We drove away, out of town, to the churchyard at Hornsey. “Better here than in the streets,” said my aunt. “He was born here.”
We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I remember well, where the service was read consigning it to the dust.
“Six-and-thirty years ago, this day, my dear,” said my aunt, as we walked back to the chariot, “I was married. God forgive us all!”
We took our seats in silence; and so she sat beside me for a long time, holding my hand. At length she suddenly burst into tears, and said:
“He was a fine-looking man when I married him, Trot—and he was sadly changed!”
It did not last long. After the relief of tears, she soon became composed, and even cheerful. Her nerves were a little shaken, she said, or she would not have given way to it. God forgive us all!
So we rode back to her little cottage at Highgate, where we found the following short note, which had arrived by that morning’s post from Mr. Micawber:
“Canterbury,
“Friday.
“My dear Madam, and Copperfield,
“The fair land of promise lately looming on the horizon is again enveloped in impenetrable mists, and for ever withdrawn from the eyes of a drifting wretch whose Doom is sealed!