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

put a constraint upon his head; but his keeping that immovable, and sitting rolling his eyes like a piece of machinery, did not mend the matter at all. I saw him look at the loaf at supper (which happened to be a small one), as if nothing else stood between us and famine; and when my aunt insisted on his making his customary repast, I detected him in the act of pocketing fragments of his bread and cheese; I have no doubt for the purpose of reviving us with those savings, when we should have reached an advanced stage of attenuation.

My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of mind, which was a lesson to all of us⁠—to me, I am sure. She was extremely gracious to Peggotty, except when I inadvertently called her by that name; and, strange as I knew she felt in London, appeared quite at home. She was to have my bed, and I was to lie in the sitting room, to keep guard over her. She made a great point of being so near the river, in case of a conflagration; and I suppose really did find some satisfaction in that circumstance.

“Trot, my dear,” said my aunt, when she saw me making preparations for compounding her usual night-draught, “No!”

“Nothing, aunt?”

“Not wine, my dear. Ale.”

“But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it made of wine.”

“Keep that, in case of sickness,” said my aunt. “We mustn’t use it carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.”

I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My aunt being resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it was growing late, Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that opportunity of repairing to the chandler’s shop together. I parted from him, poor fellow, at the corner of the street, with his great kite at his back, a very monument of human misery.

My aunt was walking up and down the room when I returned, crimping the borders of her nightcap with her fingers. I warmed the ale and made the toast on the usual infallible principles. When it was ready for her, she was ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the skirt of her gown turned back on her knees.

“My dear,” said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; “it’s a great deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.”

I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added:

“Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us, we are well off.”

“I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,” said I.

“Well, then, why don’t you think so?” said my aunt.

“Because you and I are very different people,” I returned.

“Stuff and nonsense, Trot!” replied my aunt.

My aunt went on with a quiet enjoyment, in which there was very little affectation, if any; drinking the warm ale with a teaspoon, and soaking her strips of toast in it.

“Trot,” said she, “I don’t care for strange faces in general, but I rather like that Barkis of yours, do you know!”

“It’s better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!” said I.

“It’s a most extraordinary world,” observed my aunt, rubbing her nose; “how that woman ever got into it with that name, is unaccountable to me. It would be much more easy to be born a Jackson, or something of that sort, one would think.”

“Perhaps she thinks so, too; it’s not her fault,” said I.

“I suppose not,” returned my aunt, rather grudging the admission; “but it’s very aggravating. However, she’s Barkis now. That’s some comfort. Barkis is uncommonly fond of you, Trot.”

“There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it,” said I.

“Nothing, I believe,” returned my aunt. “Here, the poor fool has been begging and praying about handing over some of her money⁠—because she has got too much of it. A simpleton!”

My aunt’s tears of pleasure were positively trickling down into the warm ale.

“She’s the most ridiculous creature that ever was born,” said my aunt. “I knew, from the first moment when I saw her with that poor dear blessed baby of a mother of yours, that she was the most ridiculous of mortals. But there are good points in Barkis!”

Affecting to laugh, she got an opportunity of putting her hand to her eyes. Having availed herself of it, she resumed her toast and her discourse together.

“Ah! Mercy upon us!” sighed my aunt. “I know all about it, Trot! Barkis and myself had quite a gossip while you were out with Dick. I know all about it. I don’t know where these wretched girls expect to go to, for my part. I wonder they don’t knock out their brains against⁠—against mantelpieces,” said my aunt; an idea which was probably suggested to her by her contemplation of mine.

“Poor Emily!” said I.

“Oh, don’t talk to me about poor,” returned my aunt. “She should have thought of that, before she caused so much misery! Give me a kiss, Trot. I am sorry for your early experience.”

As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to detain me, and said:

“Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?”

“Fancy, aunt!” I exclaimed, as red as I could be. “I adore her with my whole soul!”

“Dora, indeed!” returned my aunt. “And you mean to say the little thing is very fascinating, I suppose?”

“My dear aunt,” I replied, “no one can form the least idea what she is!”

“Ah! And not silly?” said my aunt.

“Silly, aunt!”

I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single moment, to consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea, of course; but I was in a manner struck by it, as a new one altogether.

“Not lightheaded?” said my aunt.

“Lightheaded, aunt!” I could only repeat this daring speculation with the same kind of feeling with which I had repeated the preceding question.

“Well, well!” said my aunt. “I only ask. I don’t depreciate her. Poor little couple! And so you think you were formed for one another, and are to