‘“To wit, in manner following, that is to say. Mr. W. being infirm,and it being within the bounds of probability that his decease might lead to some discoveries,and to the downfall of--HEEP’S--power over the W. family,--as I, Wilkins Micawber, the undersigned,assume--unless the filial affection of his daughter could be secretly influenced from allowing any investigation of the partnership affairs to be ever made,the said--HEEP--deemed it expedient to have a bond ready by him, as from Mr. W.,for the before-mentioned sum of twelve six fourteen, two and nine, with interest,stated therein to have been advanced by--HEEP--to Mr. W. to save Mr. W. from dishonour;though really the sum was never advanced by him, and has long been replaced.The signatures to this instrument purporting to be executed by Mr. W.and attested by Wilkins Micawber, are forgeries by--HEEP. I have, in my possession,in his hand and pocket-book, several similar imitations of Mr. W.’s signature,here and there defaced by fire, but legible to anyone. I never attested any such document.And I have the document itself, in my possession.”’ Uriah Heep, with a start,took out of his pocket a bunch of keys, and opened a certain drawer; then,suddenly bethought himself of what he was about, and turned again towards us, without looking in it.
‘“And I have the document,”’ Mr. Micawber read again,looking about as if it were the text of a sermon, ‘“in my possession,--that is to say, I had,early this morning, when this was written, but have since relinquished it to Mr. Traddles.”’
‘It is quite true,’ assented Traddles.
‘Ury, Ury!’ cried the mother, ‘be umble and make terms. I know my son will be umble, gentlemen,if you’ll give him time to think. Mr. Copperfield, I’m sure you know that he was always very umble, sir!’
It was singular to see how the mother still held to the old trick,when the son had abandoned it as useless.
‘Mother,’ he said, with an impatient bite at the handkerchief in which his hand was wrapped,‘you had better take and fire a loaded gun at me.’
‘But I love you, Ury,’ cried Mrs. Heep. And I have no doubt she did; or that he loved her,however strange it may appear; though, to be sure, they were a congenial couple.‘And I can’t bear to hear you provoking the gentlemen, and endangering of yourself more.I told the gentleman at first, when he told me upstairs it was come to light,that I would answer for your being umble, and making amends. Oh, see how umble I am, gentlemen, and don’t mind him!’
‘Why, there’s Copperfield, mother,’ he angrily retorted, pointing his lean finger at me,against whom all his animosity was levelled, as the prime mover in the discovery;and I did not undeceive him; ‘there’s Copperfield,would have given you a hundred pound to say less than you’ve blurted out!’
‘I can’t help it, Ury,’ cried his mother. ‘I can’t see you running into danger,through carrying your head so high. Better be umble, as you always was.’
He remained for a little, biting the handkerchief, and then said to me with a scowl:
‘What more have you got to bring forward?If anything, go on with it. What do you look at me for?’
Mr. Micawber promptly resumed his letter,glad to revert to a performance with which he was so highly satisfied.
‘“Third. And last. I am now in a condition to show, by--HEEP’S--false books,and--HEEP’S--real memoranda, beginning with the partially destroyed pocket-book (which I was unable to comprehend,at the time of its accidental discovery by Mrs. Micawber,on our taking possession of our present abode,in the locker or bin devoted to the reception of the ashes calcined on our domestic hearth),that the weaknesses, the faults, the very virtues, the parental affections,and the sense of honour, of the unhappy Mr. W. have been for years acted on by,and warped to the base purposes of--HEEP. That Mr. W. has been for years deluded and plundered,in every conceivable manner, to the pecuniary aggrandisement of the avaricious, false,and grasping--HEEP. That the engrossing object of--HEEP--was, next to gain, to subdue Mr.and Miss W. (of his ulterior views in reference to the latter I say nothing) entirely to himself.That his last act, completed but a few months since, was to induce Mr. W.to execute a relinquishment of his share in the partnership,and even a bill of sale on the very furniture of his house, in consideration of a certain annuity,to be well and truly paid by--HEEP--on the four common quarter-days in each and every year.That these meshes; beginning with alarming and falsified accounts of the estate of which Mr. W.is the receiver, at a period when Mr. W. had launched into imprudent and ill-judged speculations,and may not have had the money, for which he was morally and legally responsible, in hand;going on with pretended borrowings of money at enormous interest,really coming from--HEEP--and by--HEEP--fraudulently obtained or withheld from Mr. W. himself,on pretence of such speculations or otherwise;perpetuated by a miscellaneous catalogue of unscrupulous chicaneries--gradually thickened,until the unhappy Mr. W. could see no world beyond. Bankrupt, as he believed,alike in circumstances, in all other hope, and in honour,his sole reliance was upon the monster in the garb of man,”’--Mr.Micawber made a good deal of this, as a new turn of expression,--‘“who,by making himself necessary to him, had achieved his destruction. All this I undertake to show. Probably much more!”’
