I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordinary extent;but I took Dora’s little hand and kissed it--and she let me!I kissed Miss Mills’s hand; and we all seemed, to my thinking,to go straight up to the seventh heaven. We did not come down again.We stayed up there all the evening. At first we strayed to and fro among the trees:I with Dora’s shy arm drawn through mine: and Heaven knows, folly as it all was,it would have been a happy fate to have been struck immortal with those foolish feelings,and have stayed among the trees for ever!
But, much too soon, we heard the others laughing and talking, and calling ‘where’s Dora?’ So we went back, and they wanted Dora to sing.Red Whisker would have got the guitar-case out of the carriage,but Dora told him nobody knew where it was, but I. So Red Whisker was done for in a moment;and I got it, and I unlocked it, and I took the guitar out, and I sat by her,and I held her handkerchief and gloves, and I drank in every note of her dear voice,and she sang to ME who loved her, and all the others might applaud as much as they liked, but they had nothing to do with it!
I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be real,and that I should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and hear Mrs.Crupp clinking the teacups in getting breakfast ready. But Dora sang, and others sang,and Miss Mills sang--about the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory;as if she were a hundred years old--and the evening came on; and we had tea,with the kettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever.
I was happier than ever when the party broke up, and the other people, defeated Red Whisker and all,went their several ways, and we went ours through the still evening and the dying light,with sweet scents rising up around us. Mr.Spenlow being a little drowsy after the champagne--honour to the soil that grew the grape,to the grape that made the wine, to the sun that ripened it, and to the merchant who adulterated it!--and being fast asleep in a corner of the carriage, I rode by the side and talked to Dora.She admired my horse and patted him--oh, what a dear little hand it looked upon a horse!--and her shawl would not keep right, and now and then I drew it round her with my arm;and I even fancied that Jip began to see how it was,and to understand that he must make up his mind to be friends with me.
That sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though quite used up, recluse;that little patriarch of something less than twenty, who had done with the world,and mustn’t on any account have the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory awakened; what a kind thing she did!
‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘come to this side of the carriage a moment--if you can spare a moment. I want to speak to you.’
Behold me, on my gallant grey, bending at the side of Miss Mills, with my hand upon the carriage door!
‘Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming home with me the day after tomorrow.If you would like to call, I am sure papa would be happy to see you.’ What could I do but invoke a silent blessing on Miss Mills’s head,and store Miss Mills’s address in the securest corner of my memory!What could I do but tell Miss Mills, with grateful looks and fervent words,how much I appreciated her good offices, and what an inestimable value I set upon her friendship!
Then Miss Mills benignantly dismissed me, saying, ‘Go back to Dora!’ and I went; and Dora leaned out of the carriage to talk to me,and we talked all the rest of the way; and I rode my gallant grey so close to the wheel that I grazed his near fore leg against it,and ‘took the bark off’, as his owner told me, ‘to the tune of three pun’ sivin’--which I paid,and thought extremely cheap for so much joy. What time Miss Mills sat looking at the moon,murmuring verses--and recalling, I suppose,the ancient days when she and earth had anything in common.
Norwood was many miles too near, and we reached it many hours too soon; but Mr.Spenlow came to himself a little short of it, and said, ‘You must come in, Copperfield, and rest!’ and I consenting, we had sandwiches and wine-and-water. In the light room,Dora blushing looked so lovely, that I could not tear myself away, but sat there staring,in a dream, until the snoring of Mr. Spenlow inspired me with sufficient consciousness to take my leave.So we parted; I riding all the way to London with the farewell touch of Dora’s hand still light on mine,recalling every incident and word ten thousand times; lying down in my own bed at last,as enraptured a young noodle as ever was carried out of his five wits by love.
When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passion to Dora, and know my fate.Happiness or misery was now the question. There was no other question that I knew of in the world,and only Dora could give the answer to it. I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness,torturing myself by putting every conceivable variety of discouraging construction on all that ever had taken place between Dora and me.At last, arrayed for the purpose at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills’s, fraught with a declaration.
