David Copperfield, Charles Dickens [best historical fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

with an apologetic air. “Mr. Copperfield is at present in forty-four, sir.”

“And what the devil do you mean,” retorted Steerforth, “by putting Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?”

“Why, you see we wasn’t aware, sir,” returned the waiter, still apologetically, “as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We can give Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, sir, if it would be preferred. Next you, sir.”

“Of course it would be preferred,” said Steerforth. “And do it at once.” The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steerforth, very much amused at my having been put into forty-four, laughed again, and clapped me on the shoulder again, and invited me to breakfast with him next morning at ten o’clock⁠—an invitation I was only too proud and happy to accept. It being now pretty late, we took our candles and went upstairs, where we parted with friendly heartiness at his door, and where I found my new room a great improvement on my old one, it not being at all musty, and having an immense four-post bedstead in it, which was quite a little landed estate. Here, among pillows enough for six, I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed of ancient Rome, Steerforth, and friendship, until the early morning coaches, rumbling out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and the gods.

XX Steerforth’s Home

When the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o’clock, and informed me that my shaving-water was outside, I felt severely the having no occasion for it, and blushed in my bed. The suspicion that she laughed too, when she said it, preyed upon my mind all the time I was dressing; and gave me, I was conscious, a sneaking and guilty air when I passed her on the staircase, as I was going down to breakfast. I was so sensitively aware, indeed, of being younger than I could have wished, that for some time I could not make up my mind to pass her at all, under the ignoble circumstances of the case; but, hearing her there with a broom, stood peeping out of window at King Charles on horseback, surrounded by a maze of hackney-coaches, and looking anything but regal in a drizzling rain and a dark-brown fog, until I was admonished by the waiter that the gentleman was waiting for me.

It was not in the coffee room that I found Steerforth expecting me, but in a snug private apartment, red-curtained and Turkey-carpeted, where the fire burnt bright, and a fine hot breakfast was set forth on a table covered with a clean cloth; and a cheerful miniature of the room, the fire, the breakfast, Steerforth, and all, was shining in the little round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather bashful at first, Steerforth being so self-possessed, and elegant, and superior to me in all respects (age included); but his easy patronage soon put that to rights, and made me quite at home. I could not enough admire the change he had wrought in the Golden Cross; or compare the dull forlorn state I had held yesterday, with this morning’s comfort and this morning’s entertainment. As to the waiter’s familiarity, it was quenched as if it had never been. He attended on us, as I may say, in sackcloth and ashes.

“Now, Copperfield,” said Steerforth, when we were alone, “I should like to hear what you are doing, and where you are going, and all about you. I feel as if you were my property.” Glowing with pleasure to find that he had still this interest in me, I told him how my aunt had proposed the little expedition that I had before me, and whither it tended.

“As you are in no hurry, then,” said Steerforth, “come home with me to Highgate, and stay a day or two. You will be pleased with my mother⁠—she is a little vain and prosy about me, but that you can forgive her⁠—and she will be pleased with you.”

“I should like to be as sure of that, as you are kind enough to say you are,” I answered, smiling.

“Oh!” said Steerforth, “everyone who likes me, has a claim on her that is sure to be acknowledged.”

“Then I think I shall be a favourite,” said I.

“Good!” said Steerforth. “Come and prove it. We will go and see the lions for an hour or two⁠—it’s something to have a fresh fellow like you to show them to, Copperfield⁠—and then we’ll journey out to Highgate by the coach.”

I could hardly believe but that I was in a dream, and that I should wake presently in number forty-four, to the solitary box in the coffee room and the familiar waiter again. After I had written to my aunt and told her of my fortunate meeting with my admired old schoolfellow, and my acceptance of his invitation, we went out in a hackney-chariot, and saw a Panorama and some other sights, and took a walk through the Museum, where I could not help observing how much Steerforth knew, on an infinite variety of subjects, and of how little account he seemed to make his knowledge.

“You’ll take a high degree at college, Steerforth,” said I, “if you have not done so already; and they will have good reason to be proud of you.”

“I take a degree!” cried Steerforth. “Not I! my dear Daisy⁠—will you mind my calling you Daisy?”

“Not at all!” said I.

“That’s a good fellow! My dear Daisy,” said Steerforth, laughing. “I have not the least desire or intention to distinguish myself in that way. I have done quite sufficient for my purpose. I find that I am heavy company enough for myself as I am.”

“But the fame⁠—” I was beginning.

“You romantic Daisy!” said Steerforth, laughing still more heartily: “why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands? Let them do it at some other man. There’s fame for him, and he’s welcome to it.”

I was abashed at having made so great a