I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Commons all day, by a variety of devices,and at the appointed time in the evening repaired to Mr. Mills’s street. Mr. Mills,who was a terrible fellow to fall asleep after dinner, had not yet gone out,and there was no bird-cage in the middle window.
He kept me waiting so long, that I fervently hoped the Club would fine him for being late.At last he came out; and then I saw my own Dora hang up the bird-cage,and peep into the balcony to look for me, and run in again when she saw I was there,while Jip remained behind, to bark injuriously at an immense butcher’s dog in the street, who could have taken him like a pill.
Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me; and Jip came scrambling out,tumbling over his own growls, under the impression that I was a Bandit; and we all three went in,as happy and loving as could be. I soon carried desolation into the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to do it,but that I was so full of the subject--by asking Dora, without the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar?
My pretty, little, startled Dora!Her only association with the word was a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches,or a wooden leg, or a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or something of that kind;and she stared at me with the most delightful wonder.
‘How can you ask me anything so foolish?’ pouted Dora. ‘Love a beggar!’
‘Dora, my own dearest!’ said I. ‘I am a beggar!’
‘How can you be such a silly thing,’ replied Dora, slapping my hand, ‘as to sit there, telling such stories?I’ll make Jip bite you!’
Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world to me, but it was necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly repeated:
‘Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!’
‘I declare I’ll make Jip bite you!’ said Dora, shaking her curls, ‘if you are so ridiculous.’
But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shaking her curls,and laid her trembling little hand upon my shoulder, and first looked scared and anxious,then began to cry. That was dreadful. I fell upon my knees before the sofa, caressing her,and imploring her not to rend my heart; but, for some time,poor little Dora did nothing but exclaim Oh dear!Oh dear!And oh, she was so frightened!And where was Julia Mills!And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please!until I was almost beside myself.
At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I got Dora to look at me,with a horrified expression of face, which I gradually soothed until it was only loving,and her soft, pretty cheek was lying against mine. Then I told her, with my arms clasped round her,how I loved her, so dearly, and so dearly;how I felt it right to offer to release her from her engagement, because now I was poor;how I never could bear it, or recover it, if I lost her; how I had no fears of poverty,if she had none, my arm being nerved and my heart inspired by her;how I was already working with a courage such as none but lovers knew;how I had begun to be practical, and look into the future;how a crust well earned was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much more to the same purpose,which I delivered in a burst of passionate eloquence quite surprising to myself,though I had been thinking about it, day and night, ever since my aunt had astonished me.
‘Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?’ said I, rapturously, for I knew by her clinging to me that it was.
‘Oh, yes!’ cried Dora. ‘Oh, yes, it’s all yours. Oh, don’t be dreadful!’
I dreadful!To Dora!
‘Don’t talk about being poor, and working hard!’ said Dora, nestling closer to me. ‘Oh, don’t, don’t!’
‘My dearest love,’ said I, ‘the crust well-earned--’
‘Oh, yes; but I don’t want to hear any more about crusts!’ said Dora. ‘And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelve, or he’ll die.’
I was charmed with her childish, winning way.I fondly explained to Dora that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his accustomed regularity.I drew a picture of our frugal home, made independent by my labour--sketching in the little house I had seen at Highgate, and my aunt in her room upstairs.
‘I am not dreadful now, Dora?’ said I, tenderly.
‘Oh, no, no!’ cried Dora. ‘But I hope your aunt will keep in her own room a good deal.And I hope she’s not a scolding old thing!’
If it were possible for me to love Dora more than ever, I am sure I did.But I felt she was a little impracticable. It damped my new-born ardour,to find that ardour so difficult of communication to her. I made another trial.When she was quite herself again, and was curling Jip’s ears, as he lay upon her lap, I became grave, and said:
‘My own!May I mention something?’
‘Oh, please don’t be practical!’ said Dora, coaxingly. ‘Because it frightens me so!’
