I MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING.
Mr. Dick and I soon became the best of friends, and very often, when his
day's work was done, went out together to fly the great kite. Every day
of his life he had a long sitting at the Memorial, which never made the
least progress, however hard he labored, for King Charles the First
always strayed into it, sooner or later, and then it was thrown aside,
and another one begun. The patience and hope with which he bore these
perpetual disappointments, the mild perception he had that there was
something wrong about King Charles the First, the feeble efforts he made
to keep him out, and the certainty with which he came in, and tumbled
the Memorial out of all shape, made a deep impression on me. What Mr.
Dick supposed would come of the Memorial, if it were completed; where he
thought it was to go, or what he thought it was to do; he knew no more
than anybody else, I believe. Nor was it at all necessary that he should
trouble himself with such questions, for if anything were certain under
the sun, it was certain that the Memorial never would be finished.
It was quite an affecting sight, I used to think, to see him with the
kite when it was up a great height in the air. What he had told me, in
his room, about his belief in its disseminating the statements pasted on
it, which were nothing but old leaves of abortive Memorials, might have
been a fancy with him sometimes; but not when he was out, looking up at
the kite in the sky, and feeling it pull and tug at his hand. He never
looked so serene as he did then. I used to fancy, as I sat by him of an
evening, on a green slope, and saw him watch the kite high in the quiet
air, that it lifted his mind out of its confusion, and bore it (such was
my boyish thought) into the skies. As he wound the string in, and it
came lower and lower down out of the beautiful light, until it fluttered
to the ground, and lay there like a dead thing, he seemed to wake
gradually out of a dream; and I remember to have seen him take it up,
and look about him in a lost way, as if they had both come down
together, so that I pitied him with all my heart.
While I advanced in friendship and intimacy with Mr. Dick, I did not go
backward in the favor of his staunch friend, my aunt. She took so kindly
to me, that, in the course of a few weeks, she shortened my adopted name
of Trotwood into Trot; and even encouraged me to hope that if I went on
as I had begun, I might take equal rank in her affections with my sister
Betsey Trotwood.
"Trot," said my aunt one evening, when the backgammon-board was placed
as usual for herself and Mr. Dick, "we must not forget your education."
This was my only subject of anxiety, and I felt quite delighted by her
referring to it.
"Should you like to go to school at Canterbury?" said my aunt.
I replied that I should like it very much, as it was so near her.
"Good," said my aunt. "Should you like to go to-morrow?"
Being already no stranger to the general rapidity of my aunt's
evolutions, I was not surprised by the suddenness of the proposal, and
said: "Yes."
"Good," said my aunt again. "Janet, hire the grey pony and chaise
to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, and pack up Master Trotwood's clothes
to-night."
I was greatly elated by these orders; but my heart smote me for my
selfishness, when I witnessed their effect on Mr. Dick, who was so
low-spirited at the prospect of our separation, and played so ill in
consequence, that my aunt, after giving him several admonitory raps on
the knuckles with her dice-box, shut up the board, and declined to play
with him any more. But, on hearing from my aunt that I should sometimes
come over on a Saturday, and that he could sometimes come and see me
on a Wednesday, he revived; and vowed to make another kite for those
occasions, of proportions greatly surpassing the present one. In the
morning he was downhearted again, and would have sustained himself by
giving me all the money he had in his possession, gold and silver too,
if my aunt had not interposed, and limited the gift to five shillings,
which, at his earnest petition, were afterwards increased to ten. We
parted at the garden-gate in a most affectionate manner, and Mr. Dick
did not go into the house until my aunt had driven me out of sight of
it.
My aunt, who was perfectly indifferent to public opinion, drove the grey
pony through Dover in a masterly manner; sitting high and stiff like a
state coachman, keeping a steady eye upon him wherever he went, and
making a point of not letting him have his own way in any respect. When
we came into the country road, she permitted him to relax a little,
however; and looking at me down in a valley of cushion by her side,
asked me whether I was happy.
"Very happy indeed, thank you, aunt," I said.
She was much gratified; and both her hands being occupied, patted me on
the head with her whip.
"Is it a large school, aunt?" I asked.
"Why, I don't know," said my aunt. "We are going to Mr. Wickfield's
first."
"Does _he_ keep a school?" I asked.
"No, Trot," said my aunt. "He keeps an office."
