‘Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt, who had always kept her money matters to herself.‘--I don’t mean your sister, Trot, my dear, but myself--had a certain property.It don’t matter how much; enough to live on. More; for she had saved a little, and added to it.Betsey funded her property for some time, and then, by the advice of her man of business,laid it out on landed security. That did very well, and returned very good interest,till Betsey was paid off. I am talking of Betsey as if she was a man-of-war. Well!Then, Betsey had to look about her, for a new investment. She thought she was wiser, now,than her man of business, who was not such a good man of business by this time,as he used to be--I am alluding to your father,Agnes--and she took it into her head to lay it out for herself. So she took her pigs,’ said my aunt, ‘to a foreign market; and a very bad market it turned out to be. First,she lost in the mining way, and then she lost in the diving way--fishing up treasure,or some such Tom Tiddler nonsense,’ explained my aunt, rubbing her nose;‘and then she lost in the mining way again, and, last of all, to set the thing entirely to rights,she lost in the banking way. I don’t know what the Bank shares were worth for a little while,’ said my aunt; ‘cent per cent was the lowest of it, I believe;but the Bank was at the other end of the world, and tumbled into space, for what I know; anyhow,it fell to pieces, and never will and never can pay sixpence;and Betsey’s sixpences were all there, and there’s an end of them. Least said, soonest mended!’
My aunt concluded this philosophical summary, by fixing her eyes with a kind of triumph on Agnes, whose colour was gradually returning.
‘Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history?’ said Agnes.
‘I hope it’s enough, child,’ said my aunt. ‘If there had been more money to lose,it wouldn’t have been all, I dare say. Betsey would have contrived to throw that after the rest,and make another chapter, I have little doubt. But there was no more money, and there’s no more story.’
Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath. Her colour still came and went,but she breathed more freely. I thought I knew why.I thought she had had some fear that her unhappy father might be in some way to blame for what had happened.My aunt took her hand in hers, and laughed.
‘Is that all?’ repeated my aunt. ‘Why, yes, that’s all, except, “And she lived happy ever afterwards.” Perhaps I may add that of Betsey yet, one of these days. Now, Agnes, you have a wise head.So have you, Trot, in some things, though I can’t compliment you always’;and here my aunt shook her own at me, with an energy peculiar to herself. ‘What’s to be done?Here’s the cottage, taking one time with another, will produce say seventy pounds a year.I think we may safely put it down at that. Well!--That’s all we’ve got,’ said my aunt; with whom it was an idiosyncrasy, as it is with some horses,to stop very short when she appeared to be in a fair way of going on for a long while.
‘Then,’ said my aunt, after a rest, ‘there’s Dick. He’s good for a hundred a-year,but of course that must be expended on himself. I would sooner send him away,though I know I am the only person who appreciates him, than have him,and not spend his money on himself. How can Trot and I do best, upon our means?What do you say, Agnes?’
‘I say, aunt,’ I interposed, ‘that I must do something!’
‘Go for a soldier, do you mean?’ returned my aunt, alarmed; ‘or go to sea?I won’t hear of it. You are to be a proctor.We’re not going to have any knockings on the head in THIS family, if you please, sir.’
I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introducing that mode of provision into the family,when Agnes inquired if my rooms were held for any long term?
‘You come to the point, my dear,’ said my aunt. ‘They are not to be got rid of,for six months at least, unless they could be underlet, and that I don’t believe.The last man died here. Five people out of six would die--of course--of that woman in nankeen with the flannel petticoat.I have a little ready money; and I agree with you, the best thing we can do, is,to live the term out here, and get a bedroom hard by.’
I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would sustain,from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with Mrs. Crupp;but she disposed of that objection summarily by declaring that,on the first demonstration of hostilities, she was prepared to astonish Mrs.Crupp for the whole remainder of her natural life.
‘I have been thinking, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, diffidently, ‘that if you had time--’
‘I have a good deal of time, Agnes. I am always disengaged after four or five o’clock,and I have time early in the morning. In one way and another,’ said I,conscious of reddening a little as I thought of the hours and hours I had devoted to fagging about town,and to and fro upon the Norwood Road, ‘I have abundance of time.’
