[Illustration]
_In which the Old Man launches forth into his Favourite Theme,
and relates a Story about a Queer Client_
"Aha!" said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and
appearance concluded the last chapter, "Aha! who was talking about the
Inns?"
"I was, sir," replied Mr. Pickwick; "I was observing what singular old
places they are."
"_You!_" said the old man, contemptuously, "What do _you_ know of the
time when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read
and read, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reason
wandered beneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers were
exhausted; till morning's light brought no freshness or health to
them; and they sank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful
energies to their dry old books? Coming down to a later time, and a
very different day, what do _you_ know of the gradual sinking beneath
consumption, or the quick wasting of fever--the grand results of 'life'
and dissipation--which men have undergone in these same rooms? How many
vain pleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heart-sick from
the lawyer's office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge
in the gaol? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel
in the old wainscoting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers
of speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale of
horror--the romance of life, sir, the romance of life! Commonplace as
they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would
rather hear many a legend with a terrific sounding name, than the true
history of one old set of chambers."
There was something so odd in the old man's sudden energy, and the
subject which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared with
no observation in reply; and the old man, checking his impetuosity,
and resuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previous
excitement, said:
"Look at them in another light: their most commonplace and least
romantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy
man who has spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends,
to enter the profession, which will never yield him a morsel of bread.
The waiting--the hope--the disappointment--the fear--the misery--the
poverty--the blight on his hopes, and end to his career--the suicide
perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I not right about them?"
And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight at having
found another point of view in which to place his favourite subject.
Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder
of the company smiled, and looked on in silence.
"Talk of your German universities," said the little old man. "Pooh,
pooh! there's romance enough at home without going half a mile for it;
only people never think of it."
"I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before,
certainly," said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.
"To be sure you didn't," said the little old man, "of course not.
As a friend of mine used to say to me, 'What is there in chambers,
in particular?' 'Queer old places,' said I. 'Not at all,' said he.
'Lonely,' said I. 'Not a bit of it,' said he. He died one morning of
apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell with his head
in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Everybody
thought he'd gone out of town."
"And how was he found at last?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn't
paid any rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very
dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell
forward in the arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that.
Rather, perhaps?" The little old man put his head more on one side, and
rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.
"I know another case," said the little old man, when his chuckles had
in some degree subsided. "It occurred in Clifford's Inn. Tenant of a
top set--bad character--shut himself up in his bed-room closet, and
took a dose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away; opened
the door, and put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers,
furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn't
sleep--always restless and uncomfortable. 'Odd,' says he. 'I'll make
the other room my bed-chamber, and this my sitting-room.' He made the
change, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow,
he couldn't read in the evening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, and
used to be always snuffing his candles and staring about him. 'I can't
make this out,' said he, when he came home from the play one night, and
was drinking a glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order
that he mightn't be able to fancy there was any one behind him--'I
can't make it out,' said he; and just then his eyes rested on the
little closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder ran through
his whole frame from top to toe. 'I have felt this strange feeling
before,' said he, 'I cannot help thinking there's something wrong about
that closet.' He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered
the lock with a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there,
sure enough, standing bolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant,
with a little bottle clasped firmly in his hand, and his face--well!"
As the little old man concluded, he looked round on the attentive faces
of his wondering auditory with a smile of grim delight.
"What strange things these are you tell us of, sir," said Mr. Pickwick,
minutely scanning the old man's countenance, by the aid of his glasses.
"Strange!" said the little old man. "Nonsense; you think them strange,
because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncommon."
"Funny!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, involuntarily.
