David Copperfield

It seemed to me so long, however, since I had been among such boys, or among any companions of my own age, except Mick Walker and Mealy Potatoes, that I felt as strange as ever I have done in my life. I was so conscious of having passed through scenes of which they could have no knowledge, and of having acquired experiences foreign to my age, appearance, and condition as one of them, that I half believed it was an imposture to come there as an ordinary little schoolboy. I had become, in the Murdstone and Grinby time, however short or long it may have been, so unused to the sports and games of boys, that I knew I was awkward and inexperienced in the commonest things belonging to them. Whatever I had learnt, had so slipped away from me in the sordid cares of my life from day to night, that now, when I was examined about what I knew, I knew nothing, and was put into the lowest form of the school. But, troubled as I was, by my want of boyish skill, and of book-learning too, I was made infinitely more uncomfortable by the consideration, that, in what I did know, I was much farther removed from my companions than in what I did not. My mind ran upon what they would think, if they knew of my familiar acquaintance with the King’s Bench Prison? Was there anything about me which would reveal my proceedings in connexion with the Micawber family – all those pawnings, and sellings, and suppers – in spite of myself? Suppose some of the boys had seen me coming through Canterbury, wayworn and ragged, and should find me out? What would they say, who made so light of money, if they could know how I had scraped my halfpence together, for the purchase of my daily saveloy and beer, or my slices of pudding? How would it affect them, who were so innocent of London life, and London streets, to discover how knowing I was (and was ashamed to be) in some of the meanest phases of both? All this ran in my head so much, on that first day at Doctor Strong’s, that I felt distrustful of my slightest look and gesture; shrunk within myself whensoever I was approached by one of my new schoolfellows; and hurried off the minute school was over, afraid of committing myself in my response to any friendly notice or advance.

But there was such an influence in Mr. Wickfield’s old house, that when I knocked at it, with my new school-books under my arm, I began to feel my uneasiness softening away. As I went up to my airy old room, the grave shadow of the staircase seemed to fall upon my doubts and fears, and to make the past more indistinct. I sat there, sturdily conning my books, until dinner-time (we were out of school for good at three); and went down, hopeful of becoming a passable sort of boy yet.

Agnes was in the drawing-room, waiting for her father, who was detained by someone in his office. She met me with her pleasant smile, and asked me how I liked the school. I told her I should like it very much, I hoped; but I was a little strange to it at first.

‘You have never been to school,’ I said, ‘have you?’ ‘Oh yes! Every day.’

‘Ah, but you mean here, at your own home?’

‘Papa couldn’t spare me to go anywhere else,’ she answered, smiling and shaking her head. ‘His housekeeper must be in his house, you know.’

‘He is very fond of you, I am sure,’ I said.

She nodded ‘Yes,’ and went to the door to listen for his coming up, that she might meet him on the stairs. But, as he was not there, she came back again.

‘Mama has been dead ever since I was born,’ she said, in her quiet way. ‘I only know her picture, downstairs. I saw you looking at it yesterday. Did you think whose it was?’

I told her yes, because it was so like herself.

‘Papa says so, too,’ said Agnes, pleased. ‘Hark! That’s papa now!’

Her bright calm face lighted up with pleasure as she went to meet him, and as they came in, hand in hand. He greeted me cordially; and told me I should certainly be happy under Doctor Strong, who was one of the gentlest of men.

‘There may be some, perhaps – I don’t know that there are – who abuse his kindness,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Never be one of those, Trotwood, in anything. He is the least suspicious of mankind; and whether that’s a merit, or whether it’s a blemish, it deserves consideration in all dealings with the Doctor, great or small.’

He spoke, I thought, as if he were weary, or dissatisfied with something; but I did not pursue the question in my mind, for dinner was just then announced, and we went down and took the same seats as before.

We had scarcely done so, when Uriah Heep put in his red head and his lank hand at the door, and said:

‘Here’s Mr. Maldon begs the favour of a word, sir.’

‘I am but this moment quit of Mr. Maldon,’ said his master.

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Uriah; ‘but Mr. Maldon has come back, and he begs the favour of a word.’

As he held the door open with his hand, Uriah looked at me, and looked at Agnes, and looked at the dishes, and looked at the plates, and looked at every object in the room, I thought, – yet seemed to look at nothing; he made such an appearance all the while of keeping his red eyes dutifully on his master. ‘I beg your pardon. It’s only to say, on reflection,’ observed a voice behind Uriah, as Uriah’s head was pushed away, and the speaker’s substituted – ‘pray excuse me for this intrusion – that as it seems I have no choice in the matter, the sooner I go abroad the better. My cousin Annie did say, when we talked of it, that she liked to have her friends within reach rather than to have them banished, and the old Doctor – ’

‘Doctor Strong, was that?’ Mr. Wickfield interposed, gravely.

‘Doctor Strong, of course,’ returned the other; ‘I call him the old Doctor; it’s all the same, you know.’

‘I don’t know,’ returned Mr. Wickfield.

