26. CHARLES DICKENS: DAVID COPPERFIELD: CHAPTER 26: I FALL INTO CAPTIVITY

I saw no more of Uriah Heep, until the day when Agnes left the town.  I was at coach office to take leave of her and see her go.  And there was he, returning to Canterbury by the same conveyance.  It was a small satisfaction to me to observe his spare, short-waisted, high-shouldered, mulberry-coloured, great-coat perched up in company with an umbrella like a small tent on the edge of the backseat on the roof, while Agnes was, of course inside; but what I underwent in my efforts to be friendly with him, while Agnes looked on, perhaps, deserved that little recompense.  At the coach window as at the dinner party he hovered about us without a moment's intermission like a great vulture: gorge himself on every syllable that I said to Agnes or Agnes said to me.

The trouble into which the disclosure by my fire had thrown me, had brought into my thoughts, very much the words Agnes had used in reference to the partnership.  'I did what I hope was right Feeling sure that it was necessary for papa's peace that the sacrifice should be made.  I entreated him to make it.'  A miserable foreboding that she would yield to and sustain herself by the same feeling in reference to any sacrifice for his sake, had oppressed me ever since.  I knew how she loved him.  I knew what the nature of her devotion was.  I knew from her own lips that she regarded herself as the innocent cause of his errors, and as owning him a great debt she ardently desired to pay.  I had no consolation in seeing how different she was from this detestable Rufus with the mulberry- coloured great-coat for I felt that in the very difference between them, in the self -denial of her pure soul and the sordid baseness of his, the greatest danger lay.  All this, doubtless, he knew thoroughly, and had, in his cunning considered well.

Yet I was so certain that the prospect of such a sacrifice afar off, must destroy the happiness of Agnes; and I was so sure, from her manner, unseen by her, and so no shadow on her yet.  Her warning in advance saved me from an injury that I could have caused.  We parted without explanation; she waving her hand and smiling farewell from the coach window, her evil genius writhing on the roof, as if he had her in his clutches, and a feeling of triumph.

I could not get over this farewell glimpse of them for a long time.  When Agnes wrote to tell her safe arrival, I was as miserable as when I saw her going away.  Whenever I fell into a thoughtful state this subject was sure to present itself, and all my uneasiness was sure to be doubled.  Hardly a night passed without my dreaming of it.  It became a part of my life, and as inseparable as my own head. 

I had ample leisure to refine upon my uneasiness: for Steerforth was at Oxford, as he wrote to me, and when I was not at Commons, I was very much alone.  I believe I had at this time some lurking distrust of Steerforth.  I wrote to him most affectionately in reply to his, but I think I was glad, upon the whole, that he could not come to London just then.  I suspect the truth to be, that the influence of Agnes was upon me, undisturbed by the sight of him; and that it was the more powerful with me, because she had so large a share in my thoughts and interest. 

In the mean time days and weeks slipped away.  I was articled to Spenlow and Jorkins.  I had ninety pounds a year(exclusive of my house rent and sundry collateral matters from my aunt).  My rooms were engaged for twelve months certain: and though I still found them dreary of an evening, and the evenings long, I could settle down into a state of low spirits, and resign myself to coffee, which seem, when I look back, to have taken by the gallon, at about this period of my existence.  At about this time I made three discoveries.  The first, that Mrs Crupp was a martyr of a serious disorder,"the spazzum" and required constant treatment with peppermint, second, something peculiar in the temperature in my pantry, made the brandy-bottles burst, that I was alone  in  the world, and used to record the loneliness in fragments of verses.

On the day when I was articled, no festivity, beyond my having sandwich and sherry to the office for the clerks and going alone to the theatre, at night.

Mr Spenlow remarked that he should have been happy to see me at his house to celebrate our becoming connected, but for his domestic arrangements, being in some disorder, on account of the expected return of his daughter, after finishing her education at Paris.  He hoped to have pleasure in entertaining me after her arrival.  I knew that he was a widower, and had a daughter.   I expressed my acknowledgements to him. 