I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfield, as she offered
none, and we conversed on other subjects until we came to Canterbury,
where, as it was market-day, my aunt had a great opportunity of
insinuating the grey pony among carts, baskets, vegetables, and
huckster's goods. The hair-breadth turns and twists we made, drew down
upon us a variety of speeches from the people standing about, which were
not always complimentary; but my aunt drove on with perfect
indifference, and I dare say would have taken her own way with as much
coolness through an enemy's country.
At length we stopped before a very old house bulging out over the road;
a house with long low lattice-windows bulging out still farther, and
beams with carved heads on the ends bulging out too, so that I fancied
the whole house was leaning forward, trying to see who was passing on
the narrow pavement below. It was quite spotless in its cleanliness. The
old-fashioned brass knocker on the low arched door, ornamented with
carved garlands of fruit and flowers, twinkled like a star; the two
stone steps descending to the door were as white as if they had been
covered with fair linen; and all the angles and corners, and carvings
and mouldings, and quaint little panes of glass, and quainter little
windows, though as old as the hills, were as pure as any snow that ever
fell upon the hills.
When the pony-chaise stopped at the door, and my eyes were intent upon
the house, I saw a cadaverous face appear at a small window on the
ground floor (in a little round tower that formed one side of the
house), and quickly disappear. The low arched door then opened, and the
face came out. It was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the
window, though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red which is
sometimes to be observed in the skins of red-haired people. It belonged
to a red-haired person--a youth of fifteen, as I take it now, but
looking much older--whose hair was cropped as close as the closest
stubble; who had hardly any eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a
red-brown; so unsheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how he
went to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black,
with a white wisp of a neckcloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a
long, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly attracted my attention, as
he stood at the pony's head, rubbing his chin with it, and looking up at
us in the chaise.
"Is Mr. Wickfield at home, Uriah Heep?" said my aunt.
"Mr. Wickfield's at home, ma'am," said Uriah Heep, "if you'll please to
walk in there"--pointing with his long hand to the room he meant.
We got out; and leaving him to hold the pony, went into a long low
parlor looking towards the street, from the window of which I caught a
glimpse, as I went in, of Uriah Heep breathing into the pony's nostrils,
and immediately covering them with his hand, as if he were putting some
spell upon him. Opposite to the tall old chimney-piece, were two
portraits: one of a gentleman with grey hair (though not by any means an
old man) and black eyebrows, who was looking over some papers tied
together with red tape; the other, of a lady, with a very placid and
sweet expression of face, who was looking at me.
I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah's picture, when, a door
at the farther end of the room opening, a gentleman entered, at sight of
whom I turned to the first-mentioned portrait again, to make quite sure
that it had not come out of its frame. But it was stationary; and as the
gentleman advanced into the light, I saw that he was some years older
than when he had had his picture painted.
"Miss Betsey Trotwood," said the gentleman, "pray walk in. I was engaged
for the moment, but you'll excuse my being busy. You know my motive. I
have but one in life."
Miss Betsey thanked him, and we went into his room, which was furnished
as an office, with books, papers, tin boxes, and so forth. It looked
into a garden, and had an iron safe let into the wall; so immediately
over the mantel-shelf, that I wondered, as I sat down, how the sweeps
got round it when they swept the chimney.
"Well, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield; for I soon found that it was
he, and that he was a lawyer, and steward of the estates of a rich
gentleman of the county; "what wind blows you here? Not an ill wind, I
hope?"
"No," replied my aunt, "I have not come for any law."
"That's right, ma'am," said Mr. Wickfield. "You had better come for
anything else."
His hair was quite white now, though his eyebrows were still black. He
had a very agreeable face, and, I thought, was handsome. There was a
certain richness in his complexion, which I had been long accustomed,
under Peggotty's tuition, to connect with port wine; and I fancied it
was in his voice too, and referred his growing corpulency to the same
cause. He was very cleanly dressed, in a blue coat, striped waistcoat,
and nankeen trowsers; and his fine frilled shirt and cambric neckcloth
looked unusually soft and white, reminding my strolling fancy (I call to
mind) of the plumage on the breast of a swan.
"This is my nephew," said my aunt.
"Wasn't aware you had one, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield.
"My grand-nephew, that is to say," observed my aunt.
"Wasn't aware you had a grand-nephew, I give you my word," said Mr.
Wickfield.
"I have adopted him," said my aunt, with a wave of her hand, importing
that his knowledge and his ignorance were all one to her, "and I have
brought him here, to put him to a school where he may be thoroughly well
taught, and well treated. Now tell me where that school is, and what it
is, and all about it."
"Before I can advise you properly," said Mr. Wickfield,--"the old
question, you know. What's your motive in this?"