‘I know you would not mind,’ said Agnes, coming to me, and speaking in a low voice,so full of sweet and hopeful consideration that I hear it now, ‘the duties of a secretary.’
‘Mind, my dear Agnes?’
‘Because,’ continued Agnes, ‘Doctor Strong has acted on his intention of retiring,and has come to live in London; and he asked papa, I know, if he could recommend him one.Don’t you think he would rather have his favourite old pupil near him, than anybody else?’
‘Dear Agnes!’ said I. ‘What should I do without you!You are always my good angel. I told you so. I never think of you in any other light.’
Agnes answered with her pleasant laugh, that one good Angel (meaning Dora) was enough;and went on to remind me that the Doctor had been used to occupy himself in his study,early in the morning, and in the evening--and that probably my leisure would suit his requirements very well.I was scarcely more delighted with the prospect of earning my own bread,than with the hope of earning it under my old master; in short, acting on the advice of Agnes,I sat down and wrote a letter to the Doctor, stating my object,and appointing to call on him next day at ten in the forenoon.This I addressed to Highgate--for in that place, so memorable to me, he lived--and went and posted, myself, without losing a minute.
Wherever Agnes was, some agreeable token of her noiseless presence seemed inseparable from the place.When I came back, I found my aunt’s birds hanging,just as they had hung so long in the parlour window of the cottage;and my easy-chair imitating my aunt’s much easier chair in its position at the open window;and even the round green fan, which my aunt had brought away with her,screwed on to the window-sill. I knew who had done all this,by its seeming to have quietly done itself;and I should have known in a moment who had arranged my neglected books in the old order of my school days,even if I had supposed Agnes to be miles away, instead of seeing her busy with them,and smiling at the disorder into which they had fallen.
My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames (it really did look very well with the sun upon it,though not like the sea before the cottage), but she could not relent towards the London smoke,which, she said, ‘peppered everything’. A complete revolution,in which Peggotty bore a prominent part, was being effected in every corner of my rooms,in regard of this pepper; and I was looking on,thinking how little even Peggotty seemed to do with a good deal of bustle,and how much Agnes did without any bustle at all, when a knock came at the door.
‘I think,’ said Agnes, turning pale, ‘it’s papa. He promised me that he would come.’
I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield, but Uriah Heep. I had not seen Mr.Wickfield for some time. I was prepared for a great change in him,after what I had heard from Agnes, but his appearance shocked me.
It was not that he looked many years older,though still dressed with the old scrupulous cleanliness;or that there was an unwholesome ruddiness upon his face; or that his eyes were full and bloodshot;or that there was a nervous trembling in his hand, the cause of which I knew,and had for some years seen at work. It was not that he had lost his good looks,or his old bearing of a gentleman--for that he had not--but the thing that struck me most, was,that with the evidences of his native superiority still upon him,he should submit himself to that crawling impersonation of meanness, Uriah Heep.The reversal of the two natures, in their relative positions, Uriah’s of power and Mr.Wickfield’s of dependence, was a sight more painful to me than I can express.If I had seen an Ape taking command of a Man,I should hardly have thought it a more degrading spectacle.
He appeared to be only too conscious of it himself. When he came in, he stood still;and with his head bowed, as if he felt it. This was only for a moment; for Agnes softly said to him, ‘Papa!Here is Miss Trotwood--and Trotwood, whom you have not seen for a long while!’ and then he approached, and constrainedly gave my aunt his hand,and shook hands more cordially with me. In the moment’s pause I speak of,I saw Uriah’s countenance form itself into a most ill-favoured smile. Agnes saw it too, I think, for she shrank from him.
What my aunt saw, or did not see, I defy the science of physiognomy to have made out,without her own consent. I believe there never was anybody with such an imperturbable countenance when she chose.Her face might have been a dead-wall on the occasion in question,for any light it threw upon her thoughts; until she broke silence with her usual abruptness.
‘Well, Wickfield!’ said my aunt; and he looked up at her for the first time.‘I have been telling your daughter how well I have been disposing of my money for myself,because I couldn’t trust it to you, as you were growing rusty in business matters.We have been taking counsel together, and getting on very well, all things considered.Agnes is worth the whole firm, in my opinion.’