Mr Spenlow was as good as his word.  In a week or two he referred to this engagement, and said that, if I would do him the favour to come down next Saturday and stay still Monday, he would be extremely happy.  Of course I said I would do him the favour, and he was to drive me down in his phaeton, and to bring me back

 

When the day arrived, my very carpet- bag was an object of veneration to the stipend clerks, to whom the house of Norwood was a sacred mystery.  One of them informed me that he had heard that Spenlow ate entirely off the plate from china and another hinted at champagne being constantly on draught after the usual custom of table-beer.  The old clerk with a wig, whose name was Mr Tiffey, had been down on business several times in the course of his career, and had on each occassion penetrated to the breakfast parlour.  He described it as an apartment of most sumptuous nature, and said that he had drunk down brown East India sherry there of a quality so precious as to make a man wink.  We had an adjourned cause in the Consistory that day -about excommunicating a baker who had been objecting in a vestry to a paving rate and the evidence was just twice the Robinson Crusoe according to a calculation I made it was rather late in the day before we finished.  However we got him excommunicated for six weeks, and sentenced in no end of costs; and then the baker's proctor and the judge and the advocates on both sides ( who were all nearly related), went out of the town together, and Mr Spenlow and I drove away in the phaeton. 

The phaeton was a very handsome affair; the horses arched their necks and lifted up their legs as if they knew they belonged to Doctors' Commons.  There was a good deal of competition in the commons on all points of display; and it turned out some very choice equipment then; though I have always considered that starch was the great article of competition.

We were very pleasant going down.  Mr Spenlow gave me some hints regarding my profession.  He said it was a respectful profession and must not be confounded with the profession of solicitors.  We took things much more easily in the Commons and that set us as privileged class.  He said it was disagreeable fact that we are chiefly employed by solicitors, but they were an inferior race of men, universally looked upon by proctors.

I asked Mr Spenlow, what he considered best professional business?  He said that a good case of disputed will, where there was a neat little estate of thirty or forty thousand pounds was, perhaps best of all.  In such a case not only there were very pretty pickings in the way of arguments at every stage of the proceedings and mountains upon mountains of evidence on interrogatory and counter interrogatory (to say nothing of appeal lying, first to the delegates and then to the Lords), but the costs pretty sure to come out of the estate, both sides went at it in a lively and spirited manner, and expense was no consideration.  Then he launched into general eulogium of Commons.  The Commons was compact.  A conveniently organised place.  It was snug.  It lay in a nutshell.  You brought a divorce or restitution into the Consistory.   You made a quiet little round game of it, among a family group, and you played it out at leisure.  You were not satisfied with the Consistory, what did you do then? You went into the Arches.  What was the Arches? The same Court, same room, with the same bar, and the same practitioners, but another judge.  There the Consistory judge could plead any court- day as an advocate.  Well, you played your round game out again.  Still you were not satisfied.  Very good.  What did you do then?  You go to Delegates.  Who were the delegates?  Why the ecclesiastical delegates were the advocates without business, who had looked on at the round game when it was playing in both the courts, and had seen the cards shuffled, and cut, and played, and had talked to all the players about it, and now came fresh, as judge, to settle the matters to the satisfaction of every body!  Discontent people  might talk of corruption in Commons, closeness in Commons, and the want of reforming Commons, said Mr Spenlow solemnly in conclusion; but the price of wheat per bushel had been highest, the Commons had been busiest; and a man might lay his hand upon his heart and say this to the whole world - 'Touch the Commons and down comes the country!

I listened to him with attention, though I had my doubts, whether the country was quite obliged to Commons as Mr Spenlow made out.   That about the price per bushel of wheat, I modestly felt that too much for my strength and quite settled the question.

This is a digression.  I was not the man to touch Commons, and bring down the country.  I submissively expressed by my silence, my acquiescence in all I had heard from my superior in years and knowledge; and we talked about the Stranger and the Drama, and the pairs of horses, until we came to the gate of Mr Spenlow.