"Yes, funny, are they not?" replied the little old man, with a
diabolical leer; and then, without pausing for an answer, he continued:
"I knew another man--let me see--forty years ago now--who took an old,
damp, rotten set of chambers, in one of the most ancient Inns, that
had been shut up and empty for years and years before. There were lots
of old women's stories about the place, and it certainly was very far
from being a cheerful one; but he was poor and the rooms were cheap,
and that would have been quite a sufficient reason for him, if they
had been ten times worse than they really were. He was obliged to
take some mouldering fixtures that were on the place, and, among the
rest, was a great lumbering wooden press for papers, with large glass
doors, and a green curtain inside; a pretty useless thing for him,
for he had no papers to put in it; and as to his clothes, he carried
them about with him, and that wasn't very hard work, either. Well, he
had moved in all his furniture--it wasn't quite a truck-full--and had
sprinkled it about the room, so as to make the four chairs look as
much like a dozen as possible, and was sitting down before the fire
at night drinking the first glass of two gallons of whisky he had
ordered on credit, wondering whether it would ever be paid for, and
if so, in how many years' time, when his eyes encountered the glass
doors of the wooden press. 'Ah,' says he, 'if I hadn't been obliged
to take that ugly article at the old broker's valuation, I might have
got something comfortable for the money. I'll tell you what it is, old
fellow,' he said, speaking aloud to the press, having nothing else to
speak to: 'If it wouldn't cost more to break up your old carcase, than
it would ever be worth afterwards, I'd have a fire out of you in less
than no time.' He had hardly spoken the words, when a sound resembling
a faint groan, appeared to issue from the interior of the case. It
startled him at first, but thinking, on a moment's reflection, that
it must be some young fellow in the next chamber, who had been dining
out, he put his feet on the fender, and raised the poker to stir the
fire. At that moment, the sound was repeated; and one of the glass
doors slowly opening, disclosed a pale and emaciated figure in soiled
and worn apparel, standing erect in the press. The figure was tall
and thin, and the countenance expressive of care and anxiety; but
there was something in the hue of the skin, and gaunt and unearthly
appearance of the whole form, which no being of this world was ever
seen to wear. 'Who are you?' said the new tenant, turning very pale:
poising the poker in his hand, however, and taking a very decent aim
at the countenance of the figure. 'Who are you?' 'Don't throw that
poker at me,' replied the form; 'if you hurled it with ever so sure
an aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expend its
force on the wood behind. I am a spirit.' 'And, pray, what do you want
here?' faltered the tenant. 'In this room,' replied the apparition, 'my
worldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. In this press,
the papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, were
deposited. In this room, when I had died of grief and long deferred
hope, two wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contested
during a wretched existence, and of which, at last, not one farthing
was left for my unhappy descendants. I terrified them from the spot,
and since that day have prowled by night--the only period at which I
can revisit the earth--about the scenes of my long-protracted misery.
This apartment is mine: leave it to me.' 'If you insist upon making
your appearance here,' said the tenant, who had had time to collect his
presence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost's, 'I shall
give up possession with the greatest pleasure; but I should like to ask
you one question, if you will allow me.' 'Say on,' said the apparition,
sternly. 'Well,' said the tenant, 'I don't apply the observation
personally to you, because it is equally applicable to most of the
ghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to me somewhat inconsistent,
that when you have an opportunity of visiting the fairest spots of
earth--for I suppose space is nothing to you--you should always return
exactly to the very places where you have been most miserable.' 'Egad,
that's very true; I never thought of that before,' said the ghost. 'You
see, sir,' pursued the tenant, 'this is a very uncomfortable room.
From the appearance of that press, I should be disposed to say that it
is not wholly free from bugs; and I really think you might find much
more comfortable quarters: to say nothing of the climate of London,
which is extremely disagreeable.' 'You are very right, sir,' said the
ghost, politely, 'it never struck me till now; I'll try change of air
directly.' In fact, he began to vanish as he spoke: his legs, indeed,
had quite disappeared. 'And if, sir,' said the tenant, calling after
him, 'if you _would_ have the goodness to suggest to the other ladies
and gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting old empty houses, that
they might be much more comfortable elsewhere, you will confer a very
great benefit on society.' 'I will,' replied the ghost; 'we must be
dull fellows, very dull fellows, indeed; I can't imagine how we can
have been so stupid.' With these words, the spirit disappeared; and
what is rather remarkable," added the old man, with a shrewd look round
the table, "he never came back again."
"That ain't bad, if it's true," said the man in the Mosaic studs,
lighting a fresh cigar.
"_If!_" exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive contempt. "I
suppose," he added, turning to Lowten, "he'll say next, that my story
about the queer client we had, when I was in an attorney's office, is
not true, either--I shouldn't wonder."
"I shan't venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that I never
heard the story," observed the owner of the Mosaic decorations.
