IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTHINTO HIS FAVOURITE THEME, AND RELATESA STORY ABOUT A QUEER CLIENTha!’ said the old man, a brief description of whose mannerand appearance concluded the last chapter, ‘aha! who wastalking about the inns?’
‘I was, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick―‘I was observing whatsingular old places they are.’
‘You!’ said the old man contemptuously. ‘What do you know ofthe time when young men shut themselves up in those lonelyrooms, and read and read, hour after hour, and night after night,till their reason wandered beneath their midnight studies; till theirmental powers were exhausted3; till morning’s light brought nofreshness or health to them; and they sank beneath the unnaturaldevotion of their youthful energies to their dry old books? Comingdown to a later time, and a very different day, what do you know ofthe gradual sinking beneath consumption, or the quick wasting offever―the grand results of “life” and dissipation―which menhave undergone in these same rooms? How many vain pleadersfor mercy, do you think, have turned away heart-sick from thelawyer’s office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge inthe jail? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panelin the old wainscotting, but what, if it were endowed with thepowers of speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tellits tale of horror―the romance of life, sir, the romance of life!
Common-place as they may seem now, I tell you they are strangeold places, and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name, than the true history of one old set of chambers4.’
There was something so odd in the old man’s sudden energy,and the subject which had called it forth1, that Mr. Pickwick wasprepared with no observation in reply; and the old man checkinghis impetuosity, and resuming the leer, which had disappearedduring his previous excitement, said―‘Look at them in another light―their most common-place andleast romantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think ofthe needy5 man who has spent his all, beggared himself, andpinched his friends, to enter the profession, which is destinednever to yield him a morsel6 of bread. The waiting―the hope―thedisappointment―the fear―the misery7―the poverty―the blighton his hopes, and end to his career―the suicide perhaps, or theshabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I not right about them?’ And theold man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight at havingfound another point of view in which to place his favourite subject.
Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and theremainder 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 amile for it; only people never think of it.’
‘I never thought of the romance of this particular subjectbefore, certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laughing. ‘To be sure youdidn’t,’ said the little old man; ‘of course not. As a friend of mineused 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 hewas going to open his outer door. Fell with his head in his ownletter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Everybodythought he’d gone out of town.’
‘And how was he found out at last?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘The benchers determined9 to have his door broken open, as hehadn’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, andsilks, fell forward in the arms of the porter who opened the door.
Queer, that. Rather, perhaps; rather, eh?’ The little old man puthis head more on one side, and rubbed his hands withunspeakable glee.
‘I know another case,’ said the little old man, when his chuckleshad in some degree subsided10. ‘It occurred in Clifford’s Inn. Tenantof a top set―bad character―shut himself up in his bedroomcloset, and took a dose of arsenic12. The steward13 thought he had runaway14: opened the door, and put a bill up. Another man came, tookthe chambers, furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow orother he couldn’t sleep―always restless and uncomfortable.
“Odd,” says he. “I’ll make the other room my bedchamber, andthis my sitting-room15.” He made the change, and slept very well atnight, but suddenly found that, somehow, he couldn’t read in theevening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to be alwayssnuffing his candles and staring about him. “I can’t make this out,”
said he, when he came home from the play one night, and wasdrinking a glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in orderthat he mightn’t be able to fancy there was any one behind him―“I can’t make it out,” said he; and just then his eyes rested on thelittle closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder16 ranthrough his whole frame from top to toe. “I have felt this strangefeeling before,” said he, “I cannot help thinking there’s somethingwrong about that closet.” He made a strong effort, plucked up hiscourage, shivered the lock with a blow or two of the poker17, openedthe door, and there, sure enough, standing18 bolt upright in thecorner, was the last tenant11, with a little bottle clasped firmly in hishand, and his face―well!’ As the little old man concluded, helooked round on the attentive19 faces of his wondering auditory witha smile of grim delight.
‘What strange things these are you tell us of, sir,’ said Mr.
