Chapter XXI

IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTH

INTO HIS FAVOURITE THEME, AND RELATES

A STORY ABOUT A QUEER CLIENT

ha!’ 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 exhausted; till morning’s light brought no

freshness or health to them; and they sank beneath the unnatural

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 chambers.’

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 needy man who has spent his all, beggared himself, and

pinched his friends, to enter the profession, which is destined

never to yield him a morsel of bread. The waiting―the hope―the

disappointment―the fear―the misery―the poverty―the blight

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 determined 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 chuckles

had in some degree subsided. ‘It occurred in Clifford’s Inn. Tenant

of a top set―bad character―shut himself up in his bedroom

closet, and took a dose of arsenic. The steward 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-room.” 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 shudder 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 poker, opened

the door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright in the

corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in his

hand, and his face―well!’ As the little old man concluded, he

looked round on the attentive 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 countenance, by the

aid of his glasses.

‘Strange!’ said the little old man. ‘Nonsense; you think them

strange, because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but

not uncommon.’

‘Funny!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily. ‘Yes, funny, are

they not?’ replied the little old man, with a diabolical 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 mouldering fixtures

that were on the place, and, among the rest, was a great lumbering

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 afterward, 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 groan, 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 chamber,

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

emaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing erect in the

press. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance

expressive of care and anxiety; but there was something in the hue

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; poising 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 hurled it with ever so sure

an aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expend

its force on the wood behind. I am a spirit.” “And pray, what do

you want here?” faltered the tenant. “In this room,” replied the

apparition, “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-protracted 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 miserable.” “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 bugs; 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 spoke; 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 Mosaic studs,

lighting 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 depicted 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 Borough High Street, near St. George’s Church, and on

the same side of the way, stands, as most people know, the

smallest of our debtors’ prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later

times it has been a very different place from the sink of filth and

dirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out but little

temptation to the extravagant, or consolation to the improvident.

The condemned felon has as good a yard for air and exercise in

Newgate, as the insolvent debtor 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 spacious,

the noise of passing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of

people―all the busy sounds of traffic, resound in it from morn to

midnight; but the streets around are mean and close; poverty and

debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys; want and

misfortune are pent up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom and

dreariness 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 boon 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

bosom, and flourishes there for a brief space, until it droops

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 confinement, in days when it

was no figure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with

no hope of release, and no prospect of liberty! The atrocity 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 meekly away,

would lead the child to the old bridge, and raising him in her arms

to show him the glistening water, tinted with the light of the

morning’s sun, and stirring with all the bustling 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 vent 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 sobbed 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

fatigue of active exertion, 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 imprisonment; 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 survivor―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 deserted us―is a hold, a stay, a

comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth could purchase,

or power bestow. The child had sat at his parents’ feet for hours

together, with his little hands patiently folded in each other, and

his thin wan 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 obtruding on his

grief and misery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had

previously occupied in common with two companions. She shared

it with him; and lingering on without pain, but without hope, her

life ebbed 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 clenched 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 passionately 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

pallid, and the smile faded into a rigid 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

devoted 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 hatred should be undying and

inextinguishable; and should hunt its object through the world.

‘The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made

such fierce ravages 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 bent 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 trickled 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 acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the

inmates of the prison had assembled to witness its removal; they

fell back on either side when the widower appeared; he walked

hurriedly forward, and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed

are a close to the lodge gate, from whence the crowd, with an

instinctive feeling of delicacy, had retired. The rude coffin was

borne slowly forward on men’s shoulders. A dead silence pervaded

the throng, broken only by the audible lamentations of the women,

and the shuffling steps of the bearers on the stone pavement. They

reached the spot where the bereaved husband stood: and stopped.

