Kitabı oku: «The Personal History of David Copperfield», sayfa 60
“For a man who conducts himself well,” repeated Mrs. Micawber, with her clearest business manner, “and is industrious. Precisely. It is evident to me that Australia is the legitimate sphere of action for Mr. Micawber!”
“I entertain the conviction, my dear madam,” said Mr. Micawber, “that it is, under existing circumstances, the land, the only land, for myself and family; and that something of an extraordinary nature will turn up on that shore. It is no distance – comparatively speaking; and though consideration is due to the kindness of your proposal, I assure you that is a mere matter of form.”
Shall I ever forget how, in a moment, he was the most sanguine of men, looking on to fortune; or how Mrs. Micawber presently discoursed about the habits of the kangaroo! Shall I ever recall that street of Canterbury on a market day, without recalling him, as he walked back with us; expressing, in the hardy roving manner he assumed, the unsettled habits of a temporary sojourner in the land; and looking at the bullocks, as they came by, with the eye of an Australian farmer!
CHAPTER LIII.
ANOTHER RETROSPECT
I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a figure in the moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in its innocent love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me – turn to look upon the little blossom, as it flutters to the ground!
I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in our cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while.
They have left off telling me to “wait a few days more.” I have begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip.
He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be, that he misses in his mistress, something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora’s bed – she sitting at the bedside – and mildly licks her hand.
Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes, the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and all that happy time.
What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be – and in all life, within doors and without – when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly, room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus; but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind.
It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt’s hands, shews me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, and how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears.
“Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,” she says, when I smile; “but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!”
“That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.”
“Ah! but I didn’t like to tell you,” says Dora, “then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the old walks? And not forget poor papa?”
“Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get well, my dear.”
“Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don’t know!”
It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smile upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day.
“Doady!”
“My dear Dora!”
“You won’t think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield’s not being well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.”
“I will write to her, my dear.”
“Will you?”
“Directly.”
“What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear, it’s not a whim. It’s not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to see her!”
“I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come.”
“You are very lonely when you go down stairs, now?” Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck.
“How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?”
“My empty chair!” She clings to me for a little while, in silence. “And you really miss me, Doady?” looking up, and brightly smiling. “Even poor, giddy, stupid me?”
“My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?”
“Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!” creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs, and sobs, and then is quiet, and quite happy.
“Quite!” she says. “Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.”
“Except to get well again, Dora.”
“Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think – you know I always was a silly little thing! – that that will never be!”
“Don’t say so, Dora! Dearest love, don’t think so!”
“I won’t, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife’s empty chair!”
It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been among us, for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone.
Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts; but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself, many times to-day, to weep. I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign myself, and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared.
“I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of saying, lately. You won’t mind?” with a gentle look.
“Mind, my darling?”
“Because I don’t know what you will think, or what you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young.”
I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past.
“I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don’t mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife.”
I try to stay my tears, and to reply, “Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to be a husband!”
“I don’t know,” with the old shake of her curls. “Perhaps! But, if I had been more fit to be married, I might have made you more so, too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was.”
“We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.”
“I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less a companion for him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting in his home. She wouldn’t have improved. It is better as it is.”
“Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems a reproach!”
“No, not a syllable!” she answers, kissing me. “Oh, my dear, you never deserved it, and I loved you far too well, to say a reproachful word to you, in earnest – it was all the merit I had, except being pretty – or you thought me so. Is it lonely down-stairs, Doady?”
“Very! Very!”
“Don’t cry! Is my chair there?”
“In its old place.”
“Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go down-stairs, tell Agnes so, and send her up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come – not even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite alone.”
I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my grief.
“I said that it was better as it is!” she whispers, as she holds me in her arms. “Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have loved your child-wife better than you do; and, after more years, she would so have tried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to love her half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better as it is!”
Agnes is down-stairs, when I go into the parlor; and I give her the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip.
His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed of flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear. As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my undisciplined heart is chastened heavily – heavily.
I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of every little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance, is the image of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love, and by her own, with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply!
How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my child-wife’s old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go up-stairs.
“Not to-night, Jip! Not to-night!”
He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim eyes to my face.
“O, Jip! It may be, never again!”
He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry, is dead.
“O Agnes! Look, look, here!”
– That face, so full of pity and of grief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards Heaven!
“Agnes?”
It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all things are blotted out of my remembrance.
CHAPTER LIV.
MR. MICAWBER’S TRANSACTIONS
This is not the time at which I am to enter on the state of my mind beneath its load of sorrow. I came to think that the Future was walled up before me, that the energy and action of my life were at an end, that I never could find any refuge but in the grave. I came to think so, I say, but not in the first shock of my grief. It slowly grew to that. If the events I go on to relate, had not thickened around me, in the beginning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my affliction, it is possible, (though I think not probable), that I might have fallen at once into this condition. As it was, an interval occurred before I fully knew my own distress; an interval, in which I even supposed that its sharpest pangs were past; and when my mind could soothe itself by resting on all that was most innocent and beautiful, in the tender story that was closed for ever.