There was a lovely garden to Mr Spenlow's house, and though that was not the best time of the year for seeing a garden, it was so beautifully kept, that I was quite enchanted.  There was a charming lawn, there were clusters of trees, and there were perspective walks that I could just distinguish in the dark, arched over with trellis work, on which shrubs and flowers grew in the growing season.  'Here Miss Spenlow walks by herself,' I thought, 'Dear me!'

We went to the house, which was cheerfully lighted up, and into a hall where there were all sorts of hats, caps, great-coats, plaids, gloves, whips, and walking sticks.  'Where is Miss Dora?' said Mr Spenlow to the servant.  'Dora!' I thought.  'What a beautiful name!'

We turned into a room near at hand ( identical breakfast room made memorable by the East Indian Sherry) and I heard a voice say, Mr Copperfield, my daughter Dora, and her confidential Friend!  It was no doubt Mr Spenlow's voice, but I didn't know it, and I didn't care whose it was.  All was over in a moment.  I had fulfilled my destiny.  I was a captive and a slave.  I loved Dora Spenlow to distraction!

She was more than human to me.   She was a fairy.  A sylph.  I don't know what she was - anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everyone ever wanted.  I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant.  There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down or looking back; I was gone headlong, before I had a sense to say a word to her.  

'I,' observed a well remembered voice, when I had bowed and murmured something, 'I have seen Mr Copperfield before.' 

The speaker was not Dora. No; the confidential friend, Miss Murdstone.

I don't think I was much astonished.  To the best of my judgement, no capacity of astonishment was left in me.  There is nothing worth mentioning in the material world, but Dora Spenlow, to be astonished about.  I said, 'How do you do, Miss Murdstone? I hope you are well.'  She answered, 'Very well.'  l said, 'How is Mr Murdstone?  She replied, 'My brother is robust.  I am obliged to you.' 

Mr Spenlow, who, I suppose, had been surprised to see us recognise each other, then, put in his words:  

'I am glad to find,' he said, 'Copperfield, that you and Miss Murdstone are already acquainted.' 

'Mr Copperfield and myself,' said Miss Murdstone, with severe composure, 'are connections.  We were once slightly acquainted.  It was in his childish days.  Circumstances have seperated us since.  I should not have known him.'

I replied that I should have known her, anywhere, which was true enough.

'Miss Murdstone has had the goodness,' said Mr Spenlow to me, 'to accept the office - if I may describe it - of my daughter Dora's confidential friend.  My daughter Dora being, unhappy, no mother, Miss Murdstone is obliged enough to become her companion and protector.'

A passing thought occured to me that Miss Murdstone, like the pocket instrument called life-preserver, was not so much designed for the purposes of protection as of assualt.  But as I had none but passing thoughts for any subjects save Dora, I glanced at her directly afterwards, and was thinking that I saw, in her prettily pettish manner, that she was not very much inclined to be particularly confidential to her companion and protector, when a bell rang, which Mr Spenlow said was the first dinner bell and so carried me off to dress. 

The idea of dressing one's self or doing anything in the way of action, in the state of love, was a little too ridiculous.  I could only sit down before fire, biting the key of my carpet bag, and think of the captivating, girlish, bright-eyed lovely Dora.  What a form she had, what a face she had, what a graceful variable, enchanting manner! 

The bell rang again so soon that I made a mere scramble of my dressing, instead of the careful operation I could have wished under the circumstances, and went downstairs.  There was some company.  Dora was talking to an old gentleman with a grey head.  Grey as he was - and a great grandfather into the bargain, for he said so, I was madly jealous of him.

What a state of mind I was in!   I was jealous of everybody.  I couldn't bear the idea of anybody knowing Mr Spenlow better than I did.  It was torturing to me to hear them talk of occurrences in which I had no share.  When a most amiable person with a highly polished bald head, asked me accross the dinner table, if that were the first occassion of my seeing the ground I could have done anything to him that was savage and revenge.  

