Chapter-14
A letter came to me from Mr Micawber in Canterbury. My old friend loved to write and fancied that he did it well. In fact, he made such a muddle of his meaning that two or three readings were needed to crack the rambling code. After reading his letter, all I knew for certain was that he was coming to London in two days and wanted me to meet him. Mr Micawber added a note that he’d asked Tommy Traddles to meet him, too.
On Saturday we met at the designated spot and exchanged greetings. He took the arms that Traddles and I offered and the three of us walked off in the direction of the carriage stop.
On the ride to my house near Highgate, I asked about Agnes and Mr Wickfield.
“Miss Wickfield,” said Micawber, blushing a bit, “is the only starry spot in a miserable household. She is love and truth and goodness.”
Mr Micawber seemed so low-spirited and weakened that no one ventured any conversation in the carriage. Only when my aunt held him in light conversation later that evening did he rouse himself to share his despair.
“Villainy is the trouble,” he nearly shouted.
“And deception, and fraud, and conspiracy. The name at the centre is Heep.”
The floodgates opened and descriptions of Heep poured out: detestable serpent, immoral hypocrite, perjurer, rascal, doomed traitor, liar and cheat. With each one, Micawber became more breathless and red-faced. I thought he might explode on the spot.
At length, he ran out of steam.
“I have to go,” he said more quietly, “But I ask that all of you come to Canterbury one week from today. And there you’ll see an end to evil.”
Nothing would have kept the four of us from Canterbury that next Saturday. We went on Friday night and met Micawber for breakfast at a hotel in the centre of town.
Our host was too excited to eat. “I trust you’ll soon see an eruption, friends,” he told us. He asked us to give him a five-minute start and then to come to the office of Wickfield and Heep and ask to see Agnes. He had nothing else to say. With a waist-deep bow, he was off down the street. Exactly five minutes later, we stepped into the street and went three doors down to witness an explosion.
Micawber was seated at the reception desk in the first office. He greeted us all as if we’d not just been together and asked what brought us to Canterbury. I said we’d come to see Agnes and was she in?
He led us to the dining-room and threw open the doors.
“Miss Betsey Trotwood, Mr David Copperfield, Mr Thomas Traddles, and Mr Bick!” he said in a booming voice that thoroughly startled the man seated at the dining table reading the morning news—Heep.
Uriah jumped to his feet in astonishment, for the briefest moment frowning so badly his small red eyes were nearly closed. In a heartbeat this look was replaced with a sickly, humble smile and posture.
“An unexpected—undeserved—pleasure!” he cried, “Such a joy to have all friends gathered round at once. Micawber, make sure Agnes and mother know who’s come to see us. They’ll be so glad.”
“Not too busy for us, Heep?” asked Traddles.
“Not at all,” Heep answered, “Not so busy as I’d wish to be. Lawyers, sharks, and leeches are not easily satisfied, you know.”
Agnes came in, not as serene but every bit as lovely as always. I saw Uriah watch her while she greeted us, and I shivered a bit.
“You can go, Micawber,” Uriah said, dismissing his clerk with a wave of his bony hand. Micawber stood still at the door, looking directly at his employer.
“Are you deaf?” Uriah croaked at his clerk. “Didn’t you hear me tell you are to leave?”
“I heard you,” Micawber said.
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because I choose to be here,” Micawber replied in a burst.
Uriah’s cheeks lost colour and a sickly paleness, barely tinged with his usual red glow, spread over them.
“You’re a worthless man, as all the world knows,” he shot at Micawber, “and one of these days you’ll force me to fire you.” With a struggle to appear pleasant before his guests, he half-smiled and said quietly, “Now go along and we’ll talk later.”
With a sudden anger that startled us all, Micawber shouted, “If there’s a scoundrel on the earth with whom I’ve already talked too much, that scoundrel’s name is HEEP!”
Uriah fell back as if he’d been struck, and looked around at each of us with a dark and wicked expression.
“Oh, I see! We’ve a conspiracy here. You’ve all met by appointment. Is this your doing, Copperfield?” He’d broken into a clammy sweat on his face and a skinny hand wiped at his forehead. ” Agnes, if you love your father, don’t join this gang. I’ll ruin him if you do.”
Traddles spoke up then, “That will not be, Mr Heep. I’m Mr Wickfield’s friend and his protector.”
“The old man has drunk himself into stupidity,” Uriah charged, turning uglier than before, “and you’ve got his trust from him by fraud.”
“Something has been got by fraud, I know,” Traddles said quietly, “and you know it, too, Mr Heep.”
In an instant, the mask of humility that Heep had worn for so long was gone, and the open face of malice took its place.
Micawber stepped into the centre of the room and said, “I came to work for a firm dong business as Wickfield and Heep, but Heep alone is the force here. Heep alone is the forger and cheat.”
“These are my charges against you, Mr Heep,” Micawber continued, “and I have proof for everyone: when Mr Wickfield was least able to conduct business, you got his signature on papers that gave you access to his money; you wrote phony payments and kept the proceeds; you forged his name to documents; and you kept false books of accounts, stealing from him and your clients at every opportunity.”
Uriah cast a glance at the iron safe in the corner of the room. He went to it and threw the doors open with a huge clank. It was empty.
“Where are the books?” he cried, making a frightful face, “Some thief has stolen them.”
“I have them,” Traddles told him. “They’re not your concern any longer. Your concern now and for as long as it takes is repayment of every penny you have stolen. The Wickfields and all of your clients will have their property restored.”
At that a blur of dark blue taffeta and ostrich feathers flew at Heep’s neck.
“Thieving snake!” Aunt Betsey screamed as she yanked at his collar with both gloved hands. “You took everything I had and though nothing of it. I could choke the evil wind from you right here.”
I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her back from Heep. “You’ll get everything back, Aunt. We’ll see to it,” I said.
Uriah at last gave up and slipped into the chair behind his desk. Traddles told him calmly that he would have no trouble calling the police and securing a proper room for him at Maidstone Jail if there was any hesitancy to sign a promise of repayment. Defeat sat heavily on Uriah’s scrawny shoulders as the rest of us left him with Traddles.
In the hallway I found Mr Bick giving Mr Micawber a hearty hug. Agnes had gone to see to her father’s needs and Aunt Betsey stood straightening her feathered bonnet at the mirror.
“Well, I’m not sorry I’ll be looking for other work,” Mr Micawber announced, “Something’s sure to turn up.”
“I wonder, Mr Micawber, if you’ve ever considered living abroad,” said my aunt.
“A dream of my youth, madam!” Micawber answered.
“I know of a fine family leaving in several weeks for Australia. It’s a prime place for a man who conducts himself honestly and works hard. This might be just the time then for you and your family to make the move,” Aunt Betsey offered.
“Well, it’s a capital idea and it’s a capital problem, Miss Trotwood. There’s no money to finance such a dream.”
“If it’s only money, Mr Micawber, that can be found. Come see me in London next week and we’ll make some arrangements,” she said.
In the weeks following Heep’s destruction, my precious Dora grew weaker. She never ran and seldom walked more than a few slow steps. She looked wonderful and was in good spirits, but her legs grew lifeless. I carried her up and down stairs each day. After a time, our doctor stopped holding out hope for a recovery. Aunt Betsey and I sat for hours with her.
“Ah Davy, she said one day, “I don’t think I’ve been a very good wife.”
Tears came to my eyes. “Every bit as good a wife as I have been a husband,” I told her, “We’ve been very happy, and I would not have changed a single thing.”
“I want to see Agnes,” Dora said, “Do you think she would come, even with her father needing care?”
Of course, Agnes came the day the request reached her. She joined Aunt Betsey and me at Dora’s beside, and sat with us morning to night. On the third evening of Agnes’ visit, after my Aunt had gone to her room, Dora asked me to kiss her and to leave her alone with Agnes so that they could talk. I sat on the bed and gathered her into my arms—how tiny she was!
“You could not have loved me any better, Davy,” she said, “I’ve been so happy.”
I carried Jip, by now as frail as his mistress, downstairs with me and he waddled to his blanket. Stretching out at my feet as if to sleep, he gave a little cry. I looked up at Agnes in the doorway, and saw in her face that Dora was dead.
The days until the funeral were a blur. I knew that friends called to comfort me, and neighbours brought flowers and food. Mr Bick was my best companion; he sat and said nothing and expected nothing from me. Nothing was all I had to give.
I think it was Agnes who suggested I should take a trip abroad, to put space between me and the sorrowful places of London, and I agreed to go when the final matters of Heep’s thievery were settled and when everyone bound for Australia had left.
At Traddles’ request, Aunt Betsey and I went to Mr Micawber’s house in Canterbury to hear the results of the Heep’s investigations. And it was truly good news for my aunt. A full accounting of the books had located all of her missing funds. She had thought Mr Wickfield had mismanaged that money and she covered up his error by saying she had invested poorly and lost it all herself. In fact, Heep had embezzled the fortune. Aunt Betsey’s money and all of the money Heep had stolen from Mr Wickfield’s business had not been spent, but merely squirrelled away for future need. True to her own style, Aunt Betsey asked Traddles to set aside a portion of the money for the Micawbers’ travelling costs so that they could emigrate to Australia and start over.
“And what has become of the devious Heep?” my aunt asked.
“He and his mother gone,” Traddles answered, “They took a night coach to London and that’s all I know.”
“Does he have any money?”
“I’m sure he pocketed a lot, one way or another,” Traddles said, “But I don’t think having money will ever keep him out of the Devil’s company. His life’s course is set for nothing good.”
Little more than a week remained until the ship would leave England for Australia. Peggotty had come to London to spend the last days with Daniel and Em’ly. The Micawbers were in a flurry of preparation. And Ham’s request that I set Em’ly heart to rest was on my mind. I sent a letter to her through Daniel, telling her of Ham’s forgiveness and his love. Daniel came to see me the same afternoon.
“Your letter has done her so much good.” He was delighted with the effect of Ham’s forgiving her. “She’s written this reply to Ham and asks that you send it on to him.”
“There’s time before your ship sails for me to go to Yarmouth and see to its delivery,” I told him, “I’m in a restless mood these days and better off in motion. I’ll go this evening on the late mail coach.”
I set out for Yarmouth that night, anxious to put the precious documents in Ham’s hands, anxious for his life to begin anew.
But I didn’t arrive in time. There were dreadful storms at sea off the coast and several ships had broken apart. Their passengers and crews were dead. One ship bound for London from Portugal had come close to crashing into the docks at Yarmouth and a local sailor had died trying to rescue men who clung to its sinking mast.
When my carriage reached Yarmouth, I found the beach crowded with sailors, ship-builders, and townspeople. There was deafening storm noise. One ship’s mast had broken off short above the schooner’s deck. It lay over the side tangled in sailcloth and rigging. Men on board hacked with axes at the mast that was hammering the boat. A huge swell swept over the deck and carried men and debris into the sea. The ship righted and still four men clung to the mast. The ship was even closer to the shore, but the might of wind and water made reaching it impossible. Again the waves reached up and sucked them down, and again the ship came back- with only two men left.
There was commotion to my left—a man was being wrapped in roping by a group of sailors who were setting themselves to secure the ropes to shore while he tried the seas in a hopeless rescue attempt. It was Ham.
He bobbed in the swell for a minute or two. Only one man still clung to the mast as if hung there by fishing line. The ship’s bell clanged a mournful tone and in that instant I had a sickening sensation of remembrance for a once-dear friend.
I saw Ham’s face and shoulders rise in the surf. He was bleeding but motioning for more rope. He rose and sank, made progress towards the wreck, was thrown back towards the shore, the rose again. He was almost to his destination, then all was gone, ship, mast, sail, and men.
Pieces of the wreckage hit the shore with every thunderous wave, several bodies among them. Ham’s washed up quite close to where I stood shaking in chill and fear. Three of us carried him to a battered shelter and had just covered his beaten face when a bargeman I knew came looking for me.
“Mister Davy, we’ve another out here you’ll want to see, but we don’t know about laying’ him there by Ham,” he said.
I followed him out on the side porch to where a body lay—the body of the last man on ship, my friend James Steerforth.
Perhaps for the exhaustion, or the terror, or the agonizing compounding of losses—I slumped to the floor in shuddering sobs and stayed there who knows how long.
My sleep that night was deep, though far from peaceful. Dora and Ham and Steerforth all flowed and bumped through my dreams. How very much I needed to face these losses of mine and give myself to the emotions that stirred like a tempest just below the surface of my control!
