This closed the proceedings of the evening. We were weary with sorrow and fatigue, and my aunt and I were to return to London on the morrow. It was arranged that the Micawbers should follow us, after effecting a sale of their goods to a broker; that Mr. Wickfield’s affairs should be brought to a settlement, with all convenient speed, under the direction of Traddles; and that Agnes should also come to London, pending those arrangements. We passed the night at the old house, which, freed from the presence of the Heeps, seemed purged of a disease; and I lay in my old room, like a shipwrecked wanderer come home.
We went back next day to my aunt’s house—not to mine; and when she and I sat alone, as of old, before going to bed, she said:
“Trot, do you really wish to know what I have had upon my mind lately?”
“Indeed I do, aunt. If there ever was a time when I felt unwilling that you should have a sorrow or anxiety which I could not share, it is now.”
“You have had sorrow enough, child,” said my aunt, affectionately, “without the addition of my little miseries. I could have no other motive, Trot, in keeping anything from you.”
“I know that well,” said I. “But tell me now.”
“Would you ride with me a little way to-morrow morning?” asked my aunt.
“Of course.”
“At nine,” said she. “I’ll tell you then, my dear.”
At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and drove to London. We drove a long way through the streets, until we came to one of the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a plain hearse.