"No," returned Steerforth, "the advocates are civilians--men who have taken a doctor"s degree at college--which is the first reason of my knowing anything about it. The proctors employ the advocates. Both get very comfortable fees, and altogether they make a mighty snug little party. On the whole, I would recommend you to take to Doctors" Commons kindly, David. They plume them-selves on their gentility there, I can tell you, if that"s any satisfaction."
I made allowance for Steerforth"s light way of treating the subject, and, considering it with reference to the staid air of gravity and antiquity which I a.s.sociated with that "lazy old nook near St. Paul"s Churchyard", did not feel indisposed towards my aunt"s suggestion; which she left to my free decision, making no scruple of telling me that it had occurred to her, on her lately visiting her own proctor in Doctors"
Commons for the purpose of settling her will in my favour.
"That"s a laudable proceeding on the part of our aunt, at all events,"
said Steerforth, when I mentioned it; "and one deserving of all encouragement. Daisy, my advice is that you take kindly to Doctors"
Commons."
I quite made up my mind to do so. I then told Steerforth that my aunt was in town awaiting me (as I found from her letter), and that she had taken lodgings for a week at a kind of private hotel at Lincoln"s Inn Fields, where there was a stone staircase, and a convenient door in the roof; my aunt being firmly persuaded that every house in London was going to be burnt down every night.
We achieved the rest of our journey pleasantly, sometimes recurring to Doctors" Commons, and antic.i.p.ating the distant days when I should be a proctor there, which Steerforth pictured in a variety of humorous and whimsical lights, that made us both merry. When we came to our journey"s end, he went home, engaging to call upon me next day but one; and I drove to Lincoln"s Inn Fields, where I found my aunt up, and waiting supper.
If I had been round the world since we parted, we could hardly have been better pleased to meet again. My aunt cried outright as she embraced me; and said, pretending to laugh, that if my poor mother had been alive, that silly little creature would have shed tears, she had no doubt.
"So you have left Mr. d.i.c.k behind, aunt?" said I. "I am sorry for that.
Ah, Janet, how do you do?"
As Janet curtsied, hoping I was well, I observed my aunt"s visage lengthen very much.
"I am sorry for it, too," said my aunt, rubbing her nose. "I have had no peace of mind, Trot, since I have been here." Before I could ask why, she told me.
"I am convinced," said my aunt, laying her hand with melancholy firmness on the table, "that d.i.c.k"s character is not a character to keep the donkeys off. I am confident he wants strength of purpose. I ought to have left Janet at home, instead, and then my mind might perhaps have been at ease. If ever there was a donkey trespa.s.sing on my green," said my aunt, with emphasis, "there was one this afternoon at four o"clock.
A cold feeling came over me from head to foot, and I know it was a donkey!"
I tried to comfort her on this point, but she rejected consolation.
"It was a donkey," said my aunt; "and it was the one with the stumpy tail which that Murdering sister of a woman rode, when she came to my house." This had been, ever since, the only name my aunt knew for Miss Murdstone. "If there is any Donkey in Dover, whose audacity it is harder to me to bear than another"s, that," said my aunt, striking the table, "is the animal!"
Janet ventured to suggest that my aunt might be disturbing herself unnecessarily, and that she believed the donkey in question was then engaged in the sand-and-gravel line of business, and was not available for purposes of trespa.s.s. But my aunt wouldn"t hear of it.
Supper was comfortably served and hot, though my aunt"s rooms were very high up--whether that she might have more stone stairs for her money, or might be nearer to the door in the roof, I don"t know--and consisted of a roast fowl, a steak, and some vegetables, to all of which I did ample justice, and which were all excellent. But my aunt had her own ideas concerning London provision, and ate but little.
"I suppose this unfortunate fowl was born and brought up in a cellar,"
said my aunt, "and never took the air except on a hackney coach-stand. I hope the steak may be beef, but I don"t believe it. Nothing"s genuine in the place, in my opinion, but the dirt."
"Don"t you think the fowl may have come out of the country, aunt?" I hinted.
"Certainly not," returned my aunt. "It would be no pleasure to a London tradesman to sell anything which was what he pretended it was."
I did not venture to controvert this opinion, but I made a good supper, which it greatly satisfied her to see me do. When the table was cleared, Janet a.s.sisted her to arrange her hair, to put on her nightcap, which was of a smarter construction than usual ("in case of fire", my aunt said), and to fold her gown back over her knees, these being her usual preparations for warming herself before going to bed. I then made her, according to certain established regulations from which no deviation, however slight, could ever be permitted, a gla.s.s of hot wine and water, and a slice of toast cut into long thin strips. With these accompaniments we were left alone to finish the evening, my aunt sitting opposite to me drinking her wine and water; soaking her strips of toast in it, one by one, before eating them; and looking benignantly on me, from among the borders of her nightcap.