He laid his hand upon the coffin, and mechanically adjusting the

pall with which it was covered, motioned them onward. 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 vow 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 delirium; but

they were all connected in some way with the great object of his

mind. He was sailing over a boundless expanse of sea, with a

blood-red sky above, and the angry waters, lashed into fury

beneath, boiling and eddying up, on every side. There was another

vessel before them, toiling and labouring in the howling storm; her

canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and her deck thronged

with figures who were lashed to the sides, over which huge waves

every instant burst, sweeping away some devoted creatures into

the foaming 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 wreck

occasioned, arose a shriek so loud and shrill―the death-cry of a

hundred drowning creatures, blended into one fierce yell―that it

rung far above the war-cry of 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, buffeted 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 elude his grasp. But he clasped him

tight, and dragged him beneath the water. Down, down with him,

fifty fathoms 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 scorching sands of a mighty 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 dreary waste, lay scattered at his feet; a fearful

light fell on everything around; so far as the eye could reach,

nothing but objects of dread and horror presented themselves.

Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with his tongue cleaving to

his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with supernatural

strength, he waded through the sand, until, exhausted with fatigue

and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant coolness

revived him; what gushing 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 tottered forward to slake his

burning thirst. It was HE again! Fe wound his arms round the old

man’s body, and held him back. He struggled, and shrieked 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

corpse 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 remissness had left him. He awoke to

this, and he awoke to more. To recollect the purpose for which he

lived, and to remember that 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 spurned

them from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness that

prevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of

vengeance!

‘He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and

misery, and conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not in

the hope of recovering his peace of mind or happiness, for both

were fled for ever; but to restore his prostrate energies, and

meditate 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 solitary lodgings 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 crimson path, which, commencing in the

middle of the ocean, seemed to lead to its very verge 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

vehemence 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, wringing his hands in

agony, was running to and fro, shrieking for assistance. The

invalid, whose strength was now sufficiently restored, threw off his

coat, and rushed towards the sea, with the intention of plunging

in, and dragging the drowning man ashore.

‘“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

frantically, 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 perfectly

motionless.

‘“Great God!” exclaimed the old man, recoiling, “Heyling!”

‘The stranger smiled, and was silent.

‘“Heyling!” said the old man wildly; “my boy, Heyling, my dear

boy, look, look!” Gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed

to 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 slanderer 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

agitated the rippling 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 mere hand of

time could have accomplished in twice the period of his whole life.

‘“I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,” said the

stranger.

‘The attorney bowed obsequiously, 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, untying 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 nominal 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 ingenuity can devise

and rascality execute; fair means and foul; the open oppression of

the law, aided by all the craft of its most ingenious practitioners. I

would have him die a harassing 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 momentary surprise. “If

the defendant 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 ascertaining 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 remonstrance, 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 immured 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 persecution, increased a hundredfold with

the ruin he inflicted. 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 assailed with horrid imprecations the men who

had been intrusted with the writ. He was only restored to

comparative calmness by repeated assurances of the certainty of

discovering the fugitive. Agents were sent in quest of him, in all

directions; every stratagem 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 concealed in a wretched lodging 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 abject misery, all the time,

and he is poor―very poor.”

‘“Very good,” said the attorney. “You will have the caption

made to-morrow, of course?”

‘“Yes,” replied Heyling. “Stay! No! The next day. You are

surprised at my wishing to postpone 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, proceeding 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 desolate place

enough, surrounded by little else than fields and ditches.

‘Having drawn the travelling-cap he had on half over his face,

and muffled 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

decrepit 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 mingled look of abhorrence 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 swerved from

my purpose for a moment’s space; but if I had, one thought of her

uncomplaining, suffering look, as she drooped away, or of the

starving face of our innocent child, would have nerved me to my

task. My first act of requital you well remember: this is my last.”

‘The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his

side.

‘“I leave England to-morrow,” said Heyling, after a moment’s

pause. “To-night I consign you to the living death to which you

devoted her―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

secluded churchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle 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 peg in one

corner, and taking down his hat and coat, put them on with great

deliberation; and, without saying another word, walked slowly

away. As the 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

Magpie and Stump.

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