第 97 页

‘No fresh reference,’ said I, ‘to--I wouldn’t distress you, Agnes, but I

cannot help asking--to what we spoke of, when we parted last?’

‘No, none,’ she answered.

‘I have thought so much about it.’

‘You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple love

and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me, Trotwood,’ she added,

after a moment; ‘the step you dread my taking, I shall never take.’

Although I think I had never really feared it, in any season of cool

reflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to have this assurance

from her own truthful lips. I told her so, earnestly.

‘And when this visit is over,’ said I,--‘for we may not be alone another

time,--how long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, before you come to

London again?’

‘Probably a long time,’ she replied; ‘I think it will be best--for

papa’s sake--to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often, for

some time to come; but I shall be a good correspondent of Dora’s, and we

shall frequently hear of one another that way.’

We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor’s cottage. It was

growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs. Strong’s chamber,

and Agnes, pointing to it, bade me good night.

‘Do not be troubled,’ she said, giving me her hand, ‘by our misfortunes

and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than in your happiness. If

you can ever give me help, rely upon it I will ask you for it. God

bless you always!’ In her beaming smile, and in these last tones of her

cheerful voice, I seemed again to see and hear my little Dora in her

company. I stood awhile, looking through the porch at the stars, with

a heart full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly forth. I had

engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was going out at the

gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw a light in the Doctor’s

study. A half-reproachful fancy came into my mind, that he had been

working at the Dictionary without my help. With the view of seeing if

this were so, and, in any case, of bidding him good night, if he were

yet sitting among his books, I turned back, and going softly across the

hall, and gently opening the door, looked in.

The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober light of the

shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, with one of

his skeleton hands over his mouth, and the other resting on the Doctor’s

table. The Doctor sat in his study chair, covering his face with his

hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning

forward, irresolutely touching the Doctor’s arm.

For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I hastily advanced a

step under that impression, when I met Uriah’s eye, and saw what was the

matter. I would have withdrawn, but the Doctor made a gesture to detain

me, and I remained.

‘At any rate,’ observed Uriah, with a writhe of his ungainly person, ‘we

may keep the door shut. We needn’t make it known to ALL the town.’

Saying which, he went on his toes to the door, which I had left open,

and carefully closed it. He then came back, and took up his former

position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zeal in his voice

and manner, more intolerable--at least to me--than any demeanour he

could have assumed.

‘I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah, ‘to

point out to Doctor Strong what you and me have already talked about.

You didn’t exactly understand me, though?’

I gave him a look, but no other answer; and, going to my good old

master, said a few words that I meant to be words of comfort and

encouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulder, as it had been his

custom to do when I was quite a little fellow, but did not lift his grey

head.

‘As you didn’t understand me, Master Copperfield,’ resumed Uriah in

the same officious manner, ‘I may take the liberty of umbly mentioning,

being among friends, that I have called Doctor Strong’s attention to the

goings-on of Mrs. Strong. It’s much against the grain with me, I assure

you, Copperfield, to be concerned in anything so unpleasant; but really,

as it is, we’re all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn’t to be. That

was what my meaning was, sir, when you didn’t understand me.’ I wonder

now, when I recall his leer, that I did not collar him, and try to shake

the breath out of his body.

‘I dare say I didn’t make myself very clear,’ he went on, ‘nor you

neither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined to give such a subject

a wide berth. Hows’ever, at last I have made up my mind to speak plain;

and I have mentioned to Doctor Strong that--did you speak, sir?’

This was to the Doctor, who had moaned. The sound might have touched any

heart, I thought, but it had no effect upon Uriah’s.

‘--mentioned to Doctor Strong,’ he proceeded, ‘that anyone may see that

Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agreeable lady as is Doctor Strong’s

wife, are too sweet on one another. Really the time is come (we being at

present all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn’t to be), when Doctor

Strong must be told that this was full as plain to everybody as the sun,

before Mr. Maldon went to India; that Mr. Maldon made excuses to come

back, for nothing else; and that he’s always here, for nothing else.

When you come in, sir, I was just putting it to my fellow-partner,’

towards whom he turned, ‘to say to Doctor Strong upon his word and

honour, whether he’d ever been of this opinion long ago, or not. Come,

Mr. Wickfield, sir! Would you be so good as tell us? Yes or no, sir?

Come, partner!’

‘For God’s sake, my dear Doctor,’ said Mr. Wickfield again laying his

irresolute hand upon the Doctor’s arm, ‘don’t attach too much weight to

any suspicions I may have entertained.’

‘There!’ cried Uriah, shaking his head. ‘What a melancholy confirmation:

ain’t it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless your soul, when I was nothing

but a clerk in his office, Copperfield, I’ve seen him twenty times, if

I’ve seen him once, quite in a taking about it--quite put out, you know

(and very proper in him as a father; I’m sure I can’t blame him), to

think that Miss Agnes was mixing herself up with what oughtn’t to be.’

‘My dear Strong,’ said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice, ‘my good

friend, I needn’t tell you that it has been my vice to look for some one

master motive in everybody, and to try all actions by one narrow test. I

may have fallen into such doubts as I have had, through this mistake.’

‘You have had doubts, Wickfield,’ said the Doctor, without lifting up

his head. ‘You have had doubts.’

‘Speak up, fellow-partner,’ urged Uriah.

‘I had, at one time, certainly,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I--God forgive

me--I thought YOU had.’

‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor, in a tone of most pathetic grief.

‘I thought, at one time,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘that you wished to send

Maldon abroad to effect a desirable separation.’

‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor. ‘To give Annie pleasure, by making

some provision for the companion of her childhood. Nothing else.’

‘So I found,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I couldn’t doubt it, when you told

me so. But I thought--I implore you to remember the narrow construction

which has been my besetting sin--that, in a case where there was so much

disparity in point of years--’

‘That’s the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield!’ observed Uriah,

with fawning and offensive pity.

‘--a lady of such youth, and such attractions, however real her

respect for you, might have been influenced in marrying, by worldly

considerations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelings

and circumstances that may have all tended to good. For Heaven’s sake

remember that!’

‘How kind he puts it!’ said Uriah, shaking his head.

‘Always observing her from one point of view,’ said Mr. Wickfield; ‘but

by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I entreat you to consider

what it was; I am forced to confess now, having no escape-’

‘No! There’s no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,’ observed Uriah,

‘when it’s got to this.’

‘--that I did,’ said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and distractedly

at his partner, ‘that I did doubt her, and think her wanting in her

duty to you; and that I did sometimes, if I must say all, feel averse

to Agnes being in such a familiar relation towards her, as to see what I

saw, or in my diseased theory fancied that I saw. I never mentioned

this to anyone. I never meant it to be known to anyone. And though it

is terrible to you to hear,’ said Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued, ‘if you

knew how terrible it is for me to tell, you would feel compassion for

me!’

The Doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out his hand. Mr.

Wickfield held it for a little while in his, with his head bowed down.

‘I am sure,’ said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence like a

Conger-eel, ‘that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to everybody.

But since we have got so far, I ought to take the liberty of mentioning

that Copperfield has noticed it too.’

I turned upon him, and asked him how he dared refer to me!

‘Oh! it’s very kind of you, Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, undulating all

over, ‘and we all know what an amiable character yours is; but you know

that the moment I spoke to you the other night, you knew what I meant.

You know you knew what I meant, Copperfield. Don’t deny it! You deny it

with the best intentions; but don’t do it, Copperfield.’

I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon me for a moment,

and I felt that the confession of my old misgivings and remembrances

was too plainly written in my face to be overlooked. It was of no use

raging. I could not undo that. Say what I would, I could not unsay it.

We were silent again, and remained so, until the Doctor rose and walked

twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to where his

chair stood; and, leaning on the back of it, and occasionally putting

his handkerchief to his eyes, with a simple honesty that did him more

honour, to my thinking, than any disguise he could have effected, said:

‘I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to blame.

I have exposed one whom I hold in my heart, to trials and aspersions--I

call them aspersions, even to have been conceived in anybody’s inmost

mind--of which she never, but for me, could have been the object.’

Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel. I think to express sympathy.

‘Of which my Annie,’ said the Doctor, ‘never, but for me, could have

been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as you know; I do not feel,

tonight, that I have much to live for. But my life--my Life--upon the

truth and honour of the dear lady who has been the subject of this

conversation!’

I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the realization of

the handsomest and most romantic figure ever imagined by painter, could

have said this, with a more impressive and affecting dignity than the

plain old Doctor did.

‘But I am not prepared,’ he went on, ‘to deny--perhaps I may have been,

without knowing it, in some degree prepared to admit--that I may have

unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappy marriage. I am a man

quite unaccustomed to observe; and I cannot but believe that the

observation of several people, of different ages and positions, all too

plainly tending in one direction (and that so natural), is better than

mine.’

I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his benignant manner

towards his youthful wife; but the respectful tenderness he manifested

in every reference to her on this occasion, and the almost reverential

manner in which he put away from him the lightest doubt of her

integrity, exalted him, in my eyes, beyond description.

‘I married that lady,’ said the Doctor, ‘when she was extremely young. I

took her to myself when her character was scarcely formed. So far as it

was developed, it had been my happiness to form it. I knew her father

well. I knew her well. I had taught her what I could, for the love of

all her beautiful and virtuous qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear

I did, in taking advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and

her affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart!’

He walked across the room, and came back to the same place; holding

the chair with a grasp that trembled, like his subdued voice, in its

earnestness.

‘I regarded myself as a refuge, for her, from the dangers and

vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal though we were in

years, she would live tranquilly and contentedly with me. I did not shut

out of my consideration the time when I should leave her free, and still

young and still beautiful, but with her judgement more matured--no,

gentlemen--upon my truth!’

His homely figure seemed to be lightened up by his fidelity and

generosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no other grace could

have imparted to it.

‘My life with this lady has been very happy. Until tonight, I have

had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her great

injustice.’

His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of these words,

stopped for a few moments; then he went on:

‘Once awakened from my dream--I have been a poor dreamer, in one way or

other, all my life--I see how natural it is that she should have some

regretful feeling towards her old companion and her equal. That she does

regard him with some innocent regret, with some blameless thoughts of

what might have been, but for me, is, I fear, too true. Much that I have

seen, but not noted, has come back upon me with new meaning, during

this last trying hour. But, beyond this, gentlemen, the dear lady’s name

never must be coupled with a word, a breath, of doubt.’

For a little while, his eye kindled and his voice was firm; for a little

while he was again silent. Presently, he proceeded as before:

‘It only remains for me, to bear the knowledge of the unhappiness I have

occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is she who should reproach; not

I. To save her from misconstruction, cruel misconstruction, that even my

friends have not been able to avoid, becomes my duty. The more retired

we live, the better I shall discharge it. And when the time comes--may

it come soon, if it be His merciful pleasure!--when my death shall