When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or how it came to be agreed among us that I was to seek the restoration of my peace in change and travel, I do not, even now, distinctly know. The spirit of Agnes so pervaded all we thought, and said, and did, in that time of sorrow, that I assume I may refer the project to her influence. But her influence was so quiet that I know no more.
And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old association of her with the stained-glass window in the church, a prophetic foreshadowing of what she would be to me, in the calamity that was to happen in the fullness of time, had found a way into my mind. In all that sorrow, from the moment, never to be forgotten, when she stood before me with her upraised hand, she was like a sacred presence in my lonely house. When the Angel of Death alighted there, my child-wife fell asleep – they told me so when I could bear to hear it – on her bosom, with a smile. From my swoon, I first awoke to a consciousness of her compassionate tears, her words of hope and peace, her gentle face bending down as from a purer region nearer Heaven, over my undisciplined heart, and softening its pain.
Let me go on.
I was to go abroad. That seemed to have been determined among us from the first. The ground now covering all that could perish of my departed wife, I waited only for what Mr. Micawber called the “final pulverisation of Heep,” and for the departure of the emigrants.
At the request of Traddles, most affectionate and devoted of friends in my trouble, we returned to Canterbury: I mean my aunt, Agnes, and I. We proceeded by appointment straight to Mr. Micawber’s house; where, and at Mr. Wickfield’s, my friend had been labouring ever since our explosive meeting. When poor Mrs. Micawber saw me come in, in my black clothes, she was sensibly affected. There was a great deal of good in Mrs. Micawber’s heart, which had not been dunned out of it in all those many years.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber,” was my aunt’s first salutation after we were seated. “Pray, have you thought about that emigration proposal of mine?”
“My dear madam,” returned Mr. Micawber, “perhaps I cannot better express the conclusion at which Mrs. Micawber, your humble servant, and I may add our children, have jointly and severally arrived, than by borrowing the language of an illustrious poet, to reply that our Boat is on the shore, and our Bark is on the sea.”
“That’s right,” said my aunt. “I augur all sorts of good from your sensible decision.”
“Madam, you do us a great deal of honor,” he rejoined. He then referred to a memorandum. “With respect to the pecuniary assistance enabling us to launch our frail canoe on the ocean of enterprise, I have reconsidered that important business-point; and would beg to propose my notes of hand – drawn, it is needless to stipulate, on stamps of the amounts respectively required by the various Acts of Parliament applying to such securities – at eighteen, twenty-four, and thirty months. The proposition I originally submitted, was twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four; but I am apprehensive that such an arrangement might not allow sufficient time for the requisite amount of – Something – to turn up. We might not,” said Mr. Micawber, looking round the room as if it represented several hundred acres of highly-cultivated land, “on the first responsibility becoming due, have been successful in our harvest, or we might not have got our harvest in. Labor, I believe, is sometimes difficult to obtain in that portion of our colonial possessions where it will be our lot to combat with the teeming soil.”
“Arrange it in any way you please, sir,” said my aunt.
“Madam,” he replied, “Mrs. Micawber and myself are deeply sensible of the very considerate kindness of our friends and patrons. What I wish is, to be perfectly business-like, and perfectly punctual. Turning over, as we are about to turn over, an entirely new leaf; and falling back, as we are now in the act of falling back, for a Spring of no common magnitude; it is important to my sense of self-respect, besides being an example to my son, that these arrangements should be concluded as between man and man.”
I don’t know that Mr. Micawber attached any meaning to this last phrase; I don’t know that anybody ever does, or did; but he appeared to relish it uncommonly, and repeated, with an impressive cough, “as between man and man.”
“I propose,” said Mr. Micawber, “Bills – a convenience to the mercantile world, for which, I believe, we are originally indebted to the Jews, who appear to me to have had a devilish deal too much to do with them ever since – because they are negotiable. But if a Bond, or any other description of security, would be preferred, I should be happy to execute any such instrument. As between man and man.”
My aunt observed, that in a case where both parties were willing to agree to anything, she took it for granted there would be no difficulty in settling this point. Mr. Micawber was of her opinion.
“In reference to our domestic preparations, madam,” said Mr. Micawber, with some pride, “for meeting the destiny to which we are now understood to be self-devoted, I beg to report them. My eldest daughter attends at five every morning in a neighbouring establishment, to acquire the process – if process it may be called – of milking cows. My younger children are instructed to observe, as closely as circumstances will permit, the habits of the pigs and poultry maintained in the poorer parts of this city: a pursuit from which they have, on two occasions, been brought home, within an inch of being run over. I have myself directed some attention, during the past week, to the art of baking; and my son Wilkins has issued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattle, when permitted, by the rugged hirelings who had them in charge, to render any voluntary service in that direction – which I regret to say, for the credit of our nature, was not often; he being generally warned, with imprecations, to desist.”
“All very right indeed,” said my aunt, encouragingly. “Mrs. Micawber has been busy, too, I have no doubt.”
