David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (sites to read books for free txt) ๐
I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it.
I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any hig
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โRiding today, Trot?โ said my aunt, putting her head in at the door.
โYes,โ said I, โI am going over to Canterbury. Itโs a good day for a ride.โ
โI hope your horse may think so too,โ said my aunt; โbut at present he is holding down his head and his ears, standing before the door there, as if he thought his stable preferable.โ
My aunt, I may observe, allowed my horse on the forbidden ground, but had not at all relented towards the donkeys.
โHe will be fresh enough, presently!โ said I.
โThe ride will do his master good, at all events,โ observed my aunt, glancing at the papers on my table. โAh, child, you pass a good many hours here! I never thought, when I used to read books, what work it was to write them.โ
โItโs work enough to read them, sometimes,โ I returned. โAs to the writing, it has its own charms, aunt.โ
โAh! I see!โ said my aunt. โAmbition, love of approbation, sympathy, and much more, I suppose? Well: go along with you!โ
โDo you know anything more,โ said I, standing composedly before her - she had patted me on the shoulder, and sat down in my chair - โof that attachment of Agnes?โ
She looked up in my face a little while, before replying:
โI think I do, Trot.โ
โAre you confirmed in your impression?โ I inquired.
โI think I am, Trot.โ
She looked so steadfastly at me: with a kind of doubt, or pity, or suspense in her affection: that I summoned the stronger determination to show her a perfectly cheerful face.
โAnd what is more, Trot -โ said my aunt.
โYes!โ
โI think Agnes is going to be married.โ
โGod bless her!โ said I, cheerfully.
โGod bless her!โ said my aunt, โand her husband too!โ
I echoed it, parted from my aunt, and went lightly downstairs, mounted, and rode away. There was greater reason than before to do what I had resolved to do.
How well I recollect the wintry ride! The frozen particles of ice, brushed from the blades of grass by the wind, and borne across my face; the hard clatter of the horseโs hoofs, beating a tune upon the ground; the stiff-tilled soil; the snowdrift, lightly eddying in the chalk-pit as the breeze ruffled it; the smoking team with the waggon of old hay, stopping to breathe on the hill-top, and shaking their bells musically; the whitened slopes and sweeps of Downland lying against the dark sky, as if they were drawn on a huge slate!
I found Agnes alone. The little girls had gone to their own homes now, and she was alone by the fire, reading. She put down her book on seeing me come in; and having welcomed me as usual, took her work-basket and sat in one of the old-fashioned windows.
I sat beside her on the window-seat, and we talked of what I was doing, and when it would be done, and of the progress I had made since my last visit. Agnes was very cheerful; and laughingly predicted that I should soon become too famous to be talked to, on such subjects.
โSo I make the most of the present time, you see,โ said Agnes, โand talk to you while I may.โ
As I looked at her beautiful face, observant of her work, she raised her mild clear eyes, and saw that I was looking at her.
โYou are thoughtful today, Trotwood!โ
โAgnes, shall I tell you what about? I came to tell you.โ
She put aside her work, as she was used to do when we were seriously discussing anything; and gave me her whole attention.
โMy dear Agnes, do you doubt my being true to you?โ
โNo!โ she answered, with a look of astonishment.
โDo you doubt my being what I always have been to you?โ
โNo!โ she answered, as before.
โDo you remember that I tried to tell you, when I came home, what a debt of gratitude I owed you, dearest Agnes, and how fervently I felt towards you?โ
โI remember it,โ she said, gently, โvery well.โ
โYou have a secret,โ said I. โLet me share it, Agnes.โ
She cast down her eyes, and trembled.
โI could hardly fail to know, even if I had not heard - but from other lips than yours, Agnes, which seems strange - that there is someone upon whom you have bestowed the treasure of your love. Do not shut me out of what concerns your happiness so nearly! If you can trust me, as you say you can, and as I know you may, let me be your friend, your brother, in this matter, of all others!โ
With an appealing, almost a reproachful, glance, she rose from the window; and hurrying across the room as if without knowing where, put her hands before her face, and burst into such tears as smote me to the heart.
And yet they awakened something in me, bringing promise to my heart. Without my knowing why, these tears allied themselves with the quietly sad smile which was so fixed in my remembrance, and shook me more with hope than fear or sorrow.
