CHAPTER 62 - A LIGHT SHINES ON MY WAY

The year came round to Christmas-time, and I had been at home above

two months. I had seen Agnes frequently. However loud the general

voice might be in giving me encouragement, and however fervent the

emotions and endeavours to which it roused me, I heard her lightest

word of praise as I heard nothing else.

At least once a week, and sometimes oftener, I rode over there, and

passed the evening. I usually rode back at night; for the old

unhappy sense was always hovering about me now - most sorrowfully

when I left her - and I was glad to be up and out, rather than

wandering over the past in weary wakefulness or miserable dreams.

I wore away the longest part of many wild sad nights, in those

rides; reviving, as I went, the thoughts that had occupied me in my

long absence.

Or, if I were to say rather that I listened to the echoes of those

thoughts, I should better express the truth. They spoke to me from

afar off. I had put them at a distance, and accepted my inevitable

place. When I read to Agnes what I wrote; when I saw her listening

face; moved her to smiles or tears; and heard her cordial voice so

earnest on the shadowy events of that imaginative world in which I

lived; I thought what a fate mine might have been - but only

thought so, as I had thought after I was married to Dora, what I

could have wished my wife to be.

My duty to Agnes, who loved me with a love, which, if I disquieted,

I wronged most selfishly and poorly, and could never restore; my

matured assurance that I, who had worked out my own destiny, and

won what I had impetuously set my heart on, had no right to murmur,

and must bear; comprised what I felt and what I had learned. But

I loved her: and now it even became some consolation to me, vaguely

to conceive a distant day when I might blamelessly avow it; when

all this should be over; when I could say 'Agnes, so it was when I

came home; and now I am old, and I never have loved since!'

She did not once show me any change in herself. What she always

had been to me, she still was; wholly unaltered.

Between my aunt and me there had been something, in this connexion,

since the night of my return, which I cannot call a restraint, or

an avoidance of the subject, so much as an implied understanding

that we thought of it together, but did not shape our thoughts into

words. When, according to our old custom, we sat before the fire

at night, we often fell into this train; as naturally, and as

consciously to each other, as if we had unreservedly said so. But

we preserved an unbroken silence. I believed that she had read, or

partly read, my thoughts that night; and that she fully

comprehended why I gave mine no more distinct expression.

This Christmas-time being come, and Agnes having reposed no new

confidence in me, a doubt that had several times arisen in my mind

- whether she could have that perception of the true state of my

breast, which restrained her with the apprehension of giving me

pain - began to oppress me heavily. If that were so, my sacrifice

was nothing; my plainest obligation to her unfulfilled; and every

poor action I had shrunk from, I was hourly doing. I resolved to

set this right beyond all doubt; - if such a barrier were between

us, to break it down at once with a determined hand.

It was - what lasting reason have I to remember it! - a cold,

harsh, winter day. There had been snow, some hours before; and it

lay, not deep, but hard-frozen on the ground. Out at sea, beyond

my window, the wind blew ruggedly from the north. I had been

thinking of it, sweeping over those mountain wastes of snow in

Switzerland, then inaccessible to any human foot; and had been

speculating which was the lonelier, those solitary regions, or a

deserted ocean.

'Riding today, Trot?' said my aunt, putting her head in at the

door.

'Yes,' said I, 'I am going over to Canterbury. It's a good day for

a ride.'

'I hope your horse may think so too,' said my aunt; 'but at present

he is holding down his head and his ears, standing before the door

there, as if he thought his stable preferable.'

My aunt, I may observe, allowed my horse on the forbidden ground,

but had not at all relented towards the donkeys.

'He will be fresh enough, presently!' said I.

'The ride will do his master good, at all events,' observed my

aunt, glancing at the papers on my table. 'Ah, child, you pass a

good many hours here! I never thought, when I used to read books,

what work it was to write them.'

'It's work enough to read them, sometimes,' I returned. 'As to the

writing, it has its own charms, aunt.'

'Ah! I see!' said my aunt. 'Ambition, love of approbation,

sympathy, and much more, I suppose? Well: go along with you!'

'Do you know anything more,' said I, standing composedly before her

- she had patted me on the shoulder, and sat down in my chair - 'of

that attachment of Agnes?'

She looked up in my face a little while, before replying:

'I think I do, Trot.'

'Are you confirmed in your impression?' I inquired.

'I think I am, Trot.'

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.

'And what is more, Trot -' said my aunt.

'Yes!'

'I think Agnes is going to be married.'

'God bless her!' said I, cheerfully.

'God bless her!' said my aunt, 'and her husband too!'

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 horse's 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

Down-land 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.

'So I make the most of the present time, you see,' said Agnes, 'and

talk to you while I may.'

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.

'You are thoughtful today, Trotwood!'

'Agnes, shall I tell you what about? I came to tell you.'

She put aside her work, as she was used to do when we were

seriously discussing anything; and gave me her whole attention.

'My dear Agnes, do you doubt my being true to you?'

'No!' she answered, with a look of astonishment.