Pickwick, minutely scanning the old man’s countenance20, by theaid of his glasses.
‘Strange!’ said the little old man. ‘Nonsense; you think themstrange, because you know nothing about it. They are funny, butnot uncommon21.’
‘Funny!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily. ‘Yes, funny, arethey not?’ replied the little old man, with a diabolical22 leer; andthen, without pausing for an answer, he continued―‘I knew another man―let me see―forty years ago now―whotook an old, damp, rotten set of chambers, in one of the mostancient inns, that had been shut up and empty for years and yearsbefore. There were lots of old women’s stories about the place, andit certainly was very far from being a cheerful one; but he waspoor, and the rooms were cheap, and that would have been quite asufficient reason for him, if they had been ten times worse thanthey really were. He was obliged to take some mouldering23 fixturesthat were on the place, and, among the rest, was a great lumberingwooden press for papers, with large glass doors, and a greencurtain inside; a pretty useless thing for him, for he had no papersto 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 allhis furniture―it wasn’t quite a truck-full―and had sprinkled itabout the room, so as to make the four chairs look as much like adozen as possible, and was sitting down before the fire at night,drinking the first glass of two gallons of whisky he had ordered oncredit, wondering whether it would ever be paid for, and if so, inhow many years’ time, when his eyes encountered the glass doorsof the wooden press. “Ah,” says he, “if I hadn’t been obliged totake that ugly article at the old broker’s valuation, I might have gotsomething comfortable for the money. I’ll tell you what it is, oldfellow,” he said, speaking aloud to the press, having nothing elseto speak to, “if it wouldn’t cost more to break up your old carcass,than it would ever be worth afterward24, I’d have a fire out of you inless than no time.” He had hardly spoken the words, when a soundresembling a faint groan26, appeared to issue from the interior of thecase. It startled him at first, but thinking, on a moment’sreflection, that it must be some young fellow in the next chamber,who had been dining out, he put his feet on the fender, and raisedthe poker to stir the fire. At that moment, the sound was repeated;and one of the glass doors slowly opening, disclosed a pale andemaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing erect27 in thepress. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenanceexpressive of care and anxiety; but there was something in the hueof the skin, and gaunt and unearthly appearance of the wholeform, which no being of this world was ever seen to wear. “Whoare you?” said the new tenant, turning very pale; poising29 thepoker in his hand, however, and taking a very decent aim at thecountenance of the figure. “Who are you?” “Don’t throw thatpoker at me,” replied the form; if you hurled30 it with ever so surean aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expendits force on the wood behind. I am a spirit.” “And pray, what doyou want here?” faltered31 the tenant. “In this room,” replied theapparition, “my worldly ruin was worked, and I and my childrenbeggared. In this press, the papers in a long, long suit, whichaccumulated for years, were deposited. In this room, when I haddied of grief, and long-deferred hope, two wily harpies divided thewealth for which I had contested during a wretched existence, andof which, at last, not one farthing was left for my unhappydescendants. I terrified them from the spot, and since that dayhave prowled by night―the only period at which I can revisit theearth―about the scenes of my long-protracted misery. Thisapartment is mine: leave it to me.” “If you insist upon making yourappearance here,” said the tenant, who had had time to collect hispresence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost’s, “Ishall give up possession with the greatest pleasure; but I shouldlike to ask you one question, if you will allow me.” “Say on,” saidthe apparition32 sternly. “Well,” said the tenant, “I don’t apply theobservation personally to you, because it is equally applicable tomost of the ghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to mesomewhat inconsistent, that when you have an opportunity ofvisiting the fairest spots of earth―for I suppose space is nothing toyou―you should always return exactly to the very places whereyou have been most miserable33.” “Egad, that’s very true; I neverthought of that before,” said the ghost. “You see, sir,” pursued thetenant, “this is a very uncomfortable room. From the appearanceof that press, I should be disposed to say that it is not wholly freefrom bugs34; and I really think you might find much morecomfortable quarters: to say nothing of the climate of London,which is extremely disagreeable.” “You are very right, sir,” saidthe ghost politely, “it never struck me till now; I’ll try change of airdirectly”―and, in fact, he began to vanish as he spoke25; his legs,indeed, had quite disappeared. “And if, sir,” said the tenant,calling after him, “if you would have the goodness to suggest to theother ladies and gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting oldempty houses, that they might be much more comfortableelsewhere, 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.” Withthese words, the spirit disappeared; and what is ratherremarkable,’ added the old man, with a shrewd look round thetable, ‘he never came back again.’
