David Copperfield - Charles Dickens (great books to read .TXT) 📗

was a little parlour now, and that there was no office. Otherwise the staid old house was, as to its cleanliness and order, still just as it had been when I first saw it. I requested the new maid who admitted me, to tell Miss Wickfield that a gentleman who waited on her from a friend abroad, was there; and I was shown up the grave old staircase (cautioned of the steps I knew so well), into the unchanged drawing-room. The books that Agnes and I had read together, were on their shelves; and the desk where I had laboured at my lessons, many a night, stood yet at the same old corner of the table. All the little changes that had crept in when the Heeps were there, were changed again. Everything was as it used to be, in the happy time.

I stood in a window, and looked across the ancient street at the opposite houses, recalling how I had watched them on wet afternoons, when I first came there; and how I had used to speculate about the people who appeared at any of the windows, and had followed them with my eyes up and down stairs, while women went clicking along the pavement in pattens, and the dull rain fell in slanting lines, and poured out of the water-spout yonder, and flowed into the road. The feeling with which I used to watch the tramps, as they came into the town on those wet evenings, at dusk, and limped past, with their bundles drooping over their shoulders at the ends of sticks, came freshly back to me; fraught, as then, with the smell of damp earth, and wet leaves and briar, and the sensation of the very airs that blew upon me in my own toilsome journey.

The opening of the little door in the panelled wall made me start and turn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as she came towards me. She stopped and laid her hand upon her bosom, and I caught her in my arms.

‘Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon you.’

‘No, no! I am so rejoiced to see you, Trotwood!’

‘Dear Agnes, the happiness it is to me, to see you once again!’

I folded her to my heart, and, for a little while, we were both silent. Presently we sat down, side by side; and her angel-face was turned upon me with the welcome I had dreamed of, waking and sleeping, for whole years.

She was so true, she was so beautiful, she was so good, - I owed her so much gratitude, she was so dear to me, that I could find no utterance for what I felt. I tried to bless her, tried to thank her, tried to tell her (as I had often done in letters) what an influence she had upon me; but all my efforts were in vain. My love and joy were dumb.

With her own sweet tranquillity, she calmed my agitation; led me back to the time of our parting; spoke to me of Emily, whom she had visited, in secret, many times; spoke to me tenderly of Dora’s grave. With the unerring instinct of her noble heart, she touched the chords of my memory so softly and harmoniously, that not one jarred within me; I could listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to shrink from nothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended with it all, was her dear self, the better angel of my life?

‘And you, Agnes,’ I said, by and by. ‘Tell me of yourself. You have hardly ever told me of your own life, in all this lapse of time!’

‘What should I tell?’ she answered, with her radiant smile. ‘Papa is well. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our anxieties set at rest, our home restored to us; and knowing that, dear Trotwood, you know all.’

‘All, Agnes?’ said I.

She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her face.

‘Is there nothing else, Sister?’ I said.

Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and faded again. She smiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and shook her head.

I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for, sharply painful to me as it must be to receive that confidence, I was to discipline my heart, and do my duty to her. I saw, however, that she was uneasy, and I let it pass.

‘You have much to do, dear Agnes?’

‘With my school?’ said she, looking up again, in all her bright composure.

‘Yes. It is laborious, is it not?’

‘The labour is so pleasant,’ she returned, ‘that it is scarcely grateful in me to call it by that name.’

‘Nothing good is difficult to you,’ said I.

Her colour came and went once more; and once more, as she bent her head, I saw the same sad smile.

‘You will wait and see papa,’ said Agnes, cheerfully, ‘and pass the day with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own room? We always call it yours.’

I could not do that, having promised to ride back to my aunt’s at night; but I would pass the day there, joyfully.

‘I must be a prisoner for a little while,’ said Agnes, ‘but here are the old books, Trotwood, and the old music.’

‘Even the old flowers are here,’ said I, looking round; ‘or the old kinds.’

‘I have found a pleasure,’ returned Agnes, smiling, ‘while you have been absent, in keeping everything as it used to be when we were children. For we were very happy then, I think.’

‘Heaven knows we were!’ said I.

‘And every little thing that has reminded me of my brother,’ said Agnes, with her cordial eyes turned cheerfully upon me, ‘has been a welcome companion. Even this,’ showing me the basket-trifle, full of keys, still hanging at her side, ‘seems to jingle a kind of old tune!’

She smiled again, and went out at the door by which she had come.

