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Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Each episode I'll read a few chapters from the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find a cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. Hi. Welcome back. I feel like at some point on Monday evening I started to hear the sound of all of you cheering because I have never received so many emails about one episode as I have received about Chapter 14. And it's warranted because you guys are all writing to say how excited and happy you are about what happened in chapter 14. And also how wonderful it was to listen to Ms. Betsy just like, give it to the Murdstones so I could hear you. I hear you all and thank you for your emails. It's wonderful to get those. It's so, so fun and exciting when everybody kind of rises up together and says the same thing, that we're all feeling the same way. And that's what great literature can do. That's what this book is doing. And I'm so, so happy to be a part of this podcast and sharing this with you because we're all out there. We don't really know each other, although we've gotten to know each other in various ways, but we're all out there and living our various lives, but we are all feeling the same thing at the same time, or almost at the same time time about a person who doesn't even exist named David Copperfield. And that is a beautiful, beautiful thing. And it's why I love this podcast so much. One of the many reasons. So thank you for being here. Thank you for writing in. Thank you for listening to this book and for caring about this boy, David Copperfield, caring about this book and books in general. And it's just a wonderful, beautiful thing. I also wanted to say thank you, by the way, to those of you who joined us for tea time on Tuesday. It was a really fun conversation. It was lovely. We had a long chat about all of the things that happened in chapter 14. So if you were there, this intro might end up feeling a little bit like repetition, but I'll try to say some new and different things. But we had a great discussion about Ms. Betsy and Mr. Dick and Mr. Murdstone and Davey and all of these things that are happening now. We had a great conversation. We talked a little bit about Writing as well. We talked about my writing and my writing process and different people's writing processes. So it was a really fun chat. I always have such a good time and the time always flies by. So thank you to those of you who were there. Thank you to those of you who support the show by being a part of the Drawing Room community. If you'd like to join us for a tea time in the future, we'll have another one probably around the end of March. I'll schedule that in the next few weeks and let you know. But if you'd like to join and you haven't yet signed up for the Drawing Room, which is our online community, you can just scroll into the show notes of this episode. There's a link there. It's clearly labeled. You can just click it. It won't immediately sign you up or take your money or anything like that, but if you click it, it will tell you more about how to sign up and what it if you're interested. So I do encourage you to take a look at that and take a look at the other links that are there. We have a merch store you can buy storytime for grown ups T shirts and mugs and hats and things like that. And there are a few links there that might interest you. There's also a tip jar if you'd like to support the show financially but you don't want to join the drawing room, you can just give a tip. It's called Buy me a coffee, but I always say it's Buy me a tea. And if you click on it, it actually says Buy me a tea. So that's fun. So you can do that as well. So I hope that you'll check out the links and I hope you'll join us for the next tea time. It really was lovely. So thank you for being okay. So we have a lot to talk about and as I said, I got a lot of letters and I obviously can't read them all, but I am going to read quite a few because it's lovely to kind of see how everyone is coming together about this book and this chapter. So we're going to do that and talk and then we'll keep reading. It's a bit of a shorter chapter this time, but some of them are. And as I said, I'm just going to read one chapter per episode because some chapters are super long and some are super short, so you can't really squish them together. But this is a shorter one. So I'm sorry for those of you who look forward to the longer ones. But it is. It's chapter 15. We're going to read that today. Today. Last time we read chapter 14. So let's just start by reminding ourselves if we need a reminder of what happened in chapter 14. Here is the recap. Okay, so David is still with Ms. Trotwood, but he's not sure what is going to happen to him. Ms. Trotwood says that she has written to Mr. Murdstone to tell him that Davey is with her. And this makes Davey feel really afraid, especially when he learns that Mr. Murdstone is going to come to the house. Ms. Trotwood doesn't say what her intentions are, and Davy is terrified that Mr. Murdstone will take him away with him. Davey Learns more about Mr. Dick, who does seem to be sort of insane, but harmless. And it's clear that Ms. Trotwood has taken him in as a kindness. And the fact that she seems to be kind under all her bluster is a hopeful sign for David. Eventually, Mr. And Ms. Murdstone show up. Ms. Murdstone arrives on a donkey, which enrages Ms. Drake Trotwood. But eventually they all come into the house and Mr. Murdstone says that he will take David back. But if Ms. Trotwood says