‘That ain’t bad, if it’s true,’ said the man in the Mosaic35 studs,lighting a fresh cigar.
‘If!’ exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive contempt. ‘Isuppose,’ he added, turning to Lowten, ‘he’ll say next, that mystory about the queer client we had, when I was in an attorney’soffice, is not true either―I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘I shan’t venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that Inever heard the story,’ observed the owner of the Mosaicdecorations.
‘I wish you would repeat it, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Ah, do,’ said Lowten, ‘nobody has heard it but me, and I havenearly forgotten it.’
The old man looked round the table, and leered more horriblythan ever, as if in triumph, at the attention which was depicted37 inevery face. Then rubbing his chin with his hand, and looking up tothe ceiling as if to recall the circumstances to his memory, hebegan as follows:―THE OLD MAN’S TALE ABOUT THE QUEER CLIENT‘It matters little,’ said the old man, ‘where, or how, I picked up thisbrief history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reachedme, I should commence in the middle, and when I had arrived atthe conclusion, go back for a beginning. It is enough for me to saythat some of its circumstances passed before my own eyes; for theremainder I know them to have happened, and there are somepersons yet living, who will remember them but too well.
‘In the Borough38 High Street, near St. George’s Church, and onthe same side of the way, stands, as most people know, thesmallest of our debtors39’ prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in latertimes it has been a very different place from the sink of filth41 anddirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out but littletemptation to the extravagant42, or consolation43 to the improvident44.
The condemned45 felon46 has as good a yard for air and exercise inNewgate, as the insolvent47 debtor40 in the Marshalsea Prison.
[Better. But this is past, in a better age, and the prison exists nolonger.]
‘It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate theplace from the old recollections associated with it, but this part ofLondon I cannot bear. The street is broad, the shops are spacious,the noise of passing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream ofpeople―all the busy sounds of traffic, resound49 in it from morn tomidnight; but the streets around are mean and close; poverty anddebauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys50; want andmisfortune are pent up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom anddreariness seems, in my eyes at least, to hang about the scene, andto impart to it a squalid and sickly hue28.
‘Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the grave, havelooked round upon that scene lightly enough, when entering thegate of the old Marshalsea Prison for the first time; for despairseldom comes with the first severe shock of misfortune. A man hasconfidence in untried friends, he remembers the many offers ofservice so freely made by his boon51 companions when he wantedthem not; he has hope―the hope of happy inexperience―andhowever he may bend beneath the first shock, it springs up in hisbosom, and flourishes there for a brief space, until it droopsbeneath the blight8 of disappointment and neglect. How soon havethose same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from faceswasted with famine, and sallow from confinement53, in days when itwas no figure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, withno hope of release, and no prospect54 of liberty! The atrocity55 in itsfull extent no longer exists, but there is enough of it left to give riseto occurrences that make the heart bleed.
