David Copperfield

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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.

'My dear Copperfield!' returned Mr. Micawber, after some uneasy
evolutions on his stool, 'allow me to offer a remark! I am here,
in a capacity of confidence. I am here, in a position of trust.
The discussion of some topics, even with Mrs. Micawber herself (so
long the partner of my various vicissitudes, and a woman of a
remarkable lucidity of intellect), is, I am led to consider,
incompatible with the functions now devolving on me. I would
therefore take the liberty of suggesting that in our friendly
intercourse - which I trust will never be disturbed! - we draw a
line. On one side of this line,' said Mr. Micawber, representing
it on the desk with the office ruler, 'is the whole range of the
human intellect, with a trifling exception; on the other, IS that
exception; that is to say, the affairs of Messrs Wickfield and
Heep, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto. I trust I
give no offence to the companion of my youth, in submitting this
proposition to his cooler judgement?'

Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which sat tightly on
him, as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I had no right to
be offended. My telling him so, appeared to relieve him; and he
shook hands with me.

'I am charmed, Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'let me assure you,
with Miss Wickfield. She is a very superior young lady, of very
remarkable attractions, graces, and virtues. Upon my honour,' said
Mr. Micawber, indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with his
genteelest air, 'I do Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!'
'I am glad of that, at least,' said I.

'If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasion of
that agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of passing with you,
that D. was your favourite letter,' said Mr. Micawber, 'I should
unquestionably have supposed that A. had been so.'

We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us
occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and
done before, in a remote time - of our having been surrounded, dim
ages ago, by the same faces, objects, and circumstances - of our
knowing perfectly what will be said next, as if we suddenly
remembered it! I never had this mysterious impression more
strongly in my life, than before he uttered those words.

I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging him with my
best remembrances to all at home. As I left him, resuming his
stool and his pen, and rolling his head in his stock, to get it
into easier writing order, I clearly perceived that there was
something interposed between him and me, since he had come into his
new functions, which prevented our getting at each other as we used
to do, and quite altered the character of our intercourse.

There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though it
presented tokens of Mrs. Heep's whereabouts. I looked into the
room still belonging to Agnes, and saw her sitting by the fire, at
a pretty old-fashioned desk she had, writing.

My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be the
cause of that bright change in her attentive face, and the object
of that sweet regard and welcome!

'Ah, Agnes!' said I, when we were sitting together, side by side;
'I have missed you so much, lately!'

'Indeed?' she replied. 'Again! And so soon?'

I shook my head.

'I don't know how it is, Agnes; I seem to want some faculty of mind
that I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking
for me, in the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you
for counsel and support, that I really think I have missed
acquiring it.'

'And what is it?' said Agnes, cheerfully.

'I don't know what to call it,' I replied. 'I think I am earnest
and persevering?'

'I am sure of it,' said Agnes.

'And patient, Agnes?' I inquired, with a little hesitation.

'Yes,' returned Agnes, laughing. 'Pretty well.'

'And yet,' said I, 'I get so miserable and worried, and am so
unsteady and irresolute in my power of assuring myself, that I know
I must want - shall I call it - reliance, of some kind?'

'Call it so, if you will,' said Agnes.

'Well!' I returned. 'See here! You come to London, I rely on you,
and I have an object and a course at once. I am driven out of it,
I come here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The
circumstances that distressed me are not changed, since I came into
this room; but an influence comes over me in that short interval
that alters me, oh, how much for the better! What is it? What is
your secret, Agnes?'

Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.

'It's the old story,' said I. 'Don't laugh, when I say it was
always the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old
troubles were nonsense, and now they are serious; but whenever I
have gone away from my adopted sister -'

Agnes looked up - with such a Heavenly face! - and gave me her
hand, which I kissed.

'Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve in the
beginning, I have seemed to go wild, and to get into all sorts of
difficulty. When I have come to you, at last (as I have always
done), I have come to peace and happiness. I come home, now, like
a tired traveller, and find such a blessed sense of rest!'

I felt so deeply what I said, it affected me so sincerely, that my
voice failed, and I covered my face with my hand, and broke into
tears. I write the truth. Whatever contradictions and
inconsistencies there were within me, as there are within so many
of us; whatever might have been so different, and so much better;
whatever I had done, in which I had perversely wandered away from
the voice of my own heart; I knew nothing of. I only knew that I
was fervently in earnest, when I felt the rest and peace of having
Agnes near me.

In her placid sisterly manner; with her beaming eyes; with her
tender voice; and with that sweet composure, which had long ago
made the house that held her quite a sacred place to me; she soon
won me from this weakness, and led me on to tell all that had
happened since our last meeting.

'And there is not another word to tell, Agnes,' said I, when I had
made an end of my confidence. 'Now, my reliance is on you.'

'But it must not be on me, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, with a
pleasant smile. 'It must be on someone else.'

'On Dora?' said I.

'Assuredly.'

'Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,' said I, a little embarrassed,
'that Dora is rather difficult to - I would not, for the world,
say, to rely upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth -
but rather difficult to - I hardly know how to express it, really,
Agnes. She is a timid little thing, and easily disturbed and
frightened. Some time ago, before her father's death, when I
thought it right to mention to her - but I'll tell you, if you will
bear with me, how it was.'

Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about
the cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of
it.

'Oh, Trotwood!' she remonstrated, with a smile. 'Just your old
headlong way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get on
in the world, without being so very sudden with a timid, loving,
inexperienced girl. Poor Dora!'

I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed in a voice,
as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen her
admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me,
by her considerate protection, for my hot haste in fluttering that
little heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating
artlessness, caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxingly
appealing against me, and loving me with all her childish
innocence.

I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw those two
together, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends,
each adorning the other so much!

'What ought I to do then, Agnes?' I inquired, after looking at the
fire a little while. 'What would it be right to do?'

'I think,' said Agnes, 'that the honourable course to take, would
be to write to those two ladies. Don't you think that any secret
course is an unworthy one?'