 21 In which the old man launches forth into his favorite theme and relates a story about a queer client. Ah-ha! said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and appearance concluded the last chapter. Ah-ha! who was talking about the ins? 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 in red and red 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 heartsick from the lawyer's office to find a resting place in the Thames or a refuge in the jail? They are no ordinary houses, though. There is not a panel in the old wane scotting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start from the wall until 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 slip-shod 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 favorite 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. 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. There's 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 bed chamber 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 might be able to fancy there was anyone 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 shutter 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 blower to 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 in his face. Well, as the little old man concluded, he looked round on the attentive faces of his wandering 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 ins 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 moldering 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 it sprinkled it about the room so as to make the four chairs look as much like it does in his possible, and was sitting down before the fire at night drinking the first glass of two gallons of whiskey 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, then 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, poisoning 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 room 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 ghosts. 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 on earth, for I suppose space is nothing to you, you should always return exactly to the very places where you have been most miserable. Eek, yeah, 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 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, a suppose, he added, turning to Loudon, he'll say next 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. I do, said Loudon. 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 debtor's prisons, the Marshall Sea. 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 impravenant. The condemned felon has as good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate as the insolvent debtor in the Marshall Sea prison. Better, but this has passed 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 resounding 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 Marshall Sea prison for the first time. For the spare seldom comes with the first severe shock of misfortune. A man who 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 salloch 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 warm 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 sun and stirring with all the bustling preparations for business and pleasure that the river presented at that early hour, endeavored 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 wand 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 lost saint 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 prisoner 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 a spirit for my sake. O 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 receding 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 henceforth, to the last moment of his life, his whole energy 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 and misfortunes shrank a fright at it 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 underlip 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 in 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 acquiesce in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of the prison had assembled to witness its removal. They fell back on either side when the widow were appeared. He walked hurriedly forward and stationed himself alone in a little railed area close to the lodge gate from once 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 paw with which it was covered, motioned them onward. The turned keys 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, in 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 last into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up on every side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and laboring 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 wastelay 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 waited 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. He wound his arms around 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 lacked 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 nash 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 forever, 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 summertime, 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 remained 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 seagull 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 a right, and when the cry was repeated with even greater vehemence than before, and starting to his feet, he hastened in the direction once 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 ringing 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 it a 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. Hailing, the stranger smiled and was silent. Hailing, said the old man wildly, my boy, hailing 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. Hailing, 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, Hailing, do it, but save my boy. He is so young, Hailing, 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 agonizing 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, untieing 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 man into whose hands they originally went, and from whom I have by degrees purchased the whole for trouble 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 cost, 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 summon 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 a 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 check 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. Hailing would sit whole days together in the office, pouring 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 Hailing, 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 implications the man who had been entrusted 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, Hailing, 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 recognized 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 Hailing. 