第 37 页

and to make the past more indistinct. I sat there, sturdily conning my

books, until dinner-time (we were out of school for good at three); and

went down, hopeful of becoming a passable sort of boy yet.

Agnes was in the drawing-room, waiting for her father, who was detained

by someone in his office. She met me with her pleasant smile, and asked

me how I liked the school. I told her I should like it very much, I

hoped; but I was a little strange to it at first.

‘You have never been to school,’ I said, ‘have you?’ ‘Oh yes! Every

day.’

‘Ah, but you mean here, at your own home?’

‘Papa couldn’t spare me to go anywhere else,’ she answered, smiling and

shaking her head. ‘His housekeeper must be in his house, you know.’

‘He is very fond of you, I am sure,’ I said.

She nodded ‘Yes,’ and went to the door to listen for his coming up, that

she might meet him on the stairs. But, as he was not there, she came

back again.

‘Mama has been dead ever since I was born,’ she said, in her quiet way.

‘I only know her picture, downstairs. I saw you looking at it yesterday.

Did you think whose it was?’

I told her yes, because it was so like herself.

‘Papa says so, too,’ said Agnes, pleased. ‘Hark! That’s papa now!’

Her bright calm face lighted up with pleasure as she went to meet him,

and as they came in, hand in hand. He greeted me cordially; and told

me I should certainly be happy under Doctor Strong, who was one of the

gentlest of men.

‘There may be some, perhaps--I don’t know that there are--who abuse

his kindness,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Never be one of those, Trotwood, in

anything. He is the least suspicious of mankind; and whether that’s

a merit, or whether it’s a blemish, it deserves consideration in all

dealings with the Doctor, great or small.’

He spoke, I thought, as if he were weary, or dissatisfied with

something; but I did not pursue the question in my mind, for dinner was

just then announced, and we went down and took the same seats as before.

We had scarcely done so, when Uriah Heep put in his red head and his

lank hand at the door, and said:

‘Here’s Mr. Maldon begs the favour of a word, sir.’

‘I am but this moment quit of Mr. Maldon,’ said his master.

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Uriah; ‘but Mr. Maldon has come back, and he begs

the favour of a word.’

As he held the door open with his hand, Uriah looked at me, and looked

at Agnes, and looked at the dishes, and looked at the plates, and looked

at every object in the room, I thought,--yet seemed to look at nothing;

he made such an appearance all the while of keeping his red eyes

dutifully on his master. ‘I beg your pardon. It’s only to say, on

reflection,’ observed a voice behind Uriah, as Uriah’s head was

pushed away, and the speaker’s substituted--‘pray excuse me for this

intrusion--that as it seems I have no choice in the matter, the sooner

I go abroad the better. My cousin Annie did say, when we talked of it,

that she liked to have her friends within reach rather than to have them

banished, and the old Doctor--’

‘Doctor Strong, was that?’ Mr. Wickfield interposed, gravely.

‘Doctor Strong, of course,’ returned the other; ‘I call him the old

Doctor; it’s all the same, you know.’

‘I don’t know,’ returned Mr. Wickfield.

‘Well, Doctor Strong,’ said the other--‘Doctor Strong was of the same

mind, I believed. But as it appears from the course you take with me he

has changed his mind, why there’s no more to be said, except that the

sooner I am off, the better. Therefore, I thought I’d come back and say,

that the sooner I am off the better. When a plunge is to be made into

the water, it’s of no use lingering on the bank.’

‘There shall be as little lingering as possible, in your case, Mr.

Maldon, you may depend upon it,’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘Thank’ee,’ said the other. ‘Much obliged. I don’t want to look a

gift-horse in the mouth, which is not a gracious thing to do; otherwise,

I dare say, my cousin Annie could easily arrange it in her own way. I

suppose Annie would only have to say to the old Doctor--’

‘Meaning that Mrs. Strong would only have to say to her husband--do I

follow you?’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘Quite so,’ returned the other, ‘--would only have to say, that she

wanted such and such a thing to be so and so; and it would be so and so,

as a matter of course.’

‘And why as a matter of course, Mr. Maldon?’ asked Mr. Wickfield,

sedately eating his dinner.

‘Why, because Annie’s a charming young girl, and the old Doctor--Doctor

Strong, I mean--is not quite a charming young boy,’ said Mr. Jack

Maldon, laughing. ‘No offence to anybody, Mr. Wickfield. I only mean

that I suppose some compensation is fair and reasonable in that sort of

marriage.’