‘Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footstepsof a mother and child, who, day by day, so surely as the morningcame, presented themselves at the prison gate; often after a nightof restless misery and anxious thoughts, were they there, a fullhour too soon, and then the young mother turning meekly56 away,would lead the child to the old bridge, and raising him in her armsto show him the glistening57 water, tinted58 with the light of themorning’s sun, and stirring with all the bustling59 preparations forbusiness and pleasure that the river presented at that early hour,endeavour to interest his thoughts in the objects before him. Butshe would quickly set him down, and hiding her face in her shawl,give vent36 to the tears that blinded her; for no expression of interestor amusement lighted up his thin and sickly face. His recollectionswere few enough, but they were all of one kind―all connectedwith the poverty and misery of his parents. Hour after hour had hesat on his mother’s knee, and with childish sympathy watched thetears that stole down her face, and then crept quietly away intosome dark corner, and sobbed60 himself to sleep. The hard realitiesof the world, with many of its worst privations―hunger and thirst,and cold and want―had all come home to him, from the firstdawnings 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 eachother, with thoughts of agony they dared not breathe in words.
The healthy, strong-made man, who could have borne almost anyfatigue of active exertion61, was wasting beneath the closeconfinement and unhealthy atmosphere of a crowded prison. Theslight and delicate woman was sinking beneath the combinedeffects of bodily and mental illness. The child’s young heart wasbreaking.
‘Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. Thepoor girl had removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot ofher husband’s imprisonment62; and though the change had beenrendered necessary by their increasing poverty, she was happiernow, for she was nearer him. For two months, she and her littlecompanion watched the opening of the gate as usual. One day shefailed to come, for the first time. Another morning arrived, and shecame alone. The child was dead.
‘They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man’sbereavements, as a happy release from pain to the departed, and amerciful relief from expense to the survivor―they little know, Isay, what the agony of those bereavements is. A silent look ofaffection and regard when all other eyes are turned coldly away―the consciousness that we possess the sympathy and affection ofone being when all others have deserted63 us―is a hold, a stay, acomfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth could purchase,or power bestow64. The child had sat at his parents’ feet for hourstogether, with his little hands patiently folded in each other, andhis thin wan2 face raised towards them. They had seen him pineaway, from day to day; and though his brief existence had been ajoyless 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 hisparents, and his loss sank deep into their souls.
‘It was plain to those who looked upon the mother’s alteredface, that death must soon close the scene of her adversity andtrial. Her husband’s fellow-prisoners shrank from obtruding65 on hisgrief and misery, and left to himself alone, the small room he hadpreviously occupied in common with two companions. She sharedit with him; and lingering on without pain, but without hope, herlife ebbed66 slowly away.
‘She had fainted one evening in her husband’s arms, and hehad 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 achange upon her features, which made him stagger beneath herweight, like a helpless infant.
‘“Set me down, George,” she said faintly. He did so, and seatinghimself beside her, covered his face with his hands, and burst intotears.
‘“It is very hard to leave you, George,” she said; “but it is God’swill, and you must bear it for my sake. Oh! how I thank Him forhaving taken our boy! He is happy, and in heaven now. Whatwould 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 withhis clenched67 fists; then reseating himself beside her, andsupporting 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 ifever you leave this dreadful place, and should grow rich, you willhave us removed to some quiet country churchyard, a long, longway off―very far from here―where we can rest in peace. DearGeorge, promise me you will.”
‘“I do, I do,” said the man, throwing himself passionately69 on hisknees before her. “Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look―but one!”
‘He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck grew stiffand heavy. A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him;the lips moved, and a smile played upon the face; but the lips werepallid, and the smile faded into a rigid70 and ghastly stare. He wasalone 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, andcalled on God to witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, hedevoted himself to revenge her death and that of his child; thatthenceforth to the last moment of his life, his whole energiesshould be directed to this one object; that his revenge should beprotracted and terrible; that his hatred72 should be undying andinextinguishable; and should hunt its object through the world.
‘The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had madesuch fierce ravages73 on his face and form, in that one night, that hiscompanions in misfortune shrank affrighted from him as hepassed by. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy, his face a deadlywhite, and his body bent74 as if with age. He had bitten his under lipnearly through in the violence of his mental suffering, and theblood which had flowed from the wound had trickled75 down hischin, and stained his shirt and neckerchief. No tear, or sound ofcomplaint escaped him; but the unsettled look, and disorderedhaste with which he paced up and down the yard, denoted thefever which was burning within.