“My dear madam,” returned Mrs. Micawber, with her business-like air, “I am free to confess, that I have not been actively engaged in pursuits immediately connected with cultivation or with stock, though well aware that both will claim my attention on a foreign shore. Such opportunities as I have been enabled to alienate from my domestic duties, I have devoted to corresponding at some length with my family. For I own it seems to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,” said Mrs. Micawber, who always fell back on me, I suppose from old habit, to whomsoever else she might address her discourse at starting, “that the time is come when the past should be buried in oblivion; when my family should take Mr. Micawber by the hand, and Mr. Micawber should take my family by the hand; when the lion should lie down with the lamb, and my family be on terms with Mr. Micawber.”
I said I thought so too.
“This, at least, is the light, my dear Mr. Copperfield,” pursued Mrs. Micawber, “in which I view the subject. When I lived at home with my papa and mama, my papa was accustomed to ask, when any point was under discussion in our limited circle, ‘In what light does my Emma view the subject?’ That my papa was too partial, I know; still, on such a point as the frigid coldness which has ever subsisted between Mr. Micawber and my family, I necessarily have formed an opinion, delusive though it may be.”
“No doubt. Of course you have, ma’am,” said my aunt.
“Precisely so,” assented Mrs. Micawber. “Now, I may be wrong in my conclusions; it is very likely that I am; but my individual impression is, that the gulf between my family and Mr. Micawber may be traced to an apprehension, on the part of my family, that Mr. Micawber would require pecuniary accommodation. I cannot help thinking,” said Mrs. Micawber, with an air of deep sagacity, “that there are members of my family who have been apprehensive that Mr. Micawber would solicit them for their names. – I do not mean to be conferred in Baptism upon our children, but to be inscribed on Bills of Exchange, and negotiated in the Money Market.”
The look of penetration with which Mrs. Micawber announced this discovery, as if no one had ever thought of it before, seemed rather to astonish my aunt; who abruptly replied, “Well, ma’am, upon the whole, I shouldn’t wonder if you were right!”
“Mr. Micawber being now on the eve of casting off the pecuniary shackles that have so long 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 signalise 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 expence; 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 favor 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 any one. 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 unintentional confusion in the first place, and of wilful confusion and falsification in the second, we take it to be clear that Mr. Wickfield might now wind up his business, and his agency-trust, and exhibit no deficiency or defalcation whatever.”
“Oh, thank Heaven!” cried Agnes, fervently.
“But,” said Traddles, “the surplus that would be left as his means of support – and I suppose the house to be sold, even in saying this – would be so small, not exceeding in all probability some hundreds of pounds, that perhaps, Miss Wickfield, it would be best to consider whether he might not retain his agency of the estate to which he has so long been receiver. His friends might advise him, you know; now he is free. You yourself, Miss Wickfield – Copperfield – I – ”
“I have considered it, Trotwood,” said Agnes, looking to me, “and I feel that it ought not to be, and must not be; even on the recommendation of a friend to whom I am so grateful, and owe so much.”
“I will not say that I recommend it,” observed Traddles. “I think it right to suggest it. No more.”
“I am happy to hear you say so,” answered Agnes, steadily, “for it gives me hope, almost assurance, that we think alike. Dear Mr. Traddles and dear Trotwood, papa once free with honor, what could I wish for! I have always aspired, if I could have released him from the toils in which he was held, to render back some little portion of the love and care I owe him, and to devote my life to him. It has been, for years, the utmost height of my hopes. To take our future on myself, will be the next great happiness – the next to his release from all trust and responsibility – that I can know.”
“Have you thought how, Agnes?”
“Often! I am not afraid, dear Trotwood. I am certain of success. So many people know me here, and think kindly of me, that I am certain. Don’t mistrust me. Our wants are not many. If I rent the dear old house, and keep a school, I shall be useful and happy.”
The calm fervor of her cheerful voice brought back so vividly, first the dear old house itself, and then my solitary home, that my heart was too full for speech. Traddles pretended for a little while to be busily looking among the papers.
“Next, Miss Trotwood,” said Traddles, “that property of yours.”
“Well, sir,” sighed my aunt. “All I have got to say about it, is, that if it’s gone, I can bear it; and if it’s not gone, I shall be glad to get it back.”
“It was originally, I think, eight thousand pounds, Consols?” said Traddles.
“Right!” replied my aunt.
“I can’t account for more than five,” said Traddles, with an air of perplexity.
“ – thousand, do you mean?” inquired my aunt, with uncommon composure, “or pounds?”
“Five thousand pounds,” said Traddles.
“It was all there was,” returned my aunt. “I sold three, myself. One, I paid for your articles, Trot, my dear; and the other two I have by me. When I lost the rest, I thought it wise to say nothing about that sum, but to keep it secretly for a rainy day. I wanted to see how you would come out of the trial, Trot; and you came out nobly – persevering, self-reliant, self-denying! So did Dick. Don’t speak to me, for I find my nerves a little shaken!”
Nobody would have thought so, to see her sitting upright, with her arms folded; but she had wonderful self-command.
“Then I am delighted to say,” cried Traddles, beaming with joy, “that we have recovered the whole money!”
“Don’t congratulate me, anybody!” exclaimed my aunt. “How so, sir?”
“You believed it had been misappropriated by Mr. Wickfield?” said Traddles.
“Of course I did,” said my aunt, “and was therefore easily silenced. Agnes, not a word!”