she wants to keep him, then she's his responsibility forever. Afterward, Ms. Trotwood accuses them of being cruel to David and his mother and says that she'll keep David with her. The Murdstones leave and David is safely now under the care of Ms. Trotwood's protection. Okay, so I'm going to read five comments today. The first one comes from Anne Brownlee. She says, I loved this chapter. My heart sank at the thought of Mr. Murdstone coming and took a deep dive when his horrible sister was accompanying him. But Aunt Betsy is no fool and I absolutely loved her. Calling out their complete lack of moral character to their faces. This chapter made me smile and laugh. The next one comes from Alan Robson. He says, what stood out to me is how Mr. Peggotty and Aunt Betsy both turn out to be great people who take in the dispossessed. If Class Station was not an issue, I think they would make quite a pair. There aren't too many donkeys to worry about on Mr. Peggotty's boat house. The next one comes from Danya Ivory. She says, yay for Ms. Trotwood. And how wonderful that the Murdstones came riding in on a donkey. I believe it set her hat against them from the beginning. How Clever of Dickens to introduce us to Mr. Dick's background. Right before this, he showed us how Ms. Trotwood has a heart for those who are ill treated. She does seem to have a pretty good grasp on characters as she guessed how Mr. Murdstone treated Davy's mother. Maybe it all stems from her ill treatment in her own marriage. I feel she recognizes kindred spirits in Mr. Dick and Davy from the pain that has been inflicted on them so unkindly from those who are supposed to love them most. I have great hopes that she is our new heroine in her hilarious and unexpected kind of way. This next one comes from Josiah Taylor. He says chapter 14 was without a doubt my favourite so far. I must confess to an almost vengeful delight at listening to Ms. Trotwood absolutely demolish the Murdstones. I got the sense that almost from the first words spoken between them, she had sized up exactly what sort of people they were and was having none of their nonsense. As soon as the conversation began, I was certain how it would end. I also noted that while Mr. And Ms. Murdstone seemed like such formidable people when it was only Davy and Clara in their presence, when in the company of the actually formidable, formidable Ms. Trotwood, they immediately seemed rather pathetic. And the last one comes from Kari Stenitzer. She says, aunt Betsy is my hero. How satisfying to have the Murdstone so eloquently told off and tossed out. Okay, so like I said at the beginning, I got so many letters this time, I think I probably got more letters than I've ever gotten for a single episode of Storytime for Grown Ups. And I completely understand why chapter 14 is so satisfying. And it's satisfying on a couple of different levels. I think there's the incredibly satisfying level of having someone tell the Murdstones off. I mean, we've been so angry and indignant about the Murdstones and their treatment of Davy and so frustrated that he's just a child and so powerless against them. So it's so wonderful to hear Miss Betsy just go after them like that and tell them exactly what they are with no holds barred. But. But while I definitely find that incredibly satisfying, I would have to say that that's probably the more superficial satisfaction that happens in this chapter. The deeper and more meaningful satisfaction is, I think, the fact that Miss Betsy turns out to be unequivocally on Davey's side and to be willing to adopt him. Because that, and I actually think this is what's got us all so emotional and excited about this chapter but that Miss Betsy agreeing to take Davey in, it's not only a monumental relief to Davey, but it's a monument monumental relief to us as well. Dickens has been kind of coiling this spring tighter and tighter and tighter with each new hardship and injustice that has befallen Davy. And suddenly he just lets all the tension gloriously out of that spring and he flings it right into the murdstones faces for good measure. Right. And it's wonderful. And I do want to just point out that all the hardships, all the things that have happened to Davy up until this point point that many of you were really grappling with and that were making many of you wonder if you could even keep listening to this book. It's exactly those things that make this chapter, chapter 14 so satisfying. Without that coiled up spring of all the things that happened to Davie, it wouldn't matter so much to us that Miss Betsy turns out to be willing to take him in. It's exactly the things that were so hard to read that make this pay off what it is. And the feelings that you feel when you read chapter 14 are the direct result of the feelings that you felt when you read the other chapters where Davey was enduring hardships and suffering abuse and all of that. That's one of the things that makes Dickens such a masterful writer. But I want to talk again this time about Miss Betsy and also a bit about Mr. Dick because I think we are potentially guilty of having misjudged Miss Betsy, which I think was Dickens's intention for us to do so. We don't need to feel bad about that. But I think we had her pegged as a kind of hard hearted, potentially cruel old woman and now it turns out that she is actually anything but. So we should take a look at that. Last time we said that it was possible that she would turn out not to be as bad as we thought she was. There were these little clues that she might be more caring than she seemed. But now we know for