I don't remember who was there except Dora.  I had not the least idea what we had for dinner, besides Dora.  My impression was that I dined off Dora, entirely, and sent away half a dozen plates untouched.  She had the most delightful little voice, the gay little laugh, pleasant and fascinating little ways that ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery.  She was rather diminutive altogether.  So much the more precious, I thought.

When she went out of the room with Miss Murdstone, I fell into a reverie, only disturbed by the cruel apprehension that Miss Murdstone would disparage me to her.

The amiable creature with polished head told me a long story, which I think was about gardening.  I think I heard him say, my 'gardner' several times.  I seemed to pay the deepest attention to him, but I was wandering in the garden of Eden, all the while with Dora.

My apprehension of being disparaged to the object of my engrossing affection were revived when we went into the drawing room, by the grim and distant aspect of Miss Murdstone.  But I was relieved of them in an unexpected manner.  

'David Copperfield,' said Miss Murdstone, beckoning me aside into a window, 'A word.'

I confronted Miss Murdstone alone.

'David Copperfield,' said Miss Murdstone, 'I need not enlarge upon family circumstances.  They are not a tempting subject.'

'Far from it ma'am,' I returned.

'Far from it,' assented, Miss Murdstone.  'I do not wish to revive the past differences, or past outrage.  I have received outrage from a person, -a female I am sorry to say, for the credit of my sex- who is not to be mentioned without scorn and disgust, and therefore I would rather not mention her.' 

I felt very fiery on my aunt's  account; but I said it would certainly be better, if Miss Murdstone pleased, not to mention her.  I could not hear her disrespectfully mentioned, I answered, without expressing my opinion in a decided tone.

Miss Murdstone shut her eyes, and  inclined her head with disdain, then slowly opening her eyes resumed:

'David Copperfield, I shall not attempt to disguise the fact, that I formed an unfavourable opinion of you in your childhood.  It may have been a mistaken one, or you may have ceased to justify it.  That is not in question between us now.  I belong to a family remarkable, I believe, for firmness; and I am not the creature of circumstance or change.  I may have my opinion of you.  You may have your opinion of me.'

I inclined my head in turn.

'But it is not necessary,' said Miss Murdstone, 'that these opinions should come into collision here.  Under existing circumstances, it is as well on all accounts that they should not.  As the chances of life have brought us together again, and may bring us together on other occassions, I would say, let us meet here as distant acquaintances.  Family circumstances are a sufficient reason for our only meeting, on that footing, and is quite unnecessary that either of us should make the other the subject of remark.  Do you approve of this?'

'Miss Murdstone,' I returned, 'I think you and Mr Murdstone used me very cruelly, and treated my mother with great unkindness.  I shall always think so, so long as I live.  But I quite agree in what you propose.' 

Miss Murdstone shut her eyes and bend her head.  Then just touching the back of my hand with the tips of her cold stiff fingers, she walked away, arranging the little fetters on her wrists and round her neck; which seemed to be the same set, in exactly the same state, as when I had seen her last.  These reminded me, in reference to Miss Murdstone's nature, of the fetters of a jail door; suggesting on the outside, to all beholders, what was to be within. 

All I know of the rest of evening is, that I heard the empress of my heart sing enchanted ballad, in French language, generally to the affect that, whatever was the matter, we ought to always dance, Ta ra la, Ta ra la! accompanying herself on a glorified instrument, resembling guitar.  That I was lost in blissful delirium.  That I refused refreshment.  That my soul re-coiled from punch particularly.  That when Miss Murdstone took her into custody and led her away, she smiled and gave me her delicious hand.  That I caught a view of myself in the mirror, looking perfectly imbecile and idiotic.  That I retired to bed in a most maudlin state of mind, and got up in a crisis of feeble infatuation.

It was a fine morning, and early, and I thought I would go and take a stroll down one of those wire-arched walks, and indulge my passion by dwelling on her image.  On my way through the hall, I encountered her little dog, called Jip- short for Gipsy - I approached him tenderly for I loved even him, but he showed his whole set of teeth, got under chair expressly to snarl, and wouldn't hear of the least familiarity. 

