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WICKFIELD AND HEEP
My aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously uncomfortable
by my prolonged dejection, made a pretence of being anxious that
I should go to Dover, to see that all was working well at the cottage,
which was let; and to conclude an agreement, with the same tenant,
for a longer term of occupation. Janet was drafted into the service
of Mrs. Strong, where I saw her every day. She had been undecided,
on leaving Dover, whether or no to give the finishing touch to that
renunciation of mankind in which she had been educated, by marrying
a pilot; but she decided against that venture. Not so much for the
sake of principle, I believe, as because she happened not to like
him.
Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell rather
willingly into my aunt's pretence, as a means of enabling me to
pass a few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good Doctor
relative to an absence of three days; and the Doctor wishing me
to take that relaxation, - he wished me to take more; but my energy
could not bear that, - I made up my mind to go.
As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be particular about
my duties in that quarter. To say the truth, we were getting in
no very good odour among the tip-top proctors, and were rapidly
sliding down to but a doubtful position. The business had been indifferent
under Mr. jorkins, before Mr. Spenlow's time; and although it had
been quickened by the infusion of new blood, and by the display
which Mr. Spenlow made, still it was not established on a sufficiently
strong basis to bear, without being shaken, such a blow as the sudden
loss of its active manager. It fell off very much. Mr. jorkins,
notwithstanding his reputation in the firm, was an easy-going, incapable
sort of man, whose reputation out of doors was not calculated to
back it up. I was turned over to him now, and when I saw him take
his snuff and let the business go, I regretted my aunt's thousand
pounds more than ever.
But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of hangers-on
and outsiders about the Commons, who, without being proctors themselves,
dabbled in common-form business, and got it done by real proctors,
who lent their names in consideration of a share in the spoil; -
and there were a good many of these too. As our house now wanted
business on any terms, we joined this noble band; and threw out
lures to the hangers-on and outsiders, to bring their business to
us. Marriage licences and small probates were what we all looked
for, and what paid us best; and the competition for these ran very
high indeed. Kidnappers and inveiglers were planted in all the avenues
of entrance to the Commons, with instructions to do their utmost
to cut off all persons in mourning, and all gentlemen with anything
bashful in their appearance, and entice them to the offices in which
their respective employers were interested; which instructions were
so well observed, that I myself, before I was known by sight, was
twice hustled into the premises of our principal opponent. The conflicting
interests of these touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate
their feelings, personal collisions took place; and the Commons
was even scandalized by our principal inveigler (who had formerly
been in the wine trade, and afterwards in the sworn brokery line)
walking about for some days with a black eye. Any one of these scouts
used to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in black
out of a vehicle, killing any proctor whom she inquired for, representing
his employer as the lawful successor and representative of that
proctor, and bearing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected)
to his employer's office. Many captives were brought to me in this
way. As to marriage licences, the competition rose to such a pitch,
that a shy gentleman in want of one, had nothing to do but submit
himself to the first inveigler, or be fought for, and become the
prey of the strongest. One of our clerks, who was an outsider, used,
in the height of this contest, to sit with his hat on, that he might
be ready to rush out and swear before a surrogate any victim who
was brought in. The system of inveigling continues, I believe, to
this day. The last time I was in the Commons, a civil able-bodied
person in a white apron pounced out upon me from a doorway, and
whispering the word 'Marriage-licence' in my ear, was with great
difficulty prevented from taking me up in his arms and lifting me
into a proctor's. From this digression, let me proceed to Dover.
I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage; and
was enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the
tenant inherited her feud, and waged incessant war against donkeys.
Having settled the little business I had to transact there, and
slept there one night, I walked on to Canterbury early in the morning.
It was now winter again; and the fresh, cold windy day, and the
sweeping downland, brightened up my hopes a little.
Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with
a sober pleasure that calmed my spirits, and eased my heart. There
were the old signs, the old names over the shops, the old people
serving in them. It appeared so long, since I had been a schoolboy
there, that I wondered the place was so little changed, until I
reflected how little I was changed myself. Strange to say, that
quiet influence which was inseparable in my mind from Agnes, seemed
to pervade even the city where she dwelt. The venerable cathedral
towers, and the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made them
more retired than perfect silence would have done; the battered
gateways, one stuck full with statues, long thrown down, and crumbled
away, like the reverential pilgrims who had gazed upon them; the
still nooks, where the ivied growth of centuries crept over gabled
ends and ruined walls; the ancient houses, the pastoral landscape
of field, orchard, and garden; everywhere - on everything - I felt
the same serener air, the same calm, thoughtful, softening spirit.
Arrived at Mr. Wickfield's house, I found, in the little lower
room on the ground floor, where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed
to sit, Mr. Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity. He was
dressed in a legal-looking suit of black, and loomed, burly and
large, in that small office.
Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confused
too. He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of
Uriah, but I declined.
'I know the house of old, you recollect,' said I, 'and will find
my way upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micawber?'
'My dear Copperfield,' he replied. 'To a man possessed of the
higher imaginative powers, the objection to legal studies is the
amount of detail which they involve. Even in our professional correspondence,'
said Mr. Micawber, glancing at some letters he was writing, 'the
mind is not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of expression.
Still, it is a great pursuit. A great pursuit!'
He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep's
old house; and that Mrs. Micawber would be delighted to receive
me, once more, under her own roof.
'It is humble,' said Mr. Micawber, '- to quote a favourite expression
of my friend Heep; but it may prove the stepping-stone to more ambitious
domiciliary accommodation.'
I asked him whether he had reason, so far, to be satisfied with
his friend Heep's treatment of him? He got up to ascertain if the
door were close shut, before he replied, in a lower voice:
'My dear Copperfield, a man who labours under the pressure of
pecuniary embarrassments, is, with the generality of people, at
a disadvantage. That disadvantage is not diminished, when that pressure
necessitates the drawing of stipendiary emoluments, before those
emoluments are strictly due and payable. All I can say is, that
my friend Heep has responded to appeals to which I need not more
particularly refer, in a manner calculated to redound equally to
the honour of his head, and of his heart.'
'I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money
either,' I observed.
'Pardon me!' said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint, 'I
speak of my friend Heep as I have experience.'
'I am glad your experience is so favourable,' I returned.
'You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber;
and hummed a tune.
'Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?' I asked, to change the subject.
'Not much,' said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. 'Mr. Wickfield is,
I dare say, a man of very excellent intentions; but he is - in short,
he is obsolete.'
'I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so,' said I.
'My dear Copperfield!' returned Mr. Micawber, after some uneasy
evolutions on his stool, 'allow me to offer a remark! I am here,
in a capacity of confidence. I am here, in a position of trust.
The discussion of some topics, even with Mrs. Micawber herself (so
long the partner of my various vicissitudes, and a woman of a remarkable
lucidity of intellect), is, I am led to consider, incompatible with
the functions now devolving on me. I would therefore take the liberty
of suggesting that in our friendly intercourse - which I trust will
never be disturbed! - we draw a line. On one side of this line,'
said Mr. Micawber, representing it on the desk with the office ruler,
'is the whole range of the human intellect, with a trifling exception;
on the other, IS that exception; that is to say, the affairs of
Messrs Wickfield and Heep, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto.
I trust I give no offence to the companion of my youth, in submitting
this proposition to his cooler judgement?'
Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which sat tightly
on him, as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I had no right
to be offended. My telling him so, appeared to relieve him; and
he shook hands with me.
'I am charmed, Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'let me assure
you, with Miss Wickfield. She is a very superior young lady, of
very remarkable attractions, graces, and virtues. Upon my honour,'
said Mr. Micawber, indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with
his genteelest air, 'I do Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!' 'I am
glad of that, at least,' said I.
'If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasion
of that agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of passing with
you, that D. was your favourite letter,' said Mr. Micawber, 'I should
unquestionably have supposed that A. had been so.'