sure that her kind of thorny exterior masks a truly loving heart. And I think that one way we can be sure of this is by looking at her treatment of Mr. Dick. Now Alan is right in his letter. In this way, Miss Betsy is a lot like Mr. Peggotty because we learned several chapters ago that Mr. Peggotty takes in orphans and widows and anyone who's truly down and out, but refuses to take any credit for it. And in chapter 14 we learn that Ms. Betsy has taken in Mr. Dick to rescue him from being Sent to an insane asylum by his brother, who gained control of him. And like Mr. Peggy, Miss Betsy refuses to have this scene as a kindness on her part. She insists that Mr. Dick doesn't belong in an insane asylum and that he's doing her a favor by living with her because he gives her such good advice and keeps her company. But of course, we can see that really, she is doing him a great kindness by allowing him to live with her rather than in an institution where he might potentially be mistreated and where he certainly wouldn't have the comforts of a home and people who care for him, like family and everything. And I think that Dan is right that Dickens is intentionally showing us this about Miss Betsy right before we learn that Miss Betsy is going to take Davey in because it predisposes us to like her when we were previously predisposed to dislike her. It's like he's giving us a little nudge in the right direction, helping us come to our own conclusions and make our own emotional course correction at this critical moment, so that we'll be entirely on Miss Betsy's side when she starts letting the Mernstones have it. Which adds to the delicious satisfaction of that scene. And I think Danya's right, too, that Miss Betsy feels particularly protective of people who have been mistreated by people in authority. And I think, as Danya says, this probably stems from the fact that she herself was mistreated by someone who in Victorian England would have been a person in authority to her. Namely her husband, who. Remember, in chapter one, we were told that Miss Betsy married a man who turned out to be physically abusive, which we felt was the reason that she didn't like boys or men. And it was the reason that she wanted Davey to be a girl, so that she could help raise her not to make the mistakes that she made that Miss Betsy made in marrying a horrible man. But of course, Mr. Dick is a man, so Ms. Betsy isn't actually anti man. What she is is anti abuse of power. Essentially, she's against the little guy being picked on by the big guy. And in her experience, that is what happens to women in marriage. Which is partly why she's so angry at Mr. Murdstone. Because Mr. Murdstone abused his power over Clara and it killed her. But it's also why she took in Mr. Dick, because she took issue with his brother, deciding to have him locked up against his will. And it's why she's going to take in Davy, because she takes issue with the Murdstones. Treating him like a bad child and forcing him to go out into the world like an adult far before his time. So in reality, Miss Betsy is a champion of the underdog. And based on what we've seen of her so far, she's a really good champion to have in your corner. And Davey, being the intelligent and loving and emotionally open little boy that he is, he cottons on to all of this around the same time we do. He says, here's a quote. At the same time, I must say that the generosity of her championship of poor, harmless Mr. Dick not only inspired my young breast with some selfish hope for myself self, but warmed it unselfishly towards her. So he, like us, is making the connection between Mr. Dick and himself. And he sees that if Ms. Betsy is willing to take in someone like Mr. Dick, then not only does that bode well for the possibility of her taking in Davey, but it also just makes him like her a lot. And we want Davey to like Miss Betsy because if Ms. Betsy is going to be his, like, adopted mother, then we want them to actually like or even eventually love each other. And it looks like there is certainly the possibility now of that happening. And more than anyone in Davies life for a long time, Miss Betsy seems to actually respect Davey and care about his thoughts and his opinions. When she asks him what he thinks of Mr. Dick, she says, your sister Betsy Trotwood would have told me what she thought of anyone directly. Be as like your sister as you can and speak out. Which is a funny way of putting it, of course. But essentially she's saying that Davey is safe here. He can tell her what's on his mind without feeling fear of repercussion, which is something he hasn't had in a really long time. And it implies again that Miss Betsy is going to be not only a provider for Davey, but an actual good and caring presence. And it's actually the same thing that she does for Mr. Dick. I mean, Mr. Dick is clearly kind of insane, right? He's been writing this manuscript for at least 10 years, but he can't stop putting in King Charles I. And he says, if it was so long ago, how could the people about him have made this mistake of the putting some of the trouble out of his head after it was taken off into mine, which makes like zero sense. So he's definitely sort of nuts, but he's harmlessly nuts. And he's kind to Davey and it seems as though he also is going to be a positive presence in Davey's life and perhaps even a friend to him. Here's what Davey says. He says his face was so very mild and pleasant and had something so reverent in it, though it was hale and hearty, that I was not sure, but that he was having a good humored jest with me. So I laughed and he