‘Sweetheart!’ I returned; ‘there is nothing to alarm you in all this.I want you to think of it quite differently. I want to make it nerve you, and inspire you, Dora!’
‘Oh, but that’s so shocking!’ cried Dora.
‘My love, no. Perseverance and strength of character will enable us to bear much worse things.’ ‘But I haven’t got any strength at all,’ said Dora, shaking her curls. ‘Have I, Jip?Oh, do kiss Jip, and be agreeable!’
It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him up to me for that purpose,putting her own bright, rosy little mouth into kissing form, as she directed the operation,which she insisted should be performed symmetrically, on the centre of his nose.I did as she bade me--rewarding myself afterwards for my obedience--and she charmed me out of my graver character for I don’t know how long.
‘But, Dora, my beloved!’ said I, at last resuming it; ‘I was going to mention something.’
The judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in love with her,to see her fold her little hands and hold them up,begging and praying me not to be dreadful any more.
‘Indeed I am not going to be, my darling!’ I assured her. ‘But, Dora, my love, if you will sometimes think,--not despondingly, you know; far from that!--but if you will sometimes think--just to encourage yourself--that you are engaged to a poor man--’
‘Don’t, don’t!Pray don’t!’ cried Dora. ‘It’s so very dreadful!’
‘My soul, not at all!’ said I, cheerfully. ‘If you will sometimes think of that,and look about now and then at your papa’s housekeeping,and endeavour to acquire a little habit--of accounts, for instance--’
Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something that was half a sob and half a scream.
‘--It would be so useful to us afterwards,’ I went on.‘And if you would promise me to read a little--a little Cookery Book that I would send you,it would be so excellent for both of us. For our path in life, my Dora,’ said I,warming with the subject, ‘is stony and rugged now, and it rests with us to smooth it.We must fight our way onward. We must be brave. There are obstacles to be met, and we must meet, and crush them!’
I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand, and a most enthusiastic countenance;but it was quite unnecessary to proceed. I had said enough. I had done it again. Oh, she was so frightened!Oh, where was Julia Mills!Oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please!So that, in short, I was quite distracted, and raved about the drawing-room.
I thought I had killed her, this time. I sprinkled water on her face. I went down on my knees.I plucked at my hair. I denounced myself as a remorseless brute and a ruthless beast.I implored her forgiveness. I besought her to look up.I ravaged Miss Mills’s work-box for a smelling-bottle,and in my agony of mind applied an ivory needle-case instead,and dropped all the needles over Dora. I shook my fists at Jip, who was as frantic as myself.I did every wild extravagance that could be done,and was a long way beyond the end of my wits when Miss Mills came into the room.
‘Who has done this?’ exclaimed Miss Mills, succouring her friend.
I replied, ‘I, Miss Mills!I have done it!Behold the destroyer!’--or words to that effect--and hid my face from the light, in the sofa cushion.
At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarrel, and that we were verging on the Desert of Sahara;but she soon found out how matters stood, for my dear affectionate little Dora, embracing her,began exclaiming that I was ‘a poor labourer’; and then cried for me, and embraced me,and asked me would I let her give me all her money to keep, and then fell on Miss Mills’s neck,sobbing as if her tender heart were broken.
Miss Mills must have been born to be a blessing to us.She ascertained from me in a few words what it was all about, comforted Dora,and gradually convinced her that I was not a labourer--from my manner of stating the case I believe Dora concluded that I was a navigator,and went balancing myself up and down a plank all day with a wheelbarrow--and so brought us together in peace.When we were quite composed, and Dora had gone up-stairs to put some rose-water to her eyes,Miss Mills rang for tea. In the ensuing interval,I told Miss Mills that she was evermore my friend,and that my heart must cease to vibrate ere I could forget her sympathy.
I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavoured, so very unsuccessfully, to expound to Dora.Miss Mills replied, on general principles,that the Cottage of content was better than the Palace of cold splendour, and that where love was, all was.
