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

covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne; I put them on the gridiron, turned them with a fork, and took them off, under Mr. Micawber’s direction; and Mrs. Micawber heated, and continually stirred, some mushroom ketchup in a little saucepan. When we had slices enough done to begin upon, we fell-to, with our sleeves still tucked up at the wrist, more slices sputtering and blazing on the fire, and our attention divided between the mutton on our plates, and the mutton then preparing.

What with the novelty of this cookery, the excellence of it, the bustle of it, the frequent starting up to look after it, the frequent sitting down to dispose of it as the crisp slices came off the gridiron hot and hot, the being so busy, so flushed with the fire, so amused, and in the midst of such a tempting noise and savour, we reduced the leg of mutton to the bone. My own appetite came back miraculously. I am ashamed to record it, but I really believe I forgot Dora for a little while. I am satisfied that Mr. and Mrs. Micawber could not have enjoyed the feast more, if they had sold a bed to provide it. Traddles laughed as heartily, almost the whole time, as he ate and worked. Indeed we all did, all at once; and I dare say there was never a greater success.

We were at the height of our enjoyment, and were all busily engaged, in our several departments, endeavouring to bring the last batch of slices to a state of perfection that should crown the feast, when I was aware of a strange presence in the room, and my eyes encountered those of the staid Littimer, standing hat in hand before me.

“What’s the matter?” I involuntarily asked.

“I beg your pardon, sir, I was directed to come in. Is my master not here, sir?”

“No.”

“Have you not seen him, sir?”

“No; don’t you come from him?”

“Not immediately so, sir.”

“Did he tell you you would find him here?”

“Not exactly so, sir. But I should think he might be here tomorrow, as he has not been here today.”

“Is he coming up from Oxford?”

“I beg, sir,” he returned respectfully, “that you will be seated, and allow me to do this.” With which he took the fork from my unresisting hand, and bent over the gridiron, as if his whole attention were concentrated on it.

We should not have been much discomposed, I dare say, by the appearance of Steerforth himself, but we became in a moment the meekest of the meek before his respectable serving-man. Mr. Micawber, humming a tune, to show that he was quite at ease, subsided into his chair, with the handle of a hastily concealed fork sticking out of the bosom of his coat, as if he had stabbed himself. Mrs. Micawber put on her brown gloves, and assumed a genteel languor. Traddles ran his greasy hands through his hair, and stood it bolt upright, and stared in confusion on the tablecloth. As for me, I was a mere infant at the head of my own table; and hardly ventured to glance at the respectable phenomenon, who had come from Heaven knows where, to put my establishment to rights.

Meanwhile he took the mutton off the gridiron, and gravely handed it round. We all took some, but our appreciation of it was gone, and we merely made a show of eating it. As we severally pushed away our plates, he noiselessly removed them, and set on the cheese. He took that off, too, when it was done with; cleared the table; piled everything on the dumbwaiter; gave us our wineglasses; and, of his own accord, wheeled the dumbwaiter into the pantry. All this was done in a perfect manner, and he never raised his eyes from what he was about. Yet his very elbows, when he had his back towards me, seemed to teem with the expression of his fixed opinion that I was extremely young.

“Can I do anything more, sir?”

I thanked him and said, No; but would he take no dinner himself?

“None, I am obliged to you, sir.”

“Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?”

“I should imagine that he might be here tomorrow, sir. I rather thought he might have been here today, sir. The mistake is mine, no doubt, sir.”

“If you should see him first⁠—” said I.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I don’t think I shall see him first.”

“In case you do,” said I, “pray say that I am sorry he was not here today, as an old schoolfellow of his was here.”

“Indeed, sir!” and he divided a bow between me and Traddles, with a glance at the latter.

He was moving softly to the door, when, in a forlorn hope of saying something naturally⁠—which I never could, to this man⁠—I said:

“Oh! Littimer!”

“Sir!”

“Did you remain long at Yarmouth, that time?”

“Not particularly so, sir.”

“You saw the boat completed?”

“Yes, sir. I remained behind on purpose to see the boat completed.”

“I know!” He raised his eyes to mine respectfully.

“Mr. Steerforth has not seen it yet, I suppose?”

“I really can’t say, sir. I think⁠—but I really can’t say, sir. I wish you good night, sir.”

He comprehended everybody present, in the respectful bow with which he followed these words, and disappeared. My visitors seemed to breathe more freely when he was gone; but my own relief was very great, for besides the constraint, arising from that extraordinary sense of being at a disadvantage which I always had in this man’s presence, my conscience had embarrassed me with whispers that I had mistrusted his master, and I could not repress a vague uneasy dread that he might find it out. How was it, having so little in reality to conceal, that I always did feel as if this man were finding me out?

Mr. Micawber roused me from this reflection, which was blended with a certain remorseful apprehension of seeing Steerforth himself, by bestowing many encomiums on the absent Littimer as a most respectable fellow, and a thoroughly admirable servant. Mr. Micawber, I