laughed and we parted the best friends possible. And the thing is that even though Mr. Dick is not altogether with it, Ms. Betsy is right in a sense that he gives good advice. I mean, on the one hand, it's funny when she asks him what to do with Davey and he says things like give him a bath or put him to bed or whatever, because we interpret her questions to mean something more existential, like should we take him in for good or throw him out? But in reality, the thing things he suggests are actually really practical things, and they seem to be things that Ms. Betsy hasn't maybe thought of, things that Davey does actually need. And when Ms. Betsy asks Mr. Dick what to do with Davy after they've had their interview with the Murdstones, Mr. Dick says, have him measured for a suit of clothes directly. Which is funny because again, she's asking something much bigger. But his answer takes care of both the practical and the existential. Because if they're gonna keep him, he does need clothes, and if they're going to give him clothes and then they're going to keep him. So there's a way in which both miss Betsy and Mr. Dick are eccentric, sort of loony kind of people who are willing not only to take Davey in, but to care about him and maybe even to love him. Which is why I think it's such a satisfying conclusion to this long downward trajectory that Davies been on since essentially, Chapter two. And it's why it's so wonderful, as Anne says, to watch Miss Betsy read the. The Riot Act. And I agree with Josiah that seen in this new light, when Davey isn't actually under their thumb anymore, the Murdstone seems sort of ridiculous. It's so great when Miss Betsy just refuses to acknowledge Ms. Murdstone, and Ms. Murdstone keeps trying to offend her, but she acts like she doesn't even hear her. And then Miss Betsy gets in this really subtle jibe. She says, it is a comfort to you and me, ma', am, who are getting on in life and are not likely to be made unhappy by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the same of us. So she's saying that Ms. Murdstone is an old maid, essentially, but Ms. Murdstone doesn't necessarily think of herself as an old maid, and I'm sure Miss Betsy knows that. And I think my favorite insult that Miss Betsy throws at Ms. Murdstone is, let me see you ride a donkey over my green again. And as sure as you have a head upon your shoulders, I'll knock your bonnet off and tread upon it. It's so Miss Betsy, because it's hilarious, but also it's wonderful. And we'd love it if she'd knock Ms. Murdstone's bonnet off and tread on it, right? And I think what makes the scene so fantastic is it's sort of like you've been dealing with someone really awful in your life for a long time, but for whatever reason, you've had to hold your tongue, right? Maybe because they're your boss or they're your mother in law or like your kid's friend or something. And so you've had all of these conversations in your head with this person where you tell them exactly what you think of them. And this scene with Miss Betsy and the Murdstones is like what would happen if, for whatever reason, you were finally able to see, say all those internal things out loud? And it feels so good, right? So this scene gives us both this really kind of cathartic release of all the anger and frustration that we've been holding on to all this time on Davey's behalf, but also the very real and very important conclusion to this downward trajectory that David's been on, which is that he is now rid of the Birdstones and has found a caring and supportive adult who can raise him in the way that he longs to be raised. And Davey, because he's such a loving and trusting little boy, he kind of gloms on to Miss Betsy immediately, weirdnesses and all. And he says, I was emboldened to kiss and thank her, which I did with great heartiness and with both my arms clasped around her neck and grown up Dickens. Grown up Davey, right, gives us the assurance that this is actually real, that Ms. Betsy really is going to take him in and love him and care for him. And his time as an unloved little orphan really is over. Because he says, here's a quote. The remembrance of that life is fraught with so much pain to me, with so much mental suffering and want of hope, that I have never had the courage even to examine how long I was doomed to lead it. Whether it lasted for a year or more or less, I do not know. I only know that it was and ceased to be and that I have written and there I leave it. Okay, so hooray, Right? Hooray for Davey. Hooray for Miss Betsy and Mr. Dick. And again, a new chapter is beginning for Davey. We've had all of these little endings and new beginnings along the way, but now we're really closing down the entirety of the book so far and moving into a completely new phase. That is what Dickens or grown up Davey is telling us, grown up David is telling us. But how exactly that new phase is going to play out, it remains to be seen. So let's see. Right. And the only way we can do that is to keep reading. So let's keep reading. But of course, don't forget to write to me. It's Faith K. Moore.com and click on Contact or scroll into the show notes and click the link that's there. Keep those amazing emails coming. I love to hear from you. Tell me what you think after this chapter and all the chapters. All right, let's get started with chapter 15 of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It's story time. Chapter 15 I make another beginning. Mr. Dick and I soon became the best of friends, and very often, when his day's work was done, went out together to fly the great kite. Every