How many times I went up and down the street,and round the square--painfully aware of being a much better answer to the old riddle than the original one--before I could persuade myself to go up the steps and knock, is no matter now. Even when, at last, I had knocked, and was waiting at the door, I had some flurried thought of asking if that were Mr. Blackboy’s (in imitation of poor Barkis), begging pardon, and retreating. But I kept my ground.
Mr. Mills was not at home. I did not expect he would be. Nobody wanted HIM. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Jip was there.Miss Mills was copying music (I recollect, it was a new song, called ‘Affection’s Dirge’),and Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings, when I recognized my own flowers;the identical Covent Garden Market purchase!I cannot say that they were very like, or that they particularly resembled any flowers that have ever come under my observation;but I knew from the paper round them which was accurately copied, what the composition was.
Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at home:though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few minutes,and then, laying down her pen upon ‘Affection’s Dirge’, got up, and left the room.
I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.
‘I hope your poor horse was not tired, when he got home at night,’ said Dora,lifting up her beautiful eyes. ‘It was a long way for him.’
I began to think I would do it today.
‘It was a long way for him,’ said I, ‘for he had nothing to uphold him on the journey.’
‘Wasn’t he fed, poor thing?’ asked Dora.
I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.
‘Ye-yes,’ I said, ‘he was well taken care of.I mean he had not the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near you.’
Dora bent her head over her drawing and said, after a little while--I had sat, in the interval,in a burning fever, and with my legs in a very rigid state--
‘You didn’t seem to be sensible of that happiness yourself, at one time of the day.’
I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.
‘You didn’t care for that happiness in the least,’ said Dora, slightly raising her eyebrows,and shaking her head, ‘when you were sitting by Miss Kitt.’
Kitt, I should observe, was the name of the creature in pink, with the little eyes.
‘Though certainly I don’t know why you should,’ said Dora,‘or why you should call it a happiness at all. But of course you don’t mean what you say.And I am sure no one doubts your being at liberty to do whatever you like. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!’
I don’t know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms.I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her.I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the time.
When Dora hung her head and cried, and trembled, my eloquence increased so much the more.If she would like me to die for her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready.Life without Dora’s love was not a thing to have on any terms. I couldn’t bear it, and I wouldn’t.I had loved her every minute, day and night, since I first saw her.I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every minute, to distraction.Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love again; but no lover had loved, might, could, would,or should ever love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us,in his own way, got more mad every moment.
Well, well!Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by, quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap,winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.
I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in marriage. We must have had some,because Dora stipulated that we were never to be married without her papa’s consent. But,in our youthful ecstasy, I don’t think that we really looked before us or behind us;or had any aspiration beyond the ignorant present. We were to keep our secret from Mr. Spenlow;but I am sure the idea never entered my head, then, that there was anything dishonourable in that.
Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora, going to find her, brought her back;--I apprehend, because there was a tendency in what had passed to awaken the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory.But she gave us her blessing, and the assurance of her lasting friendship, and spoke to us,generally, as became a Voice from the Cloister.
What an idle time it was!What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time it was!
When I measured Dora’s finger for a ring that was to be made of Forget-me-nots,and when the jeweller, to whom I took the measure, found me out, and laughed over his order-book,and charged me anything he liked for the pretty little toy,with its blue stones--so associated in my remembrance with Dora’s hand, that yesterday,when I saw such another, by chance, on the finger of my own daughter,there was a momentary stirring in my heart, like pain!
When I walked about, exalted with my secret, and full of my own interest,and felt the dignity of loving Dora, and of being beloved, so much, that if I had walked the air,I could not have been more above the people not so situated, who were creeping on the earth!
When we had those meetings in the garden of the square, and sat within the dingy summer-house,so happy, that I love the London sparrows to this hour, for nothing else,and see the plumage of the tropics in their smoky feathers!When we had our first great quarrel (within a week of our betrothal),and when Dora sent me back the ring, enclosed in a despairing cocked-hat note,wherein she used the terrible expression that ‘our love had begun in folly, and ended in madness!’ which dreadful words occasioned me to tear my hair, and cry that all was over!
