Chapter-15
Once I’d waved farewell to the deck full of travellers bound for Australia, everything I had to do in England was done. I packed and left for Europe. I’d though the worst of all my sorrow was behind me but I was wrong. It only began when I left home. Without business or friends, I had only myself and all the losses and all the memories and all the cancelled dreams for company. Desolation came on me slowly until its weight was crippling.
I’d been gone about nine months when a packet of letters caught up with me in Switzerland. One was from Agnes. I read it again and again. She didn’t scold me for my wandering absence—only wrote to encourage my healing, saying she knew I would turn the hurt to strength. And she urged me to begin writing again.
Write! Of course. Maybe writing could lift the grey fog of despair. I crafted one and then another novel, the characters peopling my life and keeping me good company. And again I travelled, this time with my eyes more open to the sights. My health improved; in fact, I got so much good air and exercise that I was in better shape than I had ever been. The manuscripts I sent to Traddles were published and well received, and I was sometimes even recognized. I began to come back to life.
I’d been gone about three years when the need for England grew too strong to fight and I turned towards home. My greatest longing was for Agnes—the gentleness, the warmth, the peace.
Both Aunt Betsey and Agnes knew I was coming home but they thought that it would be close to Christmas. I planned to surprise them a few weeks before that.
On my first full day on London soil I took a coach to Dover and burst into my aunt’s old parlour in the midst of afternoon tea. Aunt Betsey, Mr Bick, and Peggotty, who was now their housekeeper, shot to their feet in a heartbeat and we all danced in a circle, laughing and shouting. We spent the evening catching up. I told them of the places and the sights I’d seen. They talked of Traddles’ wedding to the lovely Sophy, and brought out the letters that had come from Australia. We marvelled over Mr Micawber’s good fortune in the unsettled countryside. We took no surprise at Daniel’s prosperity in farming and cattle-raising, and all were glad to know Em’ly was happy teaching a roomful of children.
When the others had gone to bed, Aunt Betsey and I sat with glasses of warm ale, listening to the frozen tree limbs tap against the cottage roof and staring at the fire.
“When are you going to Canterbury, Trot?” my aunt asked.
“I’ll get a horse and ride over tomorrow morning,” I said, “unless you’d like to go and then we’ll get a carriage.”
“Not this time. You go on ahead, without these old bones slowing you down. Go and see Agnes.”
I studied her beloved old profile as she watched the flames and was reminded of her once saying, “Blind, blind, blind.” Now, too late, I understood her.
“Has she any—” I started, and stopped.
“What, Trot? Any what?’
“Is there any special person, any love in her life?”
“Oh, she could have been married twenty times, but I suspect she loves someone very special.” Aunt Betsey finished her ale and stood up.
“A prosperous someone?” I asked.
“Trot, I don’t know. She’s confided nothing in me and I shouldn’t have said this much. Blame it on an old woman’s mutterings. Goodnight and welcome home.”
I rode to Canterbury in the morning, filled to the brim with the memories of my school days passed in that town. Every hill and turn was precious.
The housekeeper who answered the door didn’t know me and she told me to wait in the drawing-room. Nothing had been changed. The same books, the desk where I’d done my homework with Agnes’ help, the emerald green glass shade on the same brass lamp. Happy times rose like smoke around me.
Agnes flew though the little door in the panelled wall and I spun to catch her in a huge hug. Beautiful, the face that smiled so widely at me. We both talked at once, then both stopped, then laughed and started again. There was no end to our delight.
We sat together into the afternoon, talking and laughing, sometimes crying over the losses and the sorrows. And more than once I tried to tell her what her constant caring had meant to me during my time away, and for all the time I’d know her. I watched her closely as I spoke to see if there was any glimmer of interest beyond the dearest friendship that we shared. But I detected none. On my ride home I cursed myself for letting the ripe moment pass away years earlier.
I moved back into Aunt Betsey’s cottage in Dover with Mr Bick and Peggotty—the family reunited. Every week or so I visited Agnes and her father. My writing consumed my days and many evenings, too, and Tommy and Sophy regularly invited me to dinner.
On Christmas Day my aunt popped her head in as I was finishing an edit of my latest story. “Going to Canterbury on this glorious winter’s day, Trot?” she asked.
“Yes, great weather for Trot to have a gallop!” I laughed.
She smiled and turned away.
“Oh, Aunt!” I began as she stepped towards the kitchen. She came back, eyebrows raised.
“Do you know anything more about that special person of Agnes’? Do you mean the one you mentioned a while ago.”
There was a pause and some sort of a look of resolve settled on my aunt’s face. She crossed the room to my desk and looked at me squarely.
“I think I do,” she said. “At least I’m certain there is one, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a wedding in the offing.”
That news was a shock.
“She never talks about him and after all we’ve confided to each other for so many years, I think it’s awfully strange.” I knew I sounded whiny.
“Have you thought of asking her?” was my aunt’s parting question.
The ride was icy and stirring. The horse needed little guidance over the road and so my thoughts were free to arrive ahead of me. I was going to ask why she didn’t trust me enough to tell me about this love of hers. If she thought I was still too deep in mourning for Dora to be glad for her joy, then she didn’t know how much I wanted her to be happy. I would tell her I felt shut out from her life by this secret. I may have lost the chance to love her as I wished but I couldn’t bear to lose the gift of her friendship, too.
I found her lighting candles on the tree in the entry hall, and we shared a holiday kiss.
“Agnes, leave that for now and come sit with me, please,” I said as I led her into the drawing-room. She searched my face when we sat down.
“You have a secret, Agnes,” I said, “Let me share it.”
She looked down and I felt her tremble.
“I know there’s someone you’re in love with and I want to be in on your happiness over it. Please Agnes, don’t close me out.”
“There’s no one,” she said, adding in a very soft voice, “at least there’s no happiness in it.”
She pulled her hand from mine and walked to the glass garden doors. Her shoulders shook and she put her hands to her face.
“Please Trot! My secret is nothing new,” she said between sniffles, “Through the years it’s always been the same. Let this be as it is.”
“Agnes, have I hurt you when I only want to be happy for you and with you?”
I knew she would run from the room unless I stopped her, so I put one arm around her waist. She looked at me and I heard the echo of her words though the years……always the same. New thoughts and hopes went spinning in my mind.
“Agnes, I never thought I would say this to you—at least not before we were too old to be glad of it.” Her eyes were wide and bright. “Every time I’ve ridden out of Canterbury, I’ve gone away loving you. And every time I’ve come back in, I’ve come back loving you. There has been only you for so very many years.”
“Trot,” she said, “I’ve loved you all my life.”
Thereafter, I married Agnes, and we had several children, including a daughter named in honour of Betsey Trotwood.
We journeyed along the road of life in peaceful manner.