We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us
occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and
done before, in a remote time - of our having been surrounded, dim
ages ago, by the same faces, objects, and circumstances - of our
knowing perfectly what will be said next, as if we suddenly remembered
it! I never had this mysterious impression more strongly in my life,
than before he uttered those words.
I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging him with
my best remembrances to all at home. As I left him, resuming his
stool and his pen, and rolling his head in his stock, to get it
into easier writing order, I clearly perceived that there was something
interposed between him and me, since he had come into his new functions,
which prevented our getting at each other as we used to do, and
quite altered the character of our intercourse.
There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though it presented
tokens of Mrs. Heep's whereabouts. I looked into the room still
belonging to Agnes, and saw her sitting by the fire, at a pretty
old-fashioned desk she had, writing.
My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be
the cause of that bright change in her attentive face, and the object
of that sweet regard and welcome!
'Ah, Agnes!' said I, when we were sitting together, side by side;
'I have missed you so much, lately!'
'Indeed?' she replied. 'Again! And so soon?'
I shook my head.
'I don't know how it is, Agnes; I seem to want some faculty of
mind that I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking
for me, in the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you
for counsel and support, that I really think I have missed acquiring
it.'
'And what is it?' said Agnes, cheerfully.
'I don't know what to call it,' I replied. 'I think I am earnest
and persevering?'
'I am sure of it,' said Agnes.
'And patient, Agnes?' I inquired, with a little hesitation.
'Yes,' returned Agnes, laughing. 'Pretty well.'
'And yet,' said I, 'I get so miserable and worried, and am so
unsteady and irresolute in my power of assuring myself, that I know
I must want - shall I call it - reliance, of some kind?'
'Call it so, if you will,' said Agnes.
'Well!' I returned. 'See here! You come to London, I rely on
you, and I have an object and a course at once. I am driven out
of it, I come here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The
circumstances that distressed me are not changed, since I came into
this room; but an influence comes over me in that short interval
that alters me, oh, how much for the better! What is it? What is
your secret, Agnes?'
Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.
'It's the old story,' said I. 'Don't laugh, when I say it was
always the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old
troubles were nonsense, and now they are serious; but whenever I
have gone away from my adopted sister -'
Agnes looked up - with such a Heavenly face! - and gave me her
hand, which I kissed.
'Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve in
the beginning, I have seemed to go wild, and to get into all sorts
of difficulty. When I have come to you, at last (as I have always
done), I have come to peace and happiness. I come home, now, like
a tired traveller, and find such a blessed sense of rest!'
I felt so deeply what I said, it affected me so sincerely, that
my voice failed, and I covered my face with my hand, and broke into
tears. I write the truth. Whatever contradictions and inconsistencies
there were within me, as there are within so many of us; whatever
might have been so different, and so much better; whatever I had
done, in which I had perversely wandered away from the voice of
my own heart; I knew nothing of. I only knew that I was fervently
in earnest, when I felt the rest and peace of having Agnes near
me.
In her placid sisterly manner; with her beaming eyes; with her
tender voice; and with that sweet composure, which had long ago
made the house that held her quite a sacred place to me; she soon
won me from this weakness, and led me on to tell all that had happened
since our last meeting.
'And there is not another word to tell, Agnes,' said I, when
I had made an end of my confidence. 'Now, my reliance is on you.'
'But it must not be on me, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, with a
pleasant smile. 'It must be on someone else.'
'On Dora?' said I.
'Assuredly.'
'Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,' said I, a little embarrassed,
'that Dora is rather difficult to - I would not, for the world,
say, to rely upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth -
but rather difficult to - I hardly know how to express it, really,
Agnes. She is a timid little thing, and easily disturbed and frightened.
Some time ago, before her father's death, when I thought it right
to mention to her - but I'll tell you, if you will bear with me,
how it was.'
Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about
the cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of
it.
'Oh, Trotwood!' she remonstrated, with a smile. 'Just your old
headlong way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get
on in the world, without being so very sudden with a timid, loving,
inexperienced girl. Poor Dora!'