I said to Miss Mills that this was very true, and who should know it better than I,who loved Dora with a love that never mortal had experienced yet?But on Miss Mills observing, with despondency,that it were well indeed for some hearts if this were so,I explained that I begged leave to restrict the observation to mortals of the masculine gender.
I then put it to Miss Mills, to say whether she considered that there was or was not any practical merit in the suggestion I had been anxious to make,concerning the accounts, the housekeeping, and the Cookery Book?
Miss Mills, after some consideration, thus replied:
‘Mr. Copperfield, I will be plain with you. Mental suffering and trial supply, in some natures,the place of years, and I will be as plain with you as if I were a Lady Abbess. No.The suggestion is not appropriate to our Dora. Our dearest Dora is a favourite child of nature.She is a thing of light, and airiness, and joy. I am free to confess that if it could be done,it might be well, but--’ And Miss Mills shook her head.
I was encouraged by this closing admission on the part of Miss Mills to ask her, whether,for Dora’s sake, if she had any opportunity of luring her attention to such preparations for an earnest life, she would avail herself of it?Miss Mills replied in the affirmative so readily,that I further asked her if she would take charge of the Cookery Book; and,if she ever could insinuate it upon Dora’s acceptance, without frightening her,undertake to do me that crowning service. Miss Mills accepted this trust, too; but was not sanguine.
And Dora returned, looking such a lovely little creature,that I really doubted whether she ought to be troubled with anything so ordinary.And she loved me so much, and was so captivating (particularly when she made Jip stand on his hind legs for toast,and when she pretended to hold that nose of his against the hot teapot for punishment because he wouldn’t),that I felt like a sort of Monster who had got into a Fairy’s bower,when I thought of having frightened her, and made her cry.
After tea we had the guitar; and Dora sang those same dear old French songs about the impossibility of ever on any account leaving off dancing,La ra la, La ra la, until I felt a much greater Monster than before.
We had only one check to our pleasure, and that happened a little while before I took my leave,when, Miss Mills chancing to make some allusion to tomorrow morning, I unluckily let out that,being obliged to exert myself now, I got up at five o’clock.Whether Dora had any idea that I was a Private Watchman, I am unable to say;but it made a great impression on her, and she neither played nor sang any more.
It was still on her mind when I bade her adieu; and she said to me,in her pretty coaxing way--as if I were a doll, I used to think:
‘Now don’t get up at five o’clock, you naughty boy. It’s so nonsensical!’
‘My love,’ said I, ‘I have work to do.’
‘But don’t do it!’ returned Dora. ‘Why should you?’
It was impossible to say to that sweet little surprised face, otherwise than lightly and playfully, that we must work to live.
‘Oh!How ridiculous!’ cried Dora.
‘How shall we live without, Dora?’ said I.
‘How?Any how!’ said Dora.
She seemed to think she had quite settled the question, and gave me such a triumphant little kiss,direct from her innocent heart, that I would hardly have put her out of conceit with her answer, for a fortune.
Well!I loved her, and I went on loving her, most absorbingly, entirely, and completely. But going on,too, working pretty hard, and busily keeping red-hot all the irons I now had in the fire,I would sit sometimes of a night, opposite my aunt, thinking how I had frightened Dora that time,and how I could best make my way with a guitar-case through the forest of difficulty,until I used to fancy that my head was turning quite grey.
CHAPTER 38. A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP
I did not allow my resolution, with respect to the Parliamentary Debates, to cool.It was one of the irons I began to heat immediately, and one of the irons I kept hot,and hammered at, with a perseverance I may honestly admire.I bought an approved scheme of the noble art and mystery of stenography (which cost me ten and sixpence);and plunged into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks,to the confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon dots,which in such a position meant such a thing, and in such another position something else,entirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were played by circles;the unaccountable consequences that resulted from marks like flies’ legs;the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong place; not only troubled my waking hours,but reappeared before me in my sleep. When I had groped my way, blindly,through these difficulties, and had mastered the alphabet, which was an Egyptian Temple in itself,there then appeared a procession of new horrors, called arbitrary characters;the most despotic characters I have ever known; who insisted, for instance,that a thing like the beginning of a cobweb, meant expectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket,stood for disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind,I found that they had driven everything else out of it; then, beginning again, I forgot them;while I was picking them up, I dropped the other fragments of the system; in short, it was almost heart-breaking.
