'Trotwood,' said Mr. ****, laying his finger on the side of his nose, after he had shaken hands with me. 'Before I sit down, Iwish to make an observation. You know your aunt?'
'A little,' I replied.
'She is the most wonderful woman in the world, sir!'
After the delivery of this communication, which he shot out of himself as if he were loaded with it, Mr. **** sat down with greater gravity than usual, and looked at me.
'Now, boy,' said Mr. ****, 'I am going to put a question to you.'
'As many as you please,' said I.
'What do you consider me, sir?' asked Mr. ****, folding his arms.
'A dear old friend,' said I.
'Thank you, Trotwood,' returned Mr. ****, laughing, and reaching across in high glee to shake hands with me. 'But I mean, boy,' resuming his gravity, 'what do you consider me in this respect?' touching his forehead.
I was puzzled how to answer, but he helped me with a word.
'Weak?' said Mr. ****.
'Well,' I replied, dubiously. 'Rather so.'
'Exactly!' cried Mr. ****, who seemed quite enchanted by my reply.
'That is, Trotwood, when they took some of the trouble out of you-know-who's head, and put it you know where, there was a -' Mr. **** made his two hands revolve very fast about each other a great number of times, and then brought them into collision, and rolled them over and over one another, to express confusion. 'There was that sort of thing done to me somehow. Eh?'
I nodded at him, and he nodded back again.
'In short, boy,' said Mr. ****, dropping his voice to a whisper, 'Iam ******.'
I would have qualified that conclusion, but he stopped me.
'Yes, I am! She pretends I am not. She won't hear of it; but Iam. I know I am. If she hadn't stood my friend, sir, I should have been shut up, to lead a dismal life these many years. But I'll provide for her! I never spend the copying money. I put it in a box. I have made a will. I'll leave it all to her. She shall be rich - noble!'
Mr. **** took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. He then folded it up with great care, pressed it smooth between his two hands, put it in his pocket, and seemed to put my aunt away with it.
'Now you are a scholar, Trotwood,' said Mr. ****. 'You are a fine scholar. You know what a learned man, what a great man, the Doctor is. You know what honour he has always done me. Not proud in his wisdom. Humble, humble - condescending even to poor ****, who is ****** and knows nothing. I have sent his name up, on a scrap of paper, to the kite, along the string, when it has been in the sky, among the larks. The kite has been glad to receive it, sir, and the sky has been brighter with it.'
I delighted him by saying, most heartily, that the Doctor was deserving of our best respect and highest esteem.
'And his beautiful wife is a star,' said Mr. ****. 'A shining star. I have seen her shine, sir. But,' bringing his chair nearer, and laying one hand upon my knee - 'clouds, sir - clouds.'
I answered the solicitude which his face expressed, by conveying the same expression into my own, and shaking my head.
'What clouds?' said Mr. ****.
He looked so wistfully into my face, and was so anxious to understand, that I took great pains to answer him slowly and distinctly, as I might have entered on an explanation to a child.
'There is some unfortunate division between them,' I replied.
'Some unhappy cause of separation. A secret. It may be inseparable from the discrepancy in their years. It may have grown up out of almost nothing.'
Mr. ****, who had told off every sentence with a thoughtful nod, paused when I had done, and sat considering, with his eyes upon my face, and his hand upon my knee.
'Doctor not angry with her, Trotwood?' he said, after some time.
'No. Devoted to her.'
'Then, I have got it, boy!' said Mr. ****.
The sudden exultation with which he slapped me on the knee, and leaned back in his chair, with his eyebrows lifted up as high as he could possibly lift them, made me think him farther out of his wits than ever. He became as suddenly grave again, and leaning forward as before, said - first respectfully taking out his pocket-handkerchief, as if it really did represent my aunt:
'Most wonderful woman in the world, Trotwood. Why has she done nothing to set things right?'
'Too delicate and difficult a subject for such interference,' Ireplied.
'Fine scholar,' said Mr. ****, touching me with his finger. 'Why has HE done nothing?'
'For the same reason,' I returned.
'Then, I have got it, boy!' said Mr. ****. And he stood up before me, more exultingly than before, nodding his head, and striking himself repeatedly upon the breast, until one might have supposed that he had nearly nodded and struck all the breath out of his body.
'A poor fellow with a craze, sir,' said Mr. ****, 'a ******ton, a weak-minded person - present company, you know!' striking himself again, 'may do what wonderful people may not do. I'll bring them together, boy. I'll try. They'll not blame me. They'll not object to me. They'll not mind what I do, if it's wrong. I'm only Mr. ****. And who minds ****? ****'s nobody! Whoo!' He blew a slight, contemptuous breath, as if he blew himself away.
It was fortunate he had proceeded so far with his mystery, for we heard the coach stop at the little garden gate, which brought my aunt and Dora home.
'Not a word, boy!' he pursued in a whisper; 'leave all the blame with **** - ****** **** - mad ****. I have been thinking, sir, for some time, that I was getting it, and now I have got it. After what you have said to me, I am sure I have got it. All right!' Not another word did Mr. **** utter on the subject; but he made a very telegraph of himself for the next half-hour (to the great disturbance of my aunt's mind), to enjoin inviolable secrecy on me.
To my surprise, I heard no more about it for some two or three weeks, though I was sufficiently interested in the result of his endeavours; descrying a strange gleam of good sense - I say nothing of good feeling, for that he always exhibited - in the conclusion to which he had come. At last I began to believe, that, in the flighty and unsettled state of his mind, he had either forgotten his intention or abandoned it.
