CHAPTER XXI
_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 andappearance concluded the last chapter, "Aha! who was talking about theInns?"
"I was, sir," replied Mr. Pickwick; "I was observing what singular oldplaces they are."
"_You!_" said the old man, contemptuously, "What do _you_ know of thetime when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and readand read, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reasonwandered beneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers wereexhausted; till morning's light brought no freshness or health tothem; and they sank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthfulenergies to their dry old books? Coming down to a later time, and avery different day, what do _you_ know of the gradual sinking beneathconsumption, or the quick wasting of fever--the grand results of 'life'and dissipation--which men have undergone in these same rooms? How manyvain pleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heart-sick fromthe lawyer's office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refugein the gaol? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panelin the old wainscoting, but what, if it were endowed with the powersof speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale ofhorror--the romance of life, sir, the romance of life! Commonplace asthey may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I wouldrather hear many a legend with a terrific sounding name, than the truehistory of one old set of chambers."
There was something so odd in the old man's sudden energy, and thesubject which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared withno observation in reply; and the old man, checking his impetuosity,and resuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previousexcitement, said:
"Look at them in another light: their most commonplace and leastromantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needyman 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--thepoverty--the blight on his hopes, and end to his career--the suicideperhaps, 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 havingfound another point of view in which to place his favourite subject.
Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainderof 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 ofapoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell with his headin his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Everybodythought 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'tpaid any rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a verydusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fellforward 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, andrubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.
"I know another case," said the little old man, when his chuckles hadin some degree subsided. "It occurred in Clifford's Inn. Tenant of atop set--bad character--shut himself up in his bed-room closet, andtook a dose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away; openedthe door, and put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers,furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn'tsleep--always restless and uncomfortable. 'Odd,' says he. 'I'll makethe other room my bed-chamber, and this my sitting-room.' He made thechange, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow,he couldn't read in the evening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, andused to be always snuffing his candles and staring about him. 'I can'tmake this out,' said he, when he came home from the play one night, andwas drinking a glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in orderthat he mightn't be able to fancy there was any one behind him--'Ican't make it out,' said he; and just then his eyes rested on thelittle closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder ran throughhis whole frame from top to toe. 'I have felt this strange feelingbefore,' said he, 'I cannot help thinking there's something wrong aboutthat closet.' He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shiveredthe 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 facesof 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 adiabolical 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, thathad been shut up and empty for years and years before. There were lotsof old women's stories about the place, and it certainly was very farfrom 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 theyhad been ten times worse than they really were. He was obliged totake some mouldering fixtures that were on the place, and, among therest, was a great lumbering wooden press for papers, with large glassdoors, 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 carriedthem about with him, and that wasn't very hard work, either. Well, hehad moved in all his furniture--it wasn't quite a truck-full--and hadsprinkled it about the room, so as to make the four chairs look asmuch like a dozen as possible, and was sitting down before the fireat night drinking the first glass of two gallons of whisky he hadordered on credit, wondering whether it would ever be paid for, andif so, in how many years' time, when his eyes encountered the glassdoors of the wooden press. 'Ah,' says he, 'if I hadn't been obligedto take that ugly article at the old broker's valuation, I might havegot something comfortable for the money. I'll tell you what it is, oldfellow,' he said, speaking aloud to the press, having nothing else tospeak to: 'If it wouldn't cost more to break up your old carcase, thanit would ever be worth afterwards, I'd have a fire out of you in lessthan no time.' He had hardly spoken the words, when a sound resemblinga faint groan, appeared to issue from the interior of the case. Itstartled him at first, but thinking, on a moment's reflection, thatit must be some young fellow in the next chamber, who had been diningout, he put his feet on the fender, and raised the poker to stir thefire. At that moment, the sound was repeated; and one of the glassdoors slowly opening, disclosed a pale and emaciated figure in soiledand worn apparel, standing erect in the press. The figure was talland thin, and the countenance expressive of care and anxiety; butthere was something in the hue of the skin, and gaunt and unearthlyappearance of the whole form, which no being of this world was everseen to wear. 'Who are you?' said the new tenant, turning very pale:poising the poker in his hand, however, and taking a very decent aimat the countenance of the figure. 'Who are you?' 'Don't throw thatpoker at me,' replied the form; 'if you hurled it with ever so surean aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expend itsforce on the wood behind. I
