Mr. Dick and I soon became the best of friends, and very often, when hisday's work was done, went out together to fly the great kite. Every dayof his life he had a long sitting at the Memorial, which never made theleast progress, however hard he laboured, for King Charles the Firstalways strayed into it, sooner or later, and then it was thrown aside,and another one begun. The patience and hope with which he bore theseperpetual disappointments, the mild perception he had that there wassomething wrong about King Charles the First, the feeble efforts he madeto keep him out, and the certainty with which he came in, and tumbledthe Memorial out of all shape, made a deep impression on me. What Mr.Dick supposed would come of the Memorial, if it were completed; where hethought it was to go, or what he thought it was to do; he knew no morethan anybody else, I believe. Nor was it at all necessary that he shouldtrouble himself with such questions, for if anything were certain underthe sun, it was certain that the Memorial never would be finished. Itwas quite an affecting sight, I used to think, to see him with the kitewhen it was up a great height in the air. What he had told me, in hisroom, about his belief in its disseminating the statements pasted on it,which were nothing but old leaves of abortive Memorials, might have beena fancy with him sometimes; but not when he was out, looking up atthe kite in the sky, and feeling it pull and tug at his hand. He neverlooked so serene as he did then. I used to fancy, as I sat by him of anevening, on a green slope, and saw him watch the kite high in the quietair, that it lifted his mind out of its confusion, and bore it (such wasmy boyish thought) into the skies. As he wound the string in and it camelower and lower down out of the beautiful light, until it fluttered tothe ground, and lay there like a dead thing, he seemed to wake graduallyout of a dream; and I remember to have seen him take it up, and lookabout him in a lost way, as if they had both come down together, so thatI pitied him with all my heart.

While I advanced in friendship and intimacy with Mr. Dick, I did notgo backward in the favour of his staunch friend, my aunt. She tookso kindly to me, that, in the course of a few weeks, she shortened myadopted name of Trotwood into Trot; and even encouraged me to hope, thatif I went on as I had begun, I might take equal rank in her affectionswith my sister Betsey Trotwood.

'Trot,' said my aunt one evening, when the backgammon-board was placedas usual for herself and Mr. Dick, 'we must not forget your education.'

This was my only subject of anxiety, and I felt quite delighted by herreferring to it.

'Should you like to go to school at Canterbury?' said my aunt.

I replied that I should like it very much, as it was so near her.

'Good,' said my aunt. 'Should you like to go tomorrow?'

Being already no stranger to the general rapidity of my aunt'sevolutions, I was not surprised by the suddenness of the proposal, andsaid: 'Yes.'

'Good,' said my aunt again. 'Janet, hire the grey pony and chaisetomorrow morning at ten o'clock, and pack up Master Trotwood's clothestonight.'

I was greatly elated by these orders; but my heart smote me for myselfishness, when I witnessed their effect on Mr. Dick, who was solow-spirited at the prospect of our separation, and played so ill inconsequence, that my aunt, after giving him several admonitory raps onthe knuckles with her dice-box, shut up the board, and declined to playwith him any more. But, on hearing from my aunt that I should sometimescome over on a Saturday, and that he could sometimes come and see meon a Wednesday, he revived; and vowed to make another kite for thoseoccasions, of proportions greatly surpassing the present one. In themorning he was downhearted again, and would have sustained himself bygiving me all the money he had in his possession, gold and silver too,if my aunt had not interposed, and limited the gift to five shillings,which, at his earnest petition, were afterwards increased to ten. Weparted at the garden-gate in a most affectionate manner, and Mr. Dickdid not go into the house until my aunt had driven me out of sight ofit.

My aunt, who was perfectly indifferent to public opinion, drove the greypony through Dover in a masterly manner; sitting high and stiff likea state coachman, keeping a steady eye upon him wherever he went, andmaking a point of not letting him have his own way in any respect. Whenwe came into the country road, she permitted him to relax a little,however; and looking at me down in a valley of cushion by her side,asked me whether I was happy?

'Very happy indeed, thank you, aunt,' I said.

She was much gratified; and both her hands being occupied, patted me onthe head with her whip.

'Is it a large school, aunt?' I asked.

'Why, I don't know,' said my aunt. 'We are going to Mr. Wickfield'sfirst.'

'Does he keep a school?' I asked.

'No, Trot,' said my aunt. 'He keeps an office.'

