my service wasn't worth his being taken into.My offer could only be to help him to find another place, and yet there was an indelicacy, as it were, in taking for granted that his thoughts would immediately be fixed on another.I had a hope that he would be able to give his life a different form--though certainly not the form, the frequent result of such bereavements, of his setting up a little shop.That would have been dreadful; for I should have wished to forward any enterprise he might embark in, yet how could I have brought myself to go and pay him shillings and take back coppers, over a counter? My visit then was simply an intended compliment.He took it as such, gratefully and with all the tact in the world.He knew I really couldn't help him and that I knew he knew I couldn't; but we discussed the situation--with a good deal of elegant generality--at the foot of the stairs, in the hall already dismantled, where I had so often discussed other situations with him.The executors were in possession, as was still more apparent when he made me pass for a few minutes into the dining-room, where various objects were muffled up for removal.
Two definite facts, however, he had to communicate; one being that he was to leave the house for ever that night (servants, for some mysterious reason, seem always to depart by night), and the other--he mentioned it only at the last and with hesitation--that he was already aware his late master had left him a legacy of eighty pounds."I'm very glad," I said, and Brooksmith was of the same mind: "It was so like him to think of me." This was all that passed between us on the subject, and I know nothing of his judgement of Mr.Offord's memento.Eighty pounds are always eighty pounds, and no one has ever left ME an equal sum; but, all the same, for Brooksmith, I was disappointed.I don't know what I had expected, but it was almost a shock.Eighty pounds might stock a small shop--a VERY small shop; but, I repeat, I couldn't bear to think of that.I asked my friend if he had been able to save a little, and he replied: "No, sir; I've had to do things." Ididn't inquire what things they might have been; they were his own affair, and I took his word for them as assentingly as if he had had the greatness of an ancient house to keep up; especially as there was something in his manner that seemed to convey a prospect of further sacrifice.
"I shall have to turn round a bit, sir--I shall have to look about me," he said; and then he added indulgently, magnanimously: "If you should happen to hear of anything for me--"I couldn't let him finish; this was, in its essence, too much in the really grand manner.It would be a help to my getting him off my mind to be able to pretend I COULD find the right place, and that help he wished to give me, for it was doubtless painful to him to see me in so false a position.I interposed with a few words to the effect of how well aware I was that wherever he should go, whatever he should do, he would miss our old friend terribly--miss him even more than I should, having been with him so much more.
This led him to make the speech that has remained with me as the very text of the whole episode.
"Oh sir, it's sad for YOU, very sad indeed, and for a great many gentlemen and ladies; that it is, sir.But for me, sir, it is, if I may say so, still graver even than that: it's just the loss of something that was everything.For me, sir," he went on with rising tears, "he was just ALL, if you know what I mean, sir.You have others, sir, I daresay--not that I would have you understand me to speak of them as in any way tantamount.But you have the pleasures of society, sir; if it's only in talking about him, sir, as I daresay you do freely--for all his blest memory has to fear from it--with gentlemen and ladies who have had the same honour.
That's not for me, sir, and I've to keep my associations to myself.
Mr.Offord was MY society, and now, you see, I just haven't any.
You go back to conversation, sir, after all, and I go back to my place," Brooksmith stammered, without exaggerated irony or dramatic bitterness, but with a flat unstudied veracity and his hand on the knob of the street-door.He turned it to let me out and then he added: "I just go downstairs, sir, again, and I stay there.""My poor child," I replied in my emotion, quite as Mr.Offord used to speak, "my dear fellow, leave it to me: WE'LL look after you, we'll all do something for you.""Ah if you could give me some one LIKE him! But there ain't two such in the world," Brooksmith said as we parted.