No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him.
‘Very well!’ said Mr. Spenlow.
A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or stay.At length I was moving quietly towards the door,with the intention of saying that perhaps I should consult his feelings best by withdrawing:when he said, with his hands in his coat pockets,into which it was as much as he could do to get them; and with what I should call, upon the whole, a decidedly pious air:
‘You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not altogether destitute of worldly possessions,and that my daughter is my nearest and dearest relative?’
I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect,that I hoped the error into which I had been betrayed by the desperate nature of my love,did not induce him to think me mercenary too?
‘I don’t allude to the matter in that light,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘It would be better for yourself,and all of us, if you WERE mercenary, Mr. Copperfield--I mean,if you were more discreet and less influenced by all this youthful nonsense. No. I merely say,with quite another view, you are probably aware I have some property to bequeath to my child?’
I certainly supposed so.
‘And you can hardly think,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘having experience of what we see,in the Commons here, every day, of the various unaccountable and negligent proceedings of men,in respect of their testamentary arrangements--of all subjects,the one on which perhaps the strangest revelations of human inconsistency are to be met with--but that mine are made?’
I inclined my head in acquiescence.
‘I should not allow,’ said Mr. Spenlow, with an evident increase of pious sentiment,and slowly shaking his head as he poised himself upon his toes and heels alternately,‘my suitable provision for my child to be influenced by a piece of youthful folly like the present.It is mere folly. Mere nonsense. In a little while, it will weigh lighter than any feather.But I might--I might--if this silly business were not completely relinquished altogether,be induced in some anxious moment to guard her from, and surround her with protections against,the consequences of any foolish step in the way of marriage. Now, Mr. Copperfield,I hope that you will not render it necessary for me to open, even for a quarter of an hour,that closed page in the book of life, and unsettle, even for a quarter of an hour, grave affairs long since composed.’
There was a serenity, a tranquillity, a calm sunset air about him, which quite affected me.He was so peaceful and resigned--clearly had his affairs in such perfect train,and so systematically wound up--that he was a man to feel touched in the contemplation of.I really think I saw tears rise to his eyes, from the depth of his own feeling of all this.
But what could I do?I could not deny Dora and my own heart. When he told me I had better take a week to consider of what he had said,how could I say I wouldn’t take a week,yet how could I fail to know that no amount of weeks could influence such love as mine?
‘In the meantime, confer with Miss Trotwood, or with any person with any knowledge of life,’ said Mr. Spenlow, adjusting his cravat with both hands. ‘Take a week, Mr. Copperfield.’
I submitted; and, with a countenance as expressive as I was able to make it of dejected and despairing constancy,came out of the room. Miss Murdstone’s heavy eyebrows followed me to the door--I say her eyebrows rather than her eyes,because they were much more important in her face--and she looked so exactly as she used to look,at about that hour of the morning, in our parlour at Blunderstone,that I could have fancied I had been breaking down in my lessons again,and that the dead weight on my mind was that horrible old spelling-book, with oval woodcuts,shaped, to my youthful fancy, like the glasses out of spectacles.
When I got to the office, and, shutting out old Tiffey and the rest of them with my hands,sat at my desk, in my own particular nook,thinking of this earthquake that had taken place so unexpectedly,and in the bitterness of my spirit cursing Jip, I fell into such a state of torment about Dora,that I wonder I did not take up my hat and rush insanely to Norwood.The idea of their frightening her, and making her cry, and of my not being there to comfort her,was so excruciating, that it impelled me to write a wild letter to Mr. Spenlow,beseeching him not to visit upon her the consequences of my awful destiny.I implored him to spare her gentle nature--not to crush a fragile flower--and addressed him generally,to the best of my remembrance, as if, instead of being her father, he had been an Ogre,or the Dragon of Wantley. This letter I sealed and laid upon his desk before he returned;and when he came in, I saw him, through the half-opened door of his room, take it up and read it.