"I wish you would repeat it, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah, do," said Lowten; "nobody has heard it but me, and I have nearly
forgotten it."
The old man looked round the table, and leered more horribly than ever,
as if in triumph, at the attention which was depicted in every face.
Then rubbing his chin with his hand, and looking up to the ceiling as
if to recall the circumstances to his memory, he began as follows:
THE OLD MAN'S TALE ABOUT THE QUEER CLIENT
"It matters little," said the old man, "where, or how, I picked up this
brief history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reached
me, I should commence in the middle, and when I had arrived at the
conclusion, go back for a beginning. It is enough for me to say that
some of the circumstances passed before my own eyes. For the remainder
I know them to have happened, and there are some persons yet living,
who will remember them but too well.
"In the Borough High Street, near St. George's Church, and on the same
side of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our
debtors' prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been
a very different place from the sink of filth and dirt it once was,
even its improved condition holds out but little temptation to the
extravagant, or consolation to the improvident. The condemned felon has
as good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the insolvent debtor
in the Marshalsea Prison.[4]
[4] Better. But this is past, in a better age, and the prison
exists no longer.
"It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place from
the old recollections associated with it, but this part of London I
cannot bear. The street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of
passing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people--all
the busy sounds of traffic, resound in it from morn to midnight, but
the streets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery lie
festering in the crowded alleys; want and misfortune are pent up in
the narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my eyes
at least, to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and
sickly hue.
"Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the grave, have looked
round upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the old
Marshalsea Prison for the first time: for despair seldom comes with
the first severe shock of misfortune. A man has confidence in untried
friends, he remembers the many offers of service so freely made by
his boon companions when he wanted them not; he has hope--the hope of
happy inexperience--and however he may bend beneath the first shock,
it springs up in his bosom, and flourishes there for a brief space,
until it droops beneath the blight of disappointment and neglect. How
soon have those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from
faces wasted with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when it
was no figure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with no
hope of release, and no prospect of liberty! The atrocity in its full
extent no longer exists, but there is enough of it left to give rise to
occurrences that make the heart bleed.
"Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footsteps of a
mother and child, who, day by day, so surely as the morning came,
presented themselves at the prison gate; often after a night of
restless misery and anxious thoughts, were they there, a full hour
too soon, and then the young mother, turning meekly away, would lead
the child to the old bridge, and raising him in her arms to show him
the glistening water, tinted with the light of the morning's sun, and
stirring with all the bustling preparations for business and pleasure
that the river presented at that early hour, endeavour to interest his
thoughts in the objects before him. But she would quickly set him down,
and hiding her face in her shawl, give vent to the tears that blinded
her; for no expression of interest or amusement lighted up his thin
and sickly face. His recollections were few enough, but they were all
of one kind: all connected with the poverty and misery of his parents.
Hour after hour had he sat on his mother's knee, and with childish
sympathy watched the tears that stole down her face, and then crept
quietly away into some dark corner, and sobbed himself to sleep. The
hard realities of the world, with many of its worst privations--hunger
and thirst, and cold and want--had all come home to him, from the first
dawnings of reason; and though the form of childhood was there, its
light heart, its merry laugh, and sparkling eyes, were wanting.
"The father and mother looked on upon this, and upon each other,
with thoughts of agony they dared not breathe in words. The healthy,
strong-made man, who could have borne almost any fatigue of active
exertion, was wasting beneath the close confinement and unhealthy
atmosphere of a crowded prison. The slight and delicate woman was
sinking beneath the combined effects of bodily and mental illness. The
child's young heart was breaking.
"Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girl
had removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband's
imprisonment; and though the change had been rendered necessary by
their increasing poverty, she was happier now, for she was nearer him.
For two months, she and her little companion watched the opening of the
gate as usual. One day she failed to come, for the first time. Another
morning arrived, and she came alone. The child was dead.
"They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man's bereavements, as
a happy release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief from
expense to the survivor--they little know, I say, what the agony of
those bereavements is. A silent look of affection and regard when all
other eyes are turned coldly away--the consciousness that we possess
the sympathy and affection of one being when all others have deserted
us--is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which
no wealth could purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat at his
parents' feet for hours together, with his little hands patiently
folded in each other, and his thin wan face raised towards them. They
had seen him pine away, from day to day; and though his brief existence
had been a joyless one, and he was now removed to that peace and rest
which, child as he was, he had never known in this world, they were his
parents, and his loss sunk deep into their souls.
"It was plain to those who looked upon the mother's altered face,
that death must soon close the scene of her adversity and trial. Her
husband's fellow-prisoners shrunk from obtruding on his grief and
misery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had previously
occupied in common with two companions. She shared it with him: and
lingering on without pain, but without hope, her life ebbed slowly away.
"She had fainted one evening in her husband's arms, and he had borne
her to the open window, to revive her with the air, when the light
of the moon falling full upon her face, showed him a change upon her
features, which made him stagger beneath her weight, like a helpless
infant.
"'Set me down, George,' she said, faintly. He did so, and seating
himself beside her, covered his face with his hands, and burst into
tears.
"'It is very hard to leave you, George,' she said, 'but it is God's
will, and you must bear it for my sake. Oh! how I thank Him for having
taken our boy! He is happy, and in Heaven now. What would he have done
here, without his mother!'
"'You shall not die, Mary, you shall not die!' said the husband,
starting up. He paced hurriedly to and fro, striking his head with his
clenched fists; then reseating himself beside her, and supporting her
in his arms, added more calmly, 'Rouse yourself, my dear girl. Pray,
pray do. You will revive yet.'
"'Never again, George; never again,' said the dying woman. 'Let them
lay me by my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leave
this dreadful place, and should grow rich, you will have us removed
to some quiet country churchyard, a long, long way off--very far from
here--where we can rest in peace. Dear George, promise me you will.'
"'I do, I do,' said the man, throwing himself passionately on his knees
before her. 'Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look--but one!'
"He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck grew stiff and
heavy. A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him; the lips
moved and a smile played upon the face; but the lips were pallid, and
the smile faded into a rigid and ghastly stare. He was alone in the
world.
"That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, the
wretched man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on God
to witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himself
to revenge her death and that of his child; that thenceforth, to the
last moment of his life, his whole energies should be directed to this
one object; that his revenge should be protracted and terrible; that
his hatred should be undying and inextinguishable; and should hunt its
object through the world.
"The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierce
ravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions in
misfortune shrunk affrighted from him as he passed by. His eyes were
bloodshot and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent as if
with age. He had bitten his under lip nearly through in the violence
of his mental suffering, and the blood which had flowed from the wound
had trickled down his chin, and stained his shirt and neckerchief. No
tear or sound of complaint escaped him: but the unsettled look, and
disordered haste with which he paced up and down the yard, denoted the
fever which was burning within.
"It was necessary that his wife's body should be removed from the
prison, without delay. He received the communication with perfect
calmness, and acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of
the prison had assembled to witness its removal; they fell back on
either side when the widower appeared; he walked hurriedly forward,
and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close to the
lodge gate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling of
delicacy, had retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly forward on
men's shoulders. A dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only by
the audible lamentations of the women, and the shuffling steps of the
bearers on the stone pavement. They reached the spot where the bereaved
husband stood: and stopped. He laid his hand upon the coffin, and
mechanically adjusting the pall with which it was covered, motioned
them onward. The turnkeys in the prison lobby took off their hats as it
passed through, and in another moment the heavy gate closed behind it.
He looked vacantly upon the crowd, and fell heavily to the ground.
"Although for many weeks after this, he was watched, night and day,
in the wildest ravings of fever, neither the consciousness of his
loss, nor the recollection of the vow he had made, ever left him for
a moment. Scenes changed before his eyes, place succeeded place, and
event followed event, in all the hurry of delirium; but they were all
connected in some way with the great object of his mind. He was sailing
over a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the
angry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiled and eddied up, on every
side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in
the howling storm: her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and
her deck thronged with figures who were lashed to the sides, over which
huge waves every instant burst, sweeping away some devoted creatures
into the foaming sea. Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass of
water, with a speed and force which nothing could resist; and striking
the stern of the foremost vessel, crushed her beneath their keel. From
the huge whirlpool which the sinking wreck occasioned, arose a shriek
so loud and shrill--the death-cry of a hundred drowning creatures,
blended into one fierce yell--that it rung far above the war-cry of the
elements, and echoed and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air, sky
and ocean. But what was that--that old grey-head that rose above the
water's surface, and with looks of agony, and screams for aid, buffeted
with the waves! One look, and he had sprung from the vessel's side, and
with vigorous strokes was swimming towards it. He reached it; he was
close upon it. They were _his_ features. The old man saw him coming,
and vainly strove to elude his grasp. But he clasped him tight, and
dragged him beneath the water. Down, down with him, fifty fathoms down;
his struggles grew fainter and fainter, until they wholly ceased. He
was dead; he had killed him, and had kept his oath.