The garden was cool and solitary, I walked about wandering what my feelings of happiness would be, if I could ever become engaged to this dear wonder.  As to marriage and fortune and all that, I was almost as innocently not designing then, as when I loved little Emily.  To be allowed to call her Dora, to write to her, to dote upon and worship her, to have reason to think that when she was with other people she was yet mindful of me, seemed to me the summit of human ambition - I am sure it was the summit of mine.  There is no doubt whatever that I was a lackadaisical young spooney ; but there is a purity of heart in all this, that prevents my having quite contemptuous recollection of it, let me laugh as I may.   I had not been walking long, when I turned a corner, and met her, I tingle again from head to foot as my recollection turns that corner, and my pen shakes in my hand.

'You - are- out early, Miss Spenlow.

'It is so stupid at home,' she replied, 'and Miss Murdstone is so absurd!  She talks such nonsense about being necessary for the day to be aired, before I come out.  Aired! ( She laughed here in the most melodious manner) 'On a Sunday morning when I don't practice, I must do something, so I told papa last night I must come out.  Besides, it is brightest time of the whole day.  Don't you think so?'

I hazarded a bold fight, and said                ( without stammering) that it was very bright to me then, though it had been very dark to me a minute before.

'Do you mean a compliment ?' said Dora, 'or that the wheather has really changed?' 

I stammered worse than before, in replying that I mean no complaint, but the plain truth; though I was not aware of any change having taken place in the weather.  It was in the state of my own feelings, I added bashfully: to clench the explanation I never saw such curls - how could I, for there were never such curls - as those she took out to hide her blushes.  As to the straw hat and blue ribbons which was on the top of her curls, if I could have only hung it up in my room in Buckingham street, what a priceless possession it would have been!

'You have just come from Paris.' I said.

'Yes,' she said, 'have you ever been there?'

'No.'

'Oh! I hope you will go soon!  You would like it so much.' 

Traces of deep seated anguish appeared in my countenance.  That she should hope I would go, that she should think it possible I could go was insupportable.  I depreciated Paris; I depreciated France.  I said I wouldn't leave England, under existing circumstances, for any earthly consideration.  Nothing should induce me.  In short, she was shaking the curls again, when the little dog came running along the walk to our relief.

He was brutally jealous of me, and persisted in barking at me.  She took him up in her arms - Oh my goodness!- and caressed him, but he persisted upon barking still.  He wouldn't let me touch him, when I tried; and then she beat him.  It increased my sufferings greatly 

to see the pats she gave him for punishment on the bridge of his blunt nose, while he winked his eyes, and licked her hand, and still growled within himself like a little double-bass.  At length he was quiet - well he might be with her dimpled chin upon his head! - and we walked away to the green house.

'You are not intimate with Miss Murdstone, are you?'said Dora. - 'My pet.'

These two words were to her dog, oh, I wished if they had been to me!

'No,' I replied, 'not at all so.' 

'She is a tiresome creature.' said Dora pouting.  'I can't think what papa can have been about, when he chose such a vexatious thing to be my companion.  Who wants a protector?   I am sure I don't want a protector.  Jip can protect me a great deal better than Miss Murdstone, - can't you, Jip, dear?' 

He only winked lazily, when she kissed his ball of head.  'Papa calls her my confidential friend, but I am sure she is no such thing.  We are not going to confide in any such cross people.  Jip and I.  We mean to bestow our confidence where we like, and to find our own friends, instead of having them found out for us- don't we, Jip?' 

Jip made a comfortable noise, in answer, a little like a tea kettle when it stings.  As for me, every word a heap of new letters riveted above the last.

'It is hard, because we have not a kind Mama, that we are to have, instead, a sulky, gloomy old thing like Miss Murdstone, always following us about, - isn't it Jip?  Never mind, Jip.  We won't be confidential, and we will make ourselves as happy as we can in spite of her, and we'll tease her, and not please her, won't we Jip?'