"Well, Trot," she began, "what do you think of the proctor plan? Or have you not begun to think about it yet?"
"I have thought a good deal about it, my dear aunt, and I have talked a good deal about it with Steerforth. I like it very much indeed. I like it exceedingly."
"Come!" said my aunt. "That"s cheering!"
"I have only one difficulty, aunt."
"Say what it is, Trot," she returned.
"Why, I want to ask, aunt, as this seems, from what I understand, to be a limited profession, whether my entrance into it would not be very expensive?"
"It will cost," returned my aunt, "to article you, just a thousand pounds."
"Now, my dear aunt," said I, drawing my chair nearer, "I am uneasy in my mind about that. It"s a large sum of money. You have expended a great deal on my education, and have always been as liberal to me in all things as it was possible to be. You have been the soul of generosity.
Surely there are some ways in which I might begin life with hardly any outlay, and yet begin with a good hope of getting on by resolution and exertion. Are you sure that it would not be better to try that course?
Are you certain that you can afford to part with so much money, and that it is right that it should be so expended? I only ask you, my second mother, to consider. Are you certain?"
My aunt finished eating the piece of toast on which she was then engaged, looking me full in the face all the while; and then setting her gla.s.s on the chimney-piece, and folding her hands upon her folded skirts, replied as follows:
"Trot, my child, if I have any object in life, it is to provide for your being a good, a sensible, and a happy man. I am bent upon it--so is d.i.c.k. I should like some people that I know to hear d.i.c.k"s conversation on the subject. Its sagacity is wonderful. But no one knows the resources of that man"s intellect, except myself!"
She stopped for a moment to take my hand between hers, and went on:
"It"s in vain, Trot, to recall the past, unless it works some influence upon the present. Perhaps I might have been better friends with your poor father. Perhaps I might have been better friends with that poor child your mother, even after your sister Betsey Trotwood disappointed me. When you came to me, a little runaway boy, all dusty and way-worn, perhaps I thought so. From that time until now, Trot, you have ever been a credit to me and a pride and a pleasure. I have no other claim upon my means; at least"--here to my surprise she hesitated, and was confused--"no, I have no other claim upon my means--and you are my adopted child. Only be a loving child to me in my age, and bear with my whims and fancies; and you will do more for an old woman whose prime of life was not so happy or conciliating as it might have been, than ever that old woman did for you."
It was the first time I had heard my aunt refer to her past history.
There was a magnanimity in her quiet way of doing so, and of dismissing it, which would have exalted her in my respect and affection, if anything could.
"All is agreed and understood between us, now, Trot," said my aunt, "and we need talk of this no more. Give me a kiss, and we"ll go to the Commons after breakfast tomorrow."
We had a long chat by the fire before we went to bed. I slept in a room on the same floor with my aunt"s, and was a little disturbed in the course of the night by her knocking at my door as often as she was agitated by a distant sound of hackney-coaches or market-carts, and inquiring, "if I heard the engines?" But towards morning she slept better, and suffered me to do so too.
At about mid-day, we set out for the office of Messrs Spenlow and Jorkins, in Doctors" Commons. My aunt, who had this other general opinion in reference to London, that every man she saw was a pickpocket, gave me her purse to carry for her, which had ten guineas in it and some silver.
We made a pause at the toy shop in Fleet Street, to see the giants of Saint Dunstan"s strike upon the bells--we had timed our going, so as to catch them at it, at twelve o"clock--and then went on towards Ludgate Hill, and St. Paul"s Churchyard. We were crossing to the former place, when I found that my aunt greatly accelerated her speed, and looked frightened. I observed, at the same time, that a lowering ill-dressed man who had stopped and stared at us in pa.s.sing, a little before, was coming so close after us as to brush against her.
"Trot! My dear Trot!" cried my aunt, in a terrified whisper, and pressing my arm. "I don"t know what I am to do."
"Don"t be alarmed," said I. "There"s nothing to be afraid of. Step into a shop, and I"ll soon get rid of this fellow."
"No, no, child!" she returned. "Don"t speak to him for the world. I entreat, I order you!"
"Good Heaven, aunt!" said I. "He is nothing but a st.u.r.dy beggar."
"You don"t know what he is!" replied my aunt. "You don"t know who he is!
You don"t know what you say!"
We had stopped in an empty door-way, while this was pa.s.sing, and he had stopped too.
"Don"t look at him!" said my aunt, as I turned my head indignantly, "but get me a coach, my dear, and wait for me in St. Paul"s Churchyard."
"Wait for you?" I replied.
"Yes," rejoined my aunt. "I must go alone. I must go with him."
"With him, aunt? This man?"