"He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot and
alone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thin grains entered
the very pores of his skin, and irritated him almost to madness.
Gigantic masses of the same material, carried forward by the wind, and
shone through by the burning sun, stalked in the distance like pillars
of living fire. The bones of men, who had perished in the dreary waste,
lay scattered at his feet; a fearful light fell on everything around;
so far as the eye could reach, nothing but objects of dread and horror
presented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with
his tongue cleaving to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with
supernatural strength, he waded through the sand, until exhausted with
fatigue and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant
coolness revived him; what gushing sound was that? Water! It was indeed
a well; and the clear fresh stream was running at his feet. He drank
deeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sunk into
a delicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. An
old grey-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. It
was _he_ again! He wound his arms round the old man's body and held
him back. He struggled, and shrieked for water, for but one drop of
water to save his life! But he held the old man firmly, and watched his
agonies with greedy eyes; and when his lifeless head fell forward on
his bosom, he rolled the corpse from him with his feet.
"When the fever had left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to
find himself rich and free: to hear that the parent who would have let
him die in gaol--_would!_ who _had_ let those who were far dearer to
him than his own existence, die of want and sickness of heart that
medicine cannot cure--had been found dead on his bed of down. He had
had all the heart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even of his
health and strength, had put off the act till it was too late, and now
might gnash his teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealth
his remissness had left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to more.
To recollect the purpose for which he lived, and to remember that his
enemy was his wife's own father--the man who had cast him into prison,
and who, when his daughter and her child sued at his feet for mercy,
had spurned them from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness that
prevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of vengeance!
"He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and misery,
and conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not in the hope of
recovering his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever;
but to restore his prostrate energies, and meditate on his darling
object. And here, some evil spirit cast in his way the opportunity for
his first most horrible revenge.
"It was summer time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he would
issue from his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wandering
along a narrow path beneath the cliffs, to a wild and lonely spot that
had struck his fancy in his ramblings, seat himself on some fallen
fragment of the rock, and burying his face in his hands, remain there
for hours--sometimes until night had completely closed in, and the
long shadows of the frowning cliffs above his head, cast a thick black
darkness on every object near him.
"He was seated here one calm evening, in his old position, now and then
raising his head to watch the flight of a sea-gull, or carry his eye
along the glorious crimson path, which, commencing in the middle of the
ocean, seemed to lead to its very verge where the sun was setting, when
the profound stillness of the spot was broken by a loud cry for help;
he listened, doubtful of his having heard aright, when the cry was
repeated with even greater vehemence than before, and starting to his
feet, he hastened in the direction whence it proceeded.
"The tale told itself at once: some scattered garments lay on the
beach; a human head was just visible above the waves at a little
distance from the shore; and an old man, wringing his hands in agony,
was running to and fro, shrieking for assistance. The invalid, whose
strength was now sufficiently restored, threw off his coat, and rushed
towards the sea, with the intention of plunging in, and dragging the
drowning man ashore.
"'Hasten here, sir, in God's name! help, help, sir, for the love of
Heaven! He is my son, sir, my only son!' said the old man, frantically,
as he advanced to meet him. 'My only son, sir, and he is dying before
his father's eyes!'
"At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checked himself in
his career, and, folding his arms, stood perfectly motionless.
"'Great God!' exclaimed the old man, recoiling. 'Heyling!'
"The stranger smiled, and was silent.
"'Heyling!' said the old man, wildly. 'My boy, Heyling, my dear boy,
look, look!' gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed to the
spot where the young man was struggling for life.
"'Hark!' said the old man. 'He cries once more. He is alive yet.
Heyling, save him, save him!'
"The stranger smiled again, and remained immovable as a statue.