I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed in a voice,
as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen her
admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me,
by her considerate protection, for my hot haste in fluttering that
little heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating
artlessness, caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxingly appealing
against me, and loving me with all her childish innocence.
I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw those
two together, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends,
each adorning the other so much!
'What ought I to do then, Agnes?' I inquired, after looking at
the fire a little while. 'What would it be right to do?'
'I think,' said Agnes, 'that the honourable course to take, would
be to write to those two ladies. Don't you think that any secret
course is an unworthy one?'
'Yes. If YOU think so,' said I.
'I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters,' replied Agnes,
with a modest hesitation, 'but I certainly feel - in short, I feel
that your being secret and clandestine, is not being like yourself.'
'Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me, Agnes,
I am afraid,' said I.
'Like yourself, in the candour of your nature,' she returned;
'and therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate,
as plainly and as openly as possible, all that has taken place;
and I would ask their permission to visit sometimes, at their house.
Considering that you are young, and striving for a place in life,
I think it would be well to say that you would readily abide by
any conditions they might impose upon you. I would entreat them
not to dismiss your request, without a reference to Dora; and to
discuss it with her when they should think the time suitable. I
would not be too vehement,' said Agnes, gently, 'or propose too
much. I would trust to my fidelity and perseverance - and to Dora.'
'But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speaking
to her,' said I. 'And if Dora were to cry, and say nothing about
me!'
'Is that likely?' inquired Agnes, with the same sweet consideration
in her face.
'God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird,' said I. 'It
might be! Or if the two Miss Spenlows (elderly ladies of that sort
are odd characters sometimes) should not be likely persons to address
in that way!'
'I don't think, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes
to mine, 'I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only
to consider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do
it.'
I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart,
though with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task,
I devoted the whole afternoon to the composition of the draft of
this letter; for which great purpose, Agnes relinquished her desk
to me. But first I went downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah
Heep.
I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling office,
built out in the garden; looking extraordinarily mean, in the midst
of a quantity of books and papers. He received me in his usual fawning
way, and pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr. Micawber;
a pretence I took the liberty of disbelieving. He accompanied me
into Mr. Wickfield's room, which was the shadow of its former self
- having been divested of a variety of conveniences, for the accommodation
of the new partner - and stood before the fire, warming his back,
and shaving his chin with his bony hand, while Mr. Wickfield and
I exchanged greetings.
'You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Canterbury?'
said Mr. Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah for his approval.
'Is there room for me?' said I.
'I am sure, Master Copperfield - I should say Mister, but the
other comes so natural,' said Uriah, -'I would turn out of your
old room with pleasure, if it would be agreeable.'
'No, no,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'Why should you be inconvenienced?
There's another room. There's another room.' 'Oh, but you know,'
returned Uriah, with a grin, 'I should really be delighted!'
To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room or
none at all; so it was settled that I should have the other room;
and, taking my leave of the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again.
I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. But Mrs. Heep
had asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the
fire, in that room; on pretence of its having an aspect more favourable
for her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the drawing-room
or dining-parlour. Though I could almost have consigned her to the
mercies of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the Cathedral, without
remorse, I made a virtue of necessity, and gave her a friendly salutation.
'I'm umbly thankful to you, sir,' said Mrs. Heep, in acknowledgement
of my inquiries concerning her health, 'but I'm only pretty well.
I haven't much to boast of. If I could see my Uriah well settled
in life, I couldn't expect much more I think. How do you think my
Ury looking, sir?'
I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that
I saw no change in him.
'Oh, don't you think he's changed?' said Mrs. Heep. 'There I
must umbly beg leave to differ from you. Don't you see a thinness
in him?'
'Not more than usual,' I replied.
'Don't you though!' said Mrs. Heep. 'But you don't take notice
of him with a mother's eye!'
His mother's eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I
thought as it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him; and I believe
she and her son were devoted to one another. It passed me, and went
on to Agnes.
'Don't YOU see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield?'
inquired Mrs. Heep.