day of his life he had a long sitting at the memorial, which never made the least progress, however hard he labored. For King Charles the first always strayed into it sooner or later, and then it was thrown aside and another one begun. The patience and hope with which he bore these perpetual disappointments, the mild perception he had that there was something wrong about King Charles I, the feeble efforts he made to keep him out, and the certainty with which he came in and tumbled the memorial out of all shape made a deep impression on me. What Mr. Dick supposed would come of the memorial if it were completed. Where he thought it was to go, or what he thought it was to do, he knew no more than anybody else, I believe. Nor was it at all necessary that he should trouble himself with such questions, for if anything were certain under the sun, it was certain that the memorial never would be finished. It was quite an affecting sight, I used to think, to see him with the kite when it was up a great height in the air. What he had told me in his room about his belief in its disseminating, the statements pasted on it which were nothing but old leaves of a board of memorials, might have been a fancy with him sometimes, but not when he was out looking up at the kite in the sky and feeling it pull and tug at his hand. He never looked so serene as he did then, I used to fancy, as I sat by him, of an evening on a green slope, and saw him watch the kite high in the quiet air, that it lifted his mind out of its confusion and bore it such was my boyish thought into the skies as he wound the string in and it came lower and lower down out of the beautiful light until it fluttered to the ground and lay there like a dead thing. He seemed to wake gradually out of a dream, and I remember to have seen him take it up and look about him in a lost way, as if they had both come down together, so that I pitied him with all my heart. While I advanced in friendship and intimacy with Mr. Dick, I did not go backward in the favour of his staunch friend, my aunt. She took so kindly to me that in the course of a few weeks she shortened my adopted name of Trotwood into Trot, and even encouraged me to hope that if I went on as I had begun, I might take equal rank in her affections with my sister Bessie Trotwood. Trot, Said my aunt one evening, when the backgammon board was placed as usual for herself and Mr. Dick. We must not forget your education. This was my only subject of anxiety, and I felt quite delighted by her referring to it. Should you like to go to school at Canterbury? Said my aunt. I replied that I should like it very much, as it was so near her. Good, said my aunt, should you like to go tomorrow? Being already no stranger to the general rapidity of my aunt's evolutions, I was not surprised by the suddenness of the proposal and and said yes. Good, said my aunt again. Janet, hire the gray pony and chaise to morrow morning at 10 o', clock, and pack up Master Trotwood's clothes to night. I was greatly elated by these orders, but my heart smote me for my selfishness when I witnessed their effect on Mr. Dick, who was so low spirited at the prospect of our separation and played so ill in consequence, that my aunt, after giving him several admonitory raps on the knuckles with her dice box, shut up the board and declined to play with him any more. But on hearing from my aunt that I should sometimes come over on a Saturday, and that he could sometimes come and see me on a Wednesday, he revived and vowed to make another kite for those occasions of proportions greatly surpassing the present one. In the morning he was downhearted again, and would have sustained himself by giving me all the money he had in his possession, gold and silver too, if my aunt had not interposed, and limited the gift to five shillings, which at his earnest petition were afterwards increased to 10. We parted at the garden gate in a most affectionate manner, and Mr. Dick did not go into the house until my aunt had driven me out of sight of it. My aunt, who was perfectly indifferent to public opinion, drove the gray pony through Dover in a masterly manner, sitting high and stiff like a state coachman, keeping a steady eye upon him wherever he went, and making a point of not letting him have his own way in any respect. When we came into the country road she permitted him to relax a little, however, and looking at me down in a valley of confusion by her side, asked me whether I was happy. Very happy indeed. Thank you, aunt, I said. She was much gratified, and both her hands being occupied, patted me on the head with her whip. Is it a large school, aunt? I asked. Why, I don't know, said my aunt. We are going to Mr. Wickfield's first. Does he keep a school? I asked. No, trot, said my aunt. He keeps an office. I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfield, as she offered none, and we conversed on other subjects until we came to Canterbury, where, as it was market day, my aunt had a great opportunity of insinuating the gray pony among carts, baskets, vegetables, and huckster's goods. The hair breadth, turns and twists we made drew down upon us a variety of speeches from the people standing about, which were not always complimentary. But my aunt drove on with perfect indifference, and I dare say would have taken her own way with as much coolness through an enemy's country. At length we stopped before a very old house bulging out over the road, a house with long low lattice windows bulging out still farther, and beams with carved heads on the ends bulging out too, so that I fancied the whole