‘If I may umbly make the remark,’ said Uriah Heep, with a writhe,‘I fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwood, and should be only too appy if Miss Agnes was a partner.’
‘You’re a partner yourself, you know,’ returned my aunt, ‘and that’s about enough for you, I expect. How do you find yourself, sir?’
In acknowledgement of this question, addressed to him with extraordinary curtness, Mr. Heep,uncomfortably clutching the blue bag he carried, replied that he was pretty well,he thanked my aunt, and hoped she was the same.
‘And you, Master--I should say, Mister Copperfield,’ pursued Uriah. ‘I hope I see you well!I am rejoiced to see you, Mister Copperfield, even under present circumstances.’ I believed that;for he seemed to relish them very much.‘Present circumstances is not what your friends would wish for you, Mister Copperfield,but it isn’t money makes the man: it’s--I am really unequal with my umble powers to express what it is,’ said Uriah, with a fawning jerk, ‘but it isn’t money!’
Here he shook hands with me: not in the common way, but standing at a good distance from me,and lifting my hand up and down like a pump handle, that he was a little afraid of.
‘And how do you think we are looking, Master Copperfield,--I should say, Mister?’ fawned Uriah. ‘Don’t you find Mr. Wickfield blooming, sir?Years don’t tell much in our firm, Master Copperfield, except in raising up the umble, namely,mother and self--and in developing,’ he added, as an afterthought, ‘the beautiful, namely, Miss Agnes.’
He jerked himself about, after this compliment, in such an intolerable manner, that my aunt,who had sat looking straight at him, lost all patience.
‘Deuce take the man!’ said my aunt, sternly, ‘what’s he about?Don’t be galvanic, sir!’
‘I ask your pardon, Miss Trotwood,’ returned Uriah; ‘I’m aware you’re nervous.’
‘Go along with you, sir!’ said my aunt, anything but appeased. ‘Don’t presume to say so!I am nothing of the sort. If you’re an eel, sir, conduct yourself like one. If you’re a man, control your limbs, sir!Good God!’ said my aunt, with great indignation, ‘I am not going to be serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses!’
Mr. Heep was rather abashed, as most people might have been, by this explosion;which derived great additional force from the indignant manner in which my aunt afterwards moved in her chair,and shook her head as if she were making snaps or bounces at him.But he said to me aside in a meek voice:
‘I am well aware, Master Copperfield, that Miss Trotwood, though an excellent lady,has a quick temper (indeed I think I had the pleasure of knowing her, when I was a numble clerk,before you did, Master Copperfield), and it’s only natural, I am sure,that it should be made quicker by present circumstances. The wonder is, that it isn’t much worse!I only called to say that if there was anything we could do, in present circumstances,mother or self, or Wickfield and Heep,--we should be really glad. I may go so far?’ said Uriah, with a sickly smile at his partner.
‘Uriah Heep,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in a monotonous forced way, ‘is active in the business, Trotwood.What he says, I quite concur in. You know I had an old interest in you. Apart from that, what Uriah says I quite concur in!’
‘Oh, what a reward it is,’ said Uriah, drawing up one leg,at the risk of bringing down upon himself another visitation from my aunt, ‘to be so trusted in!But I hope I am able to do something to relieve him from the fatigues of business, Master Copperfield!’
‘Uriah Heep is a great relief to me,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in the same dull voice.‘It’s a load off my mind, Trotwood, to have such a partner.’
The red fox made him say all this, I knew,to exhibit him to me in the light he had indicated on the night when he poisoned my rest.I saw the same ill-favoured smile upon his face again, and saw how he watched me.
‘You are not going, papa?’ said Agnes, anxiously. ‘Will you not walk back with Trotwood and me?’
He would have looked to Uriah, I believe, before replying, if that worthy had not anticipated him.
‘I am bespoke myself,’ said Uriah, ‘on business;otherwise I should have been appy to have kept with my friends.But I leave my partner to represent the firm. Miss Agnes, ever yours!I wish you good-day, Master Copperfield, and leave my umble respects for Miss Betsey Trotwood.’
With those words, he retired, kissing his great hand, and leering at us like a mask.
