CHAPTER XVI
_Treats of divers little Matters which occurred in the Fleet, and of Mr. Winkle's Mysterious Behaviour; and shows how the poor Chancery Prisoner obtained his Release at last_
Mr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth ofSam's attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger ordispleasure at the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarilyconsigning himself to a debtor's prison, for an indefinite period.The only point on which he persevered in demanding any explanation,was, the name of Sam's detaining creditor; but this Mr. Weller asperseveringly withheld.
"It ain't o' no use, sir," said Sam, again and again. "He's ama-licious, bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur,with a hard heart as there ain't no soft'nin'. As the wirtuousclergyman remarked of the old gen'l'm'n with the dropsy, ven he saidthat upon the whole he thought he'd rayther leave his property to hisvife than build a chapel vith it."
"But consider, Sam," Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, "the sum is so smallthat it can very easily be paid; and having made up my mind that youshall stop with me, you should recollect how much more useful you wouldbe, if you could go outside the walls."
"Wery much obliged to you, sir," replied Mr. Weller gravely; "but I'drayther not."
"Rather not do what, Sam?"
"Wy, I'd rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o' this hereunremorseful enemy."
"But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam," reasoned Mr.Pickwick.
"Beg your pardon, sir," rejoined Sam; "but it 'ud be a wery greatfavour to pay it, and he don't deserve none; that's where it is, sir."
Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr.Weller thought it prudent to change the theme of the discourse.
"I takes my determination on principle, sir," remarked Sam, "and youtakes yours on the same ground; vich puts me in mind o' the man askilled his-self on principle, vich o' course you've heerd on, sir." Mr.Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and cast a comical look athis master out of the corners of his eyes.
"There is no 'of course' in the case, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick,gradually breaking into a smile in spite of the uneasiness which Sam'sobstinacy had given him. "The fame of the gentleman in question neverreached my ears."
"No, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Weller. "You astonish me, sir; he wos a clerkin a Gov'ment office, sir."
"Was he?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Yes, he wos, sir," rejoined Mr. Weller; "and a wery pleasant gen'l'm'ntoo--one o' the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in littleindia-rubber fire-buckets ven it's vet weather, and never has no otherbosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle,wore a clean shirt ev'ry day on principle; never spoke to none of hisrelations on principle, 'fear they shou'd want to borrow money of him;and wos altogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. He hadhis hair cut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for hisclothes on the economic principle--three suits a year, and send backthe old uns. Being a wery reg'lar gen'l'm'n, he din'd ev'ry day atthe same place, were it wos one and nine to cut off the joint, and awery good one and nine's worth he used to cut, as the landlord oftensaid, with the tears a tricklin' down his face: let alone the way heused to poke the fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o'fourpence ha'penny a day: to say nothin' at all o' the aggrawationo' seein' him do it. So uncommon grand with it too! '_Post_ arterthe next gen'l'm'n,' he sings out ev'ry day ven he comes in. 'Seearter the _Times_, Thomas; let me look at the _Mornin' Herald_, wenit's out o' hand; don't forget to bespeak the _Chronicle_; and justbring the _'Tizer_, vill you?' and then he'd set vith his eyes fixedon the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of a minit afore the time,to waylay the boy as wos a comin' in with the evenin' paper, vichhe'd read with such intense interest and persewerance as worked theother customers up to the wery confines o' desperation and insanity,'specially one i-rascible old gen'l'm'n as the vaiter wos alwaysobliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, 'fear he should betempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell, sir,here he'd stop, occupyin' the best place for three hours, and nevertakin' nothin' arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he'd go away toa coffee-house a few streets off, and have a small pot of coffee andfour crumpets, arter wich he'd walk home to Kensington and go to bed.One night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in agreen fly, with a kind o' Robinson Crusoe set o' steps, as he could letdown ven he got out, and pull up arter him ven he got in, to perwentthe necessity o' the coachman's gettin' down, and thereby undeceivin'the public by lettin' em see that it wos only a livery coat as he'dgot on, and not the trousers to match. 'Wot's the matter?' said thedoctor. 'Wery ill,' says the patient. 'Wot have you been a eatin'on?' says the doctor. 'Roast weal,' says the patient. 'Wot's the lastthing you dewoured?' says the doctor. 'Crumpets,' says the patient.'That's it!' says the doctor. 'I'll send you a box of pills directly,and don't you never take no more of 'em,' he says. 'No more o' wot?'says the patient--'Pills?' 'No; crumpets,' says the doctor. 'Wy?' saysthe patient, starting up in bed; 'I've eat four crumpets ev'ry nightfor fifteen year, on principle.' 'Well then, you'd better leave 'emoff, on principle,' says the doctor. 'Crumpets is wholesome, sir,'says the patient. 'Crumpets is _not_ wholesome, sir,' says the doctor,wery fierce. 'But they're so cheap,' says the patient, comin' down alittle, 'and so wery fillin' at the price.' 'They'd be dear to you, atany price; dear if you wos paid to eat 'em,' says the doctor. 'Fourcrumpets a night,' he says, 'vill do your business in six months!'The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mindfor a long time, and at last he says, 'Are you sure o' that 'ere,sir?' 'I'll stake my professional reputation on it,' says the doctor.'How many crumpets, at a sittin', do you think, 'ud kill me off atonce?' says the patient. 'I don't know,' says the doctor. 'Do youthink half-a-crown's vurth 'ud do it?' says the patient. 'I think itmight,' says the doctor. 'Three shillin's vurth 'ud be sure to do it, Is'pose?' says the patient. 'Certainly,' says the doctor. 'Wery good,'says the patient; 'good night.' Next mornin' he gets up, has a firelit, orders in three shillin's vurth o' crumpets, toasts 'em all, eats'em all, and blows his brains out."