am a spirit.' 'And, pray, what do you wanthere?' faltered the tenant. 'In this room,' replied the apparition, 'myworldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. In this press,the papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, weredeposited. In this room, when I had died of grief and long deferredhope, two wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contestedduring a wretched existence, and of which, at last, not one farthingwas left for my unhappy descendants. I terrified them from the spot,and since that day have prowled by night--the only period at which Ican revisit the earth--about the scenes of my long-protracted misery.This apartment is mine: leave it to me.' 'If you insist upon makingyour appearance here,' said the tenant, who had had time to collect hispresence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost's, 'I shallgive up possession with the greatest pleasure; but I should like to askyou one question, if you will allow me.' 'Say on,' said the apparition,sternly. 'Well,' said the tenant, 'I don't apply the observationpersonally to you, because it is equally applicable to most of theghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to me somewhat inconsistent,that when you have an opportunity of visiting the fairest spots ofearth--for I suppose space is nothing to you--you should always returnexactly to the very places where you have been most miserable.' 'Egad,that's very true; I never thought of that before,' said the ghost. 'Yousee, sir,' pursued the tenant, 'this is a very uncomfortable room.From the appearance of that press, I should be disposed to say that itis not wholly free from bugs; and I really think you might find muchmore comfortable quarters: to say nothing of the climate of London,which is extremely disagreeable.' 'You are very right, sir,' said theghost, politely, 'it never struck me till now; I'll try change of airdirectly.' In fact, he began to vanish as he spoke: his legs, indeed,had quite disappeared. 'And if, sir,' said the tenant, calling afterhim, 'if you _would_ have the goodness to suggest to the other ladiesand gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting old empty houses, thatthey might be much more comfortable elsewhere, you will confer a verygreat benefit on society.' 'I will,' replied the ghost; 'we must bedull fellows, very dull fellows, indeed; I can't imagine how we canhave been so stupid.' With these words, the spirit disappeared; andwhat is rather remarkable," added the old man, with a shrewd look roundthe 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. "Isuppose," he added, turning to Lowten, "he'll say next, that my storyabout the queer client we had, when I was in an attorney's office, isnot true, either--I shouldn't wonder."
"I shan't venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that I neverheard 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 nearlyforgotten 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 asif 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 thisbrief history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reachedme, I should commence in the middle, and when I had arrived at theconclusion, go back for a beginning. It is enough for me to say thatsome of the circumstances passed before my own eyes. For the remainderI 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 sameside of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of ourdebtors' prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has beena very different place from the sink of filth and dirt it once was,even its improved condition holds out but little temptation to theextravagant, or consolation to the improvident. The condemned felon hasas good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the insolvent debtorin 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 fromthe old recollections associated with it, but this part of London Icannot bear. The street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise ofpassing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people--allthe busy sounds of traffic, resound in it from morn to midnight, butthe streets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery liefestering in the crowded alleys; want and misfortune are pent up inthe narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my eyesat least, to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid andsickly hue.
"Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the grave, have lookedround upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the oldMarshalsea Prison for the first time: for despair seldom comes withthe first severe shock of misfortune. A man has confidence in untriedfriends, he remembers the many offers of service so freely made byhis boon companions when he wanted them not; he has hope--the hope ofhappy 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. Howsoon have those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared fromfaces wasted with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when itwas no figure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with nohope of release, and no prospect of liberty! The atrocity in its fullextent no longer exists, but there is enough of it left to give rise tooccurrences that make the heart bleed.
"Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footsteps of amother and child, who, day by day, so surely as the morning came,presented themselves at the prison gate; often after a night ofrestless misery and anxious thoughts, were they there, a full hourtoo soon, and then the young mother, turning meekly away, would leadthe child to the old bridge, and raising him in her arms to show himthe glistening water, tinted with the light of the morning's sun, andstirring with all the bustling preparations for business and pleasurethat the river presented at that early hour, endeavour to interest histhoughts 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 blindedher; for no expression of interest or amusement lighted up his thinand sickly face. His recollections were few enough, but they were allof 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 childishsympathy watched the tears that stole down her face, and then creptquietly away into some dark corner, and sobbed himself to sleep. Thehard realities of the world, with many of its worst privations--hungerand thirst, and cold and want--had all come home to him, from the firstdawnings of reason; and though the form of childhood was there, itslight 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 activeexertion, was wasting beneath the close confinement and unhealthyatmosphere of a crowded prison. The slight and delicate woman wassinking beneath the combined effects of bodily and mental illness. Thechild's young heart was breaking.
"Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girlhad removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband'simprisonment; and though the change had been rendered necessary bytheir increasing poverty, she was happier now, for she was nearer him.For two months, she and her little companion watched the opening of thegate as usual. One day she failed to come, for the first time. Anothermorning arrived, and she came alone. The child was dead.