I whispered a few words to Agnes, who was weeping, half joyfully, half sorrowfully, at my side;and there was a movement among us, as if Mr. Micawber had finished. He said,with exceeding gravity, ‘Pardon me,’ and proceeded,with a mixture of the lowest spirits and the most intense enjoyment, to the peroration of his letter.
‘“I have now concluded. It merely remains for me to substantiate these accusations; and then,with my ill-starred family, to disappear from the landscape on which we appear to be an encumbrance.That is soon done. It may be reasonably inferred that our baby will first expire of inanition,as being the frailest member of our circle; and that our twins will follow next in order. So be it!For myself, my Canterbury Pilgrimage has done much; imprisonment on civil process, and want,will soon do more. I trust that the labour and hazard of an investigation--of which the smallest results have been slowly pieced together,in the pressure of arduous avocations, under grinding penurious apprehensions, at rise of morn,at dewy eve, in the shadows of night, under the watchful eye of one whom it were superfluous to call Demon--combined with the struggle of parental Poverty to turn it, when completed, to the right account, may be as the sprinkling of a few drops of sweet water on my funeral pyre. I ask no more. Let it be, in justice, merely said of me, as of a gallant and eminent naval Hero, with whom I have no pretensions to cope, that what I have done, I did, in despite of mercenary and selfish objects,
For England, home, and Beauty.
‘“Remaining always, &c. &c., WILKINS MICAWBER.”’
Much affected, but still intensely enjoying himself, Mr. Micawber folded up his letter,and handed it with a bow to my aunt, as something she might like to keep.
There was, as I had noticed on my first visit long ago, an iron safe in the room. The key was in it.A hasty suspicion seemed to strike Uriah; and, with a glance at Mr. Micawber, he went to it,and threw the doors clanking open. It was empty.
‘Where are the books?’ he cried, with a frightful face. ‘Some thief has stolen the books!’
Mr. Micawber tapped himself with the ruler. ‘I did,when I got the key from you as usual--but a little earlier--and opened it this morning.’
‘Don’t be uneasy,’ said Traddles. ‘They have come into my possession. I will take care of them, under the authority I mentioned.’
‘You receive stolen goods, do you?’ cried Uriah.
‘Under such circumstances,’ answered Traddles, ‘yes.’
What was my astonishment when I beheld my aunt, who had been profoundly quiet and attentive,make a dart at Uriah Heep, and seize him by the collar with both hands!
‘You know what I want?’ said my aunt.
‘A strait-waistcoat,’ said he.
‘No. My property!’ returned my aunt. ‘Agnes, my dear, as long as I believed it had been really made away with by your father,I wouldn’t--and, my dear, I didn’t, even to Trot,as he knows--breathe a syllable of its having been placed here for investment. But,now I know this fellow’s answerable for it, and I’ll have it!Trot, come and take it away from him!’
Whether my aunt supposed, for the moment, that he kept her property in his neck-kerchief,I am sure I don’t know; but she certainly pulled at it as if she thought so.I hastened to put myself between them, and to assure her that we would all take care that he should make the utmost restitution of everything he had wrongly got. This, and a few moments’ reflection, pacified her; but she was not at all disconcerted by what she had done (though I cannot say as much for her bonnet) and resumed her seat composedly.
During the last few minutes, Mrs. Heep had been clamouring to her son to be ‘umble’;and had been going down on her knees to all of us in succession, and making the wildest promises.Her son sat her down in his chair; and, standing sulkily by her, holding her arm with his hand,but not rudely, said to me, with a ferocious look:
‘What do you want done?’
‘I will tell you what must be done,’ said Traddles.
‘Has that Copperfield no tongue?’ muttered Uriah, ‘I would do a good deal for you if you could tell me, without lying, that somebody had cut it out.’
‘My Uriah means to be umble!’ cried his mother. ‘Don’t mind what he says, good gentlemen!’
‘What must be done,’ said Traddles, ‘is this. First, the deed of relinquishment,that we have heard of, must be given over to me now--here.’
‘Suppose I haven’t got it,’ he interrupted.