"What did he do that for?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, abruptly, for he wasconsiderably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.
"Wot did he do it for, sir?" reiterated Sam. "Vy, in support of hisgreat principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that hewouldn't be put out of his way for nobody!"
With such like shiftings and changings of the discourse, did Mr.Weller meet his master's questioning on the night of his taking up hisresidence in the Fleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr.Pickwick at length yielded a reluctant consent to his taking lodgingsby the week of a bald-headed cobbler, who rented a small slip-room inone of the upper galleries. To this humble apartment Mr. Weller moveda mattress and bedding which he hired of Mr. Roker; and by the time helay down upon it at night, was as much at home as if he had been bredin the prison, and his whole family had vegetated therein for threegenerations.
"Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?" inquired Mr.Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.
"Yes, I does, young bantam," replied the cobbler.
"Will you allow me to in-quire vy you make up your bed under that 'eredeal table?" said Sam.
"'Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and Ifind the legs of the table answer just as well," replied the cobbler.
"You're a character, sir," said Sam.
"I haven't got anything of the kind belonging to me," rejoined thecobbler, shaking his head; "and if you want to meet with a good one,I'm afraid you'll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at thisregister office."
The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on hismattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other;the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush candle, and thecobbler's pipe, which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal.The conversation
, brief as it was, predisposed Mr. Weller strongly inhis landlord's favour; and raising himself on his elbow he took a morelengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet had either time orinclination to make.
He was a sallow man--all cobblers are; and had a strong bristlybeard--all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered,crooked-featured piece of workmanship, ornamented with a couple of eyesthat must have worn a very joyous expression at one time, for theysparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, and Heaven knows how oldby imprisonment, so that his having any look approaching to mirth orcontentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, and being halfdoubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to havebeen without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and wassmoking, and staring at the rushlight, in a state of enviable placidity.
"Have you been here long?" inquired Sam, breaking the silence which hadlasted for some time.
"Twelve year," replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as hespoke.
"Contempt?" inquired Sam.
The cobbler nodded.
"Well then," said Sam, with some sternness, "wot do you persewere inbein' obstinit for, vastin' your precious life away, in this heremagnified pound? Vy don't you give in, and tell the Chancellorship thatyou're wery sorry for makin' his court contemptible, and you won't doso no more?"
The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled,and then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.
"Vy don't you?" said Sam, urging his question strenuously.
"Ah," said the cobbler, "you don't quite understand these matters. Whatdo you suppose ruined me, now?"
"Vy," said Sam, trimming the rushlight, "I s'pose the beginnin' wos,that you got into debt, eh?"
"Never owed a farden," said the cobbler; "try again."
"Well, perhaps," said Sam, "you bought houses, vich is delicate Englishfor goin' mad: or took to buildin', which is a medical term for bein'incurable."
The cobbler shook his had and said, "Try again."
"You didn't go to law, I hope?" said Sam, suspiciously.
"Never in my life," replied the cobbler. "The fact is, I was ruined byhaving money left me."
"Come, come," said Sam, "that von't do. I wish some rich enemy 'ud tryto vork _my_ destruction in that 'ere vay. I'd let him."
"Oh, I dare say you don't believe it," said the cobbler, quietlysmoking his pipe. "I wouldn't if I was you; but it's true for all that."