We sat there, talking about our pleasant old Canterbury days, an hour or two. Mr. Wickfield,left to Agnes, soon became more like his former self;though there was a settled depression upon him, which he never shook off. For all that,he brightened; and had an evident pleasure in hearing us recall the little incidents of our old life,many of which he remembered very well. He said it was like those times,to be alone with Agnes and me again; and he wished to Heaven they had never changed.I am sure there was an influence in the placid face of Agnes,and in the very touch of her hand upon his arm, that did wonders for him.
My aunt (who was busy nearly all this while with Peggotty,in the inner room) would not accompany us to the place where they were staying,but insisted on my going; and I went. We dined together. After dinner, Agnes sat beside him,as of old, and poured out his wine. He took what she gave him,and no more--like a child--and we all three sat together at a window as the evening gathered in.When it was almost dark, he lay down on a sofa,Agnes pillowing his head and bending over him a little while; and when she came back to the window,it was not so dark but I could see tears glittering in her eyes.
I pray Heaven that I never may forget the dear girl in her love and truth, at that time of my life;for if I should, I must be drawing near the end, and then I would desire to remember her best!She filled my heart with such good resolutions, strengthened my weakness so, by her example,so directed--I know not how, she was too modest and gentle to advise me in many words--the wandering ardour and unsettled purpose within me,that all the little good I have done, and all the harm I have forborne, I solemnly believe I may refer to her.
And how she spoke to me of Dora, sitting at the window in the dark; listened to my praises of her;praised again; and round the little fairy-figure shed some glimpses of her own pure light,that made it yet more precious and more innocent to me!Oh, Agnes, sister of my boyhood, if I had known then, what I knew long afterwards--!
There was a beggar in the street, when I went down; and as I turned my head towards the window,thinking of her calm seraphic eyes, he made me start by muttering,as if he were an echo of the morning: ‘Blind!Blind!Blind!’
CHAPTER 36. ENTHUSIASM
I began the next day with another dive into the Roman bath, and then started for Highgate.I was not dispirited now. I was not afraid of the shabby coat,and had no yearnings after gallant greys.My whole manner of thinking of our late misfortune was changed. What I had to do, was,to show my aunt that her past goodness to me had not been thrown away on an insensible,ungrateful object. What I had to do, was,to turn the painful discipline of my younger days to account,by going to work with a resolute and steady heart. What I had to do, was,to take my woodman’s axe in my hand, and clear my own way through the forest of difficulty,by cutting down the trees until I came to Dora. And I went on at a mighty rate, as if it could be done by walking.
When I found myself on the familiar Highgate road,pursuing such a different errand from that old one of pleasure, with which it was associated,it seemed as if a complete change had come on my whole life. But that did not discourage me.With the new life, came new purpose, new intention. Great was the labour; priceless the reward.Dora was the reward, and Dora must be won.
I got into such a transport, that I felt quite sorry my coat was not a little shabby already.I wanted to be cutting at those trees in the forest of difficulty,under circumstances that should prove my strength. I had a good mind to ask an old man,in wire spectacles, who was breaking stones upon the road,to lend me his hammer for a little while, and let me begin to beat a path to Dora out of granite.I stimulated myself into such a heat, and got so out of breath,that I felt as if I had been earning I don’t know how much.
In this state, I went into a cottage that I saw was to let, and examined it narrowly,--for I felt it necessary to be practical. It would do for me and Dora admirably:with a little front garden for Jip to run about in,and bark at the tradespeople through the railings, and a capital room upstairs for my aunt.I came out again, hotter and faster than ever, and dashed up to Highgate,at such a rate that I was there an hour too early; and, though I had not been,should have been obliged to stroll about to cool myself, before I was at all presentable.
My first care, after putting myself under this necessary course of preparation,was to find the Doctor’s house. It was not in that part of Highgate where Mrs. Steerforth lived,but quite on the opposite side of the little town. When I had made this discovery, I went back,in an attraction I could not resist, to a lane by Mrs. Steerforth’s,and looked over the corner of the garden wall. His room was shut up close.The conservatory doors were standing open, and Rosa Dartle was walking, bareheaded, with a quick,impetuous step, up and down a gravel walk on one side of the lawn.She gave me the idea of some fierce thing,that was dragging the length of its chain to and fro upon a beaten track, and wearing its heart out.