‘But you have,’ said Traddles; ‘therefore, you know, we won’t suppose so.’ And I cannot help avowing that this was the first occasion on which I really did justice to the clear head,and the plain, patient, practical good sense, of my old schoolfellow. ‘Then,’ said Traddles,‘you must prepare to disgorge all that your rapacity has become possessed of,and to make restoration to the last farthing.All the partnership books and papers must remain in our possession; all your books and papers;all money accounts and securities, of both kinds. In short, everything here.’
‘Must it?I don’t know that,’ said Uriah. ‘I must have time to think about that.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Traddles; ‘but, in the meanwhile,and until everything is done to our satisfaction, we shall maintain possession of these things;and beg you--in short, compel you--to keep to your own room, and hold no communication with anyone. ’
‘I won’t do it!’ said Uriah, with an oath.
‘Maidstone jail is a safer place of detention,’ observed Traddles;‘and though the law may be longer in righting us,and may not be able to right us so completely as you can, there is no doubt of its punishing YOU.Dear me, you know that quite as well as I!Copperfield, will you go round to the Guildhall, and bring a couple of officers?’
Here, Mrs. Heep broke out again, crying on her knees to Agnes to interfere in their behalf,exclaiming that he was very humble, and it was all true, and if he didn’t do what we wanted,she would, and much more to the same purpose; being half frantic with fears for her darling.To inquire what he might have done, if he had had any boldness,would be like inquiring what a mongrel cur might do, if it had the spirit of a tiger.He was a coward, from head to foot; and showed his dastardly nature through his sullenness and mortification,as much as at any time of his mean life.
‘Stop!’ he growled to me; and wiped his hot face with his hand. ‘Mother, hold your noise. Well!Let ‘em have that deed. Go and fetch it!’
‘Do you help her, Mr. Dick,’ said Traddles, ‘if you please.’
Proud of his commission, and understanding it, Mr.Dick accompanied her as a shepherd’s dog might accompany a sheep. But, Mrs.Heep gave him little trouble; for she not only returned with the deed,but with the box in which it was, where we found a banker’s book and some other papers that were afterwards serviceable.
‘Good!’ said Traddles, when this was brought. ‘Now, Mr. Heep, you can retire to think:particularly observing, if you please, that I declare to you, on the part of all present,that there is only one thing to be done; that it is what I have explained;and that it must be done without delay.’
Uriah, without lifting his eyes from the ground, shuffled across the room with his hand to his chin, and pausing at the door, said:
‘Copperfield, I have always hated you. You’ve always been an upstart, and you’ve always been against me.’
‘As I think I told you once before,’ said I, ‘it is you who have been, in your greed and cunning,against all the world. It may be profitable to you to reflect, in future,that there never were greed and cunning in the world yet, that did not do too much,and overreach themselves. It is as certain as death.’
‘Or as certain as they used to teach at school (the same school where I picked up so much umbleness),from nine o’clock to eleven, that labour was a curse; and from eleven o’clock to one,that it was a blessing and a cheerfulness, and a dignity, and I don’t know what all, eh?’ said he with a sneer. ‘You preach, about as consistent as they did. Won’t umbleness go down?I shouldn’t have got round my gentleman fellow-partner without it, I think. --Micawber, you old bully, I’ll pay YOU!’
Mr. Micawber, supremely defiant of him and his extended finger,and making a great deal of his chest until he had slunk out at the door,then addressed himself to me, and proffered me the satisfaction of ‘witnessing the re-establishment of mutual confidence between himself and Mrs.Micawber’. After which, he invited the company generally to the contemplation of that affecting spectacle.
‘The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs. Micawber and myself, is now withdrawn,’ said Mr. Micawber; ‘and my children and the Author of their Being can once more come in contact on equal terms. ’
As we were all very grateful to him, and all desirous to show that we were,as well as the hurry and disorder of our spirits would permit, I dare say we should all have gone,but that it was necessary for Agnes to return to her father,as yet unable to bear more than the dawn of hope;and for someone else to hold Uriah in safe keeping. So, Traddles remained for the latter purpose,to be presently relieved by Mr. Dick; and Mr. Dick, my aunt, and I, went home with Mr. Micawber.As I parted hurriedly from the dear girl to whom I owed so much,and thought from what she had been saved, perhaps,that morning--her better resolution notwithstanding--I felt devoutly thankful for the miseries of my younger days which had brought me to the knowledge of Mr. Micawber.