'No,' said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she was
engaged. 'You are too solicitous about him. He is very well.'
Mrs. Heep, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting.
She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived early
in the day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner;
but she sat there, plying her knitting-needles as monotonously as
an hour-glass might have poured out its sands. She sat on one side
of the fire; I sat at the desk in front of it; a little beyond me,
on the other side, sat Agnes. Whensoever, slowly pondering over
my letter, I lifted up my eyes, and meeting the thoughtful face
of Agnes, saw it clear, and beam encouragement upon me, with its
own angelic expression, I was conscious presently of the evil eye
passing me, and going on to her, and coming back to me again, and
dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the knitting was, I don't
know, not being learned in that art; but it looked like a net; and
as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of knitting-needles,
she showed in the firelight like an ill-looking enchantress, baulked
as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but getting ready for a
cast of her net by and by.
At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same unwinking eyes.
After dinner, her son took his turn; and when Mr. Wickfield, himself,
and I were left alone together, leered at me, and writhed until
I could hardly bear it. In the drawing-room, there was the mother
knitting and watching again. All the time that Agnes sang and played,
the mother sat at the piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad,
which she said her Ury (who was yawning in a great chair) doted
on; and at intervals she looked round at him, and reported to Agnes
that he was in raptures with the music. But she hardly ever spoke
- I question if she ever did - without making some mention of him.
It was evident to me that this was the duty assigned to her.
This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son, like
two great bats hanging over the whole house, and darkening it with
their ugly forms, made me so uncomfortable, that I would rather
have remained downstairs, knitting and all, than gone to bed. I
hardly got any sleep. Next day the knitting and watching began again,
and lasted all day.
I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes, for ten minutes.
I could barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out
with me; but Mrs. Heep repeatedly complaining that she was worse,
Agnes charitably remained within, to bear her company. Towards the
twilight I went out by myself, musing on what I ought to do, and
whether I was justified in withholding from Agnes, any longer, what
Uriah Heep had told me in London; for that began to trouble me again,
very much.
I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town,
upon the Ramsgate road, where there was a good path, when I was
hailed, through the dust, by somebody behind me. The shambling figure,
and the scanty great-coat, were not to be mistaken. I stopped, and
Uriah Heep came up.
'Well?' said I.
'How fast you walk!' said he. 'My legs are pretty long, but you've
given 'em quite a job.'
'Where are you going?' said I.
'I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you'll allow me
the pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.' Saying this, with
a jerk of his body, which might have been either propitiatory or
derisive, he fell into step beside me.
'Uriah!' said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence.
'Master Copperfield!' said Uriah.
'To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended), I
came Out to walk alone, because I have had so much company.'
He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin, 'You
mean mother.'
'Why yes, I do,' said I.
'Ah! But you know we're so very umble,' he returned. 'And having
such a knowledge of our own umbleness, we must really take care
that we're not pushed to the wall by them as isn't umble. All stratagems
are fair in love, sir.'
Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed
them softly, and softly chuckled; looking as like a malevolent baboon,
I thought, as anything human could look.
'You see,' he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant
way, and shaking his head at me, 'you're quite a dangerous rival,
Master Copperfield. You always was, you know.'
'Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her home no
home, because of me?' said I.
'Oh! Master Copperfield! Those are very arsh words,' he replied.
'Put my meaning into any words you like,' said I. 'You know what
it is, Uriah, as well as I do.'
'Oh no! You must put it into words,' he said. 'Oh, really! I
couldn't myself.'
'Do you suppose,' said I, constraining myself to be very temperate
and quiet with him, on account of Agnes, 'that I regard Miss Wickfield
otherwise than as a very dear sister?'
'Well, Master Copperfield,' he replied, 'you perceive I am not
bound to answer that question. You may not, you know. But then,
you see, you may!'
Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of his shadowless
eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw.
'Come then!' said I. 'For the sake of Miss Wickfield -'
'My Agnes!' he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular contortion of
himself. 'Would you be so good as call her Agnes, Master Copperfield!'