‘It was necessary that his wife’s body should be removed fromthe prison, without delay. He received the communication withperfect calmness, and acquiesced76 in its propriety77. Nearly all theinmates of the prison had assembled to witness its removal; theyfell back on either side when the widower78 appeared; he walkedhurriedly forward, and stationed himself, alone, in a little railedare a close to the lodge79 gate, from whence the crowd, with aninstinctive feeling of delicacy80, had retired81. The rude coffin82 wasborne slowly forward on men’s shoulders. A dead silence pervadedthe throng83, broken only by the audible lamentations of the women,and the shuffling84 steps of the bearers on the stone pavement. Theyreached the spot where the bereaved85 husband stood: and stopped.
He laid his hand upon the coffin, and mechanically adjusting thepall with which it was covered, motioned them onward86. Theturnkeys in the prison lobby took off their hats as it passedthrough, 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 andday, in the wildest ravings of fever, neither the consciousness ofhis loss, nor the recollection of the vow87 he had made, ever left himfor a moment. Scenes changed before his eyes, place succeededplace, and event followed event, in all the hurry of delirium88; butthey were all connected in some way with the great object of hismind. He was sailing over a boundless89 expanse of sea, with ablood-red sky above, and the angry waters, lashed90 into furybeneath, boiling and eddying91 up, on every side. There was anothervessel before them, toiling93 and labouring in the howling storm; hercanvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and her deck throngedwith figures who were lashed to the sides, over which huge wavesevery instant burst, sweeping94 away some devoted71 creatures intothe foaming95 sea. Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass ofwater, with a speed and force which nothing could resist; andstriking the stem of the foremost vessel92, crushed her beneath theirkeel. From the huge whirlpool which the sinking wreckoccasioned, arose a shriek96 so loud and shrill―the death-cry of ahundred drowning creatures, blended into one fierce yell―that itrung far above the war-cry of the elements, and echoed, and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air, sky, and ocean. But what wasthat―that old gray head that rose above the water’s surface, andwith looks of agony, and screams for aid, buffeted97 with the waves!
One look, and he had sprung from the vessel’s side, and withvigorous strokes was swimming towards it. He reached it; he wasclose upon it. They were his features. The old man saw himcoming, and vainly strove to elude98 his grasp. But he clasped himtight, and dragged him beneath the water. Down, down with him,fifty fathoms99 down; his struggles grew fainter and fainter, untilthey wholly ceased. He was dead; he had killed him, and had kepthis oath.
‘He was traversing the scorching100 sands of a mighty101 desert,barefoot and alone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thingrains entered the very pores of his skin, and irritated him almostto madness. Gigantic masses of the same material, carried forwardby the wind, and shone through by the burning sun, stalked in thedistance like pillars of living fire. The bones of men, who hadperished in the dreary102 waste, lay scattered103 at his feet; a fearfullight fell on everything around; so far as the eye could reach,nothing but objects of dread68 and horror presented themselves.
Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with his tongue cleaving104 tohis mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with supernaturalstrength, he waded105 through the sand, until, exhausted with fatigueand thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant106 coolnessrevived him; what gushing107 sound was that? Water! It was indeed awell; and the clear fresh stream was running at his feet. He drankdeeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sankinto a delicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps rousedhim. An old gray-headed man tottered108 forward to slake109 hisburning thirst. It was HE again! Fe wound his arms round the oldman’s body, and held him back. He struggled, and shrieked110 forwater―for but one drop of water to save his life! But he held theold man firmly, and watched his agonies with greedy eyes; andwhen his lifeless head fell forward on his bosom52, he rolled thecorpse from him with his feet.
