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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. Hello. Welcome back. I'm so glad you're here. This is a pretty long episode. The chapter is long and we've got quite a bit to talk about. So I don't want to say too much here at the beginning, but I do want to thank everyone who showed up for today tea time On Thursday of last week, I had a really fun time. It was great talking with you. I hope you had a fun time too. It was great to have some new people show up. It was great to see all my old friends. And so thank you. Thank you for supporting the show in that way by being a part of the drawing room online community and for showing up for tea time and joining us. So thank you. I will let you know when the next one is going to be in a little while. When I schedule it, it will be probably towards the end of June. Other than that, please just do all the usual things. Subscribe if you haven't done that already. Tap the five stars if you're enjoying the show and you haven't done that yet. Leave a positive review in your podcast player if you're enjoying the show and you haven't done that yet. And tell everyone you know about this show so that we can have even more people listening and you can have people in your life who are listening that you can talk to about these books in real life because that is super fun and that makes the world a better place. So, so please do that. And let's get into this episode. So last time we read chapter 41, today we're going to be reading chapter 42, which again is a bit of a long chapter, but we also have lots to talk about. So first let's just remind ourselves of what happened in chapter 41 and then we'll talk for a bit and then we'll get into the chapter. So here is the recap. All right, so where we left off, David finally gets an answer back from Dora's aunts, saying that if he will come and visit them on a certain day and time and bring a friend, they will speak to him about whether or not can court Dora. So David gets Traddles to come with him and they show up at the house of Dora's aunts. The aunts are old bird like ladies who are a bit silly. One is obsessed with the fact that she might once have had a suitor and the other one is obsessed with the fact that Dora's mother didn't invite them over. But they speak with David and eventually agree to let him see Dora if he promises that they would always be present and that he'd never write to her or try to see her without their permission. He agrees to this immediately and is allowed to see see Dora who is the same as ever and says she doesn't like travels and is scared to meet Ms. Betsy. But Ms. Betsy eventually comes to meet the aunts and they all get along fairly well and Dora comes around to seeing her as well. So now David is allowed to come over on weekends and go for walks with Dora and have dinner with her and he's incredibly happy, but he's worried that everyone seems to treat Dora like a child and he tries to get her ready to be a wife by going back to the cookery book and the accounting books but Dora says she can't do it and she gets upset so he stops and they all have a lovely time together on his visits. Okay, I'm going to read three comments today. The first one comes from Jennifer McDonald. Jennifer says after reading this chapter I find myself trying very hard not to be too judgmental or harshly critical towards Dora. The most polite response I can come up with is the following Southern expression oh honey, bless your little heart. Also, what is a plate warmer? I hope it's something along the lines of a pantry because I can't and don't want to imagine Gyp being confined to something that is literally hot to the touch as punishment for his bad manners towards guests. And P.S. i love traddles so much. The next one comes from Michelle Watson. She says the two ants are hilarious. The way Dickens describes them as birds allows me to picture them in my mind at once, but it also points me toward who they are as people. They make a lot of flutter over very little. They drag out the interview with David and Traddles simply because they're enjoying their sense of self importance in the matter. They make repeated passive aggressive jabs at their late sister in law. They are two women who have nothing better to do than make mountains out of molehills. Yet instead of making us despise them as we do the meddling Ms. Murdstone. For example, Dickens uses humor to make light of them. And we are allowed to chuckle and find them irritating, but also sort of endearing. And the last one comes from Marian. She says, this is another wonderfully comic chapter. Once again, Dickens has done a masterful job of juxtaposing two characters to illustrate their attributes or faults. In this case, what a difference we see between the steadfast and dependable Sophie and the spoiled, helpless Dora. Despite Sophie's familial attachments, she still has an independent spirit. Spirit intent on marrying Traddles. Despite the chagrin of her dependent family. We can be sure that she will be a household angel to her husband, whereas it's unlikely that Dora can ever be a true partner to David. All right, so first and foremost, I think we absolutely must get to the bottom of Jennifer's question. What is a plate warmer? I also didn't know what this was, by the way, when I read this for the first time and I had to look it up. I probably should have explained it as a note along the way. So I'm sorry that I didn't do it do that, but I will remedy that right now. So to remind you, in the last chapter, Dora kept putting Gyp the dog into the plate warmer to keep him quiet. First, she did it when David and Traddles were talking to the ants and Dora was trying to listen through the wall. And then later, when Dora meets Miss Betsy and Jip won't leave off barking at her, Dora puts Jip back in the plate warmer. So what is a plate warmer? And as Jennifer asks, is Dora actually putting Gyp inside of something that could hurt him? Right, that could bur him. So the answer to that is no. Dora isn't actually setting Gyp on fire or anything like that. A plate warmer was essentially just a box with shelves inside and a place to put hot coals at the bottom. So when the box was closed and the coals were inside, it would become very warm. And so you would put plates in there to warm them up. And that would be because when you put hot food on the warm plates to serve to your guests or your family, the cold plate wouldn't make the hot food become cold too quickly. Serving hot food was actually a sign of a well run household because it meant that you were timing everything perfectly so that the food was ready just when it was time to eat it. And since it was very hard to heat Victorian houses for most of the year, keeping the plates hot helped the food to arrive at the table at just the right temperature. Okay. But anyway, presumably Dora is Putting gyp into the plate warmer when there aren't hot coals at the bottom of it. So essentially, she's putting them into, like, a little cabinet or something like that. So it's still not the nicest thing to do to a dog, but at least she's not actually boiling him or burning him or whatever. If you happen to be a member of the drawing room or if you want to join specifically for this exciting information, I have posted a few pictures and some additional information about plate warmers there so you can see what Dora's plate warmer might have looked like. So, great question. I wondered about that myself. That's what a plate warmer is. Okay, so Dora and Dora's aunts. So we talked several episodes ago about Dora and about your feelings about Dora and how there were kind of these two camps developing. Remember, one was that Dora is sweet, innocent, young, but ultimately harmless. Although that camp still doesn't want David to marry her, but they don't feel that she's malicious in any way. And then the other camp kind of like, hates her fairly passionately and thinks that she's a spoiled brat who refuses to pull her weight and she's going to kind of freeload off of David and make him miserable. And I said at that point that the second camp, the We Absolutely Hate Dora camp, that one seemed to be kind of winning in terms of number of letters. And I would say that that has continued the scale, kind of continues