'For the sake of Agnes Wickfield - Heaven bless her!'
'Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield!'he interposed.
'I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances,
as soon have thought of telling to - Jack Ketch.'
'To who, sir?' said Uriah, stretching out his neck, and shading
his ear with his hand.
'To the hangman,' I returned. 'The most unlikely person I could
think of,' - though his own face had suggested the allusion quite
as a natural sequence. 'I am engaged to another young lady. I hope
that contents you.'
'Upon your soul?' said Uriah.
I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confirmation
he required, when he caught hold of my hand, and gave it a squeeze.
'Oh, Master Copperfield!' he said. 'If you had only had the condescension
to return my confidence when I poured out the fulness of my art,
the night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping before your
sitting-room fire, I never should have doubted you. As it is, I'm
sure I'll take off mother directly, and only too appy. I know you'll
excuse the precautions of affection, won't you? What a pity, Master
Copperfield, that you didn't condescend to return my confidence!
I'm sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never have condescended
to me, as much as I could have wished. I know you have never liked
me, as I have liked you!'
All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp fishy fingers,
while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But I
was quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his mulberry-coloured
great-coat, and I walked on, almost upon compulsion, arm-in-arm
with him.
'Shall we turn?' said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face about
towards the town, on which the early moon was now shining, silvering
the distant windows.
'Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,' said
I, breaking a pretty long silence, 'that I believe Agnes Wickfield
to be as far above you, and as far removed from all your aspirations,
as that moon herself!'
'Peaceful! Ain't she!' said Uriah. 'Very! Now confess, Master
Copperfield, that you haven't liked me quite as I have liked you.
All along you've thought me too umble now, I shouldn't wonder?'
'I am not fond of professions of humility,' I returned, 'or professions
of anything else.' 'There now!' said Uriah, looking flabby and lead-coloured
in the moonlight. 'Didn't I know it! But how little you think of
the rightful umbleness of a person in my station, Master Copperfield!
Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys;
and mother, she was likewise brought up at a public, sort of charitable,
establishment. They taught us all a deal of umbleness - not much
else that I know of, from morning to night. We was to be umble to
this person, and umble to that; and to pull off our caps here, and
to make bows there; and always to know our place, and abase ourselves
before our betters. And we had such a lot of betters! Father got
the monitor-medal by being umble. So did I. Father got made a sexton
by being umble. He had the character, among the gentlefolks, of
being such a well-behaved man, that they were determined to bring
him in. "Be umble, Uriah," says father to me, "and
you'll get on. It was what was always being dinned into you and
me at school; it's what goes down best. Be umble," says father,"
and you'll do!" And really it ain't done bad!'
It was the first time it had ever occurred to me, that this detestable
cant of false humility might have originated out of the Heep family.
I had seen the harvest, but had never thought of the seed.
'When I was quite a young boy,' said Uriah, 'I got to know what
umbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie with an appetite.
I stopped at the umble point of my learning, and says I, "Hold
hard!" When you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. "People
like to be above you," says father, "keep yourself down."
I am very umble to the present moment, Master Copperfield, but I've
got a little power!'
And he said all this - I knew, as I saw his face in the moonlight
- that I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself
by using his power. I had never doubted his meanness, his craft
and malice; but I fully comprehended now, for the first time, what
a base, unrelenting, and revengeful spirit, must have been engendered
by this early, and this long, suppression.
His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable
result, that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he
might have another hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from
him, I was determined to keep apart; and we walked back, side by
side, saying very little more by the way. Whether his spirits were
elevated by the communication I had made to him, or by his having
indulged in this retrospect, I don't know; but they were raised
by some influence. He talked more at dinner than was usual with
him; asked his mother (off duty, from the moment of our re-entering
the house) whether he was not growing too old for a bachelor; and
once looked at Agnes so, that I would have given all I had, for
leave to knock him down.
When we three males were left alone after dinner, he got into
a more adventurous state. He had taken little or no wine; and I
presume it was the mere insolence of triumph that was upon him,
flushed perhaps by the temptation my presence furnished to its exhibition.
