The Healing Journey

February 7, 2026

In this excerpt from Charles Dickens’ novel, “David Copperfield,” his strong-willed and out-spoken aunt Betsey Trotwood expresses her hidden grief for her husband, who was abusive and exploited her in that early marriage. She left him, but still helped him when he was in need and was there when he died. She tells her story to Copperfield, whom she calls “Trot.”

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. The driver recognized my aunt, and in obedience to a motion of her hand at the window, drove slowly off; we following.

“You understand it now, Trot,” said my aunt. “He is gone!”

“Did he die in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

She sat immovable beside me; but, again I saw the stray tears on her face.

“He was there once before,” said my aunt presently. “He was ailing a long time – a shattered, broken man, these many years. When he knew his state in this last illness, he asked them to send for me. He was sorry then. Very sorry.”

“You went, I know, aunt.”

“I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.”

“He died the night before we went to Canterbury?” said I.

My aunt nodded. “No one can harm him now,” she said. “It was a vain threat.”

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.

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