โAgnes! Sister! Dearest! What have I done?โ
โLet me go away, Trotwood. I am not well. I am not myself. I will speak to you by and by - another time. I will write to you. Donโt speak to me now. Donโt! donโt!โ
I sought to recollect what she had said, when I had spoken to her on that former night, of her affection needing no return. It seemed a very world that I must search through in a moment. โAgnes, I cannot bear to see you so, and think that I have been the cause. My dearest girl, dearer to me than anything in life, if you are unhappy, let me share your unhappiness. If you are in need of help or counsel, let me try to give it to you. If you have indeed a burden on your heart, let me try to lighten it. For whom do I live now, Agnes, if it is not for you!โ
โOh, spare me! I am not myself! Another time!โ was all I could distinguish.
Was it a selfish error that was leading me away? Or, having once a clue to hope, was there something opening to me that I had not dared to think of?
โI must say more. I cannot let you leave me so! For Heavenโs sake, Agnes, let us not mistake each other after all these years, and all that has come and gone with them! I must speak plainly. If you have any lingering thought that I could envy the happiness you will confer; that I could not resign you to a dearer protector, of your own choosing; that I could not, from my removed place, be a contented witness of your joy; dismiss it, for I donโt deserve it! I have not suffered quite in vain. You have not taught me quite in vain. There is no alloy of self in what I feel for you.โ
She was quiet now. In a little time, she turned her pale face towards me, and said in a low voice, broken here and there, but very clear:
โI owe it to your pure friendship for me, Trotwood - which, indeed, I do not doubt - to tell you, you are mistaken. I can do no more. If I have sometimes, in the course of years, wanted help and counsel, they have come to me. If I have sometimes been unhappy, the feeling has passed away. If I have ever had a burden on my heart, it has been lightened for me. If I have any secret, it is - no new one; and is - not what you suppose. I cannot reveal it, or divide it. It has long been mine, and must remain mine.โ
โAgnes! Stay! A moment!โ
She was going away, but I detained her. I clasped my arm about her waist. โIn the course of years!โ โIt is not a new one!โ New thoughts and hopes were whirling through my mind, and all the colours of my life were changing.
โDearest Agnes! Whom I so respect and honour - whom I so devotedly love! When I came here today, I thought that nothing could have wrested this confession from me. I thought I could have kept it in my bosom all our lives, till we were old. But, Agnes, if I have indeed any new-born hope that I may ever call you something more than Sister, widely different from Sister! -โ
Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had lately shed, and I saw my hope brighten in them.
โAgnes! Ever my guide, and best support! If you had been more mindful of yourself, and less of me, when we grew up here together, I think my heedless fancy never would have wandered from you. But you were so much better than I, so necessary to me in every boyish hope and disappointment, that to have you to confide in, and rely upon in everything, became a second nature, supplanting for the time the first and greater one of loving you as I do!โ
Still weeping, but not sadly - joyfully! And clasped in my arms as she had never been, as I had thought she never was to be!
โWhen I loved Dora - fondly, Agnes, as you know -โ
โYes!โ she cried, earnestly. โI am glad to know it!โ
โWhen I loved her - even then, my love would have been incomplete, without your sympathy. I had it, and it was perfected. And when I lost her, Agnes, what should I have been without you, still!โ
Closer in my arms, nearer to my heart, her trembling hand upon my shoulder, her sweet eyes shining through her tears, on mine!
โI went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. I returned home, loving you!โ
And now, I tried to tell her of the struggle I had had, and the conclusion I had come to. I tried to lay my mind before her, truly, and entirely. I tried to show her how I had hoped I had come into the better knowledge of myself and of her; how I had resigned myself to what that better knowledge brought; and how I had come there, even that day, in my fidelity to this. If she did so love me (I said) that she could take me for her husband, she could do so, on no deserving of mine, except upon the truth of my love for her, and the trouble in which it had ripened to be what it was; and hence it was that I revealed it. And O, Agnes, even out of thy true eyes, in that same time, the spirit of my child-wife looked upon me, saying it was well; and winning me, through thee, to tenderest recollections of the Blossom that had withered in its bloom!
โI am so blest, Trotwood - my heart is so overcharged - but there is one thing I must say.โ
โDearest, what?โ
She laid her gentle hands upon my shoulders, and looked calmly in my face.
โDo you know, yet, what it is?โ
โI am afraid to speculate on what it is. Tell me, my dear.โ
โI have loved you all my life!โ
O, we were happy, we were happy! Our tears were not for the trials (hers so much the greater) through which we had come to be thus, but for the rapture of being thus, never to be divided more!
We walked, that winter evening, in the fields together; and the blessed calm within us seemed to be partaken by the frosty air. The early stars began to shine while
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