I came softly away from my place of observation, and avoiding that part of the neighbourhood,and wishing I had not gone near it, strolled about until it was ten o’clock.The church with the slender spire, that stands on the top of the hill now,was not there then to tell me the time. An old red-brick mansion, used as a school,was in its place; and a fine old house it must have been to go to school at, as I recollect it.
When I approached the Doctor’s cottage--a pretty old place,on which he seemed to have expended some money,if I might judge from the embellishments and repairs that had the look of being just completed--I saw him walking in the garden at the side,gaiters and all, as if he had never left off walking since the days of my pupilage.He had his old companions about him, too; for there were plenty of high trees in the neighbourhood,and two or three rooks were on the grass, looking after him,as if they had been written to about him by the Canterbury rooks,and were observing him closely in consequence.
Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his attention from that distance,I made bold to open the gate, and walk after him, so as to meet him when he should turn round.When he did, and came towards me, he looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments,evidently without thinking about me at all;and then his benevolent face expressed extraordinary pleasure, and he took me by both hands.
‘Why, my dear Copperfield,’ said the Doctor, ‘you are a man!How do you do?I am delighted to see you. My dear Copperfield, how very much you have improved!You are quite--yes--dear me!’
I hoped he was well, and Mrs. Strong too.
‘Oh dear, yes!’ said the Doctor; ‘Annie’s quite well, and she’ll be delighted to see you.You were always her favourite. She said so, last night, when I showed her your letter. And--yes,to be sure--you recollect Mr. Jack Maldon, Copperfield?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘Of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘To be sure. He’s pretty well, too.’
‘Has he come home, sir?’ I inquired.
‘From India?’ said the Doctor. ‘Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon couldn’t bear the climate, my dear. Mrs.Markleham--you have not forgotten Mrs. Markleham?’
Forgotten the Old Soldier!And in that short time!
‘Mrs. Markleham,’ said the Doctor, ‘was quite vexed about him, poor thing;so we have got him at home again; and we have bought him a little Patent place,which agrees with him much better.’ I knew enough of Mr.Jack Maldon to suspect from this account that it was a place where there was not much to do,and which was pretty well paid. The Doctor, walking up and down with his hand on my shoulder,and his kind face turned encouragingly to mine, went on:
‘Now, my dear Copperfield, in reference to this proposal of yours.It’s very gratifying and agreeable to me, I am sure; but don’t you think you could do better?You achieved distinction, you know, when you were with us. You are qualified for many good things.You have laid a foundation that any edifice may be raised upon;and is it not a pity that you should devote the spring-time of your life to such a poor pursuit as I can offer?’
I became very glowing again, and, expressing myself in a rhapsodical style, I am afraid,urged my request strongly; reminding the Doctor that I had already a profession.
‘Well, well,’ said the Doctor, ‘that’s true. Certainly, your having a profession,and being actually engaged in studying it, makes a difference. But, my good young friend, what’s seventy pounds a year?’
‘It doubles our income, Doctor Strong,’ said I.
‘Dear me!’ replied the Doctor. ‘To think of that!Not that I mean to say it’s rigidly limited to seventy pounds a-year,because I have always contemplated making any young friend I might thus employ, a present too.Undoubtedly,’ said the Doctor, still walking me up and down with his hand on my shoulder.‘I have always taken an annual present into account.’
‘My dear tutor,’ said I (now, really, without any nonsense),‘to whom I owe more obligations already than I ever can acknowledge--’
‘No, no,’ interposed the Doctor. ‘Pardon me!’
‘If you will take such time as I have, and that is my mornings and evenings,and can think it worth seventy pounds a year, you will do me such a service as I cannot express.’
‘Dear me!’ said the Doctor, innocently. ‘To think that so little should go for so much!Dear, dear!And when you can do better, you will?On your word, now?’ said the Doctor,--which he had always made a very grave appeal to the honour of us boys.
‘On my word, sir!’ I returned, answering in our old school manner.
‘Then be it so,’ said the Doctor, clapping me on the shoulder, and still keeping his hand there, as we still walked up and down.