"How wos it?" inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already,by the look the cobbler gave him.
"Just this," replied the cobbler; "an old gentleman that I worked for,down in the country, and a humble relation of whose I married--she'sdead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!--was seized with a fit andwent off."
"Where?" inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous eventsof the day.
"How should I know where he went?" said the cobbler, speaking throughhis nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. "He went off dead."
"Oh, that indeed," said Sam. "Well?"
"Well," said the cobbler, "he left five thousand pound behind him."
"And wery gen-teel in him so to do," said Sam.
"One of which," continued the cobbler, "he left to me, 'cause I'dmarried his relation, you see."
"Wery good," murmured Sam.
"And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys, as wasalways a quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, hemakes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me: in trust, to divideit among 'em as the will prowided."
"Wot do you mean by leavin' it on trust?" inquired Sam, waking up alittle. "If it ain't ready money, where's the use on it?"
"It's a law term, that's all," said the cobbler.
"I don't think that," said Sam, shaking his head. "There's wery littletrust at that shop. Hows'ever, go on."
"Well," said the cobbler: "when I was going to take out a probate ofthe will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperately disappointed at notgetting all the money, enters a caveat against it."
"What's that?" inquired Sam.
"A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it's no go," repliedthe cobbler.
"I see," said Sam, "a sort of brother-in-law o' the have-his-carcase.Well?"
"But," continued the cobbler, "finding that they couldn't agree amongthemselves, and consequently couldn't get up a case against the will,they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I'd hardly doneit, when one nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The casecomes on some months afterwards afore a deaf old gentleman, in a backroom somewhere down by St. Paul's Churchyard; and arter four counselshad taken a day apiece to bother him regularly, he takes a week or twoto consider, and read the evidence in six vollums, and then gives hisjudgment that how the testator was not quite right in his head, andI must pay all the money back again, and all the costs. I appealed;the case came on before three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who hadheard it all before in the other court, where they're lawyers withoutwork; the only difference being, that there they're called doctors,and in the other places delegates, if you understand that; and theyvery dutifully confirmed the decision of the old gentleman below.After that, we went into Chancery, where we are still, and where Ishall always be. My lawyers have had all my thousand pound long ago;and what between the estate, as they call it, and the costs, I'm herefor ten thousand, and shall stop here, till I die, mending shoes. Somegentlemen have talked of bringing it before parliament, and I dare saywould have done it, only they hadn't time to come to me, and I hadn'tpower to go to them, and they got tired of my long letters, and droppedthe business. And this is God's truth, without one word of suppressionor exaggeration, as fifty people, both in this place and out of it,very well know."
The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced onSam; but finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out ofhis pipe, sighed, put it down, drew the bedclothes over his head, andwent to sleep too.
Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam beingbusily engaged in the cobbler's room, polishing his master's shoes andbrushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which,before Mr. Pickwick could cry "Come in!" was followed by the appearanceof a head of hair and a cotton-velvet cap, both of which articles ofdress he had no difficulty in recognising as the personal property ofMr. Smangle.
"How are you?" said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with ascore or two of nods; "I say--do you expect anybody this morning?Three men--devilish gentlemanly fellows--have been asking after youdown-stairs, and knocking at every door on the Hall flight; for whichthey've been most infernally blown up by the collegians that had thetrouble of opening 'em."
"Dear me! How very foolish of them," said Mr. Pickwick, rising. "Yes;I have no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to seeyesterday."
"Friends of yours!" exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by thehand. "Say no more. Curse me, they're friends of mine from this minute,and friends of Mivins's too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly dog,Mivins, isn't he?" said Smangle, with great feeling.
"I know so little of the gentleman," said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating,"that I----"
"I know you do," interposed Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by theshoulder. "You shall know him better. You'll be delighted with him.That man, sir," said Smangle, with a solemn countenance, "has comicpowers that would do honour to Drury Lane Theatre."
"Has he indeed?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah, by Jove he has!" replied Smangle. "Hear him come the four cats inthe wheelbarrow--four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Nowyou know that's infernal clever! Damme, you can't help liking a man,when you see these traits about him. He's only one fault--that littlefailing I mentioned to you, you know."
As Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathisingmanner at this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to saysomething, so he said "Ah!" and looked restlessly at the door.
"Ah!" echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. "He's delightfulcompany, that man is, sir. I don't know better company anywhere; buthe has that one drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, sir, wasto rise before him this minute, he'd ask him for the loan of hisacceptance on an eighteenpenny stamp."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"Yes," added Mr. Smangle; "and if he'd the power of raising him again,he would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew thebill!"