to tip in favor of the We Hate Dora camp, according to your letters. We talked a little bit about this, actually, last week during tea time. And there I was saying that the level of hatred that I am about Dora has actually kind of surprised me. I mean, you're totally entitled to it. I'm not saying that I think Dora will make a wonderful wife for David or anything, but I have actually been surprised by how many of you feel that Dora is actively manipulative, that she's rude, that she's cruel. Because to me, I see Dora as essentially a spoiled little girl who is brought up to be basically ornamental. And she can't understand why anyone would ask her to be anything else. Remember when we first met Dora? She had just arrived back from finishing school. Finishing school is where you learn what were called accomplishments. So painting, singing, dancing, making tea, dressing elegantly. All these things were designed to make you beautiful and ornamental and help you to get a rich husband, basically. Because if you had a rich husband, you'd have no need to do any of the things that David is asking Dora to do. Like cook or shop. Shop or keep the accounts. I think we have a really hard time with this idea as modern readers. We talked about this a bit at tea time as well. And someone there brought up the idea that we have a really hard time with the idea of people being idle with people not working for things, with people not pulling their own weight. But I think at the time there was a school of thought, so not everybody felt this way, but there was a school of thought that women were meant to be sort of decorations or ornaments. They should look pretty, they should make nice music. They would pour the tea in this very kind of alluring way. They might have a musical laugh, they might be teasing and smell nice and whatever, but that they wouldn't be expected to get their hands dirty in any way. Now, that would be a sort of upper class kind of wife. And a more middle class wife would still have a cook and servants and things like that. But a middle class wife would be expected to know how to manage the household right. She would tell the cook what foods to make and supervise to make sure it was done well. She'd make sure she knew how the family money was being spent and she'd keep things economical. She'd make sure the servants cleaned and aired the room and that the flowers were put in vases and things like that. She would manage the household in the way that Agnes manages Mr. Wakefield's household. Remember, he calls her his little housekeeper. And the angel in the house is again this kind of household old manager who is also beautiful and has all the accomplishments as well. The angel is the perfect woman because she can do it all. But Dora hasn't been raised that way. And that might be Mr. Spenlo's fault, right? He raised her, but he was clearly hoping that she would marry a very rich man and get to be a very rich man's wife, not a middle class wife, the way that she would have to be if she marries David. So Dora is silly, she is spoiled, she is totally useless at anything practical and anything that would make a middle class house household run. But I think the anger toward her that I'm sensing for many of you, it might be misplaced. Because this is what she was raised to be. This is who she is. She has never pretended to be anyone else. She has no experience whatsoever of the sorts of things that David is trying to get her to pay attention to, and no experience whatsoever of a woman having to pay attention to those things. And when David tries to get her to pay attention to those things and to see Stop acting like a child, David tells us. This is a quote. Dora gave me a reproachful look, the prettiest look, and then began to sob, saying, if I didn't like her, why had I ever wanted so much to be engaged to her? And why didn't I go away now if I couldn't bear her? And I mean, yes, this is infuriating. We want her to grow up and we want her to be who David wants her to be. It's hard for us to understand how anyone could burst into tears over a cookbook. Right? But I also think that Dora has a point. She has never pretended to be an Agnes sort of person. She has always been a Dora type of person. It's because she's a Dora type of person that David loves her. So in a way, asking her to do all of this stuff with the cookbook and the accounts, it is kind of unfair. Now, we can think that this means that David should break off his engagement with her. I mean, both camps that we've been talking about here think that pretty much everyone, as far as I can tell, thinks that he should marry Agnes and not Dora. And I know a lot of you are kind of waiting for that to happen. A lot of you feel like that's where the plot is headed, that he's going to marry Agnes in the end. But that's very different than feeling that Dora is evil or something. She can be totally not the right partner for David and David can be totally delusional for feeling that he loves her. All that can be true without us, we wanting to, like, punch her in the face or something. So my point here is that this whole situation is really kind of two worlds colliding. It's the world that Dickens himself clearly approves of, right? Of the angel in the house, the orderly running of a household, the calm and angelic little housekeeper. It's that world colliding with the world of finishing school and accomplishments and ornamental ladies and charming, teasing silliness. And we are obviously meant to feel, I think Dickens certainly feels that the first one is better than the second one. But I think we're also meant to find the second one not so much immoral or manipulative as ill advised. And more than anything, I think at this point we're supposed to find it funny. I mean, I agree with Michelle. Dora's aunts are really funny. And the thing that's funny about them is exactly what Michelle said. They are clearly enjoying this whole situation immensely. It's like a fun game or a Fun project for them to superintend this courtship between David and Dora. Here's what David I thought I perceived that Ms. Lavinia would have uncommon satisfaction in superintending two young lovers like Dora and me. And that Ms. Clarissa would have hardly less satisfaction in seeing her superintend us and in chiming in with her own particular department of the subject whenever that impulse was strong upon her. Okay. And the whole scene is very clearly played for laughs. I mean the whole conversation between David and Traddles on the way over about Traddles heavily hair and the fact that when David tries to sit down, he sits on a cat. I mean, it's almost slapstick. Here's that quote. It says. When I had done tumbling over Traddles and had sat upon something which was not a cat, my first seat was I so far recovered my sight as to perceive that Mr. Spenlow had evidently been the youngest of the family. I mean, that makes me laugh out loud when I read it. And I think the fact that this scene is funny is meant to signal to us, as Michelle says, that these aunts and even Dora herself are. Are ridiculous. That they're silly, that they're over the top, but they're not malicious. You know, I got several letters saying that the fact that Dora doesn't like Traddles means that Dora is controlling or that she's selfish because why wouldn't she want to meet her fiance's friends? And the fact that she doesn't want to meet Ms. Betsy is also selfish and rude. But I don't think that that's what's going on at all. Listen to the conversation that they have. It says your friend, said Dora. It isn't any business of his. What a stupid he must be. My love, there never was anything so coaxing as her childish ways. He is the best creature. Oh, but we don't want any best creatures pouted. Dora, my dear, I argued. You will soon know him well and like him of all things. And here is my aunt coming soon. And you'll like her of all things too when you know her. No, please don't bring her, said Dora, giving me a horrified little kiss and folding her hands. Don't I know she's a naughty, mischief making old thing. Don't let her come here, Dodie. Which was a corruption of David. So to me this is much more like a scared child who is afraid of meeting new people and afraid of perhaps not making a good impression. It's much more that than a controlling