When, under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills,whom I saw by stealth in a back kitchen where there was a mangle,and implored Miss Mills to interpose between us and avert insanity.When Miss Mills undertook the office and returned with Dora, exhorting us,from the pulpit of her own bitter youth, to mutual concession,and the avoidance of the Desert of Sahara!
When we cried, and made it up, and were so blest again, that the back kitchen, mangle and all,changed to Love’s own temple, where we arranged a plan of correspondence through Miss Mills,always to comprehend at least one letter on each side every day!
What an idle time!What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time!Of all the times of mine that Time has in his grip,there is none that in one retrospect I can smile at half so much, and think of half so tenderly.
CHAPTER 34. MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME
I wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her a long letter,in which I tried to make her comprehend how blest I was, and what a darling Dora was.I entreated Agnes not to regard this as a thoughtless passion which could ever yield to any other,or had the least resemblance to the boyish fancies that we used to joke about.I assured her that its profundity was quite unfathomable,and expressed my belief that nothing like it had ever been known.
Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my open window,and the remembrance of her clear calm eyes and gentle face came stealing over me,it shed such a peaceful influence upon the hurry and agitation in which I had been living lately,and of which my very happiness partook in some degree, that it soothed me into tears.I remember that I sat resting my head upon my hand, when the letter was half done,cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes were one of the elements of my natural home. As if,in the retirement of the house made almost sacred to me by her presence,Dora and I must be happier than anywhere. As if, in love, joy, sorrow, hope, or disappointment;in all emotions; my heart turned naturally there, and found its refuge and best friend.
Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had been sad grief at Yarmouth,on account of Emily’s flight; and that on me it made a double wound,by reason of the circumstances attending it. I knew how quick she always was to divine the truth,and that she would never be the first to breathe his name.
To this letter, I received an answer by return of post. As I read it,I seemed to hear Agnes speaking to me. It was like her cordial voice in my ears. What can I say more!
While I had been away from home lately, Traddles had called twice or thrice.Finding Peggotty within, and being informed by Peggotty (who always volunteered that information to whomsoever would receive it),that she was my old nurse, he had established a good-humoured acquaintance with her,and had stayed to have a little chat with her about me. So Peggotty said;but I am afraid the chat was all on her own side, and of immoderate length,as she was very difficult indeed to stop, God bless her!when she had me for her theme.
This reminds me, not only that I expected Traddles on a certain afternoon of his own appointing,which was now come, but that Mrs. Crupp had resigned everything appertaining to her office (the salary excepted) until Peggotty should cease to present herself. Mrs. Crupp, after holding divers conversations respecting Peggotty, in a very high-pitched voice, on the staircase--with some invisible Familiar it would appear, for corporeally speaking she was quite alone at those times--addressed a letter to me, developing her views. Beginning it with that statement of universal application, which fitted every occurrence of her life, namely, that she was a mother herself, she went on to inform me that she had once seen very different days, but that at all periods of her existence she had had a constitutional objection to spies, intruders, and informers. She named no names, she said; let them the cap fitted, wear it; but spies, intruders, and informers, especially in widders’ weeds (this clause was underlined), she had ever accustomed herself to look down upon. If a gentleman was the victim of spies, intruders, and informers (but still naming no names), that was his own pleasure. He had a right to please himself; so let him do. All that she, Mrs. Crupp, stipulated for, was, that she should not be ‘brought in contract’ with such persons. Therefore she begged to be excused from any further attendance on the top set, until things were as they formerly was, and as they could be wished to be; and further mentioned that her little book would be found upon the breakfast-table every Saturday morning, when she requested an immediate settlement of the same, with the benevolent view of saving trouble ‘and an ill-conwenience’ to all parties.
After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls on the stairs, principally with pitchers,and endeavouring to delude Peggotty into breaking her legs.I found it rather harassing to live in this state of siege, but was too much afraid of Mrs. Crupp to see any way out of it.
‘My dear Copperfield,’ cried Traddles, punctually appearing at my door,in spite of all these obstacles, ‘how do you do?’
