David Copperfield (Illustrated Edition). Charles Dickens

mother, answering with some difficulty, ‘was so considerate and good as to secure the reversion of a part of it to me.’

      ‘How much?’ asked Miss Betsey.

      ‘A hundred and five pounds a year,’ said my mother.

      ‘He might have done worse,’ said my aunt.

      The word was appropriate to the moment. My mother was so much worse that Peggotty, coming in with the teaboard and candles, and seeing at a glance how ill she was,—as Miss Betsey might have done sooner if there had been light enough,—conveyed her upstairs to her own room with all speed; and immediately dispatched Ham Peggotty, her nephew, who had been for some days past secreted in the house, unknown to my mother, as a special messenger in case of emergency, to fetch the nurse and doctor.

      Those allied powers were considerably astonished, when they arrived within a few minutes of each other, to find an unknown lady of portentous appearance, sitting before the fire, with her bonnet tied over her left arm, stopping her ears with jewellers’ cotton. Peggotty knowing nothing about her, and my mother saying nothing about her, she was quite a mystery in the parlour; and the fact of her having a magazine of jewellers’ cotton in her pocket, and sticking the article in her ears in that way, did not detract from the solemnity of her presence.

      The doctor having been upstairs and come down again, and having satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a probability of this unknown lady and himself having to sit there, face to face, for some hours, laid himself out to be polite and social. He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little men. He sidled in and out of a room, to take up the less space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in modest depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody else. It is nothing to say that he hadn’t a word to throw at a dog. He couldn’t have thrown a word at a mad dog. He might have offered him one gently, or half a one, or a fragment of one; for he spoke as slowly as he walked; but he wouldn’t have been rude to him, and he couldn’t have been quick with him, for any earthly consideration.

      Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt with his head on one side, and making her a little bow, said, in allusion to the jewellers’ cotton, as he softly touched his left ear:

      ‘Some local irritation, ma’am?’

      ‘What!’ replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one ear like a cork.

      Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness—as he told my mother afterwards—that it was a mercy he didn’t lose his presence of mind. But he repeated sweetly:

      ‘Some local irritation, ma’am?’

      ‘Nonsense!’ replied my aunt, and corked herself again, at one blow.

      Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this, but sit and look at her feebly, as she sat and looked at the fire, until he was called upstairs again. After some quarter of an hour’s absence, he returned.

      ‘Well?’ said my aunt, taking the cotton out of the ear nearest to him.

      ‘Well, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘we are—we are progressing slowly, ma’am.’

      ‘Ba—a—ah!’ said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the contemptuous interjection. And corked herself as before.

      Really—really—as Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was almost shocked; speaking in a professional point of view alone, he was almost shocked. But he sat and looked at her, notwithstanding, for nearly two hours, as she sat looking at the fire, until he was again called out. After another absence, he again returned.

      ‘Well?’ said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side again.

      ‘Well, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘we are—we are progressing slowly, ma’am.’

      ‘Ya—a—ah!’ said my aunt. With such a snarl at him, that Mr. Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really calculated to break his spirit, he said afterwards. He preferred to go and sit upon the stairs, in the dark and a strong draught, until he was again sent for.

      Ham Peggotty, who went to the national school, and was a very dragon at his catechism, and who may therefore be regarded as a credible witness, reported next day, that happening to peep in at the parlour-door an hour after this, he was instantly descried by Miss Betsey, then walking to and fro in a state of agitation, and pounced upon before he could make his escape. That there were now occasional sounds of feet and voices overhead which he inferred the cotton did not exclude, from the circumstance of his evidently being clutched by the lady as a victim on whom to expend her superabundant agitation when the sounds were loudest. That, marching him constantly up and down by the collar (as if he had been taking too much laudanum), she, at those times, shook him, rumpled his hair, made light of his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded them with her own, and otherwise tousled and maltreated him. This was in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half past twelve o’clock, soon after his release, and affirmed that he was then as red as I was.

      The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at such a time, if at any time. He sidled into the parlour as soon as he was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meekest manner:

      ‘Well, ma’am, I am happy to congratulate you.’

      ‘What upon?’ said my aunt, sharply.

      Mr. Chillip was fluttered again, by the extreme severity of my aunt’s manner; so he made her a little bow and gave her a little smile, to mollify her.

      ‘Mercy on the man, what’s he doing!’ cried my aunt, impatiently. ‘Can’t he speak?’

      ‘Be calm, my dear ma’am,’ said Mr. Chillip, in his softest accents.

      ‘There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness, ma’am. Be calm.’

      It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt didn’t shake him, and shake what he had to say, out of him. She only shook her own head at him, but in a way that made him quail.

      ‘Well, ma’am,’ resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had courage, ‘I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over, ma’am, and well over.’

      During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to the delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly.

      ‘How is she?’ said my aunt, folding her arms with her bonnet still tied on one of them.

      ‘Well, ma’am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope,’ returned Mr. Chillip. ‘Quite as comfortable as we can expect a young mother to be, under these melancholy domestic circumstances. There cannot be any objection to your seeing her presently, ma’am. It may do her good.’

      ‘And SHE. How is SHE?’ said my aunt, sharply.

      Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and looked at my aunt like an amiable bird.

      ‘The baby,’ said my aunt. ‘How is she?’

      ‘Ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘I apprehended you had known. It’s a boy.’

      My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the strings, in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip’s head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back. She vanished like a discontented fairy; or like one of those supernatural beings, whom it was popularly supposed I was entitled to see; and never came back any more.

      No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed; but Betsey Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence I had so lately travelled; and the light upon the window of our room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such travellers, and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was he, without whom I had never been.

      Chapter 2.

       I Observe

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