‘Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt,who had always kept her money matters to herself.‘--I don’t mean your sister, Trot, my dear,but myself--had a certain property.It don’t matter how much; enough to live on. More;for she had saved a little, and added to it.Betsey funded her property for some time, and then,by the advice of her man of business,laid it out on landed security. That did very well,and returned very good interest,till Betsey was paid off.I am talking of Betsey as if she was a man-of-war. Well!Then, Betsey had to look about her,for a new investment. She thought she was wiser, now,than her man of business,who was not such a good man of business by this time,as he used to be--I am alluding to your father,Agnes--and she took it into her head to lay it out for herself.So she took her pigs,’ said my aunt,‘to a foreign market;and a very bad market it turned out to be. First,she lost in the mining way,and then she lost in the diving way--fishing up treasure,or some such Tom Tiddler nonsense,’ explained my aunt,rubbing her nose; ‘and then she lost in the mining way again,and, last of all, to set the thing entirely to rights,she lost in the banking way.I don’t know what the Bank shares were worth for a little while,’ said my aunt; ‘cent per cent was the lowest of it,I believe; but the Bank was at the other end of the world,and tumbled into space, for what I know; anyhow,it fell to pieces, and never will and never can pay sixpence;and Betsey’s sixpences were all there,and there’s an end of them. Least said, soonest mended!’
My aunt concluded this philosophical summary,by fixing her eyes with a kind of triumph on Agnes,whose colour was gradually returning.
‘Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history?’ said Agnes.
‘I hope it’s enough, child,’ said my aunt.‘If there had been more money to lose,it wouldn’t have been all, I dare say.Betsey would have contrived to throw that after the rest,and make another chapter, I have little doubt.But there was no more money, and there’s no more story. ’
Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath.Her colour still came and went,but she breathed more freely. I thought I knew why.I thought she had had some fear that her unhappy father might be in some way to blame for what had happened. My aunt took her hand in hers, and laughed.
‘Is that all?’ repeated my aunt. ‘Why, yes, that’s all, except,“And she lived happy ever afterwards.” Perhaps I may add that of Betsey yet,one of these days. Now, Agnes, you have a wise head.So have you, Trot, in some things,though I can’t compliment you always’;and here my aunt shook her own at me,with an energy peculiar to herself. ‘What’s to be done?Here’s the cottage, taking one time with another,will produce say seventy pounds a year.I think we may safely put it down at that. Well!--That’s all we’ve got,’ said my aunt;with whom it was an idiosyncrasy,as it is with some horses,to stop very short when she appeared to be in a fair way of going on for a long while.
‘Then,’ said my aunt, after a rest, ‘there’s Dick.He’s good for a hundred a-year,but of course that must be expended on himself.I would sooner send him away,though I know I am the only person who appreciates him,than have him, and not spend his money on himself.How can Trot and I do best, upon our means?What do you say, Agnes?’
‘I say, aunt,’ I interposed, ‘that I must do something!’
‘Go for a soldier, do you mean?’ returned my aunt, alarmed; ‘or go to sea?I won’t hear of it. You are to be a proctor.We’re not going to have any knockings on the head in THIS family,if you please, sir.’
I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introducing that mode of provision into the family, when Agnes inquired if my rooms were held for any long term?
‘You come to the point, my dear,’ said my aunt.‘They are not to be got rid of,for six months at least, unless they could be underlet,and that I don’t believe. The last man died here.Five people out of six would die--of course--of that woman in nankeen with the flannel petticoat. I have a little ready money; and I agree with you, the best thing we can do, is, to live the term out here, and get a bedroom hard by.’
I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would sustain,from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with Mrs.Crupp; but she disposed of that objection summarily by declaring that,on the first demonstration of hostilities,she was prepared to astonish Mrs.Crupp for the whole remainder of her natural life.
‘I have been thinking, Trotwood,’ said Agnes,diffidently, ‘that if you had time--’
‘I have a good deal of time, Agnes.I am always disengaged after four or five o’clock,and I have time early in the morning.In one way and another,’ said I,conscious of reddening a little as I thought of the hours and hours I had devoted to fagging about town, and to and fro upon the Norwood Road, ‘I have abundance of time.’
‘I know you would not mind,’ said Agnes, coming to me,and speaking in a low voice,so full of sweet and hopeful consideration that I hear it now,‘the duties of a secretary.’
‘Mind, my dear Agnes?’
‘Because,’ continued Agnes,‘Doctor Strong has acted on his intention of retiring,and has come to live in London; and he asked papa,I know, if he could recommend him one.Don’t you think he would rather have his favourite old pupil near him, than anybody else?’
‘Dear Agnes!’ said I. ‘What should I do without you!You are always my good angel. I told you so.I never think of you in any other light.’
Agnes answered with her pleasant laugh,that one good Angel (meaning Dora) was enough;and went on to remind me that the Doctor had been used to occupy himself in his study, early in the morning, and in the evening--and that probably my leisure would suit his requirements very well. I was scarcely more delighted with the prospect of earning my own bread, than with the hope of earning it under my old master; in short, acting on the advice of Agnes, I sat down and wrote a letter to the Doctor, stating my object, and appointing to call on him next day at ten in the forenoon. This I addressed to Highgate--for in that place, so memorable to me, he lived--and went and posted, myself, without losing a minute.
Wherever Agnes was, some agreeable token of her noiseless presence seemed inseparable from the place. When I came back, I found my aunt’s birds hanging, just as they had hung so long in the parlour window of the cottage; and my easy-chair imitating my aunt’s much easier chair in its position at the open window; and even the round green fan, which my aunt had brought away with her, screwed on to the window-sill. I knew who had done all this, by its seeming to have quietly done itself; and I should have known in a moment who had arranged my neglected books in the old order of my school days, even if I had supposed Agnes to be miles away, instead of seeing her busy with them, and smiling at the disorder into which they had fallen.
My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames (it really did look very well with the sun upon it, though not like the sea before the cottage), but she could not relent towards the London smoke, which, she said, ‘peppered everything’. A complete revolution, in which Peggotty bore a prominent part, was being effected in every corner of my rooms, in regard of this pepper; and I was looking on, thinking how little even Peggotty seemed to do with a good deal of bustle, and how much Agnes did without any bustle at all, when a knock came at the door.
‘I think,’ said Agnes, turning pale, ‘it’s papa.He promised me that he would come.’
I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield,but Uriah Heep. I had not seen Mr.Wickfield for some time.I was prepared for a great change in him,after what I had heard from Agnes,but his appearance shocked me.