"Those are very remarkable traits," said Mr. Pickwick; "but I'm afraidthat while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of greatperplexity at not finding me."
"I'll show 'em the way," said Smangle, making for the door. "Good day.I won't disturb you while they're here, you know. By-the-bye----"
As Mr. Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly,re-closed the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr.Pickwick, stepped close up to him on tip-toe, and said in a very softwhisper:
"You couldn't make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown till thelatter end of next week, could you?"
Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing to preservehis gravity, he drew forth the coin, and placed it in Mr. Smangle'spalm; upon which that gentleman, with many nods and winks, implyingprofound mystery, disappeared in quest of the three strangers, withwhom he presently returned; and having coughed thrice, and nodded asmany times, as an assurance to Mr. Pickwick that he would not forgetto pay, he shook hands all round, in an engaging manner, and at lengthtook himself off.
"My dear friends," said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternately withMr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were the three visitorsin question, "I am delighted to see you."
The triumvirate were much affected. Mr. Tupman shook his headdeploringly; Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handkerchief with undisguisedemotion; and Mr. Winkle retired to the window, and sniffed aloud.
"Mornin', gen'l'm'n," said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoesand gaiters. "Avay with melincholly, as the little boy said ven hisschool-missis died. Velcome to the College, gen'l'm'n."
"This foolish fellow," said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on the head as heknelt down to button up his master's gaiters: "this foolish fellow hasgot himself arrested in order to be near me."
"What!" exclaimed the three friends.
"Yes, gen'l'm'n," said Sam, "I'm a--stand steady, sir, if youplease--I'm a pris'ner, gen'l'm'n. Con-fined, as the lady said."
"A prisoner!" exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence.
"Hallo, sir!" responded Sam, looking up. "Wot's the matter, sir?"
"I had hoped, Sam, that--nothing, nothing," said Mr. Winkleprecipitately.
There was something so very abrupt and unsettled in Mr. Winkle'smanner, that Mr. Pickwick involuntarily looked at his two friends foran explanation.
"We don't know," said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appeal aloud."He has been much excited for two days past and his whole demeanourvery unlike what it usually is. We feared there must be something thematter, but he resolutely denies it."
"No, no," said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick's gaze;"there is really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir.It will be necessary for me to leave town, for a short time, on privatebusiness, and I had hoped to have prevailed upon you to allow Sam toaccompany me."
Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.
"I think," faltered Mr. Winkle, "that Sam would have had no objectionto do so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders itimpossible. So I must go alone."
As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with someastonishment, that Sam's fingers were trembling at the gaiters as if hewere rather surprised or startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too,when he had finished speaking; and though the glance they exchanged wasinstantaneous, they seemed to understand each other.
"Do you know anything of this, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick sharply.
"No, I don't, sir," replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button withextraordinary assiduity.
"Are you sure, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Vy, sir," responded Mr. Weller; "I'm sure so far, that I've neverheerd anythin' on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guessabout it," added Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, "I haven't got any rightto say what it is, 'fear it should be a wrong 'un."
"I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairsof a friend, however intimate a friend," said Mr. Pickwick, after ashort silence; "at present let me merely say that I do not understandthis at all. There. We have had quite enough of the subject."
Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to differenttopics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though stillvery far from being completely so. They had all so much to converseabout, that the morning very quickly passed away; and when, at threeo'clock, Mr. Weller produced upon the little dining-table a roast legof mutton and an enormous meat pie, with sundry dishes of vegetables,and pots of porter, which stood upon the chairs or the sofa-bedstead,or where they could, everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal,notwithstanding that the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and thepie made, and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.
To these succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for which amessenger was despatched by Mr. Pickwick to the Horn Coffee-house inDoctors' Commons. The bottle or two, indeed, might be more properlydescribed as a bottle or six, for by the time it was drunk and teaover, the bell began to ring for strangers to withdraw.
But if Mr. Winkle's behaviour had been unaccountable in the morning, itbecame perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the influence of hisfeelings and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared to take leaveof his friend. He lingered behind, until Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrasshad disappeared, and then fervently clenched Mr. Pickwick's hand, withan expression of face in which deep and mighty resolve was fearfullyblended with the very concentrated essence of gloom.
"Good night, my dear sir!" said Mr. Winkle between his set teeth.
"Bless you, my dear fellow!" replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, ashe returned the pressure of his young friend's hand.
"Now then!" cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.
"Yes, yes, directly," replied Mr. Winkle. "Good night!"
"Good night," said Mr. Pickwick.