‘My dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘I am delighted to see you at last,and very sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much engaged--’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Traddles, ‘of course. Yours lives in London, I think.’
‘What did you say?’
‘She--excuse me--Miss D., you know,’ said Traddles, colouring in his great delicacy, ‘lives in London, I believe?’
‘Oh yes. Near London.’
‘Mine, perhaps you recollect,’ said Traddles, with a serious look,‘lives down in Devonshire--one of ten. Consequently,I am not so much engaged as you--in that sense.’
‘I wonder you can bear,’ I returned, ‘to see her so seldom.’
‘Hah!’ said Traddles, thoughtfully. ‘It does seem a wonder. I suppose it is, Copperfield, because there is no help for it?’
‘I suppose so,’ I replied with a smile, and not without a blush.‘And because you have so much constancy and patience, Traddles.’
‘Dear me!’ said Traddles, considering about it, ‘do I strike you in that way, Copperfield?Really I didn’t know that I had. But she is such an extraordinarily dear girl herself,that it’s possible she may have imparted something of those virtues to me. Now you mention it,Copperfield, I shouldn’t wonder at all. I assure you she is always forgetting herself, and taking care of the other nine.’
‘Is she the eldest?’ I inquired.
‘Oh dear, no,’ said Traddles. ‘The eldest is a Beauty.’
He saw, I suppose, that I could not help smiling at the simplicity of this reply; and added,with a smile upon his own ingenuous face:
‘Not, of course, but that my Sophy--pretty name, Copperfield, I always think?’
‘Very pretty!’ said I.
‘Not, of course, but that Sophy is beautiful too in my eyes,and would be one of the dearest girls that ever was, in anybody’s eyes (I should think).But when I say the eldest is a Beauty, I mean she really is a--’ he seemed to be describing clouds about himself,with both hands: ‘Splendid, you know,’ said Traddles, energetically. ‘Indeed!’ said I.
‘Oh, I assure you,’ said Traddles, ‘something very uncommon, indeed!Then, you know, being formed for society and admiration,and not being able to enjoy much of it in consequence of their limited means,she naturally gets a little irritable and exacting, sometimes. Sophy puts her in good humour!’
‘Is Sophy the youngest?’ I hazarded.
‘Oh dear, no!’ said Traddles, stroking his chin. ‘The two youngest are only nine and ten. Sophy educates ‘em.’
‘The second daughter, perhaps?’ I hazarded.
‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Sarah’s the second. Sarah has something the matter with her spine, poor girl.The malady will wear out by and by, the doctors say,but in the meantime she has to lie down for a twelvemonth. Sophy nurses her. Sophy’s the fourth.’
‘Is the mother living?’ I inquired.
‘Oh yes,’ said Traddles, ‘she is alive. She is a very superior woman indeed,but the damp country is not adapted to her constitution, and--in fact, she has lost the use of her limbs.’
‘Dear me!’ said I.
‘Very sad, is it not?’ returned Traddles. ‘But in a merely domestic view it is not so bad as it might be,because Sophy takes her place. She is quite as much a mother to her mother, as she is to the other nine.’
I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young lady; and,honestly with the view of doing my best to prevent the good-nature of Traddles from being imposed upon,to the detriment of their joint prospects in life, inquired how Mr. Micawber was?
‘He is quite well, Copperfield, thank you,’ said Traddles. ‘I am not living with him at present.’
‘No?’
‘No. You see the truth is,’ said Traddles, in a whisper, ‘he had changed his name to Mortimer,in consequence of his temporary embarrassments;and he don’t come out till after dark--and then in spectacles.There was an execution put into our house, for rent. Mrs.Micawber was in such a dreadful state that I really couldn’t resist giving my name to that second bill we spoke of here.You may imagine how delightful it was to my feelings, Copperfield,to see the matter settled with it, and Mrs. Micawber recover her spirits.’
‘Hum!’ said I. ‘Not that her happiness was of long duration,’ pursued Traddles, ‘for, unfortunately,within a week another execution came in. It broke up the establishment.I have been living in a furnished apartment since then,and the Mortimers have been very private indeed. I hope you won’t think it selfish, Copperfield,if I mention that the broker carried off my little round table with the marble top, and Sophy’s flower-pot and stand?’