He said nothing about it all the morning; but before he went away in the afternoon he called me in,and told me that I need not make myself at all uneasy about his daughter’s happiness.He had assured her, he said, that it was all nonsense; and he had nothing more to say to her.He believed he was an indulgent father (as indeed he was),and I might spare myself any solicitude on her account.
‘You may make it necessary, if you are foolish or obstinate, Mr. Copperfield,’ he observed,‘for me to send my daughter abroad again, for a term; but I have a better opinion of you.I hope you will be wiser than that, in a few days. As to Miss Murdstone,’ for I had alluded to her in the letter, ‘I respect that lady’s vigilance, and feel obliged to her;but she has strict charge to avoid the subject. All I desire, Mr. Copperfield, is,that it should be forgotten. All you have got to do, Mr. Copperfield, is to forget it.’
All!In the note I wrote to Miss Mills, I bitterly quoted this sentiment. All I had to do, I said,with gloomy sarcasm, was to forget Dora. That was all, and what was that!I entreated Miss Mills to see me, that evening. If it could not be done with Mr.Mills’s sanction and concurrence, I besought a clandestine interview in the back kitchen where the Mangle was.I informed her that my reason was tottering on its throne, and only she, Miss Mills,could prevent its being deposed. I signed myself, hers distractedly; and I couldn’t help feeling,while I read this composition over, before sending it by a porter,that it was something in the style of Mr. Micawber.
However, I sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills’s street, and walked up and down,until I was stealthily fetched in by Miss Mills’s maid, and taken the area way to the back kitchen.I have since seen reason to believe that there was nothing on earth to prevent my going in at the front door,and being shown up into the drawing-room, except Miss Mills’s love of the romantic and mysterious.
In the back kitchen, I raved as became me. I went there, I suppose, to make a fool of myself,and I am quite sure I did it. Miss Mills had received a hasty note from Dora,telling her that all was discovered, and saying. ‘Oh pray come to me, Julia, do, do!’ But Miss Mills, mistrusting the acceptability of her presence to the higher powers,had not yet gone; and we were all benighted in the Desert of Sahara.
Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of words, and liked to pour them out. I could not help feeling,though she mingled her tears with mine, that she had a dreadful luxury in our afflictions.She petted them, as I may say, and made the most of them. A deep gulf, she observed,had opened between Dora and me, and Love could only span it with its rainbow.Love must suffer in this stern world; it ever had been so, it ever would be so. No matter,Miss Mills remarked. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst at last, and then Love was avenged.
This was small consolation, but Miss Mills wouldn’t encourage fallacious hopes.She made me much more wretched than I was before,and I felt (and told her with the deepest gratitude) that she was indeed a friend.We resolved that she should go to Dora the first thing in the morning,and find some means of assuring her, either by looks or words, of my devotion and misery.We parted, overwhelmed with grief; and I think Miss Mills enjoyed herself completely.
I confided all to my aunt when I got home; and in spite of all she could say to me,went to bed despairing. I got up despairing, and went out despairing. It was Saturday morning, and I went straight to the Commons.
I was surprised, when I came within sight of our office-door,to see the ticket-porters standing outside talking together,and some half-dozen stragglers gazing at the windows which were shut up. I quickened my pace, and,passing among them, wondering at their looks, went hurriedly in.
The clerks were there, but nobody was doing anything. Old Tiffey,for the first time in his life I should think, was sitting on somebody else’s stool, and had not hung up his hat.
‘This is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Copperfield,’ said he, as I entered.
‘What is?’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Don’t you know?’ cried Tiffey, and all the rest of them, coming round me.
‘No!’ said I, looking from face to face.
‘Mr. Spenlow,’ said Tiffey.
‘What about him!’
‘Dead!’ I thought it was the office reeling, and not I, as one of the clerks caught hold of me.They sat me down in a chair, untied my neck-cloth, and brought me some water.I have no idea whether this took any time.
‘Dead?’ said I.
‘He dined in town yesterday, and drove down in the phaeton by himself,’ said Tiffey,‘having sent his own groom home by the coach, as he sometimes did, you know--’
‘Well?’
‘The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped at the stable-gate.The man went out with a lantern. Nobody in the carriage.’