His house was not far off; and as the street door opened into the sitting-room,and he bolted in with a precipitation quite his own,we found ourselves at once in the bosom of the family. Mr. Micawber exclaiming, ‘Emma!my life!’ rushed into Mrs. Micawber’s arms. Mrs. Micawber shrieked, and folded Mr. Micawber in her embrace.Miss Micawber, nursing the unconscious stranger of Mrs. Micawber’s last letter to me,was sensibly affected. The stranger leaped.The twins testified their joy by several inconvenient but innocent demonstrations. Master Micawber,whose disposition appeared to have been soured by early disappointment,and whose aspect had become morose, yielded to his better feelings, and blubbered.
‘Emma!’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘The cloud is past from my mind. Mutual confidence,so long preserved between us once, is restored, to know no further interruption. Now, welcome poverty!’ cried Mr. Micawber, shedding tears. ‘Welcome misery, welcome houselessness, welcome hunger, rags, tempest, and beggary!Mutual confidence will sustain us to the end!’
With these expressions, Mr. Micawber placed Mrs. Micawber in a chair,and embraced the family all round; welcoming a variety of bleak prospects, which appeared,to the best of my judgement, to be anything but welcome to them;and calling upon them to come out into Canterbury and sing a chorus,as nothing else was left for their support.
But Mrs. Micawber having, in the strength of her emotions, fainted away, the first thing to be done,even before the chorus could be considered complete, was to recover her. This my aunt and Mr.Micawber did; and then my aunt was introduced, and Mrs. Micawber recognized me.
‘Excuse me, dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said the poor lady, giving me her hand, ‘but I am not strong;and the removal of the late misunderstanding between Mr.Micawber and myself was at first too much for me.’
‘Is this all your family, ma’am?’ said my aunt.
‘There are no more at present,’ returned Mrs. Micawber.
‘Good gracious, I didn’t mean that, ma’am,’ said my aunt. ‘I mean, are all these yours?’
‘Madam,’ replied Mr. Micawber, ‘it is a true bill.’
‘And that eldest young gentleman, now,’ said my aunt, musing, ‘what has he been brought up to?’
‘It was my hope when I came here,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘to have got Wilkins into the Church:or perhaps I shall express my meaning more strictly, if I say the Choir.But there was no vacancy for a tenor in the venerable Pile for which this city is so justly eminent;and he has--in short, he has contracted a habit of singing in public-houses, rather than in sacred edifices.’
‘But he means well,’ said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly.
‘I dare say, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Micawber, ‘that he means particularly well;but I have not yet found that he carries out his meaning, in any given direction whatsoever.’
Master Micawber’s moroseness of aspect returned upon him again, and he demanded, with some temper, what he was to do?Whether he had been born a carpenter, or a coach-painter, any more than he had been born a bird?Whether he could go into the next street, and open a chemist’s shop?Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim himself a lawyer?Whether he could come out by force at the opera, and succeed by violence?Whether he could do anything, without being brought up to something?
My aunt mused a little while, and then said:
‘Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your thoughts to emigration.’
‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘it was the dream of my youth,and the fallacious aspiration of my riper years.’ I am thoroughly persuaded, by the by,that he had never thought of it in his life.
‘Aye?’ said my aunt, with a glance at me. ‘Why, what a thing it would be for yourselves and your family,Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, if you were to emigrate now.’
‘Capital, madam, capital,’ urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily.
‘That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ assented his wife.
‘Capital?’ cried my aunt. ‘But you are doing us a great service--have done us a great service, I may say,for surely much will come out of the fire--and what could we do for you,that would be half so good as to find the capital?’
‘I could not receive it as a gift,’ said Mr. Micawber, full of fire and animation,‘but if a sufficient sum could be advanced, say at five per cent interest, per annum,upon my personal liability--say my notes of hand, at twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four months,respectively, to allow time for something to turn up--’
‘Could be?Can be and shall be, on your own terms,’ returned my aunt, ‘if you say the word. Think of this now,both of you. Here are some people David knows, going out to Australia shortly. If you decide to go, why shouldn’t you go in the same ship?You may help each other. Think of this now, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Take your time, and weigh it well.’
‘There is but one question, my dear ma’am, I could wish to ask,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘The climate, I believe, is healthy?’
‘Finest in the world!’ said my aunt.
‘Just so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘Then my question arises. Now,are the circumstances of the country such, that a man of Mr.Micawber’s abilities would have a fair chance of rising in the social scale?I will not say, at present, might he aspire to be Governor, or anything of that sort;but would there be a reasonable opening for his talents to develop themselves--that would be amply sufficient--and find their own expansion?’
‘No better opening anywhere,’ said my aunt, ‘for a man who conducts himself well, and is industrious.’