‘What a hard thing!’ I exclaimed indignantly.
‘It was a--it was a pull,’ said Traddles, with his usual wince at that expression.‘I don’t mention it reproachfully, however, but with a motive. The fact is, Copperfield,I was unable to repurchase them at the time of their seizure; in the first place,because the broker, having an idea that I wanted them, ran the price up to an extravagant extent;and, in the second place, because I--hadn’t any money. Now, I have kept my eye since,upon the broker’s shop,’ said Traddles, with a great enjoyment of his mystery,‘which is up at the top of Tottenham Court Road, and, at last, today I find them put out for sale.I have only noticed them from over the way, because if the broker saw me, bless you, he’d ask any price for them!What has occurred to me, having now the money, is,that perhaps you wouldn’t object to ask that good nurse of yours to come with me to the shop--I can show it her from round the corner of the next street--and make the best bargain for them, as if they were for herself, that she can!’
The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan to me,and the sense he had of its uncommon artfulness, are among the freshest things in my remembrance.
I told him that my old nurse would be delighted to assist him,and that we would all three take the field together, but on one condition. That condition was,that he should make a solemn resolution to grant no more loans of his name, or anything else, to Mr. Micawber.
‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, ‘I have already done so,because I begin to feel that I have not only been inconsiderate,but that I have been positively unjust to Sophy. My word being passed to myself,there is no longer any apprehension; but I pledge it to you, too, with the greatest readiness.That first unlucky obligation, I have paid. I have no doubt Mr.Micawber would have paid it if he could, but he could not. One thing I ought to mention,which I like very much in Mr. Micawber, Copperfield. It refers to the second obligation,which is not yet due. He don’t tell me that it is provided for, but he says it WILL BE. Now,I think there is something very fair and honest about that!’
I was unwilling to damp my good friend’s confidence, and therefore assented.After a little further conversation, we went round to the chandler’s shop, to enlist Peggotty;Traddles declining to pass the evening with me,both because he endured the liveliest apprehensions that his property would be bought by somebody else before he could re-purchase it,and because it was the evening he always devoted to writing to the dearest girl in the world.
I never shall forget him peeping round the corner of the street in Tottenham Court Road,while Peggotty was bargaining for the precious articles;or his agitation when she came slowly towards us after vainly offering a price,and was hailed by the relenting broker, and went back again. The end of the negotiation was,that she bought the property on tolerably easy terms, and Traddles was transported with pleasure.
‘I am very much obliged to you, indeed,’ said Traddles,on hearing it was to be sent to where he lived, that night. ‘If I might ask one other favour,I hope you would not think it absurd, Copperfield?’
I said beforehand, certainly not.
‘Then if you WOULD be good enough,’ said Traddles to Peggotty, ‘to get the flower-pot now,I think I should like (it being Sophy’s, Copperfield) to carry it home myself!’
Peggotty was glad to get it for him, and he overwhelmed her with thanks,and went his way up Tottenham Court Road, carrying the flower-pot affectionately in his arms,with one of the most delighted expressions of countenance I ever saw.
We then turned back towards my chambers.As the shops had charms for Peggotty which I never knew them possess in the same degree for anybody else,I sauntered easily along, amused by her staring in at the windows,and waiting for her as often as she chose. We were thus a good while in getting to the Adelphi.
On our way upstairs, I called her attention to the sudden disappearance of Mrs. Crupp’s pitfalls,and also to the prints of recent footsteps. We were both very much surprised, coming higher up,to find my outer door standing open (which I had shut) and to hear voices inside.
We looked at one another, without knowing what to make of this, and went into the sitting-room.What was my amazement to find, of all people upon earth, my aunt there, and Mr. Dick!My aunt sitting on a quantity of luggage, with her two birds before her, and her cat on her knee,like a female Robinson Crusoe, drinking tea. Mr. Dick leaning thoughtfully on a great kite,such as we had often been out together to fly, with more luggage piled about him!