"Deuce take the man!" exclaimed my aunt. "Always fishing for motives,
when they're on the surface! Why, to make the child happy and useful."
"It must be a mixed motive, I think," said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his
head and smiling incredulously.
"A mixed fiddlestick!" returned my aunt. "You claim to have one plain
motive in all you do yourself. You don't suppose, I hope, that you are
the only plain dealer in the world?"
"Ay, but I have only one motive in life, Miss Trotwood," he rejoined,
smiling. "Other people have dozens, scores, hundreds. I have only one.
There's the difference. However, that's beside the question. The best
school? Whatever the motive, you want the best?"
My aunt nodded assent.
"At the best we have," said Mr. Wickfield, considering, "your nephew
couldn't board just now."
"But he could board somewhere else, I suppose?" suggested my aunt.
Mr. Wickfield thought I could. After a little discussion, he proposed to
take my aunt to the school, that she might see it and judge for herself;
also, to take her, with the same object, to two or three houses where he
thought I could be boarded. My aunt embracing the proposal, we were all
three going out together, when he stopped and said:
"Our little friend here might have some motive, perhaps, for objecting
to the arrangements. I think we had better leave him behind?"
My aunt seemed disposed to contest the point; but to facilitate matters
I said I would gladly remain behind, if they pleased; and returned into
Mr. Wickfield's office, where I sat down again, in the chair I had first
occupied, to await their return.
It so happened that this chair was opposite a narrow passage, which
ended in the little circular room where I had seen Uriah Heep's
pale face looking out of window. Uriah, having taken the pony to a
neighbouring stable, was at work at a desk in this room, which had a
brass frame on the top to hang papers upon, and on which the writing
he was making a copy of was then hanging. Though his face was towards
me, I thought, for some time, the writing being between us, that he
could not see me; but looking that way more attentively, it made me
uncomfortable to observe that, every now and then, his sleepless eyes
would come below the writing, like two red suns, and stealthily stare
at me for I dare say a whole minute at a time, during which his pen
went, or pretended to go, as cleverly as ever. I made several attempts
to get out of their way--such as standing on a chair to look at a map
on the other side of the room, and poring over the columns of a Kentish
newspaper--but they always attracted me back again; and whenever I
looked towards those two red suns, I was sure to find them, either just
rising or just setting.
At length, much to my relief, my aunt and Mr. Wickfield came back, after
a pretty long absence. They were not so successful as I could have
wished; for though the advantages of the school were undeniable, my aunt
had not approved of any of the boarding-houses proposed for me.
"It's very unfortunate," said my aunt. "I don't know what to do, Trot."
"It _does_ happen unfortunately," said Mr. Wickfield. "But I'll tell you
what you can do, Miss Trotwood."
"What's that?" inquired my aunt.
"Leave your nephew here, for the present. He's a quiet fellow. He won't
disturb me at all. It's a capital house for study. As quiet as a
monastery, and almost as roomy. Leave him here."
My aunt evidently liked the offer, though she was delicate of accepting
it. So did I.
"Come, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield. "This is the way out of the
difficulty. It's only a temporary arrangement, you know. If it don't act
well, or don't quite accord with our mutual convenience, he can easily
go to the right about. There will be time to find some better place for
him in the meanwhile. You had better determine to leave him here for the
present!"
"I am very much obliged to you," said my aunt; "and so is he, I see;
but--"
"Come! I know what you mean," cried Mr. Wickfield. "You shall not be
oppressed by the receipt of favors, Miss Trotwood. You may pay for him
if you like. We won't be hard about terms, but you shall pay if you
will."
"On that understanding," said my aunt, "though it doesn't lessen the
real obligation, I shall be very glad to leave him."
"Then come and see my little housekeeper," said Mr. Wickfield.
We accordingly went up a wonderful old staircase; with a balustrade so
broad that we might have gone up that, almost as easily; and into a
shady old drawing-room, lighted by some three or four of the quaint
windows I had looked up at from the street: which had old oak seats in
them, that seemed to have come of the same trees as the shining oak
floor, and the great beams in the ceiling. It was a prettily furnished
room, with a piano and some lively furniture in red and green, and some
flowers. It seemed to be all old nooks and corners; and in every nook
and corner there was some queer little table, or cupboard, or bookcase,
or seat, or something or other, that made me think there was not such
another good corner in the room; until I looked at the next one, and
found it equal to it, if not better. On everything there was the same
air of retirement and cleanliness that marked the house outside.