It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora,who was the stay and anchor of my tempest-driven bark.Every scratch in the scheme was a gnarled oak in the forest of difficulty,and I went on cutting them down, one after another, with such vigour,that in three or four months I was in a condition to make an experiment on one of our crack speakers in the Commons.Shall I ever forget how the crack speaker walked off from me before I began,and left my imbecile pencil staggering about the paper as if it were in a fit!
This would not do, it was quite clear. I was flying too high, and should never get on, so.I resorted to Traddles for advice; who suggested that he should dictate speeches to me, at a pace,and with occasional stoppages, adapted to my weakness. Very grateful for this friendly aid,I accepted the proposal; and night after night, almost every night, for a long time,we had a sort of Private Parliament in Buckingham Street, after I came home from the Doctor’s.
I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else!My aunt and Mr. Dick represented the Government or the Opposition (as the case might be),and Traddles, with the assistance of Enfield’s Speakers, or a volume of parliamentary orations,thundered astonishing invectives against them. Standing by the table,with his finger in the page to keep the place, and his right arm flourishing above his head,Traddles, as Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Burke, Lord Castlereagh, Viscount Sidmouth,or Mr. Canning, would work himself into the most violent heats,and deliver the most withering denunciations of the profligacy and corruption of my aunt and Mr.Dick; while I used to sit, at a little distance, with my notebook on my knee,fagging after him with all my might and main.The inconsistency and recklessness of Traddles were not to be exceeded by any real politician.He was for any description of policy, in the compass of a week;and nailed all sorts of colours to every denomination of mast. My aunt,looking very like an immovable Chancellor of the Exchequer,would occasionally throw in an interruption or two, as ‘Hear!’ or ‘No!’ or ‘Oh!’ when the text seemed to require it: which was always a signal to Mr.Dick (a perfect country gentleman) to follow lustily with the same cry. But Mr.Dick got taxed with such things in the course of his Parliamentary career,and was made responsible for such awful consequences,that he became uncomfortable in his mind sometimes.I believe he actually began to be afraid he really had been doing something,tending to the annihilation of the British constitution, and the ruin of the country.
Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock pointed to midnight,and the candles were burning down. The result of so much good practice was,that by and by I began to keep pace with Traddles pretty well,and should have been quite triumphant if I had had the least idea what my notes were about. But,as to reading them after I had got them,I might as well have copied the Chinese inscriptions of an immense collection of tea-chests,or the golden characters on all the great red and green bottles in the chemists’ shops!
There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all over again. It was very hard,but I turned back, though with a heavy heart,and began laboriously and methodically to plod over the same tedious ground at a snail’s pace;stopping to examine minutely every speck in the way, on all sides,and making the most desperate efforts to know these elusive characters by sight wherever I met them.I was always punctual at the office; at the Doctor’s too: and I really did work,as the common expression is, like a cart-horse. One day, when I went to the Commons as usual,I found Mr. Spenlow in the doorway looking extremely grave, and talking to himself.As he was in the habit of complaining of pains in his head--he had naturally a short throat,and I do seriously believe he over-starched himself--I was at first alarmed by the idea that he was not quite right in that direction; but he soon relieved my uneasiness.
Instead of returning my ‘Good morning’ with his usual affability, he looked at me in a distant,ceremonious manner, and coldly requested me to accompany him to a certain coffee-house, which,in those days, had a door opening into the Commons, just within the little archway in St.Paul’s Churchyard. I complied, in a very uncomfortable state, and with a warm shooting all over me,as if my apprehensions were breaking out into buds. When I allowed him to go on a little before,on account of the narrowness of the way,I observed that he carried his head with a lofty air that was particularly unpromising;and my mind misgave me that he had found out about my darling Dora.