I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfield, as she offerednone, and we conversed on other subjects until we came to Canterbury,where, as it was market-day, my aunt had a great opportunity ofinsinuating the grey pony among carts, baskets, vegetables, andhuckster's goods. The hair-breadth turns and twists we made, drew downupon us a variety of speeches from the people standing about, whichwere not always complimentary; but my aunt drove on with perfectindifference, and I dare say would have taken her own way with as muchcoolness through an enemy's country.

At length we stopped before a very old house bulging out over the road;a house with long low lattice-windows bulging out still farther, andbeams with carved heads on the ends bulging out too, so that I fanciedthe whole house was leaning forward, trying to see who was passing onthe narrow pavement below. It was quite spotless in its cleanliness.The old-fashioned brass knocker on the low arched door, ornamented withcarved garlands of fruit and flowers, twinkled like a star; the twostone steps descending to the door were as white as if they had beencovered with fair linen; and all the angles and corners, and carvingsand mouldings, and quaint little panes of glass, and quainter littlewindows, though as old as the hills, were as pure as any snow that everfell upon the hills.

When the pony-chaise stopped at the door, and my eyes were intent uponthe house, I saw a cadaverous face appear at a small window on theground floor (in a little round tower that formed one side of thehouse), and quickly disappear. The low arched door then opened, andthe face came out. It was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in thewindow, though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red which issometimes to be observed in the skins of red-haired people. It belongedto a red-haired person--a youth of fifteen, as I take it now, butlooking much older--whose hair was cropped as close as the closeststubble; who had hardly any eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of ared-brown, so unsheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how hewent to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black,with a white wisp of a neckcloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had along, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly attracted my attention, ashe stood at the pony's head, rubbing his chin with it, and looking up atus in the chaise.

'Is Mr. Wickfield at home, Uriah Heep?' said my aunt.

'Mr. Wickfield's at home, ma'am,' said Uriah Heep, 'if you'll please towalk in there'--pointing with his long hand to the room he meant.

We got out; and leaving him to hold the pony, went into a long lowparlour looking towards the street, from the window of which I caught aglimpse, as I went in, of Uriah Heep breathing into the pony's nostrils,and immediately covering them with his hand, as if he were puttingsome spell upon him. Opposite to the tall old chimney-piece were twoportraits: one of a gentleman with grey hair (though not by any meansan old man) and black eyebrows, who was looking over some papers tiedtogether with red tape; the other, of a lady, with a very placid andsweet expression of face, who was looking at me.

I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah's picture, when, a doorat the farther end of the room opening, a gentleman entered, at sight ofwhom I turned to the first-mentioned portrait again, to make quite surethat it had not come out of its frame. But it was stationary; and as thegentleman advanced into the light, I saw that he was some years olderthan when he had had his picture painted.

'Miss Betsey Trotwood,' said the gentleman, 'pray walk in. I was engagedfor a moment, but you'll excuse my being busy. You know my motive. Ihave but one in life.'

Miss Betsey thanked him, and we went into his room, which was furnishedas an office, with books, papers, tin boxes, and so forth. It lookedinto a garden, and had an iron safe let into the wall; so immediatelyover the mantelshelf, that I wondered, as I sat down, how the sweeps gotround it when they swept the chimney.

'Well, Miss Trotwood,' said Mr. Wickfield; for I soon found that itwas he, and that he was a lawyer, and steward of the estates of a richgentleman of the county; 'what wind blows you here? Not an ill wind, Ihope?'

'No,' replied my aunt. 'I have not come for any law.'

'That's right, ma'am,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'You had better come foranything else.' His hair was quite white now, though his eyebrows werestill black. He had a very agreeable face, and, I thought, was handsome.There was a certain richness in his complexion, which I had been longaccustomed, under Peggotty's tuition, to connect with port wine; and Ifancied it was in his voice too, and referred his growing corpulencyto the same cause. He was very cleanly dressed, in a blue coat, stripedwaistcoat, and nankeen trousers; and his fine frilled shirt and cambricneckcloth looked unusually soft and white, reminding my strolling fancy(I call to mind) of the plumage on the breast of a swan.

'This is my nephew,' said my aunt.

'Wasn't aware you had one, Miss Trotwood,' said Mr. Wickfield.

'My grand-nephew, that is to say,' observed my aunt.

'Wasn't aware you had a grand-nephew, I give you my word,' said Mr.Wickfield.

'I have adopted him,' said my aunt, with a wave of her hand, importingthat his knowledge and his ignorance were all one to her, 'and I havebrought him here, to put to a school where he may be thoroughly welltaught, and well treated. Now tell me where that school is, and what itis, and all about it.'

