“You villain,” said I, “what do you mean by entrapping me into your schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now, you false rascal, as if we had been in discussion together?”
As we stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy exultation of his face, what I already so plainly knew; I mean that he forced his confidence upon me, expressly to make me miserable, and had set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter; that I couldn’t bear it. The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly before me, and I struck it with my open hand with that force that my fingers tingled as if I had burnt them.
He caught the hand in his, and we stood, in that connection, looking at each other. We stood so, a long time; long enough for me to see the white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of his cheek, and leave it a deeper red.
“Copperfield,” he said at length, in a breathless voice, “have you taken leave of your senses?”
“I have taken leave of you,” said I, wresting my hand away. “You dog, I’ll know no more of you.”
“Won’t you?” said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek to put his hand there. “Perhaps you won’t be able to help it. Isn’t this ungrateful of you, now?”
“I have shown you often enough,” said I, “that I despise you. I have shown you now, more plainly, that I do. Why should I dread your doing your worst to all about you? What else do you ever do?”
He perfectly understood this allusion to the considerations that had hitherto restrained me in my communications with him. I rather think that neither the blow, nor the allusion, would have escaped me, but for the assurance I had had from Agnes that night. It is no matter.
There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at me, seemed to take every shade of colour that could make eyes ugly.
“Copperfield,” he said, removing his hand from his cheek, “you have always gone against me. I know you always used to be against me at Mr. Wickfield’s.”
“You may think what you like,” said I, still in a towering rage. “If it is not true, so much the worthier you.”
“And yet I always liked you, Copperfield!” he rejoined.
I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, was going out to bed, when he came between me and the door.
“Copperfield,” he said, “there must be two parties to a quarrel. I won’t be one.”
“You may go to the devil!” said I.
“Don’t say that!” he replied. “I know you’ll be sorry afterwards. How can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to show such a bad spirit? But I forgive you.”
“You forgive me!” I repeated, disdainfully.
“I do, and you can’t help yourself,” replied Uriah. “To think of your going and attacking me, that have always been a friend to you! But there can’t be a quarrel without two parties, and I won’t be one. I will be a friend to you, in spite of you. So now you know what you’ve got to expect.”
The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which was very slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that the house might not be disturbed at an unseasonable hour, did not improve my temper; though my passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I should expect from him what I always had expected,