Mr. Wickfield, without rising, looked after him thoughtfully as he went out. He was rather a shallow sort of young gentleman, I thought, with a handsome face, a rapid utterance, and a confident bold air. And this was the first I ever saw of Mr. Jack Maldon; whom I had not expected to see so soon, when I heard the Doctor speak of him that morning.
When we had dined, we went up-stairs 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, and drank a good deal. 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 Em’ly, 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 coloured 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, and she having left us, I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, preparatory to going away myself. But he checked me and said: “Should you like to stay with us, Trotwood, or to 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 am afraid,” he said.
“Not more dull for me than Agnes, Sir. Not dull at all!”
“Than Agnes,” he repeated, walking slowly to the great chimney-piece, and leaning against it. “Than Agnes!”
He had drank wine that evening (or I fancied it), until his eyes were bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, for they were cast down and shaded by his hand, but I had noticed them a little while before.
“Now I wonder,” he muttered, “whether my Agnes tires of me. When should I ever tire of her? But that’s different, that’s quite different.”
He was musing, not speaking to me, so I remained quiet.
“A dull old house,” he said, “and a monotonous life; but I must have her near me. I must keep her near me. If the thought that I may die and leave my darling, or that my darling may die and leave me, comes like a spectre to distress my happiest hours, and is only to be drowned in—”
He did not supply the word; but pacing slowly to the place where he had sat, and mechanically going through the action of pouring wine from the empty decanter, set it down and paced back again.
“If it is miserable to bear when she is here,” he said, “what would it be and she away? No, no, no. I cannot try that.”
He leaned against the chimney-piece, brooding so long that I could not decide whether to run the risk of disturbing him by going, or to remain quietly where I was until he should come out of his reverie. At length he aroused himself, and looked about the room until his eyes encountered mine.