'Before I can advise you properly,' said Mr. Wickfield--'the oldquestion, you know. What's your motive in this?'

'Deuce take the man!' exclaimed my aunt. 'Always fishing for motives,when they're on the surface! Why, to make the child happy and useful.'

'It must be a mixed motive, I think,' said Mr. Wickfield, shaking hishead and smiling incredulously.

'A mixed fiddlestick,' returned my aunt. 'You claim to have one plainmotive in all you do yourself. You don't suppose, I hope, that you arethe only plain dealer in the world?'

'Ay, but I have only one motive in life, Miss Trotwood,' he rejoined,smiling. 'Other people have dozens, scores, hundreds. I have only one.There's the difference. However, that's beside the question. The bestschool? Whatever the motive, you want the best?'

My aunt nodded assent.

'At the best we have,' said Mr. Wickfield, considering, 'your nephewcouldn't board just now.'

'But he could board somewhere else, I suppose?' suggested my aunt.

Mr. Wickfield thought I could. After a little discussion, he proposed totake my aunt to the school, that she might see it and judge for herself;also, to take her, with the same object, to two or three houses where hethought I could be boarded. My aunt embracing the proposal, we were allthree going out together, when he stopped and said:

'Our little friend here might have some motive, perhaps, for objectingto the arrangements. I think we had better leave him behind?'

My aunt seemed disposed to contest the point; but to facilitate mattersI said I would gladly remain behind, if they pleased; and returned intoMr. Wickfield's office, where I sat down again, in the chair I had firstoccupied, to await their return.

It so happened that this chair was opposite a narrow passage, whichended in the little circular room where I had seen Uriah Heep's paleface looking out of the window. Uriah, having taken the pony to aneighbouring stable, was at work at a desk in this room, which had abrass frame on the top to hang paper upon, and on which the writing hewas making a copy of was then hanging. Though his face was towards me, Ithought, for some time, the writing being between us, that he could notsee me; but looking that way more attentively, it made me uncomfortableto observe that, every now and then, his sleepless eyes would come belowthe writing, like two red suns, and stealthily stare at me for I daresay a whole minute at a time, during which his pen went, or pretendedto go, as cleverly as ever. I made several attempts to get out of theirway--such as standing on a chair to look at a map on the other side ofthe room, and poring over the columns of a Kentish newspaper--but theyalways attracted me back again; and whenever I looked towards those twored suns, I was sure to find them, either just rising or just setting.

At length, much to my relief, my aunt and Mr. Wickfield came back,after a pretty long absence. They were not so successful as I could havewished; for though the advantages of the school were undeniable, my aunthad not approved of any of the boarding-houses proposed for me.

'It's very unfortunate,' said my aunt. 'I don't know what to do, Trot.'

'It does happen unfortunately,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'But I'll tell youwhat you can do, Miss Trotwood.'

'What's that?' inquired my aunt.

'Leave your nephew here, for the present. He's a quiet fellow. Hewon't disturb me at all. It's a capital house for study. As quiet as amonastery, and almost as roomy. Leave him here.'

My aunt evidently liked the offer, though she was delicate of acceptingit. So did I. 'Come, Miss Trotwood,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'This is theway out of the difficulty. It's only a temporary arrangement, you know.If it don't act well, or don't quite accord with our mutual convenience,he can easily go to the right-about. There will be time to find somebetter place for him in the meanwhile. You had better determine to leavehim here for the present!'

'I am very much obliged to you,' said my aunt; 'and so is he, I see;but--'

'Come! I know what you mean,' cried Mr. Wickfield. 'You shall not beoppressed by the receipt of favours, Miss Trotwood. You may pay forhim, if you like. We won't be hard about terms, but you shall pay if youwill.'

'On that understanding,' said my aunt, 'though it doesn't lessen thereal obligation, I shall be very glad to leave him.'

'Then come and see my little housekeeper,' said Mr. Wickfield.

We accordingly went up a wonderful old staircase; with a balustradeso broad that we might have gone up that, almost as easily; and intoa shady old drawing-room, lighted by some three or four of the quaintwindows I had looked up at from the street: which had old oak seatsin them, that seemed to have come of the same trees as the shining oakfloor, and the great beams in the ceiling. It was a prettily furnishedroom, with a piano and some lively furniture in red and green, and someflowers. It seemed to be all old nooks and corners; and in every nookand corner there was some queer little table, or cupboard, or bookcase,or seat, or something or other, that made me think there was not suchanother good corner in the room; until I looked at the next one, andfound it equal to it, if not better. On everything there was the sameair of retirement and cleanliness that marked the house outside.