future wife. I mean, Dora hasn't met Traddles yet, she hasn't met Miss Betsy and she's saying she doesn't want to meet them because what if she doesn't like them and what if they don't like her? So again, silly, childish, not what you want in a wife, but not malicious. But I do think that we are meant to be very worried here about what will happen if David and Dora actually do end up getting married, because it now looks fairly probable that they will get married because David now has the approval of the aunts who are Dora's guardians, and he's allowed to walk with her and take tea with her and all of this. And that's pretty much how an engagement would have gone in this time period. So there isn't really very much standing in their way at this, this point, except if one of them called it off, which could happen, or if the aunts called it off or if they kind of drew out the engagement forever, which also could happen. So things are looking pretty favorable in terms of the marriage going forward. And that is worrying because even though Dora isn't malicious, she doesn't seem like she's ever going to be the kind of housewife that David wants her to be, and which Dickens clearly feels is the kind of wife that a man needs if he wants to have a happy married life. And, and I totally agree with Marian that Dickens gives us this picture of Traddles fiance Sophie to show us that a young woman can run a household, can be a useful sort of bustling kind of person, and that that is the sort of person who Dickens holds up as the perfect wife. A person like Sophie, a person like Agnes, they are the kind of people that make good wives, according to Dickens. So the fact that David is drawn to a different kind of person, it doesn't bode well, but he is drawn to, to a different kind of person, even though he also wants, for practical reasons, he wants his wife to be a housewifely sort of person as well. I mean, listen to what he says. He says. So when I once asked Dora, with an eye to the cookery book, what she would do if we were married and I were to say I should like a nice Irish stew, she replied that she would tell the servant to make it and then clapped her little hands together across my arm and laughed in such a charming manner that she was more delightful than ever, the way that Dora is, is delightful to David, this is important. I think he likes her silly, he likes her childish, he likes her teasing way of being. We talked about this before. He wants that. It's what he's attracted to about her. So emotionally, he wants her to be silly and childish, but intellectually he wants a wife that can manage a household. And he's trying to kind of shove the silly child into the housewife mold and. And so far it's not going well, because I think deep down David knows that Dora is kind of a child. He doesn't want the aunts to treat her like a child, but he treats her like a child, too, even when he seems not to be. Here's a quote he says. I brought the volume with me, meaning the cookery book. On my next visit, I got it prettily bound first to make it look less dry and more inviting. And as we strolled about the common, I showed her an old housekeeper book of my aunt's and gave her a set of tablets and a pretty little pencil case and a box of leads to practice housekeeping with. So he dresses up these very practical items as if they were toys, and he gives them to her to practice with as if she were playing pretend. I mean, do you think that Agnes would need to practice this? Do you think that Sofie would? I mean. No. He is trying to make Dora into something that she isn't. And so far, at least, it's not working. And the question that I think it makes sense for us to be asking here is not. Not why on earth won't Dora do what David is telling her to do? But rather, is it fair of him to ask this of her? So now they're openly engaged, it's looking more and more like they will actually get married. But will they? We don't know. How will it all play out? So we have to keep reading and we have to find out. But again, you know, I don't want you to have some different reaction to Dora than you're having. I'm not trying to change your mind, but I am trying to put forward a different picture that might help to understand kind of what's going on here with Dora and David. So we'll just have to see what plays out. So we're going to keep reading now, but of course, don't forget to get in touch with me. It's faith k.moore.com. click on contact. Send me all of your questions, all your thoughts. I love to hear from you. I love getting these reactions and thinking about everything you have to say. And so please do get in touch. All right, let's get started with chapter 42 of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It's Story Time, Chapter 42. Mischief. I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this manuscript is intended for no eyes but mine. How hard I worked at that tremendous shorthand and all improvement appertaining to it in my sense of responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only add to what I have already written of my perseverance at this time of my life and of a patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me, and which I know to be the strong part of my character, if it have any strength at all, that there on looking back, I find the source of my success. I have been very fortunate in worldly matters. Many men have worked much harder and not succeeded half so well. But I never could have done what I have done without the habits of punctuality, order and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one object at a time, no matter how quickly its successor should come upon its heels which I then formed. Heaven knows I write this in no spirit of self laudation. Meaning he's not trying to tell us how great he is. The man who reviews his own life as I do mine, in going on here from page to page, had need to have been a good man indeed, if he would be spared the sharp consciousness of many talents neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted feelings constantly at war within his breast and defeating them. I do not hold one natural gift. I dare say that I have not abused. My meaning simply is that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well. That whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely. That in great aims and in small. I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from the companionship of the steady, plain, hard working qualities and hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment on this earth. Some happy talent and some fortunate opportunity may form the two sides of the ladder on which some men mount. But the rounds of that ladder must be made of stuff to stand, wear and tear. And there is no substitute for thorough going, ardent and sincere earnestness, never to put one hand to anything on which I could throw my whole self, and never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was I found now to have been my golden rules. How much of the practice I have just reduced to precept I owe to Agnes. I will not repeat here my narrative proceeds. To Agnes with a thankful love. She came on A visit of a fortnight to the doctor's. Mr. Wickfield was the doctor's old friend, and the doctor wished to talk with him and do him good. It had been matter of conversation with Agnes when she was last in town, and this visit was the result. She and her father came together. I was not much surprised to hear from her that she had engaged to find a lodging in the neighborhood for Mrs. Heep, whose rheumatic complaint required change of air, and who would be charmed to have it in such company. Neither was I surprised when on the very next day, Uriah, like a dutiful son, brought his worthy mother to take possession. You see, Master Copperfield, said he, as he forced himself upon my company for a turn in the doctor's garden, where a person loves, a person is a little jealous, leastways anxious to keep an eye on the beloved one of whom are you jealous now? Said I. Thanks to you, Master Copperfield, he returned. Of no one in particular at present. No male person at least. Do you mean that you are jealous of a female person? He gave me a sidelong glance out of his sinister red eyes and laughed. Really, Master Copperfield, he said, I should say mister, but I