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 exhausted3; till morning’s light brought no freshness or health to them; and they sank beneath the unnatural4 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 jail? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel in the old wainscotting, 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! Common-place 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 chambers6.’
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 common-place and least romantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy7 man who has spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, to enter the profession, which is destined8 never to yield him a morsel9 of bread. The waiting — the hope — the disappointment — the fear — the misery10 — the poverty — the blight11 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 out at last?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘The benchers determined12 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; rather, eh?‘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 chuckles13 had in some degree subsided14. ‘It occurred in Clifford’s Inn. Tenant15 of a top set — bad character — shut himself up in his bedroom closet, and took a dose of arsenic16. The steward17 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 bedchamber, and this my sitting-room18.” 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 shudder19 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 poker20, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing21 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 attentive22 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 countenance23, 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 uncommon24.’
‘Funny!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily. ‘Yes, funny, are they not?’ replied the little old man, with a diabolical25 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 mouldering26 fixtures27 that were on the place, and, among the rest, was a great lumbering28 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 carcass, than it would ever be worth afterward29, 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 groan31, 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 chamber5, 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 emaciated32 figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing erect33 in the press. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance expressive34 of care and anxiety; but there was something in the hue35 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; poising36 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 hurled37 it with ever so sure an aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expend38 its force on the wood behind. I am a spirit.” “And pray, what do you want here?” faltered39 the tenant. “In this room,” replied the apparition40, “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-protracted41 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 miserable42.” “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 bugs43; 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”— and, in fact, he began to vanish as he spoke30; 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 Mosaic44 studs, lighting45 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 depicted47 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 its 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 Borough48 High Street, near St. George’s Church, and on the same side of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our debtors50’ prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been a very different place from the sink of filth51 and dirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out but little temptation to the extravagant52, or consolation53 to the improvident54. The condemned55 felon56 has as good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the insolvent57 debtor49 in the Marshalsea Prison. [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 spacious59, the noise of passing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people — all the busy sounds of traffic, resound60 in it from morn to midnight; but the streets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys61; want and misfortune are pent up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness62 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 boon63 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 bosom64, and flourishes there for a brief space, until it droops65 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 confinement66, in days when it was no figure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with no hope of release, and no prospect67 of liberty! The atrocity68 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 meekly69 away, would lead the child to the old bridge, and raising him in her arms to show him the glistening70 water, tinted71 with the light of the morning’s sun, and stirring with all the bustling72 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 vent46 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 sobbed73 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 fatigue74 of active exertion75, 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 imprisonment76; 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 survivor77 — 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 deserted78 us — is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth could purchase, or power bestow79. The child had sat at his parents’ feet for hours together, with his little hands patiently folded in each other, and his thin wan2 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 sank 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 shrank from obtruding80 on his grief and misery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had previously81 occupied in common with two companions. She shared it with him; and lingering on without pain, but without hope, her life ebbed82 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 clenched83 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 passionately85 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 pallid87, and the smile faded into a rigid88 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 devoted89 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 hatred90 should be undying and inextinguishable; and should hunt its object through the world.
‘The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierce ravages91 on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions in misfortune shrank affrighted from him as he passed by. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent92 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 trickled93 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 acquiesced94 in its propriety95. Nearly all the inmates96 of the prison had assembled to witness its removal; they fell back on either side when the widower97 appeared; he walked hurriedly forward, and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close to the lodge98 gate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive99 feeling of delicacy100, had retired101. The rude coffin102 was borne slowly forward on men’s shoulders. A dead silence pervaded103 the throng104, broken only by the audible lamentations of the women, and the shuffling105 steps of the bearers on the stone pavement. They reached the spot where the bereaved106 husband stood: and stopped. He laid his hand upon the coffin, and mechanically adjusting the pall86 with which it was covered, motioned them onward107. 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 vow108 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 delirium109; but they were all connected in some way with the great object of his mind. He was sailing over a boundless110 expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the angry waters, lashed111 into fury beneath, boiling and eddying112 up, on every side. There was another vessel113 before them, toiling114 and labouring in the howling storm; her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and her deck thronged115 with figures who were lashed to the sides, over which huge waves every instant burst, sweeping116 away some devoted creatures into the foaming117 sea. Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass of water, with a speed and force which nothing could resist; and striking the stem of the foremost vessel, crushed her beneath their keel. From the huge whirlpool which the sinking wreck118 occasioned, arose a shriek119 so loud and shrill120 — 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 gray head that rose above the water’s surface, and with looks of agony, and screams for aid, buffeted121 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 elude122 his grasp. But he clasped him tight, and dragged him beneath the water. Down, down with him, fifty fathoms123 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 scorching124 sands of a mighty125 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 dreary126 waste, lay scattered127 at his feet; a fearful light fell on everything around; so far as the eye could reach, nothing but objects of dread84 and horror presented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with his tongue cleaving128 to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with supernatural strength, he waded129 through the sand, until, exhausted with fatigue and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant130 coolness revived him; what gushing131 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, sank into a delicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. An old gray-headed man tottered132 forward to slake133 his burning thirst. It was HE again! Fe wound his arms round the old man’s body, and held him back. He struggled, and shrieked134 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 corpse135 from him with his feet.