Mr. Wickfield tapped at a door in a corner of the panelled wall, and agirl of about my own age came quickly out and kissed him. On her face,I saw immediately the placid and sweet expression of the lady whosepicture had looked at me downstairs. It seemed to my imagination asif the portrait had grown womanly, and the original remained a child.Although her face was quite bright and happy, there was a tranquillityabout it, and about her--a quiet, good, calm spirit--that I never haveforgotten; that I shall never forget. This was his little housekeeper,his daughter Agnes, Mr. Wickfield said. When I heard how he said it, andsaw how he held her hand, I guessed what the one motive of his life was.

She had a little basket-trifle hanging at her side, with keys in it; andshe looked as staid and as discreet a housekeeper as the old housecould have. She listened to her father as he told her about me, with apleasant face; and when he had concluded, proposed to my aunt that weshould go upstairs and see my room. We all went together, she before us:and a glorious old room it was, with more oak beams, and diamond panes;and the broad balustrade going all the way up to it.

I cannot call to mind where or when, in my childhood, I had seen astained glass window in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject. ButI know that when I saw her turn round, in the grave light of the oldstaircase, and wait for us, above, I thought of that window; and Iassociated something of its tranquil brightness with Agnes Wickfieldever afterwards.

My aunt was as happy as I was, in the arrangement made for me; and wewent down to the drawing-room again, well pleased and gratified. As shewould not hear of staying to dinner, lest she should by any chance failto arrive at home with the grey pony before dark; and as I apprehend Mr.Wickfield knew her too well to argue any point with her; some lunch wasprovided for her there, and Agnes went back to her governess, and Mr.Wickfield to his office. So we were left to take leave of one anotherwithout any restraint.

She told me that everything would be arranged for me by Mr. Wickfield,and that I should want for nothing, and gave me the kindest words andthe best advice.

'Trot,' said my aunt in conclusion, 'be a credit to yourself, to me, andMr. Dick, and Heaven be with you!'

I was greatly overcome, and could only thank her, again and again, andsend my love to Mr. Dick.

'Never,' said my aunt, 'be mean in anything; never be false; never becruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful ofyou.'

I promised, as well as I could, that I would not abuse her kindness orforget her admonition.

'The pony's at the door,' said my aunt, 'and I am off! Stay here.' Withthese words she embraced me hastily, and went out of the room, shuttingthe door after her. At first I was startled by so abrupt a departure,and almost feared I had displeased her; but when I looked into thestreet, and saw how dejectedly she got into the chaise, and drove awaywithout looking up, I understood her better and did not do her thatinjustice.

By five o'clock, which was Mr. Wickfield's dinner-hour, I had musteredup my spirits again, and was ready for my knife and fork. The cloth wasonly laid for us two; but Agnes was waiting in the drawing-room beforedinner, went down with her father, and sat opposite to him at table. Idoubted whether he could have dined without her.

We did not stay there, after dinner, but came upstairs into thedrawing-room again: in one snug corner of which, Agnes set glasses forher father, and a decanter of port wine. I thought he would have missedits usual flavour, if it had been put there for him by any other hands.

There he sat, taking his wine, and taking a good deal of it, for twohours; while Agnes played on the piano, worked, and talked to him andme. He was, for the most part, gay and cheerful with us; but sometimeshis eyes rested on her, and he fell into a brooding state, and wassilent. She always observed this quickly, I thought, and always rousedhim with a question or caress. Then he came out of his meditation, anddrank more wine.

Agnes made the tea, and presided over it; and the time passed away afterit, as after dinner, until she went to bed; when her father took herin his arms and kissed her, and, she being gone, ordered candles in hisoffice. Then I went to bed too.

But in the course of the evening I had rambled down to the door, and alittle way along the street, that I might have another peep at the oldhouses, and the grey Cathedral; and might think of my coming throughthat old city on my journey, and of my passing the very house I livedin, without knowing it. As I came back, I saw Uriah Heep shutting upthe office; and feeling friendly towards everybody, went in and spoketo him, and at parting, gave him my hand. But oh, what a clammy hand hiswas! as ghostly to the touch as to the sight! I rubbed mine afterwards,to warm it, AND TO RUB HIS OFF.

It was such an uncomfortable hand, that, when I went to my room, it wasstill cold and wet upon my memory. Leaning out of the window, and seeingone of the faces on the beam-ends looking at me sideways, I fancied itwas Uriah Heep got up there somehow, and shut him out in a hurry.