There was another good night, and another, and half-a-dozen more afterthat, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend's hand, and waslooking into his face with the same strange expression.
"_Is_ anything the matter?" said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm wasquite sore with shaking.
"Nothing," said Mr. Winkle.
"Well then, good night," said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage hishand.
"My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion," murmured Mr. Winkle,catching at his wrist. "Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hearthat, driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I----"
"Now then," said Mr. Tupman, reappearing at the door. "Are you coming,or are we to be locked in?"
"Yes, yes, I am ready," replied Mr. Winkle. And with a violent efforthe tore himself away.
As Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them in silentastonishment, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, and whispered forone moment in Mr. Winkle's ear.
"Oh, certainly, depend upon me," said that gentleman aloud.
"Thankee, sir. You won't forget, sir?" said Sam.
"Of course not," replied Mr. Winkle.
"Wish you luck, sir," said Sam, touching his hat. "I should very muchliked to ha' joined you, sir; but the gov'nor o' course is pairamount."
"It is very much to your credit that you remain here," said Mr. Winkle.With these words they disappeared down-stairs.
"Very extraordinary," said Mr. Pickwick, going back into his room, andseating himself at the table in a musing attitude. "What _can_ thatyoung man be going to do?"
He had sat ruminating about the matter for some time, when the voice ofRoker, the
turnkey, demanded whether he might come in.
"By all means," said Mr. Pickwick.
"I've brought you a softer pillow, sir," said Roker, "instead of thetemporary one you had last night."
"Thank you," said Mr. Pickwick. "Will you take a glass of wine?"
"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Roker, accepting the profferedglass. "Yours, sir."
"Thank you," said Mr. Pickwick.
"I'm sorry to say that your landlord's every bad to-night, sir," saidRoker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hatpreparatory to putting it on again.
"What! The Chancery prisoner!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"He won't be a Chancery prisoner wery long, sir," replied Roker,turning his hat round, so as to get the maker's name right sideupwards, as he looked into it.
"You make my blood run cold," said Mr. Pickwick. "What do you mean?"
"He's been consumptive for a long time past," said Mr. Roker, "andhe's taken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six monthsago, that nothing but change of air could save him."
"Great Heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; "has this man been slowlymurdered by the law for six months!"
"I don't know about that," replied Roker, weighing the hat by thebrims in both hands. "I suppose he'd have been took the same, whereverhe was. He went into the infirmary this morning; the doctor says hisstrength is to be kept up as much as possible; and the warden's senthim wine and broth and that, from his own house. It's not the warden'sfault, you know, sir."
"Of course not," replied Mr. Pickwick, hastily.
"I'm afraid, however," said Roker, shaking his head, "that it's all upwith him. I offered Neddy two sixpenn'orths to one upon it just now,but he wouldn't take it, and quite right. Thankee, sir. Good night,sir."
"Stay," said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly. "Where is this infirmary?"
"Just over where you slept, sir," replied Roker. "I'll show you, if youlike to come." Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, andfollowed at once.
The turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latch ofthe room door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare,desolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron; on one ofwhich lay stretched the shadow of a man; wan, pale, and ghastly. Hisbreathing was hard and thick, and he moaned painfully as it came andwent. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler's apron, who, bythe aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud.It was the fortunate legatee.
The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant's arm, and motioned himto stop. He closed the book and laid it on the bed.
"Open the window," said the sick man.
He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels,the cries of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitudeinstinct with life and occupation, blended into one deep murmur,floated into the room. Above the hoarse loud hum arose, from time totime, a boisterous laugh; or a scrap of some jingling song, shoutedforth by one of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the ear for aninstant, and then be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp offootsteps; the breaking of the billows of the restless sea of life thatrolled heavily on without. Melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at anytime; how melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!
"There is no air here," said the sick man faintly. "The place pollutesit. It was fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago; but itgrows hot and heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it."
"We have breathed it together for a long time," said the old man."Come, come."
There was a short silence, during which the two spectators approachedthe bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towardshim, and pressing it affectionately between both his own, retained itin his grasp.
"I hope," he gasped after a while, so faintly that they bent theirears close over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lipsgave vent to: "I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavypunishment on earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in thishideous grave! My heart broke when my child died, and I could not evenkiss him in his little coffin. My loneliness since then, in all thisnoise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive me! He has seenmy solitary, lingering death."
He folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear,fell into a sleep--only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.
They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stoopingover the pillow, drew hastily back. "He has got his discharge, by G--!"said the man.
He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not whenhe died.
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 2 (of 2) Page 18