‘Compensation to the lady, sir?’ asked Mr. Wickfield gravely.

‘To the lady, sir,’ Mr. Jack Maldon answered, laughing. But appearing

to remark that Mr. Wickfield went on with his dinner in the same sedate,

immovable manner, and that there was no hope of making him relax a

muscle of his face, he added: ‘However, I have said what I came to say,

and, with another apology for this intrusion, I may take myself off. Of

course I shall observe your directions, in considering the matter as one

to be arranged between you and me solely, and not to be referred to, up

at the Doctor’s.’

‘Have you dined?’ asked Mr. Wickfield, with a motion of his hand towards

the table.

‘Thank’ee. I am going to dine,’ said Mr. Maldon, ‘with my cousin Annie.

Good-bye!’

Mr. Wickfield, without rising, looked after him thoughtfully as he went

out. He was rather a shallow sort of young gentleman, I thought, with

a handsome face, a rapid utterance, and a confident, bold air. And this

was the first I ever saw of Mr. Jack Maldon; whom I had not expected to

see so soon, when I heard the Doctor speak of him that morning.

When we had dined, we went upstairs again, where everything went on

exactly as on the previous day. Agnes set the glasses and decanters in

the same corner, and Mr. Wickfield sat down to drink, and drank a good

deal. Agnes played the piano to him, sat by him, and worked and talked,

and played some games at dominoes with me. In good time she made tea;

and afterwards, when I brought down my books, looked into them, and

showed me what she knew of them (which was no slight matter, though she

said it was), and what was the best way to learn and understand them.

I see her, with her modest, orderly, placid manner, and I hear her

beautiful calm voice, as I write these words. The influence for all

good, which she came to exercise over me at a later time, begins

already to descend upon my breast. I love little Em’ly, and I don’t love

Agnes--no, not at all in that way--but I feel that there are goodness,

peace, and truth, wherever Agnes is; and that the soft light of the

coloured window in the church, seen long ago, falls on her always, and

on me when I am near her, and on everything around.

The time having come for her withdrawal for the night, and she having

left us, I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, preparatory to going away myself.

But he checked me and said: ‘Should you like to stay with us, Trotwood,

or to go elsewhere?’

‘To stay,’ I answered, quickly.

‘You are sure?’

‘If you please. If I may!’

‘Why, it’s but a dull life that we lead here, boy, I am afraid,’ he

said.

‘Not more dull for me than Agnes, sir. Not dull at all!’

‘Than Agnes,’ he repeated, walking slowly to the great chimney-piece,

and leaning against it. ‘Than Agnes!’

He had drank wine that evening (or I fancied it), until his eyes were

bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, for they were cast down, and

shaded by his hand; but I had noticed them a little while before.

‘Now I wonder,’ he muttered, ‘whether my Agnes tires of me. When should

I ever tire of her! But that’s different, that’s quite different.’

He was musing, not speaking to me; so I remained quiet.

‘A dull old house,’ he said, ‘and a monotonous life; but I must have

her near me. I must keep her near me. If the thought that I may die and

leave my darling, or that my darling may die and leave me, comes like a

spectre, to distress my happiest hours, and is only to be drowned in--’

He did not supply the word; but pacing slowly to the place where he had

sat, and mechanically going through the action of pouring wine from the

empty decanter, set it down and paced back again.

‘If it is miserable to bear, when she is here,’ he said, ‘what would it

be, and she away? No, no, no. I cannot try that.’

He leaned against the chimney-piece, brooding so long that I could not

decide whether to run the risk of disturbing him by going, or to remain

quietly where I was, until he should come out of his reverie. At length

he aroused himself, and looked about the room until his eyes encountered

mine.

‘Stay with us, Trotwood, eh?’ he said in his usual manner, and as if

he were answering something I had just said. ‘I am glad of it. You are

company to us both. It is wholesome to have you here. Wholesome for me,

wholesome for Agnes, wholesome perhaps for all of us.’

‘I am sure it is for me, sir,’ I said. ‘I am so glad to be here.’

