

And we fell back on the guitar-case, and the flower-painting, and the

songs about never leaving off dancing, Ta ra la! and were as happy as

the week was long. I occasionally wished I could venture to hint to Miss

Lavinia, that she treated the darling of my heart a little too much like

a plaything; and I sometimes awoke, as it were, wondering to find that

I had fallen into the general fault, and treated her like a plaything

too--but not often.

CHAPTER 42. MISCHIEF

I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this manuscript

is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at that tremendous

short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it, in my sense of

responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only add, to what I have

already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a

patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me,

and which I know to be the strong part of my character, if it have any

strength at all, that there, on looking back, I find the source of my

success. I have been very fortunate in worldly matters; many men have

worked much harder, and not succeeded half so well; but I never could

have done what I have done, without the habits of punctuality, order,

and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one

object at a time, no matter how quickly its successor should come upon

its heels, which I then formed. Heaven knows I write this, in no spirit

of self-laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I do mine,

in going on here, from page to page, had need to have been a good man

indeed, if he would be spared the sharp consciousness of many talents

neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted

feelings constantly at war within his breast, and defeating him. I

do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I have not abused. My

meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have

tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself

to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in

small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed

it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from