If it had lasted any longer, I think I must have gone down on my knees on the gravel, with the probability before me of grazing them, and of being presently ejected from the premises besides.  But by good fortune the green house was not far off, and these words brought us to it. 

It contained quite a show of beautiful geraniums, we loitered along in front of them, and Dora often stopped to admire this one, or that one, and I stopped to admire the same one, and Dora laughing, and held the dog up childishly, to smell the flowers, and if we were not all three in Fairyland, certainly I was.  The scent of geranium leaf, at this day strikes me with half a comical half serious wonder as to what change has come over me in a moment; and then I see a straw hat and blue ribbons, and a quantity of curls, and a little black dog being held up, in two slender arms, against a bank of blossoms and bright leaves.

Miss Murdstone had been looking for us.  She found us here; and presented her not so congenial cheek, the little wrinkles in it filled with hair powder, to Dora to be kissed.  Then she took Dora's arm in hers, and marched us into breakfast as if it were a soldiers funeral.

How many cups of tea I drank, because Dora made it, I don't know.  But, I perfectly remember that I sat swilling tea until my whole nerves, if I had any in those days, have gone by the board.  By and by we went to church.  Miss Murdstone was between Dora and me in the pew; but I heard her sing, and the congregation vanished.  A sermon was delivered - about Dora ofcourse - and I am afraid that is all I know about service. 

We had a quiet day.  No company, a walk, a family dinner of four, and an evening of looking over books and pictures; Miss Murdstone with a homily before her, and her eye upon us, keeping guard with vigil.  Ah! little did Mr Spenlow imagine when he sat opposite to me after dinner that day, with his pocket handkerchief over his head, how fervently I was embracing him in my fancy as his son-in-law!  Little did he think when I took leave of him at night, that he had just given his full consent to my being engaged to Dora, and that I was invoking blessings on his head. 

We departed early in the morning, for we had a salvage case coming in the Admirality Court, requiring a rather accurate knowledge of the whole science of navigation in which (we couldn't be expected to know much about these matters in Commons) the judge had entreated two old Trinity Masters, for charity's sake, to come and help him out.  Dora was at the breakfast table to make the tea again, however; and I had the melancholy pleasure of taking off my hat to her in phaeton, as she stood on the doorstep with Jip in her arms.

What the Admirality to me that day; what nonsense I made of our case in my mind, as I listened to it; how I saw DORA engraved upon the blade of the silver ore which they lay upon the table, as the emblem of that high jurisdiction; and how I felt when Mr Spenlow went home without me (I had had an insane hope that he might take me back again ), as if I were a mariner myself, and the ship to which I belonged had sailed away and left me on a desert Island; I shall make no fruitless effort to describe.  If that sleepy old court could rouse itself, present in any visible form, the day dream I have had in it about Dora, it would reveal my truth.

I don't mean my dream of that day alone, but day by day, week by week, and term by term my dreams continued.

I went there, not to attend to what was going on, but to think about Dora.  If ever I bestowed a thought upon the cases, they dragged their slow length before me, it was only to wonder, in the matrimonial cases (remembering Dora), how it was that married people could ever be otherwise than happy; and, in the Prerogative cases, to consider, if the money in question had been left to me, what were the foremost steps I should immediately have taken in regard to Dora.  Within the first week of my passion, I bought four sumptuous waistcoats- not for myself; I had no pride in them; for Dora and I took to wearing straw coloured kid-gloves in the streets, and laid the foundations of all the corns I  have ever had.  If the boots I wore at that period could only be produced and compared with the natural size of my feet, they would show what the state of my heart was, in a most affecting manner.