‘When the fever left him, and consciousness returned, he awoketo find himself rich and free, to hear that the parent who wouldhave let him die in jail―would! who had let those who were fardearer to him than his own existence die of want, and sickness of heart that medicine cannot cure―had been found dead in his bedof down. He had had all the heart to leave his son a beggar, butproud even of his health and strength, had put off the act till it wastoo late, and now might gnash his teeth in the other world, at thethought of the wealth his remissness111 had left him. He awoke tothis, and he awoke to more. To recollect48 the purpose for which helived, and to remember that his enemy was his wife’s own father―the man who had cast him into prison, and who, when hisdaughter and her child sued at his feet for mercy, had spurnedthem from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness thatprevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme ofvengeance!
‘He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss andmisery, and conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not inthe hope of recovering his peace of mind or happiness, for bothwere fled for ever; but to restore his prostrate112 energies, andmeditate on his darling object. And here, some evil spirit cast inhis way the opportunity for his first, most horrible revenge.
‘It was summer-time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, hewould issue from his solitary113 lodgings114 early in the evening, andwandering along a narrow path beneath the cliffs, to a wild andlonely spot that had struck his fancy in his ramblings, seat himselfon some fallen fragment of the rock, and burying his face in hishands, remain there for hours―sometimes until night hadcompletely closed in, and the long shadows of the frowning cliffsabove his head cast a thick, black darkness on every object nearhim.
‘He was seated here, one calm evening, in his old position, nowand then raising his head to watch the flight of a sea-gull, or carryhis eye along the glorious crimson116 path, which, commencing in themiddle of the ocean, seemed to lead to its very verge117 where thesun was setting, when the profound stillness of the spot wasbroken by a loud cry for help; he listened, doubtful of his havingheard aright, when the cry was repeated with even greatervehemence than before, and, starting to his feet, he hastened inthe direction whence it proceeded.
‘The tale told itself at once: some scattered garments lay on thebeach; a human head was just visible above the waves at a littledistance from the shore; and an old man, wringing119 his hands inagony, was running to and fro, shrieking120 for assistance. Theinvalid, whose strength was now sufficiently121 restored, threw off hiscoat, and rushed towards the sea, with the intention of plungingin, and dragging the drowning man ashore122.
‘“Hasten here, sir, in God’s name; help, help, sir, for the love ofHeaven. He is my son, sir, my only son!” said the old manfrantically, as he advanced to meet him. “My only son, sir, and heis dying before his father’s eyes!”
‘At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checkedhimself in his career, and, folding his arms, stood perfectlymotionless.
‘“Great God!” exclaimed the old man, recoiling123, “Heyling!”
‘The stranger smiled, and was silent.
‘“Heyling!” said the old man wildly; “my boy, Heyling, my dearboy, look, look!” Gasping124 for breath, the miserable father pointedto 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 astatue.
‘“I have wronged you,” shrieked the old man, falling on hisknees, and clasping his hands together. “Be revenged; take my all,my life; cast me into the water at your feet, and, if human naturecan repress a struggle, I will die, without stirring hand or foot. Doit, Heyling, do it, but save my boy; he is so young, Heyling, soyoung to die!”
‘“Listen,” said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely bythe 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 deaththan that young slanderer126 of his sister’s worth is meeting while Ispeak. You laughed―laughed in your daughter’s face, wheredeath had already set his hand―at our sufferings, then. Whatthink you of them now! See there, see there!”
‘As the stranger spoke, he pointed125 to the sea. A faint cry diedaway upon its surface; the last powerful struggle of the dying managitated the rippling127 waves for a few seconds; and the spot wherehe had gone down into his early grave, was undistinguishablefrom the surrounding water.
‘Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from aprivate carriage at the door of a London attorney, then well knownas a man of no great nicety in his professional dealings, andrequested a private interview on business of importance. Althoughevidently not past the prime of life, his face was pale, haggard, anddejected; and it did not require the acute perception of the man ofbusiness, to discern at a glance, that disease or suffering had donemore to work a change in his appearance, than the mere128 hand oftime could have accomplished129 in twice the period of his whole life.
