“Mr. Copperfield,” said Miss Mills, “you are dull.”
I begged her pardon. Not at all.
“And, Dora,” said Miss Mills, “you are dull.”
Oh dear no! Not in the least.
“Mr. Copperfield and Dora,” said Miss Mills, with an almost venerable air. “Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which, once put forth and blighted, can not be renewed. I speak,” said Miss Mills, “from experience of the past—the remote irrevocable past. The gushing fountains which sparkle in the sun, must not be stopped in mere caprice; the oasis in the desert of Sahara, must not be plucked up idly.”
I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordinary extent; but I took Dora’s little hand and kissed it—and she let me! I kissed Miss Mills’s hand; and we all seemed, to my thinking, to go straight up to the seventh heaven.
We did not come down again. We stayed up there all the evening. At first we strayed to and fro among the trees: I with Dora’s shy arm drawn through mine: and Heaven knows, folly as it all was, it would have been a happy fate to have been struck immortal with those foolish feelings, and have strayed among the trees for ever!
But, much too soon, we heard the others laughing and talking, and calling “where’s Dora!” So we went back, and they wanted Dora to sing. Red Whisker would have got the guitar-case out of the carriage, but Dora told him nobody knew where it was, but I. So Red Whisker was done for in a moment; and I got it, and I unlocked it, and I took the guitar out, and I sat by her, and I held her handkerchief and gloves, and I drank in every note of her dear voice, and she sang to me who loved her, and all the others might applaud as much as they liked, but they had nothing to do with it!
I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be real, and that I should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and hear Mrs. Crupp clinking the teacups in getting breakfast ready. But Dora sang, and others sang, and Miss Mills sang—about the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory; as if she were a hundred years old—and the
evening came on; and we had tea, with a kettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever.