CHAPTER 38 - A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP

I did not allow my resolution, with respect to the Parliamentary

Debates, to cool. It was one of the irons I began to heat

immediately, and one of the irons I kept hot, and hammered at, with

a perseverance I may honestly admire. I bought an approved scheme

of the noble art and mystery of stenography (which cost me ten and

sixpence); and plunged into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in

a few weeks, to the confines of distraction. The changes that were

rung upon dots, which in such a position meant such a thing, and in

such another position something else, entirely different; the

wonderful vagaries that were played by circles; the unaccountable

consequences that resulted from marks like flies' legs; the

tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong place; not only troubled

my waking hours, but reappeared before me in my sleep. When I had

groped my way, blindly, through these difficulties, and had

mastered the alphabet, which was an Egyptian Temple in itself,

there then appeared a procession of new horrors, called arbitrary

characters; the most despotic characters I have ever known; who

insisted, for instance, that a thing like the beginning of a

cobweb, meant expectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket, stood

for disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind,

I found that they had driven everything else out of it; then,

beginning again, I forgot them; while I was picking them up, I

dropped the other fragments of the system; in short, it was almost

heart-breaking.

It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora, who was the

stay and anchor of my tempest-driven bark. Every scratch in the

scheme was a gnarled oak in the forest of difficulty, and I went on

cutting them down, one after another, with such vigour, that in

three or four months I was in a condition to make an experiment on

one of our crack speakers in the Commons. Shall I ever forget how

the crack speaker walked off from me before I began, and left my

imbecile pencil staggering about the paper as if it were in a fit!

This would not do, it was quite clear. I was flying too high, and

should never get on, so. I resorted to Traddles for advice; who

suggested that he should dictate speeches to me, at a pace, and

with occasional stoppages, adapted to my weakness. Very grateful

for this friendly aid, I accepted the proposal; and night after

night, almost every night, for a long time, we had a sort of

Private Parliament in Buckingham Street, after I came home from the

Doctor's.

I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else! My aunt and

Mr. Dick represented the Government or the Opposition (as the case

might be), and Traddles, with the assistance of Enfield's Speakers,

or a volume of parliamentary orations, thundered astonishing

invectives against them. Standing by the table, with his finger in

the page to keep the place, and his right arm flourishing above his

head, Traddles, as Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Burke, Lord

Castlereagh, Viscount Sidmouth, or Mr. Canning, would work himself

into the most violent heats, and deliver the most withering

denunciations of the profligacy and corruption of my aunt and Mr.

Dick; while I used to sit, at a little distance, with my notebook

on my knee, fagging after him with all my might and main. The

inconsistency and recklessness of Traddles were not to be exceeded

by any real politician. He was for any description of policy, in

the compass of a week; and nailed all sorts of colours to every

denomination of mast. My aunt, looking very like an immovable

Chancellor of the Exchequer, would occasionally throw in an

interruption or two, as 'Hear!' or 'No!' or 'Oh!' when the text

seemed to require it: which was always a signal to Mr. Dick (a

perfect country gentleman) to follow lustily with the same cry.

But Mr. Dick got taxed with such things in the course of his

Parliamentary career, and was made responsible for such awful

consequences, that he became uncomfortable in his mind sometimes.

I believe he actually began to be afraid he really had been doing

something, tending to the annihilation of the British constitution,

and the ruin of the country.

Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock pointed to

midnight, and the candles were burning down. The result of so much

good practice was, that by and by I began to keep pace with

Traddles pretty well, and should have been quite triumphant if I

had had the least idea what my notes were about. But, as to

reading them after I had got them, I might as well have copied the

Chinese inscriptions of an immense collection of tea-chests, or the

golden characters on all the great red and green bottles in the

chemists' shops!

There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all over

again. It was very hard, but I turned back, though with a heavy

heart, and began laboriously and methodically to plod over the same

tedious ground at a snail's pace; stopping to examine minutely

every speck in the way, on all sides, and making the most desperate

efforts to know these elusive characters by sight wherever I met

them. I was always punctual at the office; at the Doctor's too:

and I really did work, as the common expression is, like a

cart-horse.

One day, when I went to the Commons as usual, I found Mr. Spenlow

in the doorway looking extremely grave, and talking to himself. As

he was in the habit of complaining of pains in his head - he had

naturally a short throat, and I do seriously believe he

over-starched himself - I was at first alarmed by the idea that he

was not quite right in that direction; but he soon relieved my

uneasiness.

Instead of returning my 'Good morning' with his usual affability,

he looked at me in a distant, ceremonious manner, and coldly

requested me to accompany him to a certain coffee-house, which, in

those days, had a door opening into the Commons, just within the

little archway in St. Paul's Churchyard. I complied, in a very

uncomfortable state, and with a warm shooting all over me, as if my

apprehensions were breaking out into buds. When I allowed him to

go on a little before, on account of the narrowness of the way, I

observed that he carried his head with a lofty air that was

particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that he had found

out about my darling Dora.

If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house, I could

hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him

into an upstairs room, and found Miss Murdstone there, supported by

a background of sideboard, on which were several inverted tumblers

sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes, all

corners and flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which,

happily for mankind, are now obsolete.

Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat severely

rigid. Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a chair, and

stood on the hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.

'Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, what

you have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.'

I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my

childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips, in

sympathy with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it - opening her

mouth a little at the same time - and produced my last letter to

Dora, teeming with expressions of devoted affection.

'I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?' said Mr.

Spenlow.

I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I

said, 'It is, sir!'

'If I am not mistaken,' said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murdstone brought

a parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied round with the

dearest bit of blue ribbon, 'those are also from your pen, Mr.

Copperfield?'

I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; and, glancing

at such phrases at the top, as 'My ever dearest and own Dora,' 'My

best beloved angel,' 'My blessed one for ever,' and the like,

blushed deeply, and inclined my head.

'No, thank you!' said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I mechanically

offered them back to him. 'I will not deprive you of them. Miss

Murdstone, be so good as to proceed!'

That gentle creature, after a moment's thoughtful survey of the

carpet, delivered herself with much dry unction as follows.

'I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of Miss

Spenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I

observed Miss Spenlow and David Copperfield, when they first met;

and the impression made upon me then was not agreeable. The

depravity of the human heart is such -'

'You will oblige me, ma'am,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, 'by confining

yourself to facts.'

Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as if protesting

against this unseemly interruption, and with frowning dignity

resumed:

'Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them as dryly

as I can. Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable course of

proceeding. I have already said, sir, that I have had my

suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for

some time. I have frequently endeavoured to find decisive

corroboration of those suspicions, but without effect. I have

therefore forborne to mention them to Miss Spenlow's father';

looking severely at him- 'knowing how little disposition there

usually is in such cases, to acknowledge the conscientious

discharge of duty.'

Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness of Miss

Murdstone's manner, and deprecated her severity with a conciliatory

little wave of his hand.

'On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence occasioned by

my brother's marriage,' pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainful

voice, 'and on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her

friend Miss Mills, I imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave

me greater occasion for suspicion than before. Therefore I watched

Miss Spenlow closely.'

Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon's eye!

'Still,' resumed Miss Murdstone, 'I found no proof until last

night. It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many

letters from her friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills being her friend

with her father's full concurrence,' another telling blow at Mr.

Spenlow, 'it was not for me to interfere. If I may not be

permitted to allude to the natural depravity of the human heart, at

least I may - I must - be permitted, so far to refer to misplaced

confidence.'

Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent.

'Last evening after tea,' pursued Miss Murdstone, 'I observed the

little dog starting, rolling, and growling about the drawing-room,

worrying something. I said to Miss Spenlow, "Dora, what is that

the dog has in his mouth? It's paper." Miss Spenlow immediately

put her hand to her frock, gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog.

I interposed, and said, "Dora, my love, you must permit me." '

Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work!

'Miss Spenlow endeavoured,' said Miss Murdstone, 'to bribe me with

kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jewellery - that, of

course, I pass over. The little dog retreated under the sofa on my

approaching him, and was with great difficulty dislodged by the

fire-irons. Even when dislodged, he still kept the letter in his

mouth; and on my endeavouring to take it from him, at the imminent

risk of being bitten, he kept it between his teeth so

pertinaciously as to suffer himself to be held suspended in the air

by means of the document. At length I obtained possession of it.