"'I have wronged you,' shrieked the old man, falling on his knees, and
clasping his hands together. 'Be revenged; take my all, my life; cast
me into the water at your feet, and, if human nature can repress a
struggle, I will die, without stirring hand or foot. Do it, Heyling, do
it, but save my boy, he is so young, Heyling, so young to die!'
"'Listen,' said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely by the
wrist: 'I will have life for life, and here is +ONE+. _My_ child died,
before his father's eyes, a far more agonising and painful death than
that young slanderer of his sister's worth is meeting while I speak.
You laughed--laughed in your daughter's face, where death had already
set his hand--at our sufferings, then. What think you of them now? See
there, see there!'
"As the stranger spoke he pointed to the sea. A faint cry died away
upon its surface: the last powerful struggle of the dying man agitated
the rippling waves for a few seconds: and the spot where he had gone
down into his early grave, was undistinguishable from the surrounding
water.
* * * * *
"Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from a private
carriage at the door of a London attorney, then well known as a man of
no great nicety in his professional dealings: and requested a private
interview on business of importance. Although evidently not past the
prime of life, his face was pale, haggard, and dejected; and it did not
require the acute perception of the man of business, to discern at a
glance, that disease or suffering had done more to work a change in his
appearance, than the mere hand of time could have accomplished in twice
the period of his whole life.
"'I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,' said the
stranger.
"The attorney bowed obsequiously, and glanced at a large packet which
the gentleman carried in his hand. His visitor observed the look, and
proceeded.
"'It is no common business,' said he; 'nor have these papers reached my
hands without long trouble and great expense.'
"The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet; and his
visitor, untying the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity of
promissory notes, with copies of deeds, and other documents.
"'Upon these papers,' said the client, 'the man whose name they bear,
has raised, as you will see, large sums of money, for some years past.
There was a tacit understanding between him and the men into whose
hands they originally went--and from whom I have by degrees purchased
the whole, for treble and quadruple their nominal value--that these
loans should be from time to time renewed, until a given period had
elapsed. Such an understanding is nowhere expressed. He has sustained
many losses of late; and these obligations accumulating upon him at
once, would crush him to the earth.'
"'The whole amount is many thousands of pounds,' said the attorney,
looking over the papers.
"'It is,' said the client.
"'What are we to do?' inquired the man of business.
"'Do!' replied the client, with sudden vehemence. 'Put every engine of
the law in force, every trick that ingenuity can devise and rascality
execute; fair means and foul; the open oppression of the law, aided by
all the craft of its most ingenious practitioners. I would have him die
a harassing and lingering death. Ruin him, seize and sell his lands and
goods, drive him from house and home, and drag him forth a beggar in
his old age, to die in a common gaol.'
"'But the costs, my dear sir, the costs of all this,' reasoned the
attorney, when he had recovered from his momentary surprise. 'If the
defendant be a man of straw, who is to pay the costs, sir?'
"'Name any sum,' said the stranger, his hand trembling so violently
with excitement, that he could scarcely hold the pen he seized as he
spoke; 'any sum, and it is yours. Don't be afraid to name it, man. I
shall not think it dear, if you gain my object.'
"The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance he should
require to secure himself against the possibility of loss; but more
with the view of ascertaining how far his client was really disposed
to go, than with any idea that he would comply with the demand. The
stranger wrote a cheque upon his banker, for the whole amount, and left
him.
"The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that his
strange client might be safely relied upon, commenced his work in
earnest. For more than two years afterwards, Mr. Heyling would sit
whole days together, in the office, poring over the papers as they
accumulated, and reading again and again, his eyes gleaming with joy,
the letters of remonstrance, the prayers for a little delay, the
representations of the certain ruin in which the opposite party must
be involved, which poured in, as suit after suit, and process after
process, was commenced. To all applications for a brief indulgence,
there was but one reply--the money must be paid. Land, house,
furniture, each in its turn, was taken under some one of the numerous
executions which were issued; and the old man himself would have been
immured in prison had he not escaped the vigilance of the officers, and
fled.
