David Copperfield

‘You will find her father a white-haired old man,’ said my aunt, ‘though a better man in all other respects – a reclaimed man. Neither will you find him measuring all human interests, and joys, and sorrows, with his one poor little inch-rule now. Trust me, child, such things must shrink very much, before they can be measured off in that way.’

‘Indeed they must,’ said I.

‘You will find her,’ pursued my aunt, ‘as good, as beautiful, as earnest, as disinterested, as she has always been. If I knew higher praise, Trot, I would bestow it on her.’

There was no higher praise for her; no higher reproach for me. Oh, how had I strayed so far away!

‘If she trains the young girls whom she has about her, to be like herself,’ said my aunt, earnest even to the filling of her eyes with tears, ‘Heaven knows, her life will be well employed! Useful and happy, as she said that day! How could she be otherwise than useful and happy!’

‘Has Agnes any – ’ I was thinking aloud, rather than speaking.

‘Well? Hey? Any what?’ said my aunt, sharply.

‘Any lover,’ said I.

‘A score,’ cried my aunt, with a kind of indignant pride. ‘She might have married twenty times, my dear, since you have been gone!’

‘No doubt,’ said I. ‘No doubt. But has she any lover who is worthy of her? Agnes could care for no other.’

My aunt sat musing for a little while, with her chin upon her hand. Slowly raising her eyes to mine, she said:

‘I suspect she has an attachment, Trot.’

‘A prosperous one?’ said I.

‘Trot,’ returned my aunt gravely, ‘I can’t say. I have no right to tell you even so much. She has never confided it to me, but I suspect it.’

She looked so attentively and anxiously at me (I even saw her tremble), that I felt now, more than ever, that she had followed my late thoughts. I summoned all the resolutions I had made, in all those many days and nights, and all those many conflicts of my heart.

‘If it should be so,’ I began, ‘and I hope it is-’

‘I don’t know that it is,’ said my aunt curtly. ‘You must not be ruled by my suspicions. You must keep them secret. They are very slight, perhaps. I have no right to speak.’

‘If it should be so,’ I repeated, ‘Agnes will tell me at her own good time. A sister to whom I have confided so much, aunt, will not be reluctant to confide in me.’

My aunt withdrew her eyes from mine, as slowly as she had turned them upon me; and covered them thoughtfully with her hand. By and by she put her other hand on my shoulder; and so we both sat, looking into the past, without saying another word, until we parted for the night.

I rode away, early in the morning, for the scene of my old school-days. I cannot say that I was yet quite happy, in the hope that I was gaining a victory over myself; even in the prospect of so soon looking on her face again.

The well-remembered ground was soon traversed, and I came into the quiet streets, where every stone was a boy’s book to me. I went on foot to the old house, and went away with a heart too full to enter. I returned; and looking, as I passed, through the low window of the turret-room where first Uriah Heep, and afterwards Mr. Micawber, had been wont to sit, saw that it 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.