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

much pain and sorrow, and have sometimes referred to my old apprehension⁠—at other times to lingering suppositions nearer to the truth⁠—has been made clear tonight; and by an accident I have also come to know, tonight, the full measure of your noble trust in me, even under that mistake. I do not hope that any love and duty I may render in return, will ever make me worthy of your priceless confidence; but with all this knowledge fresh upon me, I can lift my eyes to this dear face, revered as a father’s, loved as a husband’s, sacred to me in my childhood as a friend’s, and solemnly declare that in my lightest thought I have never wronged you; never wavered in the love and the fidelity I owe you!”

She had her arms around the Doctor’s neck, and he leant his head down over her, mingling his grey hair with her dark brown tresses.

“Oh, hold me to your heart, my husband! Never cast me out! Do not think or speak of disparity between us, for there is none, except in all my many imperfections. Every succeeding year I have known this better, as I have esteemed you more and more. Oh, take me to your heart, my husband, for my love was founded on a rock, and it endures!”

In the silence that ensued, my aunt walked gravely up to Mr. Dick, without at all hurrying herself, and gave him a hug and a sounding kiss. And it was very fortunate, with a view to his credit, that she did so; for I am confident that I detected him at that moment in the act of making preparations to stand on one leg, as an appropriate expression of delight.

“You are a very remarkable man, Dick!” said my aunt, with an air of unqualified approbation; “and never pretend to be anything else, for I know better!”

With that, my aunt pulled him by the sleeve, and nodded to me; and we three stole quietly out of the room, and came away.

“That’s a settler for our military friend, at any rate,” said my aunt, on the way home. “I should sleep the better for that, if there was nothing else to be glad of!”

“She was quite overcome, I am afraid,” said Mr. Dick, with great commiseration.

“What! Did you ever see a crocodile overcome?” inquired my aunt.

“I don’t think I ever saw a crocodile,” returned Mr. Dick, mildly.

“There never would have been anything the matter, if it hadn’t been for that old Animal,” said my aunt, with strong emphasis. “It’s very much to be wished that some mothers would leave their daughters alone after marriage, and not be so violently affectionate. They seem to think the only return that can be made them for bringing an unfortunate young woman into the world⁠—God bless my soul, as if she asked to be brought, or wanted to come!⁠—is full liberty to worry her out of it again. What are you thinking of, Trot?”

I was thinking of all that had been said. My mind was still running on some of the expressions used. “There can be no disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.” “The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.” “My love was founded on a rock.” But we were at home; and the trodden leaves were lying underfoot, and the autumn wind was blowing.

XLVI Intelligence

I must have been married, if I may trust to my imperfect memory for dates, about a year or so, when one evening, as I was returning from a solitary walk, thinking of the book I was then writing⁠—for my success had steadily increased with my steady application, and I was engaged at that time upon my first work of fiction⁠—I came past Mrs. Steerforth’s house. I had often passed it before, during my residence in that neighbourhood, though never when I could choose another road. Howbeit, it did sometimes happen that it was not easy to find another, without making a long circuit; and so I had passed that way, upon the whole, pretty often.

I had never done more than glance at the house, as I went by with a quickened step. It had been uniformly gloomy and dull. None of the best rooms abutted on the road; and the narrow, heavily-framed old-fashioned windows, never cheerful under any circumstances, looked very dismal, close shut, and with their blinds always drawn down. There was a covered way across a little paved court, to an entrance that was never used; and there was one round staircase window, at odds with all the rest, and the only one unshaded by a blind, which had the same unoccupied blank look. I do not remember that I ever saw a light in all the house. If I had been a casual passerby, I should have probably supposed that some childless person lay dead in it. If I had happily possessed no knowledge of the place, and had seen it often in that changeless state, I should have pleased my fancy with many ingenious speculations, I dare say.

As it was, I thought as little of it as I might. But my mind could not go by it and leave it, as my body did; and it usually awakened a long train of meditations. Coming before me, on this particular evening that I mention, mingled with the childish recollections and later fancies, the ghosts of half-formed hopes, the broken shadows of disappointments dimly seen and understood, the blending of experience and imagination, incidental to the occupation with which my thoughts had been busy, it was more than commonly suggestive. I fell into a brown study as I walked on, and a voice at my side made me start.

It was a woman’s voice, too. I was not long in recollecting Mrs. Steerforth’s little parlourmaid, who had formerly worn blue ribbons in her cap. She had taken them out now, to adapt herself, I suppose, to the altered character of the house; and wore but one