‘And I shall be twenty times happier, sir,’ said I, with a little--I hope innocent--flattery,‘if my employment is to be on the Dictionary.’
The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoulder again, and exclaimed,with a triumph most delightful to behold,as if I had penetrated to the profoundest depths of mortal sagacity, ‘My dear young friend, you have hit it. It IS the Dictionary!’
How could it be anything else!His pockets were as full of it as his head. It was sticking out of him in all directions.He told me that since his retirement from scholastic life,he had been advancing with it wonderfully;and that nothing could suit him better than the proposed arrangements for morning and evening work,as it was his custom to walk about in the daytime with his considering cap on.His papers were in a little confusion, in consequence of Mr.Jack Maldon having lately proffered his occasional services as an amanuensis,and not being accustomed to that occupation; but we should soon put right what was amiss,and go on swimmingly. Afterwards, when we were fairly at our work, I found Mr.Jack Maldon’s efforts more troublesome to me than I had expected,as he had not confined himself to making numerous mistakes, but had sketched so many soldiers,and ladies’ heads, over the Doctor’s manuscript,that I often became involved in labyrinths of obscurity.
The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our going to work together on that wonderful performance,and we settled to begin next morning at seven o’clock. We were to work two hours every morning,and two or three hours every night, except on Saturdays, when I was to rest. On Sundays, of course,I was to rest also, and I considered these very easy terms.
Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfaction,the Doctor took me into the house to present me to Mrs. Strong,whom we found in the Doctor’s new study, dusting his books,--a freedom which he never permitted anybody else to take with those sacred favourites.
They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and we sat down to table together.We had not been seated long, when I saw an approaching arrival in Mrs. Strong’s face,before I heard any sound of it. A gentleman on horseback came to the gate,and leading his horse into the little court, with the bridle over his arm,as if he were quite at home, tied him to a ring in the empty coach-house wall,and came into the breakfast parlour, whip in hand. It was Mr. Jack Maldon; and Mr.Jack Maldon was not at all improved by India, I thought. I was in a state of ferocious virtue,however, as to young men who were not cutting down trees in the forest of difficulty;and my impression must be received with due allowance.
‘Mr. Jack!’ said the Doctor. ‘Copperfield!’
Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very warmly, I believed;and with an air of languid patronage, at which I secretly took great umbrage.But his languor altogether was quite a wonderful sight;except when he addressed himself to his cousin Annie. ‘Have you breakfasted this morning, Mr. Jack?’ said the Doctor.
‘I hardly ever take breakfast, sir,’ he replied, with his head thrown back in an easy-chair. ‘I find it bores me.’
‘Is there any news today?’ inquired the Doctor.
‘Nothing at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Maldon.‘There’s an account about the people being hungry and discontented down in the North,but they are always being hungry and discontented somewhere.’
The Doctor looked grave, and said, as though he wished to change the subject,‘Then there’s no news at all; and no news, they say, is good news.’
‘There’s a long statement in the papers, sir, about a murder,’ observed Mr. Maldon.‘But somebody is always being murdered, and I didn’t read it.’
A display of indifference to all the actions and passions of mankind was not supposed to be such a distinguished quality at that time,I think, as I have observed it to be considered since. I have known it very fashionable indeed.I have seen it displayed with such success,that I have encountered some fine ladies and gentlemen who might as well have been born caterpillars.Perhaps it impressed me the more then, because it was new to me,but it certainly did not tend to exalt my opinion of, or to strengthen my confidence in, Mr. Jack Maldon.
‘I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to the opera tonight,’ said Mr. Maldon,turning to her. ‘It’s the last good night there will be, this season; and there’s a singer there,whom she really ought to hear. She is perfectly exquisite. Besides which,she is so charmingly ugly,’ relapsing into languor.
The Doctor, ever pleased with what was likely to please his young wife, turned to her and said:
‘You must go, Annie. You must go.’
‘I would rather not,’ she said to the Doctor. ‘I prefer to remain at home. I would much rather remain at home.’
Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me, and asked me about Agnes,and whether she should see her, and whether she was not likely to come that day;and was so much disturbed, that I wondered how even the Doctor, buttering his toast, could be blind to what was so obvious.