‘Had they run away?’
‘They were not hot,’ said Tiffey, putting on his glasses; ‘no hotter, I understand,than they would have been, going down at the usual pace. The reins were broken,but they had been dragging on the ground. The house was roused up directly,and three of them went out along the road. They found him a mile off.’
‘More than a mile off, Mr. Tiffey,’ interposed a junior.
‘Was it?I believe you are right,’ said Tiffey,--‘more than a mile off--not far from the church--lying partly on the roadside,and partly on the path, upon his face. Whether he fell out in a fit, or got out,feeling ill before the fit came on--or even whether he was quite dead then,though there is no doubt he was quite insensible--no one appears to know. If he breathed,certainly he never spoke. Medical assistance was got as soon as possible, but it was quite useless. ’
I cannot describe the state of mind into which I was thrown by this intelligence.The shock of such an event happening so suddenly,and happening to one with whom I had been in any respect at variance--the appalling vacancy in the room he had occupied so lately,where his chair and table seemed to wait for him,and his handwriting of yesterday was like a ghost--the indefinable impossibility of separating him from the place,and feeling, when the door opened, as if he might come in--the lazy hush and rest there was in the office,and the insatiable relish with which our people talked about it,and other people came in and out all day,and gorged themselves with the subject--this is easily intelligible to anyone.What I cannot describe is, how, in the innermost recesses of my own heart,I had a lurking jealousy even of Death.How I felt as if its might would push me from my ground in Dora’s thoughts. How I was,in a grudging way I have no words for, envious of her grief.How it made me restless to think of her weeping to others, or being consoled by others.How I had a grasping, avaricious wish to shut out everybody from her but myself,and to be all in all to her, at that unseasonable time of all times.
In the trouble of this state of mind--not exclusively my own, I hope,but known to others--I went down to Norwood that night; and finding from one of the servants,when I made my inquiries at the door, that Miss Mills was there,got my aunt to direct a letter to her, which I wrote. I deplored the untimely death of Mr. Spenlow,most sincerely, and shed tears in doing so. I entreated her to tell Dora,if Dora were in a state to hear it, that he had spoken to me with the utmost kindness and consideration;and had coupled nothing but tenderness, not a single or reproachful word, with her name.I know I did this selfishly, to have my name brought before her;but I tried to believe it was an act of justice to his memory. Perhaps I did believe it.
My aunt received a few lines next day in reply; addressed, outside, to her; within, to me.Dora was overcome by grief; and when her friend had asked her should she send her love to me,had only cried, as she was always crying, ‘Oh, dear papa!oh, poor papa!’ But she had not said No, and that I made the most of.
Mr. Jorkins, who had been at Norwood since the occurrence, came to the office a few days afterwards.He and Tiffey were closeted together for some few moments,and then Tiffey looked out at the door and beckoned me in.
‘Oh!’ said Mr. Jorkins. ‘Mr. Tiffey and myself, Mr. Copperfield, are about to examine the desks,the drawers, and other such repositories of the deceased,with the view of sealing up his private papers, and searching for a Will. There is no trace of any,elsewhere. It may be as well for you to assist us, if you please.’
I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the circumstances in which my Dora would be placed--as,in whose guardianship, and so forth--and this was something towards it.We began the search at once; Mr. Jorkins unlocking the drawers and desks,and we all taking out the papers. The office-papers we placed on one side,and the private papers (which were not numerous) on the other. We were very grave;and when we came to a stray seal, or pencil-case, or ring,or any little article of that kind which we associated personally with him, we spoke very low.
We had sealed up several packets; and were still going on dustily and quietly, when Mr.Jorkins said to us, applying exactly the same words to his late partner as his late partner had applied to him:
‘Mr. Spenlow was very difficult to move from the beaten track. You know what he was!I am disposed to think he had made no will.’
‘Oh, I know he had!’ said I.
They both stopped and looked at me. ‘On the very day when I last saw him,’ said I,‘he told me that he had, and that his affairs were long since settled.’
Mr. Jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one accord.
