第 88 页

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