‘For a man who conducts himself well,’ repeated Mrs. Micawber, with her clearest business manner,‘and is industrious. Precisely. It is evident to me that Australia is the legitimate sphere of action for Mr. Micawber!’
‘I entertain the conviction, my dear madam,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘that it is,under existing circumstances, the land, the only land, for myself and family;and that something of an extraordinary nature will turn up on that shore.It is no distance--comparatively speaking;and though consideration is due to the kindness of your proposal,I assure you that is a mere matter of form.’
Shall I ever forget how, in a moment, he was the most sanguine of men, looking on to fortune;or how Mrs. Micawber presently discoursed about the habits of the kangaroo!Shall I ever recall that street of Canterbury on a market-day, without recalling him,as he walked back with us; expressing, in the hardy roving manner he assumed,the unsettled habits of a temporary sojourner in the land; and looking at the bullocks,as they came by, with the eye of an Australian farmer!
CHAPTER 53. ANOTHER RETROSPECT
I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife,there is a figure in the moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still,saying in its innocent love and childish beauty,Stop to think of me--turn to look upon the Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground!
I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in our cottage.I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling,that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months; but,in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while.
They have left off telling me to ‘wait a few days more’. I have begun to fear, remotely,that the day may never shine, when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip.
He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he misses in his mistress,something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak,and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more,but creeps near her as he lies on Dora’s bed--she sitting at the bedside--and mildly licks her hand.
Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or complaining word.She says that we are very good to her; that her dear old careful boy is tiring himself out,she knows; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes,the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and all that happy time.
What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be--and in all life,within doors and without--when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly room,with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me,and her little fingers twining round my hand!Many and many an hour I sit thus; but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind.
It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt’s hands,shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and bright it is,and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears.
‘Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,’ she says, when I smile;‘but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because,when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass,and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it.Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!’
‘That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora,and when I told you how much in love I was.’
‘Ah!but I didn’t like to tell you,’ says Dora, ‘then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me!When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady,let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we?And take some of the old walks?And not forget poor papa?’
‘Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get well, my dear.’
‘Oh, I shall soon do that!I am so much better, you don’t know!’
It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the same face turned towards me.We have been silent, and there is a smile upon her face.I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day.
‘Doady!’
‘My dear Dora!’
‘You won’t think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you told me,such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield’s not being well?I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.’
‘I will write to her, my dear.’
‘Will you?’
‘Directly.’
‘What a good, kind boy!Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear, it’s not a whim. It’s not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to see her!’
‘I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come.’
‘You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?’ Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck.
‘How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?’
‘My empty chair!’ She clings to me for a little while, in silence. ‘And you really miss me, Doady?’ looking up, and brightly smiling. ‘Even poor, giddy, stupid me?’
‘My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?’
‘Oh, husband!I am so glad, yet so sorry!’ creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, and quite happy.
‘Quite!’ she says. ‘Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.’
‘Except to get well again, Dora.’
‘Ah, Doady!Sometimes I think--you know I always was a silly little thing!--that that will never be!’
‘Don’t say so, Dora!Dearest love, don’t think so!’
‘I won’t, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife’s empty chair!’
It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived;has been among us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I,have sat with Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much,but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone.
Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me?They have told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts--but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart.I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself, many times today, to weep.I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead.I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign myself,and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly;but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come.I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me,alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared.
‘I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of saying, lately. You won’t mind?’ with a gentle look.
‘Mind, my darling?’
‘Because I don’t know what you will think, or what you may have thought sometimes.Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young.’
I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, and speaks very softly. Gradually,as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past.
‘I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don’t mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts,and everything. I was such a silly little creature!I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl,and forgotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife.’
I try to stay my tears, and to reply, ‘Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to be a husband!’
‘I don’t know,’ with the old shake of her curls. ‘Perhaps!But if I had been more fit to be married I might have made you more so, too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was.’
‘We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.’
‘I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have wearied of his child-wife.She would have been less and less a companion for him.He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting in his home.She wouldn’t have improved. It is better as it is.’
‘Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems a reproach!’
‘No, not a syllable!’ she answers, kissing me. ‘Oh, my dear, you never deserved it,and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word to you,in earnest--it was all the merit I had, except being pretty--or you thought me so. Is it lonely, down-stairs, Doady?’
‘Very!Very!’
‘Don’t cry!Is my chair there?’
‘In its old place.’
‘Oh, how my poor boy cries!Hush, hush!Now, make me one promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so,and send her up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come--not even aunt.I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite alone.’
I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my grief.