And yet, wretched cripple as I made myself by this act of homage to Dora, I walked miles upon miles in the hope seeing her daily.  Not only was I soon as well known on the Norwood road as the post-men on that beat, but I pervaded London likewise.  I walked about the streets where the best shops for ladies were, I haunted the Bazaar like an un-quiet spirit, I fagged through the park again and again, long after I was quite knocked up.  Sometimes at long intervals and on rare occasions, I saw her.  Perhaps I saw her glove waved in a carriage window; perhaps I met her, walked with her and Miss Murdstone a little away, and spoke to her.  In the latter case, I was always miserable afterwards, to think that I had said nothing to the purpose, or that she had no idea of the extent of my devotion, or she cared nothing about me.  I was always looking out for another invitation to Mr Spenlow's house.  But I did not get one.

Mrs Crupp must have been a woman of penetration.  I had not the courage to write explicitly even to Agnes, even in that stage Mrs Crupp must have found it out.  She came upto me one evening, when I was very low, to ask, if I could oblige her with a little tincture of cardamom mixed with rhubarb and flavoured with seven drops of cloves, which was the best remedy for her complaint.  Or if I had not these things by me, with a little brandy, which was the best next thing, though it was not palatable.  I have never heard of the first remedy.  But I had always the second in the closet.  I gave her a glass of the second, which she began to take in my presence. 

'Cheer up sir,' said Mrs Crupp, 'I can't bear to see you so, sir: I am a mother myself.' 

I did not quite perceive the application of this fact to myself, but I smiled on Mrs Crupp, in a  benign manner as was in my power. 

'Come, sir,' said Mrs Crupp.  'Excuse me, I know what it is, sir.  There is a lady in the case.' 

 'Mrs Crupp,' I said reddening.

'Oh, bless you!  Keep a good heart, sir!' said Mrs Crupp, nodding encouragement.  'Never say die sir! if she don't smile upon you, there is a many as will.  You are a young gentleman to be smiled on, Mr Copperfull, and you must know your value.'

Mrs Crupp always called me Mr Copperfull.  'What makes you suppose there's a young lady in my case, Mrs Crupp?' I said.

'Mr Copperfull,' said Mrs Crupp, with a great deal of feeling, 'I am a mother myself.'

For some time Mrs Crupp could only lay her hand on her nankeen bosom, and fortify herself against returning pain with sips of medicine.  At length she spoke again.

'When the present set were took for you by your dear aunt, Mr Copperfull,' said Mrs Crupp, 'my remark were, I now found summun I could care for.  "Thank Evin!" were the expression, "I have now found summun I could care for!" - you don't eat enough, sir, not enough drink.' 

'Is that what you found your supposition on, Mrs Crupp?' said I.

'Sir,' said Mrs Crupp, in a tone of approaching severity, 'I have laundressed other young gentlemen besides yourself.  A young gentleman may be overcareful of himself or he may be undercareful of himself.  He may brush his hair too regular, or too irregular.  He may wear his boots much too large for him, or much too small.  That's according as the young gentleman has his original character formed.  But let him go to which extreme he may, there's a young woman in both of 'em.'

Mrs Crupp shook her head in a such determined manner, that I had not an inch of vantage ground left.

'It was the gentleman which died here before yourself,' said Mrs Crupp, 'that fell in love with - a barmaid - and had his waistcoats took in directly, though much swelled by drinking.'

'Mrs Crupp,' said I, 'I must beg you not to connect the young lady to barmaid or anything of that sort, if you please.' 

'Mr Copperfull,' returned Mrs Crupp, 'I am a mother myself, and not likely.  I ask your pardon, sir, if I intrude.  I should never wish to intrude where I were not welcome.  But you are a young gentleman, Mr Copperfull, and my advice to you is, to cheer up, sir, to keep a good heart, and to know your own value.  If you were to take to something, sir, if you were to take to skittles now, which is healthy, you might find it divert your mind, do you good.' 

With these words Mrs Crupp, affecting to be very careful of the brandy - which was all gone- thanked me with a majestic courtesy, and retired.  As her figure disappeared into the gloom of the entry, this counsel certainly presented itself into my mind in the light of a slight liberty on Mrs Crupp's part; but at the same time, I was content to receive it, in another point of view, as a word to the wise, and a warning in future to keep my secret better.

THE END OF CHAPTER 26

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