house was leaning forward, trying to see who was passing on the narrow pavement below. It was quite spotless in its cleanliness. The old fashioned brass knocker on the low arched door, ornamented with carved garlands of fruit and flowers, twinkled like a star. The two stone steps descending to the door were as white as if they had been covered with fair linen, and all the angles and corners and carvings and mouldings, and quaint little panes of glass and quainter little windows, though as old as the hills, were as pure as any snow that ever fell upon the hills. When the pony chaise stopped at the door and my eyes were intent upon the house, I saw a cadaverous face appear at a Small window on the ground floor in a little round tower that formed one side of the house and quickly disappeared. The low arched door then opened and the face came out. It was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the window, though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red which is sometimes to be observed in the skins of red haired people. It belonged to a red haired person, a youth of 15, as I take it now, but looking much older, whose hair was cropped as close as the closest stubble, who had hardly any eyebrows and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red brown so unsheltered and unshaded that I remember wondering how he went to sleep. He was high shouldered and bony, dressed in decent black, with a white wisp of a neckcloth buttoned up to the throat, and had a long lank skeleton hand which particularly attracted my attention as he stood at the pony's head, rubbing his chin with it and looking up at us in the shade. Is Mr. Wickfield at home, Uriah Heep? Asked my aunt. Mr. Wickfield's at home, ma', am, said Uriah Heep, if you'll please to walk in there. Pointing with his long hand to the room he meant. We got out, and leaving him to hold the pony, went into a long low parlour looking towards the street from the window of which I caught a glimpse as I went in of Uriah Heep, breathing into the pony's nostrils and immediately covering them with his hand, as if he were putting some spell upon him. Opposite to the tall old chimney piece were two portraits, one of a gentleman with gray hair, though not by any means an old man, and black eyebrows, who was looking over some papers tied together with red tape. The other of a lady with a very placid and sweet expression of face who was looking at me. I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah's picture when a door at the farther end of the room opening. A gentleman entered at sight of whom I turned to the first mentioned portrait again to make quite sure that it had not come out of its frame. Meaning this man is the one who was painted in the portrait, and the portrait is a very good representation of him. But it was stationary, and as the gentleman advanced into the light, I saw that he was some years older than when he had had his picture painted. Miss Betsy Trotwood, said the gentleman. Pray walk in. I was engaged for a moment, but you'll excuse my being busy. You know my motive. I have but one in life. Miss Betsey thanked him and we went into his room, which was furnished as an office with books, papers, tin boxes, and so forth. It looked into a garden and had an iron safe let into the wall so immediately over the mantel shelf that I wondered as I sat down how the sweeps got round it when they swept the chimney. Well, Ms. Trotwood, said Mr. Wickfield, for I soon found that it was he, and that he was a lawyer and steward of the estates of a rich gentleman of the country. What wind blows you here? Not an ill wind, I hope. No, replied my aunt. I have not come for any law. That's right, ma', am, said Mr. Wickfield. You had better come for anything else. His hair was quite white now, though his eyebrows were still black. He had a very agreeable face, and I thought was handsome. There was a certain richness in his complexion which I had been long accustomed under Peggotty's tuition to connect with port wine, and I fancied it was in his voice too, and referred his growing corpulency to the same cause. He was very cleanly dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, and nankeen trousers, and his fine frilled shirt and cambric neckcloth looked unusually soft and white. Reminding my strolling fancy, I called to mind, of the plumage of the breast of a swan. This is my nephew, said my aunt. Wasn't aware you had one, Ms. Trotwood, said Mr. Wickfield. My grand nephew, that is to say, observed my aunt, Wasn't aware you had a grand nephew. I give you my word, said Mr. Wickfield. I have adopted him, said my aunt with a wave of her hand, importing that his knowledge and his ignorance were all one to her. And I have brought him here to put to a school where he may be thoroughly well taught and well treated. Now tell me where that school is and what it is and all about it before I can advise you properly, said Mr. Wakefield. The old question, you know, what's your motive in this? Deuce. Take the man. Exclaimed my aunt. Always fishing for motives when they're on the surface. Why? To make the child happy and useful. It must be a mixed motive, I think, said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his head and smiling incredulously. A mixed fiddlestick, returned my aunt. You claim to have one plain motive in all you do yourself. You don't suppose, I hope, that you are the only plain dealer in the world? Aye, but I have only one motive in life, Ms. Trotwood, he rejoined, smiling. Other people have dozens, scores, hundreds. I have only one. There's the