know you'll excuse the abbot. I've got into you're so insinuating that you draw me like a corkscrew. Well, I don't mind telling you, putting his fish like hand on mine, I'm not a ladies man in general, sir, and I never was with Mrs. Strong. His eyes looked green now as they watched mine with a rascally cunning. What do you mean? Said I. Why, though I am a lawyer, Master Copperfield, he replied with a dry grin. I mean just at present what I say. And what do you mean by your look? I retorted quietly. By my look? Dear me, Copperfield, that star practice. What do I mean by my look? Yes, I said, by your look. He seemed very much amused and laughed as heartily as it was in his nature to laugh. After some scraping of his chin with his hand, he went on to say, with his eyes cast downward, still scraping very slowly, when I was but an umble clerk, she always looked down upon me. She was forever having my Agnes backwards and forwards at her house, and she was forever being a friend you, Master Copperfield, but I was too far beneath her myself to be noticed. Well said. I suppose you were. And beneath him too, pursued Uriah very distinctly and in a meditative tone of voice as he continued to scrape his chin. Don't you know the doctor? Better, said I, than to suppose him conscious of your existence when you were not before him. Meaning Dr. Strong wasn't intentionally slighting Uriah. He's just so absent minded that if Uriah isn't there he's not thinking about him at all. He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance again and he made his face very lantern jawed for the greater convenience of scraping as he answered. Oh dear, I'm not referring to the doctor. Oh no, poor Matt. I mean Mr. Malden. My heart quite died within me all my old doubts and apprehensions on that subject. All the doctor's happiness and peace, all the mingled possibilities of innocence and compromise that I could not unravel. I saw in a moment at the mercy of this fellow's twisting. He's saying that Uriah is clearly capable of harming everyone by outing Mrs. Strong and Jack Malden as being in a relationship. He never could come into the office without ordering and shoving me about, said Uriah. One of your fine gentlemen he was. I was very meek and umble and I am, but I didn't like that sort of thing and I don't. He left off scraping his chin and sucked in his cheeks until they seemed to meet inside, keeping his sidelong glance upon me all the while. She is one of your lovely women, she is, he pursued when he had slowly restored his face to its natural form and ready to be no friend to such as me. I know she's just the person as would put my Agnes up to higher sort of game. Meaning Mrs. Strong would convince Agnes not to marry someone as lowly as Uriah. Now I ain't one of your ladies men, Master Copperfield, but I've had eyes in my head a pretty long time back. We umble ones have got eyes mostly speaking, and we look out of em. I endeavoured to appear unconscious and not disquieted, but I saw in his face with poor success. Now I'm not agoing to let myself be run down, Copperfield, he continued, raising that part of his countenance where his red eyebrows would have been if he had had any. With malignant triumph. And I shall do what I can to put a stop to this friendship. I don't approve of it. I don't mind acknowledging to you that I've got rather a grudging disposition and want to keep off all intruders. I ain't going, if I know it, to run the risk of being plotted against. You are always plotting and delude yourself into the belief that everybody else is doing the like. I think, said I, perhaps So, Master Copperfield, he replied. But I've got a motive, as my fellow partner used to say, and I go at it tooth and nail. I mustn't be put upon as an umble person too much. I can't allow people in my way. Really. They must come out of the cart. Master Copperfield. I don't understand. You said. I don't. You though he returned with one of his jerks. I'm astonished at that, Master Copperfield, you being usually so quick. I'll try to be plainer another time. Is that Mr. Maldon on horseback ringing at the gate, sir? It looks like him, I replied as carelessly as I could. Uriah stopped short, put his hands between his great knobs of knees and doubled himself up with laughter. With perfectly silent laughter. Not a sound escaped from him. I was so repelled by his odious behaviour, particularly by this concluding instance, that I turned away without any ceremony and left him doubled up in the middle of the garden like a scarecrow, in want of support. It was not on that evening, but, as I well remember, on the next evening but one which was a Sunday, that I took Agnes to see Dora. I had arranged the visit beforehand with Miss Lavinia, and Agnes was expected to tea. I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety, pride in my dear little betrothed and anxiety that Agnes should like her all the way to Putney. Agnes being inside the stagecoach and I outside, I pictured Dora to myself in every one of the pretty looks I knew so well, now making up my mind that I should like her to look exactly as she looked at such a time, and then doubting whether I should not prefer her looking as she looked at such another time, and almost worrying myself into a fever about it. I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty in any case, but it fell out that I had never seen her look so well. She was not in the drawing room when I presented Agnes to her little aunts, but was shyly keeping out of the way. I knew where to look for her now, and sure enough I found her stopping her ears again behind the same dull old door. At first she wouldn't come at all, and then she pleaded for five minutes by my watch. When at length she put her arm through mine to be taken to the drawing room. Her charming little face was flushed and had never been so pretty. But when we went into the room and it turned pale, she was 10,000 times prettier. Yet Dora was afraid of Agnes. She had told me that she knew Agnes was too clever, but when she saw her looking at once so cheerful and so earnest and so thoughtful and so good. She gave a faint little cry of pleased surprise and just put her affectionate arms round Agnes's neck and laid her innocent cheek against her face. I never was so happy. I never was so pleased as when I saw those two sit down together side by side. As when I saw my little darling look up so naturally to those cordial eyes. As when I saw the tender, beautiful regard which Agnes cast upon her. Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa partook in their way of my joy. It was the pleasantest tea table in the world. Miss Clarissa presided. I cut and handed the sweet seed cake. The little sisters had a bird like fondness for picking up seeds and pecking at sugar. Miss Lavinia looked on with benignant patronage as if our happy love were all her work. And we were perfectly contented with ourselves and one another. The gentle cheerfulness of Agnes went to all their hearts. Her quiet interest in everything that interested Dora, her manner of making acquaintance with Jip, who responded instantly. Her pleasant way when Dora was ashamed to come over to her usual seat by me. Her modest grace and ease eliciting a crowd of blushing little marks of confidence from Dora seemed to make our circle quite complete. I am so glad, said Dora after tea, that you like me. I didn't think you would. And I want more than ever to be liked now Julia Mills is gone. I have omitted to mention it. By the by, Miss Mills had sailed, and Dora and I had gone aboard a great East Indiaman at Gravesend to see her. And we had had preserved ginger and guava and other delicacies of that sort for lunch. And we had left Miss Mills weeping on a camp stool on the quarter deck with a large new diary under her arm in which the original reflections awakened by the contemplation of ocean were to be recorded under lock and key. Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an unpromising character. But Dora corrected that directly. Oh, no, she said, shaking her curls at me. It was all praise. He thinks so much of your opinion that I was quite afraid of it. My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to some people whom he knows, said Agnes with a smile. It is not worth their having. But please let me have it, said Dora in her coaxing way, if you can. We made merry about Dora's wanting to be liked. And Dora said I was a goose and she didn't like me at any rate. And the short evening flew away on gossamer wings. The time was at hand. When the coach was to call for us, I was standing alone before the fire when Dora came stealing softly in to give me that usual precious little kiss before I went. Don't you think if I had had her for a friend a long time ago, Dody, said Dora, her bright eyes shining very brightly and her little right hand idly busying itself with one of the buttons of my coat, I might have been more clever. Perhaps, my love, said I. What nonsense do you think it. Nonsense? Returned Dora, without looking at me. Are you sure it is? Of course I am. I have forgotten, said Dora, still turning the button round and round. What relation Agnes is to you, you dear bad boy. No blood relation, I replied, but we were brought up together like brother and sister. I wonder why you ever fell in love with me, said Dora, beginning on another button of my coat. Perhaps because I couldn't see you and not love you, Dora. Suppose you had never seen me at all, said Dora, going to another button. Suppose we had never been born, said I. Gaily. I wondered what she was thinking about as I glanced in admiring silence at the little soft hand traveling up the row of button on my coat and at the clustering hair that lay against my breast, and at the lashes of her downcast eyes slightly rising as they followed her idle fingers. At length her eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood on tiptoe to give me, more thoughtfully than usual that precious little kiss, once, twice, three times, and went out of the room. They all came back together within five minutes afterwards, and Dora's unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone. Then she was laughingly resolved to put Gyp through the whole of his performances before the coach came. They took some timenot so much on account of their variety as Gyp's reluctance, and were still unfinished when it was heard at the door. There was a hurried but affectionate parting between Agnes and herself, and Dora was to write to Agnes, who was not to mind her letters being foolish, she said, and Agnes was to write to Dora, and they had a second parting at the coach door, and a third when Dora, in spite of the remonstrances of Miss Lavinia, would come running out once more to remind Agnes at the coach window about writing and to shake her curls at me on the box. The stage coach was to put us down near Covent Garden, where we were to take another stage coach for Highgate. I was impatient for the short walk in the interval that Agnes might praise Dora to me. Ah, what praise it was. How lovingly and fervently did it commend the pretty creature I had won with all her artless graces, best displayed to my most gentle care. How thoughtfully remind me, yet with no pretence of doing so, of the trust in which I held the orphan child. Never, never had I loved Dora so deeply and truly as I loved her. That night, when we had again alighted and were walking in the starlight along the quiet road that led to the doctor's house, I told Agnes that it was her doing. When you were sitting by her, said I, you seemed to be no less her guardian angel than mine. And you seem so now, Agnes. A poor angel, she returned, but faithful. The clear tone of her voice, going straight to my heart made it natural to me to say, the cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes, and to no one else that ever I have seen is so restored. I have observed to day that I have begun to hope you are happier at home. I am happier in myself, she said. I am quite cheerful and light hearted. I glanced at the serene face looking upward and thought it was the stars that made it seem so noble. There has been no change at home, said Agnes after a few moments. No fresh reference, said I to I wouldn't distress you, Agnes, but I cannot help asking to what we spoke of when we parted last. No, none, she answered. I have thought so much about it. You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple love and truth at last, have no apprehensions for me. Trotwood, she added after a moment, the step you dread my taking I shall never take. Meaning she'll never marry Uriah. Although I think I had never really feared it in any season of cool reflection. It was an unspeakable relief to me to have this assurance from her own truthful lips. I told her so earnestly. And when this visit is over, said I, for we may not be alone another time. How long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, before you come to London again? Probably a long time, she replied. I think it will be best for papa seek to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often for some time to come, but I shall be a good correspondent of Dora's, and we shall frequently hear of one another that way. We were now within the little courtyard of the doctor's cottage. It was growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs. Strong's chamber, and Agnes, pointing to it, bade me good night. Do not be troubled, she said, giving you her hand. By our misfortunes and anxieties, I can be happier in nothing than in your happiness. If you can ever give me help, rely upon it, I will ask you for it. God bless you always. In her beaming smile, and in these last tones of her cheerful voice, I seemed again to see and hear my little Dora in her company. I stood awhile looking through the porch at the stars, with a heart full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly forth. I had engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was going out at the gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw a light in the doctor's study. A half reproachful fancy came into my mind that he had been working at the dictionary without my help, with the view of seeing if this were so, and in any case of bidding him good night if he were yet sitting among his books. I turned back, and going softly across the hall, and gently opening the door, looked in. The first person whom I saw, to my surprise by the sober light of the shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, with one of his skeleton hands over his mouth and the other resting on the doctor's table. The doctor sat in his study chair, covering his face with his hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning forward, irresolutely touching the doctor's arm. For an instant I supposed that the doctor was ill. I hastily advanced a step under that impression. When I met Uriah's eye and saw what was the matter, I would have withdrawn, but the doctor made a gesture to detain me, and I remained. At any rate, observed Uriah with a writhe of his ungainly person, we may keep the door shut we needn't make it known to all the town. Saying which, he went on his toes to the door which I had left open, and carefully closed it. He then came back and took up his former position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zeal in his voice and manner, more intolerable, at least to me, than any demeanour he could have assumed. I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield, said Uriah, to point out to Dr. Strong what you and me have already talked about. You didn't exactly understand me, though. I gave him a look, but no other answer, and, going to my good old master, said a few words that I meant to be words of comfort and encouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulder, as it had been his custom to do when I was quite a little fellow, but did not lift his gray head. As you didn't understand me, Master Copperfield, resumed Uriah, in the same officious manner I may take the liberty of humbly mentioning, being among friends, that I have called Dr. Strong's attention to the goings on of Mrs. Strong. It's much against the grain with me, I assure you, Copperfield, to be considered concerned in anything so unpleasant. But really as it is, we're all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn't to be. That was what my meaning was, sir, when you didn't understand me. I wonder now when I recall his leer, that I did not collar him and try to shake the breath out of his body. I dare say I didn't make myself very clear, he went on. Nor you neither. Naturally we was both