Our dear friend laid down his pen at the end of the foregoing paragraph,
to take it up no more. I little thought ever to employ mine upon so
sorrowful a task as that which he has left me, and to which I now devote
it.
As he did not appear among us at his usual hour next morning, we knocked
gently at his door. No answer being given, it was softly opened; and
then, to our surprise, we saw him seated before the ashes of his fire,
with a little table I was accustomed to set at his elbow when I left him
for the night at a short distance from him, as though he had pushed it
away with the idea of rising and retiring to his bed. His crutch and
footstool lay at his feet as usual, and he was dressed in his
chamber-gown, which he had put on before I left him. He was reclining in
his chair, in his accustomed posture, with his face towards the fire, and
seemed absorbed in meditation,—indeed, at first, we almost hoped he was.
Going up to him, we found him dead. I have often, very often, seen him
sleeping, and always peacefully, but I never saw him look so calm and
tranquil. His face wore a serene, benign expression, which had impressed
me very strongly when we last shook hands; not that he had ever had any
other look, God knows; but there was something in this so very spiritual,
so strangely and indefinably allied to youth, although his head was gray
and venerable, that it was new even in him. It came upon me all at once
when on some slight pretence he called me back upon the previous night to
take me by the hand again, and once more say, ‘God bless you.’
A bell-rope hung within his reach, but he had not moved towards it; nor
had he stirred, we all agreed, except, as I have said, to push away his
table, which he could have done, and no doubt did, with a very slight
motion of his hand. He had relapsed for a moment into his late train of
meditation, and, with a thoughtful smile upon his face, had died.
I had long known it to be his wish that whenever this event should come
to pass we might be all assembled in the house. I therefore lost no time
in sending for Mr. Pickwick and for Mr. Miles, both of whom arrived
before the messenger’s return.
It is not my purpose to dilate upon the sorrow and affectionate emotions
of which I was at once the witness and the sharer. But I may say, of the
humbler mourners, that his faithful housekeeper was fairly heart-broken;
that the poor barber would not be comforted; and that I shall respect the
homely truth and warmth of heart of Mr. Weller and his son to the last
moment of my life.
‘And the sweet old creetur, sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller to me in the
afternoon, ‘has bolted. Him as had no wice, and was so free from temper
that a infant might ha’ drove him, has been took at last with that ’ere
unawoidable fit o’ staggers as we all must come to, and gone off his feed
for ever! I see him,’ said the old gentleman, with a moisture in his
eye, which could not be mistaken,—‘I see him gettin’, every journey, more
and more groggy; I says to Samivel, “My boy! the Grey’s a-goin’ at the
knees;” and now my predilictions is fatally werified, and him as I could
never do enough to serve or show my likin’ for, is up the great uniwersal
spout o’ natur’.’
I was not the less sensible of the old man’s attachment because he
expressed it in his peculiar manner. Indeed, I can truly assert of both
him and his son, that notwithstanding the extraordinary dialogues they
held together, and the strange commentaries and corrections with which
each of them illustrated the other’s speech, I do not think it possible
to exceed the sincerity of their regret; and that I am sure their
thoughtfulness and anxiety in anticipating the discharge of many little
offices of sympathy would have done honour to the most delicate-minded
persons.
Our friend had frequently told us that his will would be found in a box
in the Clock-case, the key of which was in his writing-desk. As he had
told us also that he desired it to be opened immediately after his death,
whenever that should happen, we met together that night for the
fulfilment of his request.
We found it where he had told us, wrapped in a sealed paper, and with it
a codicil of recent date, in which he named Mr. Miles and Mr. Pickwick
his executors,—as having no need of any greater benefit from his estate
than a generous token (which he bequeathed to them) of his friendship and
remembrance.
After pointing out the spot in which he wished his ashes to repose, he
gave to ‘his dear old friends,’ Jack Redburn and myself, his house, his
books, his furniture,—in short, all that his house contained; and with
this legacy more ample means of maintaining it in its present state than
we, with our habits and at our terms of life, can ever exhaust. Besides
these gifts, he left to us, in trust, an annual sum of no insignificant
amount, to be distributed in charity among his accustomed pensioners—they
are a long list—and such other claimants on his bounty as might, from
time to time, present themselves. And as true charity not only covers a
multitude of sins, but includes a multitude of virtues, such as
forgiveness, liberal construction, gentleness and mercy to the faults of
others, and the remembrance of our own imperfections and advantages, he
bade us not inquire too closely into the venial errors of the poor, but
finding that they _were_ poor, first to relieve and then endeavour—at an
advantage—to reclaim them.