difference, however, that's beside the question. The best school, whatever the motive, you want the best? My aunt nodded assent. At the best we have, said Mr. Wickfield, considering your nephew couldn't board just now. But he could board somewhere else, I suppose, suggested my aunt, meaning he could attend this best school, whatever it is, but he would have to live somewhere else. Even though it is a boarding school, there's no room for him to board. Mr. Wickfield thought I could. After a little discussion he proposed to take my aunt to the school, that she might see it and judge for herself also to take her with the same object to two or three houses where he thought I could be boarded, my aunt embracing the proposal. We were all three going out together when he stopped and said our little friend here might have some motive perhaps for objecting to the arrangements. I think we had better leave him behind, so he saying they should leave David and tour the school and the houses by themselves. My aunt seemed disposed to contest the point, but to facilitate matters I said I would gladly remain behind if they pleased, and returned into Mr. Wickfield's office, where I sat down again in the chair I had first occupied to await their return. It so happened that this chair was opposite a narrow passage which ended in the little circular room where I had seen Uriah Heep's pale face looking out of the window. Uriah, having taken the pony to a neighbouring stable, was at work at a desk in this room which had a brass frame on the top to hang paper upon, and on which the writing he was making a copy of was then hanging. Though his face was towards me, I thought for some time, the writing being between us, that he could not see me but looking that way more attentively. It made me uncomfortable to observe that every now and then his sleepless eyes would come below the writing like two red suns, and stealthily stare at me for, I dare say, a whole minute at a time, during which his pen went or pretended to go as cleverly as ever. I made several attempts to get out of their way, such as standing on a chair to look at a map on the other side of the room and poring over the columns of a Kentish newspaper. But they always attracted me back again, and whenever I looked towards those two red suns, I was sure to find them either just rising or just setting at length. Much to my relief, my aunt and Mr. Wickfield came back after a pretty long absence. They were not so successful as I could have wished, for though the advantages of the school were Undeniable. My aunt had not approved of any of the boarding houses proposed for me. It's very unfortunate, said my aunt. I don't know what to do, Trot. It does happen, unfortunately, said Mr. Wickfield. But I'll tell you what you can do, Ms. Trotwood. What's that? Inquired my aunt. Leave your nephew here for the present. He's a quiet fellow. He won't disturb me at all. It's a capital house for study, as quiet as a monastery and almost as roomy. Leave him here. My aunt evidently liked the offer, though she was delicate of accepting it. So did I. Come, Ms. Trotwood, said Mr. Wickfield. This is the way out of the difficulty. It's only a temporary arrangement, you know. If it don't act well or don't quite accord with our mutual convenience, he can easily go to the right about. Meaning he can go back where he started. It literally means to turn 180 degrees. There will be time to find some better place for him. In the meanwhile, you had better determine to leave him here for the present. I am very much obliged to you, said my aunt, and so is he. I see. But come, I know what you mean, cried Mr. Wickfield. You shall not be oppressed by the receipt of favors, Ms. Trotwood. You may pay for him if you like. We won't be hard about terms, but you shall pay if you will. On that understanding, said my aunt, though it doesn't lessen the real obligation. I shall be very glad to leave him. Then come and see my little housekeeper, said Mr. Wickfield. We accordingly went up a wonderful old staircase with a balustrade so broad that we might have gone up that almost as easily, and into a shady old drawing room lighted by some three or four of the quaint windows I had looked up at from the street, which had old oak seats in them that seemed to have come of the same trees as the shining oak floor and the great beams in the ceiling. It was a prettily furnished room with a piano and some lively furniture in red and green and some flowers. It seemed to be all old nooks and corners, and in every nook and corner there was some queer little table or cupboard or bookcase or seat or something or other that made me think there was not such another good corner in the room, until I looked at the next one and found it equal to it, if not better, on everything. There was the same air of retirement and cleanliness that marked the house outside. Mr. Wickfield tapped at the door In a corner of the panelled wall. And a girl of about my own age came quickly out and kissed him on her face. I saw immediately the placid and sweet expression of the lady whose picture had looked at me downstairs. It seemed to my imagination as if the portrait had grown womanly. And the original remained a child. Although her face was quite bright and happy. There was a tranquility about it and about her A quiet, good, calm spirit that I never have forgotten. That I shall never forget. This was his little housekeeper, his daughter Agnes, Mr. Wickfield said. When I heard how he said it and saw how he held her hand, I guessed what the one motive of his life was. She had a little basket trifle