CHAPTER 53 - 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, shows me

how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an 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 downstairs, 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 today, 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 downstairs, 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 downstairs, when I go into the parlour; 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 a 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 upstairs.

'Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!'

He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim

eyes to my face.

'Oh, 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.

'Oh, 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.

Read next: CHAPTER 54 - Mr. MICAWBER'S TRANSACTIONS

Read previous: CHAPTER 52 - I ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION

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