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 tomorrow, of course. Yes, replied Hailing. Stay. No. The next day. You were 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 traveling cap he had on half over his face, and muffled himself in his cloak, Hailing 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 curtsy of recognition, and Hailing, 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 Hailing. 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 Hailing, I claimed the life you owed me for my child. 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 will remember. This is my last. The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his side. I live England tomorrow, said Hailing, after a moment's pause. Tonight I can sign 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 wildflowers 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 clout of 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. Mr. Pickwick journeys to Ipswich, and meets with a romantic adventure with the middle-aged lady in yellow curlpapers. That ere your governor's luggage, Sammy, inquired Mr. Weller of his affectionate son, as he entered the yard of the bull-in white chapel with a traveling bag and a small portmanteau. You might have made a worser guess than that old feller, replied Mr. Weller the younger, sitting down his burden in the yard, and sitting himself down upon it afterwards. The governor himself will be down here presently. He's the cabinet, I suppose, said the father. Yes, he's a-heavened two mile of danger at eight pence, responded the son. How's mother-in-law this morning? Queer, Sammy, queer, replied the elder Mr. Weller with impressive gravity. She's been getting raider in the methodistical order lately, Sammy, and she is uncommon pious, to be sure. She's too good a creedter for me, Sammy. I feel I don't deserve her. Ah, said Mr. Samuel. That's wary self-denying of you. Wary, replied his parent with a sigh. She's got hold of some inwenshin for grown-up people being born again, Sammy. The new birth, I think they call it. I should very much like to see that system in action, Sammy. I should very much like to see your mother-in-law born again. Wouldn't I put her out to nurse? What do you think them women does, to the day, continued Mr. Weller after a short pause, during which he had significantly struck the side of his nose with his forefinger some half-dozen times? What do you think they does, to the day, Sammy? Don't know, replied Sam, what? Goes and gets up a grand tea-drinking for a feller they call as their shepherd, said Mr. Weller. I was a standing, staring in at the picture shop down at our place when I seized a little bill about it. Tickets half a crown. All applications to be made to the committee. Secretary Mrs. Weller. And when I got home, there was the committee as sitting in our back parlor. Fourteen women. I wish you could have heard them, Sammy. There they was. A pass in resolutions and molten supplies and all sorts of games. Well, what with your mother-in-law worrying me to go, and what with my looking forward to seeing some queer starts if I did, I put my name down for a ticket. At six o'clock on the Friday evening, I dress as myself out very smart, and off I goes with the old woman, and up we walks into a fuss floor, where there was tea-things for thirty, and a whole lot of women as begins whisperin' to one another, and lookin' at me as if they'd never seen a raider stout gentleman of eight and fifty or four. By and by there comes a great bustle downstairs, and the lanky chap with a red nose and a white neckcloth rushes up and sings out, Here's the shepherd coming to visit his faithful flock. And in comes a fat chap in black, but the great white face, a smile and a bay-like clockwork. Such goings on, Sammy. The kiss of peace, says the shepherd, and then he kissed the women all round, and when he'd done, the man with the red nose began. I was just a thinkin' whether I hadn't better begin, too, especially as there was a very nice lady as sittin' next me. Then in comes the tea, and your mother-in-law, as had been makin' the kettle bile downstairs. Added they went tooth and nail. Such a precious, loud hymn, Sammy, while the tea was a-brewin' such a grace, such eatin' and drinkin' I wish you could have seen the shepherd walkin' into the ham and muffins. I never see such a chap to eat and drink, never. The red-nosed man warn't by no means the sort of person you'd like to grub by contract, but he was nothin' to the shepherd. Well, out of the tea was over, they sang another hymn, and then the shepherd began to preach, and very well he did it, considering how heavy the muffins must've lied on his chest. Presently he pulls up, all of a sudden, and hollers out, Where is the sinner? Where is the miserable sinner? Upon which all the women looked at me and began to groan as if there was a dying. I thought it was rather singler, but howsever I says nothing. Presently he pulls up again, and looking very hard at me says, Where is the sinner? Where is the miserable sinner? And all of the women groans again, ten times louder than a four. I got rather savage at this, so I take a step or two forward and says, My friend, says I, Did you apply that air objuation to me? Instead of beggin' my pardon, as any gentleman would had done, he got more abusive than ever. Called me a whistle, Sammy, a whistle of wrath in all sorts of names, so my blood, being regularly up, I first gave him two or three for himself, and then two or three more to hand over to the man with the red nose and walked off. I wish you could have heard how the women screamed, Sammy, when they picked up the shepherd from underneath the table. Hello, here's the governor, the size of life. As Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab and entered the yard. Fine morning, sir, said Mr. Weller, senior. Beautiful indeed, replied Mr. Pickwick. Beautiful indeed, echoes a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose and green spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cab at the same moment as Mr. Pickwick. Going to Ipswich, sir? I am, replied Mr. Pickwick. Extraordinary coincidence, so am I. Mr. Pickwick bowed. Going outside, said the red-haired man. Mr. Pickwick bowed again. Bless my soul, how remarkable. I am going outside, too, said the red-haired man. We are positively going together. And the red-haired man, who was an important-looking, sharp-nosed, mysterious-spoken personage, with a bird-like habit of giving his head a jerk every time he said anything, smiled as if he had made one of the strangest discoveries that ever fell to the lot of human wisdom. I am happy in the prospect of your company, sir, said Mr. Pickwick. Ah, said the newcomer. That's a good thing for both of us, isn't it? Company, you see, company is a very different thing from solitude, ain't it? There's no denying