‘“I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,” said thestranger.
‘The attorney bowed obsequiously130, and glanced at a largepacket which the gentleman carried in his hand. His visitorobserved the look, and proceeded.
‘“It is no common business,” said he; “nor have these papersreached my hands without long trouble and great expense.”
‘The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet; andhis visitor, untying131 the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity ofpromissory notes, with copies of deeds, and other documents.
‘“Upon these papers,” said the client, “the man whose namethey bear, has raised, as you will see, large sums of money, foryears past. There was a tacit understanding between him and themen into whose hands they originally went―and from whom Ihave by degrees purchased the whole, for treble and quadrupletheir nominal132 value―that these loans should be from time to timerenewed, until a given period had elapsed. Such an understandingis nowhere expressed. He has sustained many losses of late; andthese obligations accumulating upon him at once, would crushhim to the earth.”
‘“The whole amount is many thousands of pounds,” said theattorney, 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 vehemence118. “Put everyengine of the law in force, every trick that ingenuity133 can deviseand rascality134 execute; fair means and foul135; the open oppression ofthe law, aided by all the craft of its most ingenious practitioners136. Iwould have him die a harassing137 and lingering death. Ruin him,seize and sell his lands and goods, drive him from house andhome, and drag him forth a beggar in his old age, to die in acommon jail.”
‘“But the costs, my dear sir, the costs of all this,” reasoned theattorney, when he had recovered from his momentary138 surprise. “Ifthe defendant139 be a man of straw, who is to pay the costs, sir?”
‘“Name any sum,” said the stranger, his hand trembling soviolently with excitement, that he could scarcely hold the pen heseized as he spoke―“any sum, and it is yours. Don’t be afraid toname it, man. I shall not think it dear, if you gain my object.”
‘The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance heshould require to secure himself against the possibility of loss; butmore with the view of ascertaining140 how far his client was reallydisposed to go, than with any idea that he would comply with thedemand. The stranger wrote a cheque upon his banker, for thewhole amount, and left him.
‘The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that hisstrange client might be safely relied upon, commenced his work inearnest. For more than two years afterwards, Mr. Heyling wouldsit whole days together, in the office, poring over the papers asthey accumulated, and reading again and again, his eyes gleamingwith joy, the letters of remonstrance141, the prayers for a little delay,the representations of the certain ruin in which the opposite partymust be involved, which poured in, as suit after suit, and processafter process, was commenced. To all applications for a briefindulgence, there was but one reply―the money must be paid.
Land, house, furniture, each in its turn, was taken under some oneof the numerous executions which were issued; and the old manhimself would have been immured142 in prison had he not escapedthe vigilance of the officers, and fled.
‘The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiatedby the success of his persecution143, increased a hundredfold withthe ruin he inflicted144. On being informed of the old man’s flight, hisfury was unbounded. He gnashed his teeth with rage, tore the hairfrom his head, and assailed145 with horrid146 imprecations the men whohad been intrusted with the writ147. He was only restored tocomparative calmness by repeated assurances of the certainty ofdiscovering the fugitive148. Agents were sent in quest of him, in alldirections; every stratagem149 that could be invented was resorted to,for the purpose of discovering his place of retreat; but it was all invain. Half a year had passed over, and he was still undiscovered.
‘At length late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had beenseen for many weeks before, appeared at his attorney’s privateresidence, and sent up word that a gentleman wished to see himinstantly. Before the attorney, who had recognised his voice fromabove stairs, could order the servant to admit him, he had rushedup the staircase, and entered the drawing-room pale andbreathless. Having closed the door, to prevent being overheard, hesank 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 concealed150 in a wretched lodging115 in Camden Town,”
said Heyling. “Perhaps it is as well we did lose sight of him, for hehas been living alone there, in the most abject151 misery, all the time,and he is poor―very poor.”
‘“Very good,” said the attorney. “You will have the captionmade to-morrow, of course?”