‘When the fever 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 jail — 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 in 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 remissness136 had left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to more. To recollect58 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 spurned137 them from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness that prevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of vengeance138! ‘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 prostrate139 energies, and meditate140 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 solitary141 lodgings143 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 crimson144 path, which, commencing in the middle of the ocean, seemed to lead to its very verge145 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 vehemence146 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, wringing147 his hands in agony, was running to and fro, shrieking148 for assistance. The invalid149, whose strength was now sufficiently150 restored, threw off his coat, and rushed towards the sea, with the intention of plunging151 in, and dragging the drowning man ashore152.
‘“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 frantically153, 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 perfectly154 motionless.
‘“Great God!” exclaimed the old man, recoiling155, “Heyling!”
‘The stranger smiled, and was silent.
‘“Heyling!” said the old man wildly; “my boy, Heyling, my dear boy, look, look!” Gasping156 for breath, the miserable father pointed157 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 slanderer158 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 agitated159 the rippling160 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 mere161 hand of time could have accomplished162 in twice the period of his whole life.
‘“I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,” said the stranger.
‘The attorney bowed obsequiously163, 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, untying164 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 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 nominal165 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 ingenuity166 can devise and rascality167 execute; fair means and foul168; the open oppression of the law, aided by all the craft of its most ingenious practitioners169. I would have him die a harassing170 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 jail.”
‘“But the costs, my dear Sir, the costs of all this,” reasoned the attorney, when he had recovered from his momentary171 surprise. “If the defendant172 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 ascertaining173 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 remonstrance174, 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 immured175 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 persecution176, increased a hundredfold with the ruin he inflicted177. 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 assailed178 with horrid179 imprecations the men who had been intrusted with the writ180. He was only restored to comparative calmness by repeated assurances of the certainty of discovering the fugitive181. Agents were sent in quest of him, in all directions; every stratagem182 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 sank 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 concealed183 in a wretched lodging142 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 abject184 misery, all the time, and he is poor — very poor.”
‘“Very good,” said the attorney. “You will have the caption185 made to-morrow, of course?”
‘“Yes,” replied Heyling. “Stay! No! The next day. You are surprised at my wishing to postpone186 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, proceeding187 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 desolate188 place enough, surrounded by little else than fields and ditches.
‘Having drawn189 the travelling-cap he had on half over his face, and muffled190 himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before the meanest-looking house in the street, and knocked gently at the door. It was at once opened by a woman, who dropped a curtsey of recognition, and Heyling, whispering the officer to remain below, crept gently upstairs, and, opening the door of the front room, entered at once.
‘The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepit191 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 speech. He fell backward in his chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on the apparition with a mingled193 look of abhorrence194 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 swerved195 from my purpose for a moment’s space; but if I had, one thought of her uncomplaining, suffering look, as she drooped196 away, or of the starving face of our innocent child, would have nerved me to my task. My first act of requital197 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 consign198 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 gravestone, in one of the most peaceful and secluded199 churchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle192 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 peg200 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 Magpie201 and Stump202.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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2
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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3
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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4
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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5
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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7
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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8
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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9
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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11
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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12
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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13
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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14
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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15
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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16
arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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17
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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18
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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19
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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20
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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21
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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22
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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23
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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24
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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25
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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26
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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27
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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28
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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29
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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30
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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31
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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32
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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33
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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34
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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35
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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36
poising
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| 使平衡( poise的现在分词 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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37
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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38
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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39
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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40
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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41
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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42
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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43
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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44
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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45
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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46
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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47
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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48
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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49
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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50
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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51
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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52
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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53
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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54
improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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55
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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57
insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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58
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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59
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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60
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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61
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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62
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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63
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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64
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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65
droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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66
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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67
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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68
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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69
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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70
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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71
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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73
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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74
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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75
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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76
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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77
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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78
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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79
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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80
obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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81
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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82
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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83
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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85
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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86
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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87
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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88
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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89
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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90
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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91
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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92
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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93
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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94
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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96
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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97
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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98
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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99
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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100
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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101
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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102
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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103
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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105
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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106
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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107
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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108
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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109
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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110
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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111
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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112
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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113
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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114
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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115
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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117
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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118
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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119
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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120
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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121
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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122
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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123
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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124
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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125
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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126
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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127
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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128
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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129
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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131
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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132
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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133
slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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134
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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136
remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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137
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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139
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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140
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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141
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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142
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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143
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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144
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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145
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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146
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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147
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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148
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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149
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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150
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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151
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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152
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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153
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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154
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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155
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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156
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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157
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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158
slanderer
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| 造谣中伤者 | |
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159
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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160
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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161
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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162
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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163
obsequiously
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164
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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165
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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166
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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167
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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168
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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169
practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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170
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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171
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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172
defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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173
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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174
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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175
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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177
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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179
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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180
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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181
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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182
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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183
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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184
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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185
caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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186
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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187
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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188
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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189
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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190
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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191
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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192
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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193
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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194
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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195
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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198
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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199
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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200
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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201
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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202
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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