‘That looks unpromising,’ said Tiffey.
‘Very unpromising,’ said Mr. Jorkins.
‘Surely you don’t doubt--’ I began.
‘My good Mr. Copperfield!’ said Tiffey, laying his hand upon my arm, and shutting up both his eyes as he shook his head:‘if you had been in the Commons as long as I have,you would know that there is no subject on which men are so inconsistent, and so little to be trusted.’
‘Why, bless my soul, he made that very remark!’ I replied persistently.
‘I should call that almost final,’ observed Tiffey. ‘My opinion is--no will.’
It appeared a wonderful thing to me, but it turned out that there was no will.He had never so much as thought of making one, so far as his papers afforded any evidence;for there was no kind of hint, sketch, or memorandum, of any testamentary intention whatever.What was scarcely less astonishing to me, was, that his affairs were in a most disordered state.It was extremely difficult, I heard, to make out what he owed, or what he had paid,or of what he died possessed. It was considered likely that for years he could have had no clear opinion on these subjects himself.By little and little it came out, that,in the competition on all points of appearance and gentility then running high in the Commons,he had spent more than his professional income, which was not a very large one,and had reduced his private means, if they ever had been great (which was exceedingly doubtful),to a very low ebb indeed. There was a sale of the furniture and lease, at Norwood;and Tiffey told me, little thinking how interested I was in the story, that,paying all the just debts of the deceased,and deducting his share of outstanding bad and doubtful debts due to the firm,he wouldn’t give a thousand pounds for all the assets remaining.
This was at the expiration of about six weeks. I had suffered tortures all the time;and thought I really must have laid violent hands upon myself,when Miss Mills still reported to me, that my broken-hearted little Dora would say nothing,when I was mentioned, but ‘Oh, poor papa!Oh, dear papa!’ Also, that she had no other relations than two aunts, maiden sisters of Mr. Spenlow,who lived at Putney, and who had not held any other than chance communication with their brother for many years.Not that they had ever quarrelled (Miss Mills informed me); but that having been,on the occasion of Dora’s christening, invited to tea,when they considered themselves privileged to be invited to dinner,they had expressed their opinion in writing,that it was ‘better for the happiness of all parties’ that they should stay away.Since which they had gone their road, and their brother had gone his.
These two ladies now emerged from their retirement, and proposed to take Dora to live at Putney.Dora, clinging to them both, and weeping, exclaimed, ‘O yes, aunts!Please take Julia Mills and me and Jip to Putney!’ So they went, very soon after the funeral.
How I found time to haunt Putney, I am sure I don’t know; but I contrived, by some means or other,to prowl about the neighbourhood pretty often. Miss Mills,for the more exact discharge of the duties of friendship, kept a journal;and she used to meet me sometimes, on the Common, and read it,or (if she had not time to do that) lend it to me. How I treasured up the entries, of which I subjoin a sample--!
‘Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Headache. Called attention to J.as being beautifully sleek. D. fondled J. Associations thus awakened, opened floodgates of sorrow.Rush of grief admitted. (Are tears the dewdrops of the heart?J. M.)
‘Tuesday. D. weak and nervous. Beautiful in pallor. (Do we not remark this in moon likewise?J. M.) D., J. M. and J. took airing in carriage. J. looking out of window,and barking violently at dustman, occasioned smile to overspread features of D.(Of such slight links is chain of life composed!J. M.)
‘Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to her, as congenial melody, “Evening Bells”.Effect not soothing, but reverse. D. inexpressibly affected. Found sobbing afterwards, in own room.Quoted verses respecting self and young Gazelle. Ineffectually.Also referred to Patience on Monument. (Qy. Why on monument?J. M.)
‘Thursday. D. certainly improved. Better night. Slight tinge of damask revisiting cheek.Resolved to mention name of D. C. Introduced same, cautiously, in course of airing. D.immediately overcome. “Oh, dear, dear Julia!Oh, I have been a naughty and undutiful child!” Soothed and caressed. Drew ideal picture of D. C. on verge of tomb. D. again overcome. “Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?Oh, take me somewhere!” Much alarmed. Fainting of D. and glass of water from public-house. (Poetical affinity.Chequered sign on door-post; chequered human life. Alas!J. M.)
