When we had dined that night, 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. 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 Emily, 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 colored 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, as I gave Mr.
Wickfield my hand, preparatory to going away myself, he checked me and
said; "Should you like to stay with us, Trotwood, or 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'm afraid," he said.
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