‘That’s a fine fellow!’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘As long as you are glad

to be here, you shall stay here.’ He shook hands with me upon it, and

clapped me on the back; and told me that when I had anything to do

at night after Agnes had left us, or when I wished to read for my own

pleasure, I was free to come down to his room, if he were there and if

I desired it for company’s sake, and to sit with him. I thanked him for

his consideration; and, as he went down soon afterwards, and I was

not tired, went down too, with a book in my hand, to avail myself, for

half-an-hour, of his permission.

But, seeing a light in the little round office, and immediately feeling

myself attracted towards Uriah Heep, who had a sort of fascination for

me, I went in there instead. I found Uriah reading a great fat book,

with such demonstrative attention, that his lank forefinger followed up

every line as he read, and made clammy tracks along the page (or so I

fully believed) like a snail.

‘You are working late tonight, Uriah,’ says I.

‘Yes, Master Copperfield,’ says Uriah.

As I was getting on the stool opposite, to talk to him more

conveniently, I observed that he had not such a thing as a smile about

him, and that he could only widen his mouth and make two hard creases

down his cheeks, one on each side, to stand for one.

‘I am not doing office-work, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah.

‘What work, then?’ I asked.

‘I am improving my legal knowledge, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah. ‘I

am going through Tidd’s Practice. Oh, what a writer Mr. Tidd is, Master

Copperfield!’

My stool was such a tower of observation, that as I watched him reading

on again, after this rapturous exclamation, and following up the lines

with his forefinger, I observed that his nostrils, which were thin and

pointed, with sharp dints in them, had a singular and most uncomfortable

way of expanding and contracting themselves--that they seemed to twinkle

instead of his eyes, which hardly ever twinkled at all.

‘I suppose you are quite a great lawyer?’ I said, after looking at him

for some time.

‘Me, Master Copperfield?’ said Uriah. ‘Oh, no! I’m a very umble person.’

It was no fancy of mine about his hands, I observed; for he frequently

ground the palms against each other as if to squeeze them dry and

warm, besides often wiping them, in a stealthy way, on his

pocket-handkerchief.

‘I am well aware that I am the umblest person going,’ said Uriah Heep,

modestly; ‘let the other be where he may. My mother is likewise a very

umble person. We live in a numble abode, Master Copperfield, but have

much to be thankful for. My father’s former calling was umble. He was a

sexton.’

‘What is he now?’ I asked.

‘He is a partaker of glory at present, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah

Heep. ‘But we have much to be thankful for. How much have I to be

thankful for in living with Mr. Wickfield!’

I asked Uriah if he had been with Mr. Wickfield long?

‘I have been with him, going on four year, Master Copperfield,’ said

Uriah; shutting up his book, after carefully marking the place where he

had left off. ‘Since a year after my father’s death. How much have I

to be thankful for, in that! How much have I to be thankful for, in Mr.

Wickfield’s kind intention to give me my articles, which would otherwise

not lay within the umble means of mother and self!’

‘Then, when your articled time is over, you’ll be a regular lawyer, I

suppose?’ said I.

‘With the blessing of Providence, Master Copperfield,’ returned Uriah.

‘Perhaps you’ll be a partner in Mr. Wickfield’s business, one of these

days,’ I said, to make myself agreeable; ‘and it will be Wickfield and

Heep, or Heep late Wickfield.’

‘Oh no, Master Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, shaking his head, ‘I am

much too umble for that!’

He certainly did look uncommonly like the carved face on the beam

outside my window, as he sat, in his humility, eyeing me sideways, with

his mouth widened, and the creases in his cheeks.

‘Mr. Wickfield is a most excellent man, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah.

‘If you have known him long, you know it, I am sure, much better than I

can inform you.’

I replied that I was certain he was; but that I had not known him long

myself, though he was a friend of my aunt’s.

‘Oh, indeed, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah. ‘Your aunt is a sweet

lady, Master Copperfield!’

He had a way of writhing when he wanted to express enthusiasm, which was

very ugly; and which diverted my attention from the compliment he had

paid my relation, to the snaky twistings of his throat and body.

‘A sweet lady, Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah Heep. ‘She has a great

admiration for Miss Agnes, Master Copperfield, I believe?’

I said, ‘Yes,’ boldly; not that I knew anything about it, Heaven forgive

me!

‘I hope you have, too, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah. ‘But I am sure

you must have.’

‘Everybody must have,’ I returned.

‘Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah Heep, ‘for that remark!

It is so true! Umble as I am, I know it is so true! Oh, thank you,