‘Friday. Day of incident. Man appears in kitchen, with blue bag,“for lady’s boots left out to heel”. Cook replies, “No such orders.” Man argues point.Cook withdraws to inquire, leaving man alone with J. On Cook’s return, man still argues point,but ultimately goes. J. missing. D. distracted. Information sent to police.Man to be identified by broad nose, and legs like balustrades of bridge.Search made in every direction. No J. D. weeping bitterly, and inconsolable.Renewed reference to young Gazelle. Appropriate, but unavailing. Towards evening,strange boy calls. Brought into parlour. Broad nose, but no balustrades. Says he wants a pound,and knows a dog. Declines to explain further, though much pressed. Pound being produced by D.takes Cook to little house, where J. alone tied up to leg of table. Joy of D. who dances round J.while he eats his supper. Emboldened by this happy change, mention D. C. upstairs. D. weeps afresh,cries piteously, “Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t!It is so wicked to think of anything but poor papa!”--embraces J. and sobs herself to sleep. (Must not D. C.confine himself to the broad pinions of Time?J. M.)’
Miss Mills and her journal were my sole consolation at this period. To see her,who had seen Dora but a little while before--to trace the initial letter of Dora’s name through her sympathetic pages--to be made more and more miserable by her--were my only comforts. I felt as if I had been living in a palace of cards, which had tumbled down, leaving only Miss Mills and me among the ruins; I felt as if some grim enchanter had drawn a magic circle round the innocent goddess of my heart, which nothing indeed but those same strong pinions, capable of carrying so many people over so much, would enable me to enter!
CHAPTER 39. WICKFIELD AND HEEP
My aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously uncomfortable by my prolonged dejection,made a pretence of being anxious that I should go to Dover,to see that all was working well at the cottage, which was let; and to conclude an agreement,with the same tenant, for a longer term of occupation. Janet was drafted into the service of Mrs.Strong, where I saw her every day. She had been undecided, on leaving Dover,whether or no to give the finishing touch to that renunciation of mankind in which she had been educated,by marrying a pilot; but she decided against that venture. Not so much for the sake of principle,I believe, as because she happened not to like him.
Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell rather willingly into my aunt’s pretence,as a means of enabling me to pass a few tranquil hours with Agnes.I consulted the good Doctor relative to an absence of three days;and the Doctor wishing me to take that relaxation,--he wished me to take more;but my energy could not bear that,--I made up my mind to go.
As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be particular about my duties in that quarter.To say the truth, we were getting in no very good odour among the tip-top proctors,and were rapidly sliding down to but a doubtful position.The business had been indifferent under Mr. Jorkins, before Mr. Spenlow’s time;and although it had been quickened by the infusion of new blood, and by the display which Mr.Spenlow made, still it was not established on a sufficiently strong basis to bear,without being shaken, such a blow as the sudden loss of its active manager. It fell off very much.Mr. Jorkins, notwithstanding his reputation in the firm, was an easy-going, incapable sort of man,whose reputation out of doors was not calculated to back it up. I was turned over to him now,and when I saw him take his snuff and let the business go,I regretted my aunt’s thousand pounds more than ever.
