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

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 birdlike 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 campstool on the quarterdeck, 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, Doady,” 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 is 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 travelling up the row of buttons 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 Jip through the whole of his performances, before the coach came. They took some time (not so much on account of their variety, as Jip’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 stagecoach was to put us down near Covent Garden, where we were to take another stagecoach 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 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 today, that I have begun to hope you are happier at home?”

“I am