To the housekeeper he left an annuity, sufficient for her comfortable
maintenance and support through life. For the barber, who had attended
him many years, he made a similar provision. And I may make two remarks
in this place: first, that I think this pair are very likely to club
their means together and make a match of it; and secondly, that I think
my friend had this result in his mind, for I have heard him say, more
than once, that he could not concur with the generality of mankind in
censuring equal marriages made in later life, since there were many cases
in which such unions could not fail to be a wise and rational source of
happiness to both parties.
The elder Mr. Weller is so far from viewing this prospect with any
feelings of jealousy, that he appears to be very much relieved by its
contemplation; and his son, if I am not mistaken, participates in this
feeling. We are all of opinion, however, that the old gentleman’s
danger, even at its crisis, was very slight, and that he merely laboured
under one of those transitory weaknesses to which persons of his
temperament are now and then liable, and which become less and less
alarming at every return, until they wholly subside. I have no doubt he
will remain a jolly old widower for the rest of his life, as he has
already inquired of me, with much gravity, whether a writ of habeas
corpus would enable him to settle his property upon Tony beyond the
possibility of recall; and has, in my presence, conjured his son, with
tears in his eyes, that in the event of his ever becoming amorous again,
he will put him in a strait-waistcoat until the fit is past, and
distinctly inform the lady that his property is ‘made over.’
Although I have very little doubt that Sam would dutifully comply with
these injunctions in a case of extreme necessity, and that he would do so
with perfect composure and coolness, I do not apprehend things will ever
come to that pass, as the old gentleman seems perfectly happy in the
society of his son, his pretty daughter-in-law, and his grandchildren,
and has solemnly announced his determination to ‘take arter the old ’un
in all respects;’ from which I infer that it is his intention to regulate
his conduct by the model of Mr. Pickwick, who will certainly set him the
example of a single life.
I have diverged for a moment from the subject with which I set out, for I
know that my friend was interested in these little matters, and I have a
natural tendency to linger upon any topic that occupied his thoughts or
gave him pleasure and amusement. His remaining wishes are very briefly
told. He desired that we would make him the frequent subject of our
conversation; at the same time, that we would never speak of him with an
air of gloom or restraint, but frankly, and as one whom we still loved
and hoped to meet again. He trusted that the old house would wear no
aspect of mourning, but that it would be lively and cheerful; and that we
would not remove or cover up his picture, which hangs in our dining-room,
but make it our companion as he had been. His own room, our place of
meeting, remains, at his desire, in its accustomed state; our seats are
placed about the table as of old; his easy-chair, his desk, his crutch,
his footstool, hold their accustomed places, and the clock stands in its
familiar corner. We go into the chamber at stated times to see that all
is as it should be, and to take care that the light and air are not shut
out, for on that point he expressed a strong solicitude. But it was his
fancy that the apartment should not be inhabited; that it should be
religiously preserved in this condition, and that the voice of his old
companion should be heard no more.
My own history may be summed up in very few words; and even those I
should have spared the reader but for my friend’s allusion to me some
time since. I have no deeper sorrow than the loss of a child,—an only
daughter, who is living, and who fled from her father’s house but a few
weeks before our friend and I first met. I had never spoken of this even
to him, because I have always loved her, and I could not bear to tell him
of her error until I could tell him also of her sorrow and regret.
Happily I was enabled to do so some time ago. And it will not be long,
with Heaven’s leave, before she is restored to me; before I find in her
and her husband the support of my declining years.
For my pipe, it is an old relic of home, a thing of no great worth, a
poor trifle, but sacred to me for her sake.
Thus, since the death of our venerable friend, Jack Redburn and I have
been the sole tenants of the old house; and, day by day, have lounged
together in his favourite walks. Mindful of his injunctions, we have
long been able to speak of him with ease and cheerfulness, and to
remember him as he would be remembered. From certain allusions which
Jack has dropped, to his having been deserted and cast off in early life,
I am inclined to believe that some passages of his youth may possibly be
shadowed out in the history of Mr. Chester and his son, but seeing that
he avoids the subject, I have not pursued it.
[Picture: The Deserted Chamber]
My task is done. The chamber in which we have whiled away so many hours,
not, I hope, without some pleasure and some profit, is deserted; our
happy hour of meeting strikes no more; the chimney-corner has grown cold;
and MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK has stopped for ever.