David Copperfield Charles Dickens (100 best novels of all time .TXT) 📖

you, Agnes,” I replied, “when you come to do Steerforth justice, and to like him as well as I do.”

“Not until then?” said Agnes.

I saw a passing shadow on her face when I made this mention of him, but she returned my smile, and we were again as unreserved in our mutual confidence as of old.

“And when, Agnes,” said I, “will you forgive me the other night?”

“When I recall it,” said Agnes.

She would have dismissed the subject so, but I was too full of it to allow that, and insisted on telling her how it happened that I had disgraced myself, and what chain of accidental circumstances had had the theatre for its final link. It was a great relief to me to do this, and to enlarge on the obligation that I owed to Steerforth for his care of me when I was unable to take care of myself.

“You must not forget,” said Agnes, calmly changing the conversation as soon as I had concluded, “that you are always to tell me, not only when you fall into trouble, but when you fall in love. Who has succeeded to Miss Larkins, Trotwood?”

“No one, Agnes.”

“Someone, Trotwood,” said Agnes, laughing, and holding up her finger.

“No, Agnes, upon my word! There is a lady, certainly, at Mrs. Steerforth’s house, who is very clever, and whom I like to talk to⁠—Miss Dartle⁠—but I don’t adore her.”

Agnes laughed again at her own penetration, and told me that if I were faithful to her in my confidence she thought she should keep a little register of my violent attachments, with the date, duration, and termination of each, like the table of the reigns of the kings and queens, in the History of England. Then she asked me if I had seen Uriah.

“Uriah Heep?” said I. “No. Is he in London?”

“He comes to the office downstairs, every day,” returned Agnes. “He was in London a week before me. I am afraid on disagreeable business, Trotwood.”

“On some business that makes you uneasy, Agnes, I see,” said I. “What can that be?”

Agnes laid aside her work, and replied, folding her hands upon one another, and looking pensively at me out of those beautiful soft eyes of hers:

“I believe he is going to enter into partnership with papa.”

“What? Uriah? That mean, fawning fellow, worm himself into such promotion!” I cried, indignantly. “Have you made no remonstrance about it, Agnes? Consider what a connection it is likely to be. You must speak out. You must not allow your father to take such a mad step. You must prevent it, Agnes, while there’s time.”

Still looking at me, Agnes shook her head while I was speaking, with a faint smile at my warmth: and then replied:

“You remember our last conversation about papa? It was not long after that⁠—not more than two or three days⁠—when he gave me the first intimation of what I tell you. It was sad to see him struggling between his desire to represent it to me as a matter of choice on his part, and his inability to conceal that it was forced upon him. I felt very sorry.”

“Forced upon him, Agnes! Who forces it upon him?”

“Uriah,” she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, “has made himself indispensable to papa. He is subtle and watchful. He has mastered papa’s weaknesses, fostered them, and taken advantage of them, until⁠—to say all that I mean in a word, Trotwood⁠—until papa is afraid of him.”

There was more that she might have said; more that she knew, or that she suspected; I clearly saw. I could not give her pain by asking what it was, for I knew that she withheld it from me, to spare her father. It had long been going on to this, I was sensible: yes, I could not but feel, on the least reflection, that it had been going on to this for a long time. I remained silent.

“His ascendancy over papa,” said Agnes, “is very great. He professes humility and gratitude⁠—with truth, perhaps: I hope so⁠—but his position is really one of power, and I fear he makes a hard use of his power.”

I said he was a hound, which, at the moment, was a great satisfaction to me.

“At the time I speak of, as the time when papa spoke to me,” pursued Agnes, “he had told papa that he was going away; that he was very sorry, and unwilling to leave, but that he had better prospects. Papa was very much depressed then, and more bowed down by care than ever you or I have seen him; but he seemed relieved by this expedient of the partnership, though at the same time he seemed hurt by it and ashamed of it.”

“And how did you receive it, Agnes?”

“I did, Trotwood,” she replied, “what I hope was right. Feeling sure that it was necessary for papa’s peace that the sacrifice should be made, I entreated him to make it. I said it would lighten the load of his life⁠—I hope it will!⁠—and that it would give me increased opportunities of being his companion. Oh, Trotwood!” cried Agnes, putting her hands before her face, as her tears started on it, “I almost feel as if I had been papa’s enemy, instead of his loving child. For I know how he has altered, in his devotion to me. I know how he has narrowed the circle of his sympathies and duties, in the concentration of his whole mind upon me. I know what a multitude of things he has shut out for my sake, and how his anxious thoughts of me have shadowed his life, and weakened his strength and energy, by turning them always upon one idea. If I could ever set this right! If I could ever work out his restoration, as I have so innocently been the cause of his decline!”

I had never before seen Agnes cry. I had seen tears in her eyes when I had brought new honours home from school, and I had seen them there