"They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man's bereavements, asa happy release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief fromexpense to the survivor--they little know, I say, what the agony ofthose bereavements
is. A silent look of affection and regard when allother eyes are turned coldly away--the consciousness that we possessthe sympathy and affection of one being when all others have desertedus--is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, whichno wealth could purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat at hisparents' feet for hours together, with his little hands patientlyfolded in each other, and his thin wan face raised towards them. Theyhad seen him pine away, from day to day; and though his brief existencehad been a joyless one, and he was now removed to that peace and restwhich, child as he was, he had never known in this world, they were hisparents, 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. Herhusband's fellow-prisoners shrunk from obtruding on his grief andmisery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had previouslyoccupied in common with two companions. She shared it with him: andlingering on without pain, but without hope, her life ebbed slowly away.
"She had fainted one evening in her husband's arms, and he had borneher to the open window, to revive her with the air, when the lightof the moon falling full upon her face, showed him a change upon herfeatures, which made him stagger beneath her weight, like a helplessinfant.
"'Set me down, George,' she said, faintly. He did so, and seatinghimself beside her, covered his face with his hands, and burst intotears.
"'It is very hard to leave you, George,' she said, 'but it is God'swill, and you must bear it for my sake. Oh! how I thank Him for havingtaken our boy! He is happy, and in Heaven now. What would he have donehere, 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 hisclenched fists; then reseating himself beside her, and supporting herin 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 themlay me by my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leavethis dreadful place, and should grow rich, you will have us removedto some quiet country churchyard, a long, long way off--very far fromhere--where we can rest in peace. Dear George, promise me you will.'
"'I do, I do,' said the man, throwing himself passionately on his kneesbefore her. 'Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look--but one!'
"He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck grew stiff andheavy. A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him; the lipsmoved and a smile played upon the face; but the lips were pallid, andthe smile faded into a rigid and ghastly stare. He was alone in theworld.
"That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, thewretched man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on Godto witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himselfto revenge her death and that of his child; that thenceforth, to thelast moment of his life, his whole energies should be directed to thisone object; that his revenge should be protracted and terrible; thathis hatred should be undying and inextinguishable; and should hunt itsobject through the world.
"The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierceravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions inmisfortune shrunk affrighted from him as he passed by. His eyes werebloodshot and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent as ifwith age. He had bitten his under lip nearly through in the violenceof his mental suffering, and the blood which had flowed from the woundhad trickled down his chin, and stained his shirt and neckerchief. Notear or sound of complaint escaped him: but the unsettled look, anddisordered haste with which he paced up and down the yard, denoted thefever which was burning within.
"It was necessary that his wife's body should be removed from theprison, without delay. He received the communication with perfectcalmness, and acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates ofthe prison had assembled to witness its removal; they fell back oneither side when the widower appeared; he walked hurriedly forward,and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close to thelodge gate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling ofdelicacy, had retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly forward onmen's shoulders. A dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only bythe audible lamentations of the women, and the shuffling steps of thebearers on the stone pavement. They reached the spot where the bereavedhusband stood: and stopped. He laid his hand upon the coffin, andmechanically adjusting the pall with which it was covered, motionedthem onward. The turnkeys in the prison lobby took off their hats as itpassed 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 hisloss, nor the recollection of the vow he had made, ever left him fora moment. Scenes changed before his eyes, place succeeded place, andevent followed event, in all the hurry of delirium; but they were allconnected in some way with the great object of his mind. He was sailingover a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and theangry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiled and eddied up, on everyside. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring inthe howling storm: her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, andher deck thronged with figures who were lashed to the sides, over whichhuge waves every instant burst, sweeping away some devoted creaturesinto the foaming sea. Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass ofwater, with a speed and force which nothing could resist; and strikingthe stern of the foremost vessel, crushed her beneath their keel. Fromthe huge whirlpool which the sinking wreck occasioned, arose a shriekso 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 theelements, and echoed and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air, skyand ocean. But what was that--that old grey-head that rose above thewater's surface, and with looks of agony, and screams for aid, buffetedwith the waves! One look, and he had sprung from the vessel's side, andwith vigorous strokes was swimming towards it. He reached it; he wasclose upon it. They were _his_ features. The old man saw him coming,and vainly strove to elude his grasp. But he clasped him tight, anddragged him beneath the water. Down, down with him, fifty fathoms down;his struggles grew fainter and fainter, until they wholly ceased. Hewas dead; he had killed him, and had kept his oath.