But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of hangers-on and outsiders about the Commons,who, without being proctors themselves, dabbled in common-form business,and got it done by real proctors, who lent their names in consideration of a share in the spoil;--and there were a good many of these too. As our house now wanted business on any terms,we joined this noble band; and threw out lures to the hangers-on and outsiders,to bring their business to us. Marriage licences and small probates were what we all looked for,and what paid us best; and the competition for these ran very high indeed.Kidnappers and inveiglers were planted in all the avenues of entrance to the Commons,with instructions to do their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning,and all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appearance,and entice them to the offices in which their respective employers were interested;which instructions were so well observed, that I myself, before I was known by sight,was twice hustled into the premises of our principal opponent.The conflicting interests of these touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their feelings,personal collisions took place; and the Commons was even scandalized by our principal inveigler (who had formerly been in the wine trade,and afterwards in the sworn brokery line) walking about for some days with a black eye.Any one of these scouts used to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in black out of a vehicle,killing any proctor whom she inquired for,representing his employer as the lawful successor and representative of that proctor,and bearing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected) to his employer’s office.Many captives were brought to me in this way. As to marriage licences,the competition rose to such a pitch, that a shy gentleman in want of one,had nothing to do but submit himself to the first inveigler, or be fought for,and become the prey of the strongest. One of our clerks, who was an outsider, used,in the height of this contest, to sit with his hat on,that he might be ready to rush out and swear before a surrogate any victim who was brought in.The system of inveigling continues, I believe, to this day. The last time I was in the Commons,a civil able-bodied person in a white apron pounced out upon me from a doorway,and whispering the word ‘Marriage-licence’ in my ear,was with great difficulty prevented from taking me up in his arms and lifting me into a proctor’s.From this digression, let me proceed to Dover.
I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage;and was enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the tenant inherited her feud,and waged incessant war against donkeys.Having settled the little business I had to transact there, and slept there one night,I walked on to Canterbury early in the morning. It was now winter again; and the fresh,cold windy day, and the sweeping downland, brightened up my hopes a little.
Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with a sober pleasure that calmed my spirits,and eased my heart. There were the old signs, the old names over the shops,the old people serving in them. It appeared so long, since I had been a schoolboy there,that I wondered the place was so little changed, until I reflected how little I was changed myself.Strange to say, that quiet influence which was inseparable in my mind from Agnes,seemed to pervade even the city where she dwelt. The venerable cathedral towers,and the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made them more retired than perfect silence would have done;the battered gateways, one stuck full with statues, long thrown down, and crumbled away,like the reverential pilgrims who had gazed upon them; the still nooks,where the ivied growth of centuries crept over gabled ends and ruined walls; the ancient houses,the pastoral landscape of field, orchard, and garden;everywhere--on everything--I felt the same serener air, the same calm, thoughtful, softening spirit.
Arrived at Mr. Wickfield’s house, I found, in the little lower room on the ground floor,where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed to sit, Mr.Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity. He was dressed in a legal-looking suit of black,and loomed, burly and large, in that small office.
Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confused too.He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of Uriah, but I declined.
‘I know the house of old, you recollect,’ said I, ‘and will find my way upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micawber?’
‘My dear Copperfield,’ he replied. ‘To a man possessed of the higher imaginative powers,the objection to legal studies is the amount of detail which they involve.Even in our professional correspondence,’ said Mr. Micawber,glancing at some letters he was writing,‘the mind is not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of expression. Still, it is a great pursuit. A great pursuit!’
He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep’s old house; and that Mrs.Micawber would be delighted to receive me, once more, under her own roof.
‘It is humble,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘--to quote a favourite expression of my friend Heep;but it may prove the stepping-stone to more ambitious domiciliary accommodation.’
I asked him whether he had reason, so far, to be satisfied with his friend Heep’s treatment of him?He got up to ascertain if the door were close shut, before he replied, in a lower voice:
‘My dear Copperfield, a man who labours under the pressure of pecuniary embarrassments, is,with the generality of people, at a disadvantage. That disadvantage is not diminished,when that pressure necessitates the drawing of stipendiary emoluments,before those emoluments are strictly due and payable. All I can say is,that my friend Heep has responded to appeals to which I need not more particularly refer,in a manner calculated to redound equally to the honour of his head, and of his heart.’
‘I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money either,’ I observed.
‘Pardon me!’ said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint, ‘I speak of my friend Heep as I have experience.’
‘I am glad your experience is so favourable,’ I returned.
‘You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber; and hummed a tune.
‘Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?’ I asked, to change the subject.
‘Not much,’ said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. ‘Mr. Wickfield is, I dare say,a man of very excellent intentions; but he is--in short, he is obsolete.’
‘I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so,’ said I.