...protector.’
A passing thought occurred to me that Miss Murdstone, like the
pocket instrument called a life-preserver, was not so much
designed for purposes of protection as of assault. But as I had
none but passing thoughts for any subject 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 that state of love, was a little too ridiculous. I could only
sit down before my 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
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David Copperfield
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 had no share. When a most amiable person, with a
highly polished bald head, asked me across the dinner table, if that
were the first occasion of my seeing the grounds, I could have
done anything to him that was savage and revengeful.
I don’t remember who was there, except Dora. I have not the
least idea what we had for dinner, besides Dora. My impression is,
that I dined off Dora, entirely, and sent away half-a-dozen plates
untouched. I sat next to her. I talked to her. She had the most
delightful little voice, the gayest little laugh, the pleasantest and
most 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 (no other
ladies were of the party), I fell into a reverie, only disturbed by the
cruel apprehension that Miss Murdstone would disparage me to
her. The amiable creature with the polished head told me a long
story, which I think was about gardening. I think I heard him say,
‘my gardener’, several times. I seemed to pay the deepest attention
to him, but I was wandering in a garden of E**ll the while, with
Dora.
My apprehensions 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.
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David Copperfield
‘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 memory of past differences, or of past outrages. I have
received outrages 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 ple