"He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot andalone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thin grains enteredthe very pores of his skin, and irritated him almost to madness.Gigantic masses of the same material, carried forward by the wind, andshone through by the burning sun, stalked in the distance like pillarsof 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 horrorpresented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, withhis tongue cleaving to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed withsupernatural strength, he waded through the sand, until exhausted withfatigue and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrantcoolness revived him; what gushing sound was that? Water! It was indeeda well; and the clear fresh stream was running at his feet. He drankdeeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sunk intoa delicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. Anold grey-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. Itwas _he_ again! He wound his arms round the old man's body and heldhim back. He struggled, and shrieked for water, for but one drop ofwater to save his life! But he held the old man firmly, and watched hisagonies with greedy eyes; and when his lifeless head fell forward onhis bosom, he rolled the corpse from him with his feet.
"When the fever had left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke tofind himself rich and free: to hear that the parent who would have lethim die in gaol--_would!_ who _had_ let those who were far dearer tohim than his own existence, die of want and sickness of
heart thatmedicine cannot cure--had been found dead on his bed of down. He hadhad all the heart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even of hishealth and strength, had put off the act till it was too late, and nowmight gnash his teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealthhis 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 hisenemy 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 thatprevented 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 ofrecovering his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever;but to restore his prostrate energies, and meditate on his darlingobject. And here, some evil spirit cast in his way the opportunity forhis first most horrible revenge.
"It was summer time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he wouldissue from his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wanderingalong a narrow path beneath the cliffs, to a wild and lonely spot thathad struck his fancy in his ramblings, seat himself on some fallenfragment of the rock, and burying his face in his hands, remain therefor hours--sometimes until night had completely closed in, and thelong shadows of the frowning cliffs above his head, cast a thick blackdarkness on every object near him.
"He was seated here one calm evening, in his old position, now and thenraising his head to watch the flight of a sea-gull, or carry his eyealong the glorious crimson path, which, commencing in the middle of theocean, seemed to lead to its very verge where the sun was setting, whenthe profound stillness of the spot was broken by a loud cry for help;he listened, doubtful of his having heard aright, when the cry wasrepeated with even greater vehemence than before, and starting to hisfeet, he hastened in the direction whence it proceeded.
"The tale told itself at once: some scattered garments lay on thebeach; a human head was just visible above the waves at a littledistance from the shore; and an old man, wringing his hands in agony,was running to and fro, shrieking for assistance. The invalid, whosestrength was now sufficiently restored, threw off his coat, and rushedtowards the sea, with the intention of plunging in, and dragging thedrowning man ashore.
"'Hasten here, sir, in God's name! help, help, sir, for the love ofHeaven! 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 beforehis father's eyes!'
"At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checked himself inhis 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 thespot 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, andclasping his hands together. 'Be revenged; take my all, my life; castme into the water at your feet, and, if human nature can repress astruggle, I will die, without stirring hand or foot. Do it, Heyling, doit, but save my boy, he is so young, Heyling, so young to die!'
"'Listen,' said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely by thewrist: '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 thanthat young slanderer of his sister's worth is meeting while I speak.You laughed--laughed in your daughter's face, where death had alreadyset his hand--at our sufferings, then. What think you of them now? Seethere, see there!'
"As the stranger spoke he pointed to the sea. A faint cry died awayupon its surface: the last powerful struggle of the dying man agitatedthe rippling waves for a few seconds: and the spot where he had gonedown into his early grave, was undistinguishable from the surroundingwater.
* * * * *
"Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from a privatecarriage at the door of a London attorney, then well known as a man ofno great nicety in his professional dealings: and requested a privateinterview on business of importance. Although evidently not past theprime of life, his face was pale, haggard, and dejected; and it did notrequire the acute perception of the man of business, to discern at aglance, that disease or suffering had done more to work a change in hisappearance, than the mere hand of time could have accomplished in twicethe period of his whole life.
"'I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,' said thestranger.
"The attorney bowed obsequiously, and glanced at a large packet whichthe gentleman carried in his hand. His visitor observed the look, andproceeded.
"'It is no common business,' said he; 'nor have these papers reached myhands without long trouble and great expense.'
"The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet; and hisvisitor, untying the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity ofpromissory 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 whosehands they originally went--and from whom I have by degrees purchasedthe whole, for treble and quadruple their nominal value--that theseloans should be from time to time renewed, until a given period hadelapsed. Such an understanding is nowhere expressed. He has sustainedmany losses of late; and these obligations accumulating upon him atonce, 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 ofthe law in force, every trick that ingenuity can devise and rascalityexecute; fair means and foul; the open oppression of the law, aided byall the craft of its most ingenious practitioners. I would have him diea harassing and lingering death. Ruin him, seize and sell his lands andgoods, drive him from house and home, and drag him forth a beggar inhis old age, to die in a common gaol.'
