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

enthralled him,” said Mrs. Micawber, “and of commencing a new career in a country where there is sufficient range for his abilities⁠—which, in my opinion, is exceedingly important; Mr. Micawber’s abilities peculiarly requiring space⁠—it seems to me that my family should signalize the occasion by coming forward. What I could wish to see, would be a meeting between Mr. Micawber and my family at a festive entertainment, to be given at my family’s expense; where Mr. Micawber’s health and prosperity being proposed, by some leading member of my family, Mr. Micawber might have an opportunity of developing his views.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Micawber, with some heat, “it may be better for me to state distinctly, at once, that if I were to develop my views to that assembled group, they would possibly be found of an offensive nature: my impression being that your family are, in the aggregate, impertinent snobs; and, in detail, unmitigated ruffians.”

“Micawber,” said Mrs. Micawber, shaking her head, “no! You have never understood them, and they have never understood you.”

Mr. Micawber coughed.

“They have never understood you, Micawber,” said his wife. “They may be incapable of it. If so, that is their misfortune. I can pity their misfortune.”

“I am extremely sorry, my dear Emma,” said Mr. Micawber, relenting, “to have been betrayed into any expressions that might, even remotely, have the appearance of being strong expressions. All I would say is, that I can go abroad without your family coming forward to favour me⁠—in short, with a parting shove of their cold shoulders; and that, upon the whole, I would rather leave England with such impetus as I possess, than derive any acceleration of it from that quarter. At the same time, my dear, if they should condescend to reply to your communications⁠—which our joint experience renders most improbable⁠—far be it from me to be a barrier to your wishes.”

The matter being thus amicably settled, Mr. Micawber gave Mrs. Micawber his arm, and glancing at the heap of books and papers lying before Traddles on the table, said they would leave us to ourselves; which they ceremoniously did.

“My dear Copperfield,” said Traddles, leaning back in his chair when they were gone, and looking at me with an affection that made his eyes red, and his hair all kinds of shapes, “I don’t make any excuse for troubling you with business, because I know you are deeply interested in it, and it may divert your thoughts. My dear boy, I hope you are not worn out?”

“I am quite myself,” said I, after a pause. “We have more cause to think of my aunt than of anyone. You know how much she has done.”

“Surely, surely,” answered Traddles. “Who can forget it!”

“But even that is not all,” said I. “During the last fortnight, some new trouble has vexed her; and she has been in and out of London every day. Several times she has gone out early, and been absent until evening. Last night, Traddles, with this journey before her, it was almost midnight before she came home. You know what her consideration for others is. She will not tell me what has happened to distress her.”

My aunt, very pale, and with deep lines in her face, sat immovable until I had finished; when some stray tears found their way to her cheeks, and she put her hand on mine.

“It’s nothing, Trot; it’s nothing. There will be no more of it. You shall know by and by. Now Agnes, my dear, let us attend to these affairs.”

“I must do Mr. Micawber the justice to say,” Traddles began, “that although he would appear not to have worked to any good account for himself, he is a most untiring man when he works for other people. I never saw such a fellow. If he always goes on in the same way, he must be, virtually, about two hundred years old, at present. The heat into which he has been continually putting himself; and the distracted and impetuous manner in which he has been diving, day and night, among papers and books; to say nothing of the immense number of letters he has written me between this house and Mr. Wickfield’s, and often across the table when he has been sitting opposite, and might much more easily have spoken; is quite extraordinary.”

“Letters!” cried my aunt. “I believe he dreams in letters!”

“There’s Mr. Dick, too,” said Traddles, “has been doing wonders! As soon as he was released from overlooking Uriah Heep, whom he kept in such charge as I never saw exceeded, he began to devote himself to Mr. Wickfield. And really his anxiety to be of use in the investigations we have been making, and his real usefulness in extracting, and copying, and fetching, and carrying, have been quite stimulating to us.”

“Dick is a very remarkable man,” exclaimed my aunt; “and I always said he was. Trot, you know it.”

“I am happy to say, Miss Wickfield,” pursued Traddles, at once with great delicacy and with great earnestness, “that in your absence Mr. Wickfield has considerably improved. Relieved of the incubus that had fastened upon him for so long a time, and of the dreadful apprehensions under which he had lived, he is hardly the same person. At times, even his impaired power of concentrating his memory and attention on particular points of business, has recovered itself very much; and he has been able to assist us in making some things clear, that we should have found very difficult indeed, if not hopeless, without him. But what I have to do is to come to results; which are short enough; not to gossip on all the hopeful circumstances I have observed, or I shall never have done.” His natural manner and agreeable simplicity made it transparent that he said this to put us in good heart, and to enable Agnes to hear her father mentioned with greater confidence; but it was not the less pleasant for that.

“Now, let me see,” said Traddles, looking among the papers on the table. “Having counted our funds, and reduced to order a great mass of