‘“Yes,” replied Heyling. “Stay! No! The next day. You aresurprised at my wishing to postpone152 it,” he added, with a ghastlysmile; “but I had forgotten. The next day is an anniversary in hislife: let it be done then.”
‘“Very good,” said the attorney. “Will you write downinstructions for the officer?”
‘“No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I willaccompany him myself.”
‘They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney-coach,directed the driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road,at which stands the parish workhouse. By the time they alightedthere, it was quite dark; and, proceeding153 by the dead wall in frontof 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 desolate154 placeenough, surrounded by little else than fields and ditches.
‘Having drawn155 the travelling-cap he had on half over his face,and muffled156 himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before themeanest-looking house in the street, and knocked gently at thedoor. It was at once opened by a woman, who dropped a curtsey ofrecognition, 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 adecrepit old man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood amiserable candle. He started on the entrance of the stranger, androse feebly to his feet.
‘“What now, what now?” said the old man. “What fresh miseryis this? What do you want here?”
‘“A word with you,” replied Heyling. As he spoke, he seatedhimself at the other end of the table, and, throwing off his cloakand cap, disclosed his features.
‘The old man seemed instantly deprived of speech. He fellbackward in his chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed onthe apparition with a mingled158 look of abhorrence159 and fear.
‘“This day six years,” said Heyling, “I claimed the life you owedme for my child’s. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, oldman, I swore to live a life of revenge. I have never swerved160 frommy purpose for a moment’s space; but if I had, one thought of heruncomplaining, suffering look, as she drooped161 away, or of thestarving face of our innocent child, would have nerved me to mytask. My first act of requital162 you well remember: this is my last.”
‘The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by hisside.
‘“I leave England to-morrow,” said Heyling, after a moment’spause. “To-night I consign163 you to the living death to which youdevoted 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 theapartment.
‘“You had better see to the old man,” he said to the woman, ashe opened the door, and motioned the officer to follow him intothe street. “I think he is ill.” The woman closed the door, ranhastily upstairs, and found him lifeless.
‘Beneath a plain gravestone, in one of the most peaceful andsecluded churchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle157 with thegrass, and the soft landscape around forms the fairest spot in thegarden of England, lie the bones of the young mother and hergentle child. But the ashes of the father do not mingle with theirs;nor, from that night forward, did the attorney ever gain theremotest clue to the subsequent history of his queer client.’
As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a peg164 in onecorner, and taking down his hat and coat, put them on with greatdeliberation; and, without saying another word, walked slowlyaway. As the gentleman with the Mosaic studs had fallen asleep,and the major part of the company were deeply occupied in thehumorous process of dropping melted tallow-grease into hisbrandy-and-water, Mr. Pickwick departed unnoticed, and havingsettled his own score, and that of Mr. Weller, issued forth, incompany with that gentleman, from beneath the portal of theMagpie and Stump165.
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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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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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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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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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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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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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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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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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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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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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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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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32
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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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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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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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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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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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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felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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resound
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| v.回响 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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57
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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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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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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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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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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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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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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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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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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84
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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85
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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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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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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91
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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93
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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94
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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95
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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96
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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97
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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98
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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99
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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100
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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101
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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102
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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103
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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104
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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105
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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106
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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107
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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108
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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109
slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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110
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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112
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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113
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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114
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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115
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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116
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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117
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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118
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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119
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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120
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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121
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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122
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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123
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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124
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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125
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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126
slanderer
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| 造谣中伤者 | |
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127
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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128
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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129
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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130
obsequiously
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131
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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132
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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133
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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134
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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135
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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136
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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137
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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138
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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139
defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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140
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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141
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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142
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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144
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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145
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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146
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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147
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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148
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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149
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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150
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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151
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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152
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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153
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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154
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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155
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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156
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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157
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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158
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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159
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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160
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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161
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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162
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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163
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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164
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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165
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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