of us inclined to give such a subject a wide berth. House. However, at last I have made up my mind to speak plain. And I have mentioned to Dr. Strong that. Did you speak, sir, this was to the doctor who had moaned. The sound might have touched any heart, I thought, but it had no effect upon uriah's mentioned to Dr. Strong. He proceeded that any one may see that Mr. Malden and the lovely and agreeable lady as is Dr. Strong's wife are too sweet on one another. Really the time is come, we being at present all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn't to be, when Dr. Strong must be told that this was full as plain to everybody as the sun before Mr. Malden went to India, that Mr. Malden made excuses to come back for nothing else, and that he's always here for nothing else. When you come in, sir, I was just putting it to my fellow partner towards whom he turned to say to Dr. Strong, upon his word and honour, whether he'd ever been of this opinion long ago or not. Come, Mr. Wickfield, sir, would you be so good as to tell us yes or no, sir? Come, partner. For God's sake. My dear doctor, said Mr. Wickfield again, laying his irresolute hand upon the doctor's arm. Don't attach too much weight to any suspicions I may have entertained there. Cried Uriah, shaking his head. What a melancholy confirmation, ain't it? Him such an old friend. Bless your soul, when I was nothing but a clerk in his office, Copperfield, I've seen him 20 times if I've seen him once. Quite in a taking about it. Quite put out, you know. And very proper in him as a father, I'm sure I can't blame him to think that Miss Agnes was mixing herself up with what oughtn't to be. My dear strong, said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice. My good Friend, I needn't tell you that it has been my vice to look for some one master motive in everybody and to try all actions by one narrow test. I may have fallen into such doubts as I have had through this mistake. You have had doubts, Wickfield, said the doctor without lifting up his head. You have had doubts. Speak up, fellow partner, urged Uriah. I had at one time. Certainly, said Mr. Wickfield. I. God forgive me, I thought you had. No, no, no, returned the doctor in a tone of most pathetic grief. I thought at one time, said Mr. Wickfield, that you wished to send Malden abroad to effect a desirable separation. No, no, no, returned the doctor, to give Annie pleasure by making some provision for the companion of her childhood. Nothing else. So I found, said Mr. Wickfield. I couldn't doubt it when you told me so, but I thought. I implore you to remember the narrow construction which has been my besetting sin, that in a case where there was so much disparity in point of years. Meaning he assumed that Mrs. Strong and Jack Malden were lovers because Dr. Strong is so much older than Mrs. Strong. That's the way to put it. You see, Master Copperfield, observed Uriah with fawning and offensive pity, A lady of such youth and such attractions, however real her respect for you, might have been influenced in marrying by worldly considerations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelings and circumstances that may have all tended to. Good. For heaven's sake, remember that. How kind he puts it, said Uriah, shaking his head. Always observing her from one point of view, said Mr. Wickfield. But by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I entreat you to consider what it was. I am forced to confess now, having no escape. No, there is no way out of it. Mr. Wickfield, sir, observed Uriah, when it's got to this. That I did, said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and distractedly at his partner, that I did doubt her and think her wanting in her duty to you. And that I did sometimes, if I must say all, feel averse to Agnes being in such a familiar relation towards her as to see what I saw, or in my diseased theory, fancied that I saw. I never mentioned this to anyone. I never meant it to be known to anyone. And though it is terrible to you to hear, said Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued, if you knew how terrible it is for me to tell, you would feel compassion for me. The doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out his hand. Mr. Wickfield held it for a little while in his with with his head bowed down. I am sure, said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence like a conger eel, that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to everybody. But since we have got so far, I ought to take the liberty of mentioning that Copperfield has noticed it too. I turned upon him and asked him how he dared refer to me. Oh, it's very kind of you, Copperfield returned Uriah, undulating all over. And we all know what an amiable character yours is. But you know that the moment I spoke to you the other night, you knew what I meant. You know you knew what I meant. Copperfield, don't deny it. You deny it with the best intentions, but don't do it. Copperfield. I saw the mild eye of the good old doctor turned upon me for a moment and I felt that the confession of my old misgivings and remembrances was too plainly written in my face to be overlooked. It was of no use raging. I could not undo that, say what I would, I could not unsay it. We were silent again and remained so until the doctor rose and walked twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to where his chair stood and leaning on the back of it and occasionally putting his handkerchief to his eyes with a simple honesty that did him more honour to my thinking than any disguise he could have affected, said I, I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to blame. I have exposed one whom I hold in my heart to trials and aspersions, I call them aspersions even to have been conceived in anybody's inmost mind, of which she never, but for me, could have been the object. Meaning Dr. Strong blames himself for being oblivious because if he hadn't been, then he could have put a stop to what was going on between his wife and Mr. Malden, or even not married Mrs. Strong in the film First Place so that she could have married Malden. Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel, I think, to express sympathy, of which my Annie, said the doctor, never, but for me, could have been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as you know. I do not feel to night that I have much to live for, but my life, my life upon the truth and honour of the dear lady who has been the subject of this conversation. I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the realization of the handsomest and most romantic figure ever imagined by painter could have said this with a more impressive and affecting dignity than the Plain old doctor did. But I am not prepared, he went on, to deny. Perhaps I may have been, without knowing it in some degree, prepared to admit that I may have unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappy marriage. I am a man quite unaccustomed to observe, and I cannot but believe that the observation of several people of different ages and positions all too plainly tending in one direction, and that so natural his better than mine. I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his benignant manner towards his youthful wife. But the respectful tenderness he manifested in every reference to her on this occasion, and the almost reverential manner in which he put away from him the lightest doubt of her integrity exalted him in my eyes beyond description. I married that lady, said the doctor, when she was extremely young. I took her to myself when her character was scarcely formed so far as it was developed, it had been my happiness to form it. I knew her father well. I knew her well. I had taught her what I could for the love of all her beautiful and virtuous qualities. If I did her wrong, as I fear I did in taking advantage, but I never meant it, of her gratitude and her affection, I ask pardon of that lady in my heart. He walked across the room and came back to the same place, holding the chair with a grasp that trembled like his subdued voice. In its earnestness. I regarded myself as a refuge for her from the dangers and vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal though we were in years, she would live tranquilly and contentedly with