Mr. Wickfield tapped at a door in a corner of the panneled wall, and a
girl of about my own age came quickly out and kissed him. On her face, I
saw immediately the placid and sweet expression of the lady whose
picture had looked at me down-stairs. It seemed to my imagination as if
the portrait had grown womanly, and the original remained a child.
Although her face was quite bright and happy, there was a tranquillity
about it, and about her--a quiet, good, calm spirit--that I never have
forgotten; that I never shall forget.
This was his little housekeeper, his daughter Agnes, Mr. Wickfield said.
When I heard how he said it, and saw how he held her hand, I guessed
what the one motive of his life was.
She had a little basket-trifle hanging at her side, with keys in it; and
looked as staid and as discreet a housekeeper as the old house could
have. She listened to her father as he told her about me, with a
pleasant face; and when he had concluded, proposed to my aunt that we
should go up-stairs and see my room. We all went together; she before
us: and a glorious old room it was, with more oak beams, and diamond
panes; and the broad balustrade going all the way up to it.
I cannot call to mind where or when, in my childhood, I had seen a
stained glass window in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject. But I
know that when I saw her turn round, in the grave light of the old
staircase, and wait for us, above, I thought of that window; and that I
associated something of its tranquil brightness with Agnes Wickfield
ever afterwards.
My aunt was as happy as I was, in the arrangement made for me; and we
went down to the drawing-room again, well pleased and gratified. As she
would not hear of staying to dinner, lest she should by any chance fail
to arrive at home with the grey pony before dark; and as I apprehend Mr.
Wickfield knew her too well, to argue any point with her; some lunch was
provided for her there, and Agnes went back to her governess, and Mr.
Wickfield to his office. So we were left to take leave of one another
without any restraint.
She told me that everything would be arranged for me by Mr. Wickfield,
and that I should want for nothing, and gave me the kindest words and
the best advice.
"Trot," said my aunt in conclusion, "be a credit to yourself, to me, and
Mr. Dick, and Heaven be with you!"
I was greatly overcome, and could only thank her, again and again, and
send my love to Mr. Dick.
"Never," said my aunt, "be mean in anything; never be false; never be
cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful of
you."
I promised, as well as I could, that I would not abuse her kindness or
forget her admonition.
"The pony's at the door," said my aunt, "and I am off! Stay here."
With these words she embraced me hastily, and went out of the room,
shutting the door after her. At first I was startled by so abrupt a
departure, and almost feared I had displeased her; but when I looked
into the street, and saw how dejectedly she got into the chaise, and
drove away without looking up, I understood her better, and did not do
her that injustice.
By five o'clock, which was Mr. Wickfield's dinner hour, I had mustered
up my spirits again, and was ready for my knife and fork. The cloth was
only laid for us two; but Agnes was waiting in the drawing-room before
dinner, went down with her father, and sat opposite to him at table. I
doubted whether he could have dined without her.
We did not stay there, after dinner, but came up-stairs into the
drawing-room again: in one snug corner of which, Agnes set glasses for
her father, and a decanter of port wine. I thought he would have missed
its usual flavor, if it had been put there for him by any other hands.
There he sat, taking his wine, and taking a good deal of it, for two
hours; while Agnes played on the piano, worked, and talked to him and
me. He was, for the most part, gay and cheerful with us; but sometimes
his eyes rested on her, and he fell into a brooding state, and was
silent. She always observed this quickly, as I thought, and always
roused him with a question or caress. Then he came out of his
meditation, and drank more wine.
Agnes made the tea, and presided over it; and the time passed away after
it, as after dinner, until she went to bed; when her father took her in
his arms and kissed her, and, she being gone, ordered candles in his
office. Then I went to bed too.
But in the course of the evening I had rambled down to the door, and a
little way along the street, that I might have another peep at the old
houses, and the grey Cathedral; and might think of my coming through
that old city on my journey, and of my passing the very house I lived
in, without knowing it. As I came back, I saw Uriah Heep shutting up the
office; and feeling friendly towards everybody, went in and spoke to
him, and at parting, gave him my hand. But oh, what a clammy hand his
was! as ghostly to the touch as to the sight! I rubbed mine afterwards,
to warm it, _and to rub his off_.
It was such an uncomfortable hand, that, when I went to my room, it was
still cold and wet upon my memory. Leaning out of window, and seeing one
of the faces on the beam-ends looking at me sideways, I fancied it was
Uriah Heep got up there somehow, and shut him out in a hurry.