I had observed yesterday, that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield
to drink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as
she went out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed
that we should follow her. I would have done so again today; but
Uriah was too quick for me.
'We seldom see our present visitor, sir,' he said, addressing
Mr. Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end of the
table, 'and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass
or two of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your
elth and appiness!'
I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched
across to me; and then, with very different emotions, I took the
hand of the broken gentleman, his partner.
'Come, fellow-partner,' said Uriah, 'if I may take the liberty,
- now, suppose you give us something or another appropriate to Copperfield!'
I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his proposing
Mr. Dick, his proposing Doctors' Commons, his proposing Uriah, his
drinking everything twice; his consciousness of his own weakness,
the ineffectual effort that he made against it; the struggle between
his shame in Uriah's deportment, and his desire to conciliate him;
the manifest exultation with which Uriah twisted and turned, and
held him up before me. It made me sick at heart to see, and my hand
recoils from writing it.
'Come, fellow-partner!' said Uriah, at last, 'I'll give you another
one, and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the
divinest of her sex.'
Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it
down, look at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead,
and shrink back in his elbow-chair.
'I'm an umble individual to give you her elth,' proceeded Uriah,
'but I admire - adore her.'
No physical pain that her father's grey head could have borne,
I think, could have been more terrible to me, than the mental endurance
I saw compressed now within both his hands.
'Agnes,' said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not knowing
what the nature of his action was, 'Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe
to say, the divinest of her sex. May I speak out, among friends?
To be her father is a proud distinction, but to be her usband -'
Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with which
her father rose up from the table! 'What's the matter?' said Uriah,
turning of a deadly colour. 'You are not gone mad, after all, Mr.
Wickfield, I hope? If I say I've an ambition to make your Agnes
my Agnes, I have as good a right to it as another man. I have a
better right to it than any other man!'
I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything
that I could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to
calm himself a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his
hair, beating his head, trying to force me from him, and to force
himself from me, not answering a word, not looking at or seeing
anyone; blindly striving for he knew not what, his face all staring
and distorted - a frightful spectacle.
I conjured him, incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner,
not to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hear me. I besought
him to think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to recollect how
Agnes and I had grown up together, how I honoured her and loved
her, how she was his pride and joy. I tried to bring her idea before
him in any form; I even reproached him with not having firmness
to spare her the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may have effected
something, or his wildness may have spent itself; but by degrees
he struggled less, and began to look at me - strangely at first,
then with recognition in his eyes. At length he said, 'I know, Trotwood!
My darling child and you - I know! But look at him!'
He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evidently
very much out in his calculations, and taken by surprise.
'Look at my torturer,' he replied. 'Before him I have step by
step abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home.'
'I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your peace
and quiet, and your house and home too,' said Uriah, with a sulky,
hurried, defeated air of compromise. 'Don't be foolish, Mr. Wickfield.
If I have gone a little beyond what you were prepared for, I can
go back, I suppose? There's no harm done.'
'I looked for single motives in everyone,' said Mr. Wickfield,
and I was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest.
But see what he is - oh, see what he is!'
'You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can,' cried Uriah,
with his long forefinger pointing towards me. 'He'll say something
presently - mind you! - he'll be sorry to have said afterwards,
and you'll be sorry to have heard!'
'I'll say anything!' cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate air.
'Why should I not be in all the world's power if I am in yours?'
'Mind! I tell you!' said Uriah, continuing to warn me. 'If you
don't stop his mouth, you're not his friend! Why shouldn't you be
in all the world's power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you have got a
daughter. You and me know what we know, don't we? Let sleeping dogs
lie - who wants to rouse 'em? I don't. Can't you see I am as umble
as I can be? I tell you, if I've gone too far, I'm sorry. What would
you have, sir?'
'Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood!'exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing his
hands. 'What I have come down to be, since I first saw you in this
house! I was on my downward way then, but the dreary, dreary road
I have traversed since! Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence
in remembrance, and indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief
for my child's mother turned to disease; my natural love for my
child turned to disease. I have infected everything I touched. I
have brought misery on what I dearly love, I know -you know! I thought
it possible that I could truly love one creature in the world, and
not love the rest; I thought it possible that I could truly mourn
for one creature gone out of the world, and not have some part in
the grief of all who mourned. Thus the lessons of my life have been
perverted! I have preyed on my own morbid coward heart, and it has
preyed on me. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my love, sordid in my
miserable escape from the darker side of both, oh see the ruin I
am, and hate me, shun me!'
He dropped into a chair, and weakly sobbed. The excitement into
which he had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his
corner.
'I don't know all I have done, in my fatuity,' said Mr. Wickfield,
putting out his hands, as if to deprecate my condemnation. 'He knows
best,' meaning Uriah Heep, 'for he has always been at my elbow,
whispering me. You see the millstone that he is about my neck. You
find him in my house, you find him in my business. You heard him,
but a little time ago. What need have I to say more!'
'You haven't need to say so much, nor half so much, nor anything
at all,' observed Uriah, half defiant, and half fawning. 'You wouldn't
have took it up so, if it hadn't been for the wine. You'll think
better of it tomorrow, sir. If I have said too much, or more than
I meant, what of it? I haven't stood by it!'
The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige of
colour in her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily said,
'Papa, you are not well. Come with me!'
He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed with
heavy shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an
instant, yet I saw how much she knew of what had passed.
'I didn't expect he'd cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,' said
Uriah. 'But it's nothing. I'll be friends with him tomorrow. It's
for his good. I'm umbly anxious for his good.'
I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the quiet room where
Agnes had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me
until late at night. I took up a book, and tried to read. I heard
the clocks strike twelve, and was still reading, without knowing
what I read, when Agnes touched me.
'You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood! Let us say
good-bye, now!'
She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful!
'Heaven bless you!' she said, giving me her hand.
'Dearest Agnes!' I returned, 'I see you ask me not to speak of
tonight - but is there nothing to be done?'
'There is God to trust in!' she replied.
'Can I do nothing- I, who come to you with my poor sorrows?'
'And make mine so much lighter,' she replied. 'Dear Trotwood,
no!'
'Dear Agnes,' I said, 'it is presumptuous for me, who am so poor
in all in which you are so rich - goodness, resolution, all noble
qualities - to doubt or direct you; but you know how much I love
you, and how much I owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to
a mistaken sense of duty, Agnes?'
More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her, she took
her hands from me, and moved a step back.
'Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes! Much more than sister!
Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a
love as yours!'
Oh! long, long afterwards, I saw that face rise up before me,
with its momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, not regretting.
Oh, long, long afterwards, I saw that look subside, as it did now,
into the lovely smile, with which she told me she had no fear for
herself - I need have none for her - and parted from me by the name
of Brother, and was gone!
It was dark in the morning, when I got upon the coach at the
inn door. The day was just breaking when we were about to start,
and then, as I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach
side, through the mingled day and night, Uriah's head.
'Copperfield!' said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung by
the iron on the roof, 'I thought you'd be glad to hear before you
went off, that there are no squares broke between us. I've been
into his room already, and we've made it all smooth. Why, though
I'm umble, I'm useful to him, you know; and he understands his interest
when he isn't in liquor! What an agreeable man he is, after all,
Master Copperfield!'
I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology.
'Oh, to be sure!' said Uriah. 'When a person's umble, you know,
what's an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose,' with a jerk, 'you
have sometimes plucked a pear before it was ripe, Master Copperfield?'
'I suppose I have,' I replied.
'I did that last night,' said Uriah; 'but it'll ripen yet! It
only wants attending to. I can wait!'
Profuse in his farewells, he got down again as the coachman got
up. For anything I know, he was eating something to keep the raw
morning air out; but he made motions with his mouth as if the pear
were ripe already, and he were smacking his lips over it.
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