me. I did not shut out of my consideration the time when I should leave her free and still young and still beautiful, but with her judgment more matured. No, gentlemen, upon my truth. His homely figure seemed to be lighted up by his fidelity and generosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no other grace could have imparted to it. My life with this lady has been very happy until to night. I have had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her great injustice. His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of these words, stopped for a few moments, and then he went. Once awakened from my dream. I have been a poor dreamer in one way or other all my life. I see how natural it is that she should have some regretful feeling toward her old companion and her equal. That she does regard him with some innocent regret, with some blameless thoughts of what might have been. But for me is, I fear, too true. Much that I have seen but not noted, has come back upon me with new meaning during this last trying hour. But beyond this, gentlemen, the dear lady's name never must be coupled with a word, a breath of doubt. For a little while his eye kindled and his voice was firm. For a little while he was again silent. Presently he proceeded as before. It only remains for me to bear the knowledge of the unhappiness I have occasioned as submissively as I can. It is she who should reproach not I, to save her from misconstruction. Cruel misconstruction that even my friends have not been able to avoid, becomes my duty. The more retired we live, the better I shall discharge it. And when the time comes, may it come soon, if it be his merciful pleasure, when my death shall release her from constraint, I shall close my eyes upon her honoured face with unbounded confidence and love, and leave her with no sorrow then to happier and brighter days. Meaning he doesn't blame her at all. And his only wish now is to shield her from people's bad opinion and hope that he dies soon, so that she can marry again. I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness and goodness so adorned by and so adorning the perfect simplicity of his manner, brought into my eyes. He had moved to the door when he added, gentlemen, I have shown you my heart. I am sure you will respect it. What we have said to night is never to be said more. Wickfield, give me an old friend's arm. Upstairs, Mr. Wickfield hastened to him without interchanging a word. They went slowly out of the room together, Uriah looking after them. Well, Master Copperfield, said Uriah meekly, turning to me, the thing hasn't took quite the turn that might have been expected for the old scholar. What an excellent man is as blind as a brickbat. But this family's out of the cart. I think I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly enraged as I never was before and never have been since. You villain, said I, what do you mean by entrapping me into your schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now, you false rascal. As if we had been in discussion together. As we stood front to front, I saw so plainly in the stealthy exultation of his face what I already so plainly knew. I mean, that he forced his confidence upon me expressly to make me miserable, and had set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter that I couldn't bear it. The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly before me, and I struck it with my open hand, with that force that my fingers tingled as if I had burnt them. He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connection, looking at each other. We stood so long a timelong enough for me to see the white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of his cheek and leave it a deeper red. Copperfield, he said at length in a breathless voice, have you taken leave of your senses? I have taken leave of you, said I, resting my hand. Away, you dog, I'll know no more of you. Won't you? Said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek to put his hand there. Perhaps you won't be able to help it. Isn't that ungrateful of you now? I have shown you often enough, said I, that I despise you. I have shown you now more plainly that I do. Why should I dread your doing your worst? To all about you, what else do you ever do? He perfectly understood this allusion to the considerations that had hitherto restrained me in my communications with him. I rather think that neither the blow nor the allusion would have escaped me but for the assurance I had from Agnes that night. Meaning he now knows that Agnes will never marry Uriah, so he doesn't have to tiptoe around Uriah anymore. It is no matter. There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at me, seemed to take every shade of color that could make eyes ugly. Copperfield, he said, removing his hand from his cheek, you have always gone against me. I know you always used to be against me at Mr. Wickfield's. You may think what you like, said I in a towering rage, if it is not true, so much the worthier you. And yet I always liked you, Copperfield, he rejoined. I deigned to make him no reply, and taking up my hat, was going out to bed when he came between me and the door. Copperfield, he said, there must be two parties to quarrel. I won't be one. You may go to the devil, said I. Don't say that, he replied. I know you'll be sorry afterwards. How can you make yourself so inferior to me as to show such a bad spirit? But I forgive you. You forgive me? I repeated disdainfully. I do, and you can't help yourself, replied Uriah. To think of your going and attacking me. That have always been a friend to you. But there can't be a quarrel without two parties, and I won't be one. I will be a friend to you in spite of you. So now you know what you've got to expect. The necessity of carrying on this dialogue, his part in which was very slow, mine very quick, in a low tone. That the house might not be disturbed at an unseasonable hour did not improve my temper, though my passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I should expect from him what I always had expected and had never yet been disappointed in. I opened the door upon him as if he had been a great walnut put there to be cracked, and went out of the house. But he slept out of the house too, at his mother's lodging and before I had gone many hundred yards, came up with me. You know, Copperfield, he said in my ear. I did not turn my head. You're in quite a wrong position, which I felt to be true, and that made me chafe the more. You can't make this a brave thing, and you can't help being forgiven. I don't intend to mention it to Mother, nor to any living soul. I am determined to forgive you. But I do wonder that you should lift your hand against a person that you know to be so humble. I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I knew myself. If he had retorted or openly exasperated me, it would have been a relief and a justification. But he had put me on a slow fire on which I lay tormented half the night. In the morning when I came out, the early church bell was ringing and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressed me as if nothing had happened and I could no less than reply. I had struck him hard enough to give him the toothache, I suppose, at all events, his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief which, with his hat perched on the top of it, was far from improving his appearance. I heard that he went to a dentist's in London on the Monday morning and had a tooth out. I hope it was a double one. The doctor gave out that he was not quite well and remained alone for a considerable part of every day. During the remainder of the visit, Agnes and her father had been gone a week before. We resumed our usual work. On the day preceding its resumption, the doctor gave me with his own hands a folded note, not sealed. It was addressed to myself and laid an injunction on me, in a few affectionate words never to refer to the subject of that evening. I had confided it to my aunt, but to no one else. It was not a subject I could discuss with Agnes, and Agnes certainly had not the least suspicion of what had passed. Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong. Then several weeks elapsed before I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly, like a cloud when there is no wind. At first she seemed to wonder at the gentle compassion with which the doctor spoke to her. And at his wish that she should have her mother with her to relieve the dull monotony of her life. Often when we were at work and she was sitting by, I would see her pausing and looking at him with that memorable face. Afterwards I sometimes observed her rise with her eyes full of tears and go out of the room. Gradually an unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty and deepened every day. Mrs. Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage then, but she talked and talked and saw nothing. Remember, Mrs. Markleham is Mrs. Strong's mother. As this change stole on Annie once, like sunshine in the doctor's house, the doctor became older in appearance and more grave. But the sweetness of his temper, the placid kindness of his manner, and his benevolent solicitude for her, if they were capable of any increase, were increased. I saw him once, early on the morning of her birthday, when she came to sit in the window while we were at work, which she had always done, but now began to do with a timid and uncertain air that I thought very touching, and take her forehead between his hands, kiss it, and go hurriedly away. Too much moved to remain. I saw her stand where he had left her like a statue, and then bend down her head and clasp her hands and weep. I cannot say how sorrowfully. Sometimes after that I fancied that she tried to speak even to me in intervals when we were left alone. But she never uttered a word. The doctor always had some new project for her. Participating in amusements away from home with her mother. And Mrs. Markleham, who was very fond of amusements and very easily dissatisfied with anything else, entered into them with great good will and was loud in her commendations. But Annie, in a spiritless, unhappy way, only went whither she was led and seemed to have no care for anything. I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt, who must have walked at various times a hundred miles in her uncertainty. What was strangest of all was that the only real relief which seemed to make its way into the secret region of this domestic unhappiness made its way there in the person of Mr. Dick. What his thoughts were on the subject or what his observation was I am as unable to explain as I dare say he would have been to assist me in the task. But, as I have recorded in the narrative of my Schooldays. His veneration for the Doctor was unbounded. And there is a subtlety of perception in real attachment, even when it is borne towards man by one of the lower animals, which leaves the highest intellect behind. To this mind of the heart, if I may call it so, in Mr. Dick some bright ray of the truth shot straight. He had proudly resumed his privilege in many of his spare hours of walking up and down the garden with the doctor, as he had been accustomed to pace up and down the Doctor's walk at Canterbury. But matters were no sooner in this state than he devoted all his spare time and got up earlier to make it more to these perambulations. If he had never been so happy as when the Doctor read that marvellous performance, the dictionary to him, he was now quite miserable unless the Doctor pulled it out of his pocket and began. When the Doctor and I were engaged, he now fell into the custom of walking up and down with Mrs. Strong and helping her to trim her favorite flowers or weed the beds heads. I dare say he rarely spoke a dozen words in an hour, but his quiet interest and his wistful face found immediate response in both their breasts. Each knew that the other liked him and that he loved both, and he became what no one else could be, a link between them. When I think of him with his impenetrably wise face, walking up and down with the Doctor, delighted to be battered by the hard words in the dictionary, when I think of him carrying huge watering pots after Annie, kneeling down in very paws of gloves at patient microscopic work among the little leaves, expressing as no philosopher could have expressed in everything he did, a delicate desire to be her friend, showering sympathy, trustfulness, and affection out of every hole in the watering pot. When I think of him never wandering in that better mind of his, to which unhappiness addressed itself itself, never bringing the unfortunate King Charles into the garden, never wavering in his grateful service, never diverted from his knowledge that there was something wrong or from his wish to set it right. I really feel almost ashamed of having known that he was not quite in his wits, taking account of the utmost I have done with mine. Nobody but myself trot knows what that man is, my aunt would proudly remark when we conversed about it. Dick will distinguish himself yet. I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. While the visit at the doctor's was still in progress, I observed that the postman brought two or three letters every morning for Uriah Heep, who remained at Highgate until the rest went back. It being a leisure time, and that these were always directed in a business like manner by Mr. Micawber, who now assumed a round legal hand, I was glad to infer from these slight premises that Mr. Micawber was doing well and consequently was much surprised to receive about this time the following letter from his amiable wife. Canterbury, Monday evening. You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to receive this communication, still more so by its contents, still more so by the stipulation of implicit confidence which I beg to imply pose. But my feelings as a wife and mother require relief. And as I do not wish to consult my family, already obnoxious to the feelings of Mr. Micawber, I know no one of whom I can better ask advice than my friend and former lodger. You may be aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that between myself and Mr. Micawber, whom I will never desert, there has always been preserved a spirit of mutual confidence. Mr. Micawber may have occasionally given a bill without consulting me, or he may have misled me as to the period when the obligation would become due. This has actually happened. But in general, Mr. Micawber has had no secrets from the bosom of affection I allude to his wife and has invariably, on our retirement to rest, recalled the events of the day. You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperfield, what the poignancy of my feelings must be when I inform you that that Mr. Micawber is entirely changed. He is reserved, he is secret, his life is a mystery to the partner of his joys and sorrows. I again allude to his wife. And if I should assure you that beyond knowing that it is passed from morning to night at the office, I now know less of it than I do of the man in the south connected with whose mouth the thoughtless children repeat an idle tale respecting cold plum porridge, I should adopt a popular fallacy to express an actual fact. But that is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose, he is severe. He is estranged from our eldest son and daughter. He has no pride in his twins. He looks with an eye of coldness even on the unoffending stranger who last became a member of our circle. The pecuniary means of meeting our expenses, kept down to the utmost farthing, are obtained from him with great difficulty and even under fearful threats, that he will settle himself the exact expression. And he inexorably refuses to give any explanation whatever for this distracting policy. This is hard to bear. This is heartbreaking. If you will advise me, knowing my feeble powers, such as they are how you think it will be best to exert them. In a dilemma so unwonted you will add another friendly obligation to the many you have already rendered me. With loves from the children and a smile from the happily unconscious stranger, I remain. Dear Mr. Copperfield, your afflicted Emma Macabre I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Macawer's experience any other recommendation than that she should try to reclaim Mr. Macawer by patience and kindness, as I knew she would in any case. But the letter set me thinking about him very much. Foreign 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, faithkmore.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. Sam.