After perusing it, I taxed Miss Spenlow with having many such

letters in her possession; and ultimately obtained from her the

packet which is now in David Copperfield's hand.'

Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and shutting her

mouth, looked as if she might be broken, but could never be bent.

'You have heard Miss Murdstone,' said Mr. Spenlow, turning to me.

'I beg to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have anything to say in

reply?'

The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treasure of my

heart, sobbing and crying all night - of her being alone,

frightened, and wretched, then - of her having so piteously begged

and prayed that stony-hearted woman to forgive her - of her having

vainly offered her those kisses, work-boxes, and trinkets - of her

being in such grievous distress, and all for me - very much

impaired the little dignity I had been able to muster. I am afraid

I was in a tremulous state for a minute or so, though I did my best

to disguise it.

'There is nothing I can say, sir,' I returned, 'except that all the

blame is mine. Dora -'

'Miss Spenlow, if you please,' said her father, majestically.

'- was induced and persuaded by me,' I went on, swallowing that

colder designation, 'to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly

regret it.'

'You are very much to blame, sir,' said Mr. Spenlow, walking to and

fro upon the hearth-rug, and emphasizing what he said with his

whole body instead of his head, on account of the stiffness of his

cravat and spine. 'You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action,

Mr. Copperfield. When I take a gentleman to my house, no matter

whether he is nineteen, twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in

a spirit of confidence. If he abuses my confidence, he commits a

dishonourable action, Mr. Copperfield.'

'I feel it, sir, I assure you,' I returned. 'But I never thought

so, before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never

thought so, before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent -'

'Pooh! nonsense!' said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. 'Pray don't tell me

to my face that you love my daughter, Mr. Copperfield!'

'Could I defend my conduct if I did not, sir?' I returned, with all

humility.

'Can you defend your conduct if you do, sir?' said Mr. Spenlow,

stopping short upon the hearth-rug. 'Have you considered your

years, and my daughter's years, Mr. Copperfield? Have you

considered what it is to undermine the confidence that should

subsist between my daughter and myself? Have you considered my

daughter's station in life, the projects I may contemplate for her

advancement, the testamentary intentions I may have with reference

to her? Have you considered anything, Mr. Copperfield?'

'Very little, sir, I am afraid;' I answered, speaking to him as

respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; 'but pray believe me, I

have considered my own worldly position. When I explained it to

you, we were already engaged -'

'I BEG,' said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had ever seen

him, as he energetically struck one hand upon the other - I could

not help noticing that even in my despair; 'that YOU Will NOT talk

to me of engagements, Mr. Copperfield!'

The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptuously in

one short syllable.

'When I explained my altered position to you, sir,' I began again,

substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable

to him, 'this concealment, into which I am so unhappy as to have

led Miss Spenlow, had begun. Since I have been in that altered

position, I have strained every nerve, I have exerted every energy,

to improve it. I am sure I shall improve it in time. Will you

grant me time - any length of time? We are both so young, sir, -'

'You are right,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great

many times, and frowning very much, 'you are both very young. It's

all nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away

those letters, and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow's

letters to throw in the fire; and although our future intercourse

must, you are aware, be restricted to the Commons here, we will

agree to make no further mention of the past. Come, Mr.

Copperfield, you don't want sense; and this is the sensible

course.'

No. I couldn't think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but

there was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all

earthly considerations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora

loved me. I didn't exactly say so; I softened it down as much as

I could; but I implied it, and I was resolute upon it. I don't

think I made myself very ridiculous, but I know I was resolute.

'Very well, Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'I must try my

influence with my daughter.'

Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respiration,

which was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both, gave it as

her opinion that he should have done this at first.

'I must try,' said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, 'my

influence with my daughter. Do you decline to take those letters,

Mr. Copperfield?' For I had laid them on the table.

Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I

couldn't possibly take them from Miss Murdstone.

'Nor from me?' said Mr. Spenlow.

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.3 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 in- definable

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!

Read next: CHAPTER 39 - WICKFIELD AND HEEP

Read previous: CHAPTER 37 - A LITTLE COLD WATER

Table of content of David Copperfield



GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book