'Do you doubt my being what I always have been to you?'

'No!' she answered, as before.

'Do 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?'

'I remember it,' she said, gently, 'very well.'

'You have a secret,' said I. 'Let me share it, Agnes.'

She cast down her eyes, and trembled.

'I 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!'

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.

'Agnes! Sister! Dearest! What have I done?'

'Let 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.

Don't speak to me now. Don't! don't!'

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.

'Agnes, 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!'

'Oh, spare me! I am not myself! Another time!' 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?

'I must say more. I cannot let you leave me so! For Heaven's 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 don't 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.'

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:

'I 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.'

'Agnes! Stay! A moment!'

She was going away, but I detained her. I clasped my arm about her

waist. 'In the course of years!' 'It is not a new one!' New

thoughts and hopes were whirling through my mind, and all the

colours of my life were changing.

'Dearest 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! -'

Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had lately

shed, and I saw my hope brighten in them.

'Agnes! 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!'

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!

'When I loved Dora - fondly, Agnes, as you know -'

'Yes!' she cried, earnestly. 'I am glad to know it!'

'When 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!'

Closer in my arms, nearer to my heart, her trembling hand upon my

shoulder, her sweet eyes shining through her tears, on mine!

'I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you.

I returned home, loving you!'

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!

'I am so blest, Trotwood - my heart is so overcharged - but there

is one thing I must say.'

'Dearest, what?'

She laid her gentle hands upon my shoulders, and looked calmly in

my face.

'Do you know, yet, what it is?'

'I am afraid to speculate on what it is. Tell me, my dear.'

'I have loved you all my life!'

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 we were lingering on, and

looking up to them, we thanked our GOD for having guided us to this

tranquillity.

We stood together in the same old-fashioned window at night, when

the moon was shining; Agnes with her quiet eyes raised up to it; I

following her glance. Long miles of road then opened out before my

mind; and, toiling on, I saw a ragged way-worn boy, forsaken and

neglected, who should come to call even the heart now beating

against mine, his own.

It was nearly dinner-time next day when we appeared before my aunt.

She was up in my study, Peggotty said: which it was her pride to

keep in readiness and order for me. We found her, in her

spectacles, sitting by the fire.

'Goodness me!' said my aunt, peering through the dusk, 'who's this

you're bringing home?'

'Agnes,' said I.

As we had arranged to say nothing at first, my aunt was not a

little discomfited. She darted a hopeful glance at me, when I said

'Agnes'; but seeing that I looked as usual, she took off her

spectacles in despair, and rubbed her nose with them.

She greeted Agnes heartily, nevertheless; and we were soon in the

lighted parlour downstairs, at dinner. My aunt put on her

spectacles twice or thrice, to take another look at me, but as

often took them off again, disappointed, and rubbed her nose with

them. Much to the discomfiture of Mr. Dick, who knew this to be a

bad symptom.

'By the by, aunt,' said I, after dinner; 'I have been speaking to

Agnes about what you told me.'

'Then, Trot,' said my aunt, turning scarlet, 'you did wrong, and

broke your promise.'

'You are not angry, aunt, I trust? I am sure you won't be, when

you learn that Agnes is not unhappy in any attachment.'

'Stuff and nonsense!' said my aunt.

As my aunt appeared to be annoyed, I thought the best way was to

cut her annoyance short. I took Agnes in my arm to the back of her

chair, and we both leaned over her. My aunt, with one clap of her

hands, and one look through her spectacles, immediately went into

hysterics, for the first and only time in all my knowledge of her.

The hysterics called up Peggotty. The moment my aunt was restored,

she flew at Peggotty, and calling her a silly old creature, hugged

her with all her might. After that, she hugged Mr. Dick (who was

highly honoured, but a good deal surprised); and after that, told

them why. Then, we were all happy together.

I could not discover whether my aunt, in her last short

conversation with me, had fallen on a pious fraud, or had really

mistaken the state of my mind. It was quite enough, she said, that

she had told me Agnes was going to be married; and that I now knew

better than anyone how true it was.

We were married within a fortnight. Traddles and Sophy, and Doctor

and Mrs. Strong, were the only guests at our quiet wedding. We

left them full of joy; and drove away together. Clasped in my

embrace, I held the source of every worthy aspiration I had ever

had; the centre of myself, the circle of my life, my own, my wife;

my love of whom was founded on a rock!

'Dearest husband!' said Agnes. 'Now that I may call you by that

name, I have one thing more to tell you.'

'Let me hear it, love.'

'It grows out of the night when Dora died. She sent you for me.'

'She did.'

'She told me that she left me something. Can you think what it

was?'

I believed I could. I drew the wife who had so long loved me,

closer to my side.

'She told me that she made a last request to me, and left me a last

charge.'

'And it was -'

'That only I would occupy this vacant place.'

And Agnes laid her head upon my breast, and wept; and I wept with

her, though we were so happy.

Read next: CHAPTER 63 - A VISITOR

Read previous: CHAPTER 61 - I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS

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