It was for me to guard this sisterly affection with religious care. It was all that I had left myself, and it was a treasure. If I once shook the foundations of the sacred confidence and usage, in virtue of which it was given to me, it was lost, and could never be recovered. I set this steadily before myself. The better I loved her, the more it behoved me never to forget it.

I walked through the streets; and, once more seeing my old adversary the butcher - now a constable, with his staff hanging up in the shop - went down to look at the place where I had fought him; and there meditated on Miss Shepherd and the eldest Miss Larkins, and all the idle loves and likings, and dislikings, of that time. Nothing seemed to have survived that time but Agnes; and she, ever a star above me, was brighter and higher.

When I returned, Mr. Wickfield had come home, from a garden he had, a couple of miles or so out of town, where he now employed himself almost every day. I found him as my aunt had described him. We sat down to dinner, with some half-dozen little girls; and he seemed but the shadow of his handsome picture on the wall.

The tranquillity and peace belonging, of old, to that quiet ground in my memory, pervaded it again. When dinner was done, Mr. Wickfield taking no wine, and I desiring none, we went upstairs; where Agnes and her little charges sang and played, and worked. After tea the children left us; and we three sat together, talking of the bygone days.

‘My part in them,’ said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white head, ‘has much matter for regret - for deep regret, and deep contrition, Trotwood, you well know. But I would not cancel it, if it were in my power.’

I could readily believe that, looking at the face beside him.

‘I should cancel with it,’ he pursued, ‘such patience and devotion, such fidelity, such a child’s love, as I must not forget, no! even to forget myself.’

‘I understand you, sir,’ I softly said. ‘I hold it - I have always held it - in veneration.’

‘But no one knows, not even you,’ he returned, ‘how much she has done, how much she has undergone, how hard she has striven. Dear Agnes!’

She had put her hand entreatingly on his arm, to stop him; and was very, very pale.

‘Well, well!’ he said with a sigh, dismissing, as I then saw, some trial she had borne, or was yet to bear, in connexion with what my aunt had told me. ‘Well! I have never told you, Trotwood, of her mother. Has anyone?’

‘Never, sir.’

‘It’s not much - though it was much to suffer. She married me in opposition to her father’s wish, and he renounced her. She prayed him to forgive her, before my Agnes came into this world. He was a very hard man, and her mother had long been dead. He repulsed her. He broke her heart.’

Agnes leaned upon his shoulder, and stole her arm about his neck.

‘She had an affectionate and gentle heart,’ he said; ‘and it was broken. I knew its tender nature very well. No one could, if I did not. She loved me dearly, but was never happy. She was always labouring, in secret, under this distress; and being delicate and downcast at the time of his last repulse - for it was not the first, by many - pined away and died. She left me Agnes, two weeks old; and the grey hair that you recollect me with, when you first came.’ He kissed Agnes on her cheek.

‘My love for my dear child was a diseased love, but my mind was all unhealthy then. I say no more of that. I am not speaking of myself, Trotwood, but of her mother, and of her. If I give you any clue to what I am, or to what I have been, you will unravel it, I know. What Agnes is, I need not say. I have always read something of her poor mother’s story, in her character; and so I tell it you tonight, when we three are again together, after such great changes. I have told it all.’

His bowed head, and her angel-face and filial duty, derived a more pathetic meaning from it than they had had before. If I had wanted anything by which to mark this night of our reunion, I should have found it in this.

Agnes rose up from her father’s side, before long; and going softly to her piano, played some of the old airs to which we had often listened in that place.

‘Have you any intention of going away again?’ Agnes asked me, as I was standing by.

‘What does my sister say to that?’

‘I hope not.’

‘Then I have no such intention, Agnes.’

‘I think you ought not, Trotwood, since you ask me,’ she said, mildly. ‘Your growing reputation and success enlarge your power of doing good; and if I could spare my brother,’ with her eyes upon me, ‘perhaps the time could not.’

‘What I am, you have made me, Agnes. You should know best.’

‘I made you, Trotwood?’

‘Yes! Agnes, my dear girl!’ I said, bending over her. ‘I tried to tell you, when we met today, something that has been in my thoughts since Dora died. You remember, when you came down to me in our little room - pointing upward, Agnes?’

‘Oh, Trotwood!’ she returned, her eyes filled with tears. ‘So loving, so confiding, and so young! Can I ever forget?’

‘As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since, you have ever been to me. Ever pointing upward, Agnes; ever leading me to something better; ever