‘Well, Doctor Strong,’ said the other – ‘Doctor Strong was of the same mind, I believed. But as it appears from the course you take with me he has changed his mind, why there’s no more to be said, except that the sooner I am off, the better. Therefore, I thought I’d come back and say, that the sooner I am off the better. When a plunge is to be made into the water, it’s of no use lingering on the bank.’

‘There shall be as little lingering as possible, in your case, Mr. Maldon, you may depend upon it,’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘Thank’ee,’ said the other. ‘Much obliged. I don’t want to look a gift-horse in the mouth, which is not a gracious thing to do; otherwise, I dare say, my cousin Annie could easily arrange it in her own way. I suppose Annie would only have to say to the old Doctor – ’

‘Meaning that Mrs. Strong would only have to say to her husband – do I follow you?’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘Quite so,’ returned the other, ‘ – would only have to say, that she wanted such and such a thing to be so and so; and it would be so and so, as a matter of course.’

‘And why as a matter of course, Mr. Maldon?’ asked Mr. Wickfield, sedately eating his dinner.

‘Why, because Annie’s a charming young girl, and the old Doctor – Doctor Strong, I mean – is not quite a charming young boy,’ said Mr. Jack Maldon, laughing. ‘No offence to anybody, Mr. Wickfield. I only mean that I suppose some compensation is fair and reasonable in that sort of marriage.’

‘Compensation to the lady, sir?’ asked Mr. Wickfield gravely.

‘To the lady, sir,’ Mr. Jack Maldon answered, laughing. But appearing to remark that Mr. Wickfield went on with his dinner in the same sedate, immovable manner, and that there was no hope of making him relax a muscle of his face, he added: ‘However, I have said what I came to say, and, with another apology for this intrusion, I may take myself off. Of course I shall observe your directions, in considering the matter as one to be arranged between you and me solely, and not to be referred to, up at the Doctor’s.’

‘Have you dined?’ asked Mr. Wickfield, with a motion of his hand towards the table.

‘Thank’ee. I am going to dine,’ said Mr. Maldon, ‘with my cousin Annie. Good-bye!’

Mr. Wickfield, without rising, looked after him thoughtfully as he went out. He was rather a shallow sort of young gentleman, I thought, with a handsome face, a rapid utterance, and a confident, bold air. And this was the first I ever saw of Mr. Jack Maldon; whom I had not expected to see so soon, when I heard the Doctor speak of him that morning.

When we had dined, we went upstairs again, where everything went on exactly as on the previous day. Agnes set the glasses and decanters in the same corner, and Mr. Wickfield sat down to drink, and drank a good deal. Agnes played the piano to him, sat by him, and worked and talked, and played some games at dominoes with me. In good time she made tea; and afterwards, when I brought down my books, looked into them, and showed me what she knew of them (which was no slight matter, though she said it was), and what was the best way to learn and understand them. I see her, with her modest, orderly, placid manner, and I hear her beautiful calm voice, as I write these words. The influence for all good, which she came to exercise over me at a later time, begins already to descend upon my breast. I love little Em’ly, and I don’t love Agnes – no, not at all in that way – but I feel that there are goodness, peace, and truth, wherever Agnes is; and that the soft light of the coloured window in the church, seen long ago, falls on her always, and on me when I am near her, and on everything around.

The time having come for her withdrawal for the night, and she having left us, I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, preparatory to going away myself. But he checked me and said: ‘Should you like to stay with us, Trotwood, or to go elsewhere?’

‘To stay,’ I answered, quickly.

‘You are sure?’

‘If you please. If I may!’

‘Why, it’s but a dull life that we lead here, boy, I am afraid,’ he said.

‘Not more dull for me than Agnes, sir. Not dull at all!’

‘Than Agnes,’ he repeated, walking slowly to the great chimney-piece, and leaning against it. ‘Than Agnes!’

He had drank wine that evening (or I fancied it), until his eyes were bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, for they were cast down, and shaded by his hand; but I had noticed them a little while before.

‘Now I wonder,’ he muttered, ‘whether my Agnes tires of me. When should I ever tire of her! But that’s different, that’s quite different.’

He was musing, not speaking to me; so I remained quiet.

‘A dull old house,’ he said, ‘and a monotonous life; but I must have her near me. I must keep her near me. If the thought that I may die and leave my darling, or that my darling may die and leave me, comes like a spectre, to distress my happiest hours, and is only to be drowned in – ’

He did not supply the word; but pacing slowly to the place where he had sat, and mechanically going through the action of pouring wine from the empty decanter, set it down and paced back again.

‘If it is miserable to bear, when she is here,’ he said, ‘what would it be, and she away? No, no, no. I cannot try that.’

He leaned against the chimney-piece, brooding so long that I could not decide whether to run the risk of disturbing him by going, or to remain quietly where I was, until he should come out of his reverie. At length he aroused himself, and looked about the room until his eyes encountered mine.

‘Stay with us, Trotwood, eh?’ he said in his usual manner, and as if he were answering something I had just said. ‘I am glad of it. You are company to us both. It is wholesome to have you here. Wholesome for me, wholesome for Agnes, wholesome perhaps for all of us.’