hanging at her side with keys in it, and she looked as staid and as discreet a housekeeper as the old house could have. She listened to her father as he told her about me with a pleasant face. And when he had concluded, proposed to my aunt that we should go upstairs and see my room, we all went together, she before us. And a glorious old room it was, with more oak beams and diamond panes and the broad balustrade going all the way up to it. I cannot call to mind where or when in my childhood I had seen a stained glass window in a church, Nor do I recollect its subject. But I know that when I saw her turn round in the grave light of the old staircase and wait for us above, I thought of that window, and I associated something of its tranquil brightness with Agnes Wickfield. Ever afterwards, my aunt was as happy as I was in the arrangement made for me, and we went down to the drawing room again, well pleased and gratified, as she would not hear of staying to dinner, Lest she should, by any chance Fail to arrive at home with the gray pony before dark. And As I apprehended, Mr. Wickfield knew her too well to argue any point with her. Some lunch was provided for her there, and Agnes went back to her governess and Mr. Wickfield to his office. So we were left to take leave of one another without any restraint. She told me that everything would be arranged for me by Mr. Wickfield. And that I should want for nothing, and gave me the kindest words and the best advice. Trot, said my aunt in conclusion. Be a credit to yourself, to me and Mr. Dick, and heaven be with you. I was greatly overcome and could only thank her again and again and send my love to Mr. Dick. Never, said my aunt, be mean in anything. Never be false, never be cruel. Avoid those Three vices, trot, and I can always be hopeful of you. I promised as well as I could that I would not abuse her kindness or forget her admonition. The pony's at the door, said my aunt, and I am off. Stay here. With these words she embraced me hastily and went out of the room, shutting the door after her. At first I was startled by so abrupt a departure, and almost feared I had displeased her. But when I looked into the street and saw how dejectedly she got into the chaise and drove away without looking up, I understood her better, and did not do her that injustice. By five o', clock, which was Mr. Wickfield's dinner hour, I had mustered up my spirits again and was ready for my knife and fork. The cloth was only laid for us two, but Agnes was waiting in the drawing room before dinner, went down with her father, and sat opposite to him at table. I doubted whether he could have dined without her. We did not stay there after dinner, but came upstairs into the drawing room again, in one snug corner of which Agnes set glasses for her father and a decanter of port wine. I thought he would have missed its usual flavour if it had been put there for him by any other hands. There he sat, taking his wine and taking a good deal of it for two hours, while Agnes played on the piano, worked, and talked to him and me. He was, for the most part gay and cheerful with us, but sometimes his eyes rested on her, and he fell into a brooding state and was silent. She always observed this quickly, I thought, and always roused him with a question or caress. Then he came out of his meditation and drank more wine. Agnes made the tea and presided over it, and the time passed away after it as after dinner, until she went to bed, when her father took her in his arms and kissed her, and she, being gone, ordered candles in his office. Then I went to bed too. But in the course of the evening I had rambled down to the door and a little way along the street, that I might have another peep at the old houses and the gray cathedral, and might think of my coming through that old city on my journey, and of my passing the very house I lived in without knowing it. As I came back, I saw Uriah Heep shutting up the office and feeling friendly towards everybody, went in and spoke to him, and at parting gave him my hand. But, oh, what a clammy hand was his, as ghostly to the touch as to the sight. I rubbed mine afterwards to warm it and to rub his off. It was such an uncomfortable hand that when I went to my room it was still cold and wet upon my memory. Leaning out of the window and seeing one of the faces on the beam ends looking at me sideways, I fancied it was Uriah Heep got up there somehow and and shut him out in a hurry. Thank you so much for listening. I'd love to know what you thought of the chapters. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify? Did something particularly interest you? Please go to my website, faithkmoore.com, click on Contact and send me your questions and thoughts. Or you can click on the link in the Show Notes to contact me. I'll feature one or two of your entries at the start of the next episode. Speaking of links, don't forget to take a look at the other links in the Show Notes. You can learn more about me, check out our Merch store, or become a member of the Storytime for Grown Ups online community. Before I go, I'd like to ask a quick favor. This is an independent podcast. It's produced, recorded and marketed by me, so I need your help. Spread the word about the show by posting about it on social media or texting a link to your friends. Subscribe, tap those five stars and leave a positive review wherever you're listening. If you are able to support the show financially, there's a link in the Show Notes to make a donation. I would really, really appreciate it. Alright everyone, story time is over. To be continued.