"'But the costs, my dear sir, the costs of all this,' reasoned theattorney, when he had recovered from his momentary surprise. 'If thedefendant be a man of straw, who is to pay the costs, sir?'
"'Name any sum,' said the stranger, his hand trembling so violentlywith excitement, that he could scarcely hold the pen he seized as hespoke; 'any sum, and it is yours. Don't be afraid to name it, man. Ishall not think it dear, if you gain my object.'
"The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance he shouldrequire to secure himself against the possibility of loss; but morewith the view of ascertaining how far his client was really disposedto go, than with any idea that he would comply with the demand. Thestranger wrote a cheque upon his banker, for the whole amount, and lefthim.
"The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that hisstrange client might be safely relied upon, commenced his work inearnest. For more than two years afterwards, Mr. Heyling would sitwhole days together, in the office, poring over the papers as theyaccumulated, and reading again and again, his eyes gleaming with joy,the letters of remonstrance, the prayers for a little delay, therepresentations of the certain ruin in which the opposite party mustbe involved, which poured in, as suit after suit, and process afterprocess, 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 numerousexecutions which were issued; and the old man himself would have beenimmured in prison had he not escaped the vigilance of the officers, andfled.
> "The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiated bythe success of his persecution, increased a hundredfold with the ruinhe inflicted. On being informed of the old man's flight, his fury wasunbounded. He gnashed his teeth with rage, tore the hair from his head,and assailed with horrid imprecations the men who had been entrustedwith the writ. He was only restored to comparative calmness by repeatedassurances of the certainty of discovering the fugitive. Agents weresent in quest of him, in all directions; every stratagem that could beinvented was resorted to, for the purpose of discovering his place ofretreat; but it was all in vain. Half a year had passed over, and hewas still undiscovered.
"At length, late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had been seen formany weeks before, appeared at his attorney's private residence, andsent up word that a gentleman wished to see him instantly. Before theattorney, who had recognised his voice from above stairs, could orderthe servant to admit him, he had rushed up the staircase, and enteredthe drawing-room pale and breathless. Having closed the door, toprevent 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,' saidHeyling. 'Perhaps it is as well we _did_ lose sight of him, for he hasbeen living alone there, in the most abject misery, all the time, andhe is poor--very poor.'
"'Very good,' said the attorney. 'You will have the caption madeto-morrow, of course?'
"'Yes,' replied Heyling. 'Stay! No! The next day. You are surprised atmy wishing to postpone it,' he added, with a ghastly smile; 'but I hadforgotten. The next day is an anniversary in his life: let it be donethen.'
"'Very good,' said the attorney. 'Will you write down instructions forthe officer?'
"'No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I willaccompany him, myself.'
"They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney coach, directedthe driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road, at whichstands the parish workhouse. By the time they alighted there, it wasquite dark; and, proceeding by the dead wall in front of the VeterinaryHospital, they entered a small by-street, which is, or was at thattime, called Little College Street, and which, whatever it may be now,was in those days a desolate place enough, surrounded by little elsethan fields and ditches.
"Having drawn the travelling cap he had on half over his face,and muffled himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before themeanest-looking house in the street, and knocked gently at the door. Itwas opened at once by a woman, who dropped a curtsey of recognition,and Heyling, whispering the officer to remain below, crept gentlyup-stairs, and, opening the door of the front room, entered at once.
"The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepidold man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood a miserablecandle. He started on the entrance of the stranger, and rose feebly tohis 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 himselfat 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 fellbackward in his chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on theapparition with a mingled look of abhorrence and fear.
"'This day six years,' said Heyling, 'I claimed the life you owed mefor my child's. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, old man, Iswore to live a life of revenge. I have never swerved from my purposefor 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 ourinnocent child, would have nerved me to my task. My first act ofrequital 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--ahopeless prison----'
"He raised his eyes to the old man's countenance, and paused. He liftedthe 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 heopened the door, and motioned the officer to follow him into thestreet. 'I think he is ill.' The woman closed the door, ran hastilyupstairs, and found him lifeless.
* * * * *
"Beneath a plain grave-stone, in one of the most peaceful and secludedchurchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and thesoft landscape around forms the fairest spot in the garden of England,lie the bones of the young mother and her gentle child. But the ashesof the father do not mingle with theirs; nor, from that night forward,did the attorney ever gain the remotest clue to the subsequent historyof 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 gentlemanwith the Mosaic studs had fallen asleep, and the major part of thecompany were deeply occupied in the humorous process of droppingmelted tallow-grease into his brandy and water, Mr. Pickwick departedunnoticed, and having settled his own score, and that of Mr. Weller,issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath the portalof the Magpie and Stump.
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2) Page 23