exerted for your benefit and reformation, should owe me any goodwill now. There is an antipathy between us—”
“An old one, I believe?” said I, interrupting him.
He smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come from his dark eyes.
“It rankled in your baby breast,” he said. “It embittered the life of your poor mother. You are right. I hope you may do better, yet; I hope you may correct yourself.”
Here he ended the dialogue, which had been carried on in a low voice, in a corner of the outer office, by passing into Mr. Spenlow’s room, and saying aloud, in his smoothest manner:
“Gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow’s profession are accustomed to family differences, and know how complicated and difficult they always are!” With that, he paid the money for his licence; and, receiving it neatly folded from Mr. Spenlow, together with a shake of the hand, and a polite wish for his happiness and the lady’s, went out of the office.
I might have had more difficulty in constraining myself to be silent under his words, if I had had less difficulty in impressing upon Peggotty (who was only angry on my account, good creature!) that we were not in a place for recrimination, and that I besought her to hold her peace. She was so unusually roused, that I was glad to compound for an affectionate hug, elicited by this revival in her mind of our old injuries, and to make the best I could of it, before Mr. Spenlow and the clerks.
Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connection between Mr. Murdstone and myself was; which I was glad of, for I could not bear to acknowledge him, even in my own breast, remembering what I did of the history of my poor mother. Mr. Spenlow seemed to think, if he