‘My dear aunt!’ cried I. ‘Why, what an unexpected pleasure!’
We cordially embraced; and Mr. Dick and I cordially shook hands; and Mrs. Crupp,who was busy making tea, and could not be too attentive, cordially said she had knowed well as Mr.Copperfull would have his heart in his mouth, when he see his dear relations.
‘Holloa!’ said my aunt to Peggotty, who quailed before her awful presence. ‘How are YOU?’
‘You remember my aunt, Peggotty?’ said I.
‘For the love of goodness, child,’ exclaimed my aunt,‘don’t call the woman by that South Sea Island name!If she married and got rid of it, which was the best thing she could do,why don’t you give her the benefit of the change?What’s your name now,--P?’ said my aunt, as a compromise for the obnoxious appellation.
‘Barkis, ma’am,’ said Peggotty, with a curtsey.
‘Well!That’s human,’ said my aunt. ‘It sounds less as if you wanted a missionary. How d’ye do, Barkis?I hope you’re well?’
Encouraged by these gracious words, and by my aunt’s extending her hand, Barkis came forward,and took the hand, and curtseyed her acknowledgements.
‘We are older than we were, I see,’ said my aunt. ‘We have only met each other once before,you know. A nice business we made of it then!Trot, my dear, another cup.’
I handed it dutifully to my aunt, who was in her usual inflexible state of figure;and ventured a remonstrance with her on the subject of her sitting on a box.
‘Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy-chair, aunt,’ said I. ‘Why should you be so uncomfortable?’
‘Thank you, Trot,’ replied my aunt, ‘I prefer to sit upon my property.’ Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Crupp, and observed, ‘We needn’t trouble you to wait, ma’am.’
‘Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I go, ma’am?’ said Mrs. Crupp.
‘No, I thank you, ma’am,’ replied my aunt.
‘Would you let me fetch another pat of butter, ma’am?’ said Mrs. Crupp. ‘Or would you be persuaded to try a new-laid hegg?or should I brile a rasher?Ain’t there nothing I could do for your dear aunt, Mr. Copperfull?’
‘Nothing, ma’am,’ returned my aunt. ‘I shall do very well, I thank you.’
Mrs. Crupp, who had been incessantly smiling to express sweet temper,and incessantly holding her head on one side, to express a general feebleness of constitution,and incessantly rubbing her hands, to express a desire to be of service to all deserving objects,gradually smiled herself, one-sided herself, and rubbed herself, out of the room. ‘Dick!’ said my aunt. ‘You know what I told you about time-servers and wealth-worshippers?’
Mr. Dick--with rather a scared look, as if he had forgotten it--returned a hasty answer in the affirmative.
‘Mrs. Crupp is one of them,’ said my aunt. ‘Barkis, I’ll trouble you to look after the tea,and let me have another cup, for I don’t fancy that woman’s pouring-out!’
I knew my aunt sufficiently well to know that she had something of importance on her mind,and that there was far more matter in this arrival than a stranger might have supposed.I noticed how her eye lighted on me, when she thought my attention otherwise occupied;and what a curious process of hesitation appeared to be going on within her,while she preserved her outward stiffness and composure.I began to reflect whether I had done anything to offend her;and my conscience whispered me that I had not yet told her about Dora.Could it by any means be that, I wondered!
As I knew she would only speak in her own good time, I sat down near her, and spoke to the birds,and played with the cat, and was as easy as I could be. But I was very far from being really easy;and I should still have been so, even if Mr. Dick, leaning over the great kite behind my aunt,had not taken every secret opportunity of shaking his head darkly at me, and pointing at her.
‘Trot,’ said my aunt at last, when she had finished her tea, and carefully smoothed down her dress,and wiped her lips--‘you needn’t go, Barkis!--Trot, have you got to be firm and self-reliant?’
‘I hope so, aunt.’
‘What do you think?’ inquired Miss Betsey.
‘I think so, aunt.’
‘Then why, my love,’ said my aunt, looking earnestly at me,‘why do you think I prefer to sit upon this property of mine tonight?’