"The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiated by
the success of his persecution, increased a hundredfold with the ruin
he inflicted. On being informed of the old man's flight, his fury was
unbounded. He gnashed his teeth with rage, tore the hair from his head,
and assailed with horrid imprecations the men who had been entrusted
with the writ. He was only restored to comparative calmness by repeated
assurances of the certainty of discovering the fugitive. Agents were
sent in quest of him, in all directions; every stratagem that could be
invented was resorted to, for the purpose of discovering his place of
retreat; but it was all in vain. Half a year had passed over, and he
was still undiscovered.
"At length, late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had been seen for
many weeks before, appeared at his attorney's private residence, and
sent up word that a gentleman wished to see him instantly. Before the
attorney, who had recognised his voice from above stairs, could order
the servant to admit him, he had rushed up the staircase, and entered
the drawing-room pale and breathless. Having closed the door, to
prevent being overheard, he sunk into a chair, and said, in a low voice:
"'Hush! I have found him at last.'
"'No!' said the attorney. 'Well done, my dear sir; well done.'
"'He lies concealed in a wretched lodging in Camden Town,' said
Heyling. 'Perhaps it is as well we _did_ lose sight of him, for he has
been living alone there, in the most abject misery, all the time, and
he is poor--very poor.'
"'Very good,' said the attorney. 'You will have the caption made
to-morrow, of course?'
"'Yes,' replied Heyling. 'Stay! No! The next day. You are surprised at
my wishing to postpone it,' he added, with a ghastly smile; 'but I had
forgotten. The next day is an anniversary in his life: let it be done
then.'
"'Very good,' said the attorney. 'Will you write down instructions for
the officer?'
"'No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I will
accompany him, myself.'
"They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney coach, directed
the driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road, at which
stands the parish workhouse. By the time they alighted there, it was
quite dark; and, proceeding by the dead wall in front of the Veterinary
Hospital, they entered a small by-street, which is, or was at that
time, called Little College Street, and which, whatever it may be now,
was in those days a desolate place enough, surrounded by little else
than fields and ditches.
"Having drawn the travelling cap he had on half over his face,
and muffled himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before the
meanest-looking house in the street, and knocked gently at the door. It
was opened at once by a woman, who dropped a curtsey of recognition,
and Heyling, whispering the officer to remain below, crept gently
up-stairs, and, opening the door of the front room, entered at once.
"The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepid
old man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood a miserable
candle. He started on the entrance of the stranger, and rose feebly to
his feet.
"'What now, what now?' said the old man. 'What fresh misery is this?
What do you want here?'
"'A word with _you_,' replied Heyling. As he spoke, he seated himself
at the other end of the table, and, throwing off his cloak and cap,
disclosed his features.
"The old man seemed instantly deprived of the power of speech. He fell
backward in his chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on the
apparition with a mingled look of abhorrence and fear.
"'This day six years,' said Heyling, 'I claimed the life you owed me
for my child's. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, old man, I
swore to live a life of revenge. I have never swerved from my purpose
for a moment's space; but if I had, one thought of her uncomplaining,
suffering look, as she drooped away, or of the starving face of our
innocent child, would have nerved me to my task. My first act of
requital you well remember: this is my last.'
"The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his side.
"'I leave England to-morrow,' said Heyling, after a moment's pause.
'To-night I consign you to the living death to which you devoted her--a
hopeless prison----'
"He raised his eyes to the old man's countenance, and paused. He lifted
the light to his face, set it gently down, and left the apartment.
"'You had better see to the old man,' he said to the woman, as he
opened the door, and motioned the officer to follow him into the
street. 'I think he is ill.' The woman closed the door, ran hastily
upstairs, and found him lifeless.
* * * * *
"Beneath a plain grave-stone, in one of the most peaceful and secluded
churchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and the
soft landscape around forms the fairest spot in the garden of England,
lie the bones of the young mother and her gentle child. But the ashes
of the father do not mingle with theirs; nor, from that night forward,
did the attorney ever gain the remotest clue to the subsequent history
of his queer client."
* * * * *
As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a peg in one corner,
and taking down his hat and coat, put them on with great deliberation;
and, without saying another word, walked slowly away. As the gentleman
with the Mosaic studs had fallen asleep, and the major part of the
company were deeply occupied in the humorous process of dropping
melted tallow-grease into his brandy and water, Mr. Pickwick departed
unnoticed, and having settled his own score, and that of Mr. Weller,
issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath the portal
of the Magpie and Stump.