If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house,I could hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him into an upstairs room,and found Miss Murdstone there, supported by a background of sideboard,on which were several inverted tumblers sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes,all corners and flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which, happily for mankind, are now obsolete.
Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat severely rigid. Mr. Spenlow shut the door,motioned me to a chair, and stood on the hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.
‘Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow, what you have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.’
I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my childhood, that shut up like a bite.Compressing her lips, in sympathy with the snap,Miss Murdstone opened it--opening her mouth a little at the same time--and produced my last letter to Dora,teeming with expressions of devoted affection.
‘I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?’ said Mr. Spenlow.
I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I said, ‘It is, sir!’
‘If I am not mistaken,’ said Mr. Spenlow,as Miss Murdstone brought a parcel of letters out of her reticule,tied round with the dearest bit of blue ribbon, ‘those are also from your pen, Mr. Copperfield?’
I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; and, glancing at such phrases at the top,as ‘My ever dearest and own Dora,’ ‘My best beloved angel,’ ‘My blessed one for ever,’ and the like, blushed deeply, and inclined my head.
‘No, thank you!’ said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I mechanically offered them back to him.‘I will not deprive you of them. Miss Murdstone, be so good as to proceed!’
That gentle creature, after a moment’s thoughtful survey of the carpet,delivered herself with much dry unction as follows.
‘I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of Miss Spenlow,in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I observed Miss Spenlow and David Copperfield,when they first met; and the impression made upon me then was not agreeable.The depravity of the human heart is such--’
‘You will oblige me, ma’am,’ interrupted Mr. Spenlow, ‘by confining yourself to facts.’
Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as if protesting against this unseemly interruption, and with frowning dignity resumed:
‘Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them as dryly as I can.Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable course of proceeding. I have already said, sir,that I have had my suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for some time.I have frequently endeavoured to find decisive corroboration of those suspicions,but without effect. I have therefore forborne to mention them to Miss Spenlow’s father’;looking severely at him--‘knowing how little disposition there usually is in such cases,to acknowledge the conscientious discharge of duty.’
Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness of Miss Murdstone’s manner,and deprecated her severity with a conciliatory little wave of his hand.
‘On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence occasioned by my brother’s marriage,’ pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainful voice,‘and on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her friend Miss Mills,I imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave me greater occasion for suspicion than before.Therefore I watched Miss Spenlow closely.’
Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon’s eye!
‘Still,’ resumed Miss Murdstone, ‘I found no proof until last night.It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many letters from her friend Miss Mills;but Miss Mills being her friend with her father’s full concurrence,’ another telling blow at Mr.Spenlow, ‘it was not for me to interfere.If I may not be permitted to allude to the natural depravity of the human heart,at least I may--I must--be permitted, so far to refer to misplaced confidence.’
Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent.
‘Last evening after tea,’ pursued Miss Murdstone, ‘I observed the little dog starting, rolling,and growling about the drawing-room, worrying something. I said to Miss Spenlow, “Dora, what is that the dog has in his mouth?It’s paper.” Miss Spenlow immediately put her hand to her frock, gave a sudden cry,and ran to the dog. I interposed, and said, “Dora, my love, you must permit me.”’
Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work!
‘Miss Spenlow endeavoured,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘to bribe me with kisses, work-boxes,and small articles of jewellery--that, of course, I pass over.The little dog retreated under the sofa on my approaching him,and was with great difficulty dislodged by the fire-irons. Even when dislodged,he still kept the letter in his mouth; and on my endeavouring to take it from him,at the imminent risk of being bitten, he kept it between his teeth so pertinaciously as to suffer himself to be held suspended in the air by means of the document. At length I obtained possession of it. After perusing it, I taxed Miss Spenlow with having many such letters in her possession; and ultimately obtained from her the packet which is now in David Copperfield’s hand.’
Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and shutting her mouth,looked as if she might be broken, but could never be bent.
‘You have heard Miss Murdstone,’ said Mr. Spenlow, turning to me. ‘I beg to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have anything to say in reply?’
The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treasure of my heart,sobbing and crying all night--of her being alone, frightened, and wretched,then--of her having so piteously begged and prayed that stony-hearted woman to forgive her--of her having vainly offered her those kisses,work-boxes, and trinkets--of her being in such grievous distress,and all for me--very much impaired the little dignity I had been able to muster.I am afraid I was in a tremulous state for a minute or so, though I did my best to disguise it.
‘There is nothing I can say, sir,’ I returned, ‘except that all the blame is mine. Dora--’
‘Miss Spenlow, if you please,’ said her father, majestically.
‘--was induced and persuaded by me,’ I went on, swallowing that colder designation,‘to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly regret it.’
‘You are very much to blame, sir,’ said Mr. Spenlow, walking to and fro upon the hearth-rug,and emphasizing what he said with his whole body instead of his head,on account of the stiffness of his cravat and spine.‘You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action, Mr. Copperfield.When I take a gentleman to my house, no matter whether he is nineteen, twenty-nine, or ninety,I take him there in a spirit of confidence. If he abuses my confidence,he commits a dishonourable action, Mr. Copperfield.’
‘I feel it, sir, I assure you,’ I returned. ‘But I never thought so, before. Sincerely, honestly,indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never thought so, before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent--’
‘Pooh!nonsense!’ said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. ‘Pray don’t tell me to my face that you love my daughter, Mr. Copperfield!’
‘Could I defend my conduct if I did not, sir?’ I returned, with all humility.
‘Can you defend your conduct if you do, sir?’ said Mr. Spenlow, stopping short upon the hearth-rug. ‘Have you considered your years,and my daughter’s years, Mr. Copperfield?Have you considered what it is to undermine the confidence that should subsist between my daughter and myself?Have you considered my daughter’s station in life,the projects I may contemplate for her advancement,the testamentary intentions I may have with reference to her?Have you considered anything, Mr. Copperfield?’
‘Very little, sir, I am afraid;’ I answered,speaking to him as respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; ‘but pray believe me,I have considered my own worldly position. When I explained it to you, we were already engaged--’
‘I BEG,’ said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had ever seen him,as he energetically struck one hand upon the other--I could not help noticing that even in my despair;‘that YOU Will NOT talk to me of engagements, Mr. Copperfield!’
The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptuously in one short syllable.
‘When I explained my altered position to you, sir,’ I began again,substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable to him, ‘this concealment,into which I am so unhappy as to have led Miss Spenlow, had begun.Since I have been in that altered position, I have strained every nerve,I have exerted every energy, to improve it. I am sure I shall improve it in time.Will you grant me time--any length of time?We are both so young, sir,--’
‘You are right,’ interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great many times,and frowning very much, ‘you are both very young. It’s all nonsense.Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away those letters, and throw them in the fire.Give me Miss Spenlow’s letters to throw in the fire; and although our future intercourse must,you are aware, be restricted to the Commons here,we will agree to make no further mention of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don’t want sense; and this is the sensible course.’
No. I couldn’t think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry,but there was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all earthly considerations,and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora loved me. I didn’t exactly say so;I softened it down as much as I could; but I implied it, and I was resolute upon it.I don’t think I made myself very ridiculous, but I know I was resolute.
‘Very well, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘I must try my influence with my daughter.’
Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respiration,which was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both,gave it as her opinion that he should have done this at first.
‘I must try,’ said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, ‘my influence with my daughter.Do you decline to take those letters, Mr. Copperfield?’ For I had laid them on the table.
Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong,but I couldn’t possibly take them from Miss Murdstone.
‘Nor from me?’ said Mr. Spenlow.