that, air, said Mr. Weller, joining in the conversation with an affable smile. That's what I call a self-evident proposition, as the dogs meet man said when the house maid told him he weren't a gentleman. Ah, said the red-haired man, surveying Mr. Weller from head to foot with a supercilious look. Friend of yours, sir? Not exactly a friend, replied Mr. Pickwick in a low tone. The fact is he is my servant. But I allow him to take a good many liberties, for between ourselves I flatter myself he is an original, and I am rather proud of him. Ah, said the red-haired man, that, you see, is a matter of taste. I am not fond of anything original. I don't like it. Don't see the necessity for it. What's your name, sir? Here's my card, sir, replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused by the abruptness of the question and the singular manner of the stranger. Ah, said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocketbook. Pickwick, very good. I like to know a man's name. It saves so much trouble. That's my card, sir. Magnus, you will perceive, sir. Magnus is my name. It's rather a good name, I think, sir. A very good name indeed, said Mr. Pickwick, wholly unable to repress a smile. Yes, I think it is, resumed Mr. Magnus. There's a good name before it, too, you will observe. Permit me, sir. If you hold the card a little slanting this way, you catch the light upon the upstroke. There, Peter Magnus. Sounds well, I think, sir. Very, said Mr. Pickwick. Curious circumstance about those initials, sir, said Mr. Magnus. You will observe, P.M., post-Maridian, in hasty notes to intimate acquaintance. I sometimes sign myself afternoon. It amuses my friends very much, Mr. Pickwick. It is calculated to afford them the highest gratification I should conceive, said Mr. Pickwick, rather envying the ease with which Mr. Magnus's friends were entertained. Now, gentlemen, said the hustler, coach is ready, if you please. Is all my luggage in? Required Mr. Magnus. All right, sir. Is the red bag in? All right, sir. And the striped bag? Four boots, sir. And the brown paper parcel? Under the seat, sir. And the leather hat box? They're all in, sir. Now, will you get up, said Mr. Pickwick? Excuse me, replied Magnus, standing on the wheel. Excuse me, Mr. Pickwick, I cannot consent to get up in this state of uncertainty. I am quite satisfied from that man's manner that the leather hat box is not in. The solemn protestations of the hustler being wholly unavailing, the leather hat box was obliged to be raked up from the lowest depth of the boot to satisfy him that it had been safely packed. And after he had been assured on this head, he felt a solemn presentiment, first that the red bag was mislead, and next that the striped bag had been stolen, and then that the brown paper parcel had come untied. At length, when he had received ocular demonstration of the groundless nature of each and every of these suspicions, he consented to climb up to the roof of the coach, observing that now he had taken everything on off his mind he felt quite comfortable and happy. You're given to nervousness, ain't you, sir? inquired Mr. Weller Sr., eyeing the stranger a scans as he mounted to his place. Yes, I always am rather about these little matters, said the stranger, but I am all right now, quite right. Well, that's a blessing, said Mr. Weller. Sammy, help your master up to the box, tether legs, sir. That's it. Give us your hands, sir, up with you. You was a lighter weight when you was a boy, sir. True enough that, Mr. Weller, said the breathless Mr. Pickwick, good-humoredly, as he took his seat on the box beside him. Jump up in front, Sammy, said Mr. Weller. Now, villain, run him out. Take care of the archfey, gentlemen. Head, says the piment says. That'll do, villain. Let him alone. And away went the coach up white chapel to the admiration of the whole population of that pretty densely populated quarter. Not a very nice neighborhood, this, sir, said Sam with a touch of the hat, which always preceded as entering into conversation with his master. It is not indeed, Sam, replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the crowded and filthy street through which they were passing. It's a very remarkable circumstance, sir, said Sam, that poverty and oysters always seem to go together. I don't understand you, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. What I mean, sir, said Sam, is that the poorer a place is, the greater call there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir. Here's the oyster stall to every half dozen houses. The streets lined with them. Blessed if I don't think the Venomans werey-poor, he rushes out of his lodgings and eats oysters in regular desperation. To be sure he does, said Mr. Weller Sr., and it's just the same with the pickled salmon. Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred to me before, said Mr. Pickwick. The very first place we stop at, I'll make a note of them. By this time, they had reached the turnpike at mile end. A profound silence prevailed until they had got two or three miles farther on when Mr. Weller Sr., turning suddenly to Mr. Pickwick, said, Where a queer life is a pike keeper, sir? A what? said Mr. Pickwick. A pike keeper. What do you mean by a pike keeper? inquired Mr. Peter Magnus. The olden means a turnpike keeper, gentlemen, observed Mr. Samuel Weller in explanation. Oh, said Mr. Pickwick, I see. Yes, very curious life, very uncomfortable. There are all and a men as has met with some disappointment in life, said Mr. Weller Sr. A. A., said Mr. Pickwick. Yes, consequence of which, they retired from the world and shut themselves up in pikes, partly with the view of being solitary and partly to rwins themselves on mankind by taking tolls. Dear me, said Mr. Pickwick, I never knew that before. Fact, sir, said Mr. Weller. If there was gentlemen, you'd call them misanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike keepeth. With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending amusement with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile the tediousness of the journey during the greater part of the day. Topics of conversation were never wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr. Weller's lequacity, it was abundantly supplied but the desire evinced by Mr. Magnus to make himself acquainted with the whole of the personal history of his fellow travelers and his loudly expressed anxiety at every stage, respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the leather hat box and the round paper parcel. In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the town hall, stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation of the Great White Horse, rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal with flowing mane and tail distantly resembling an insane cart-horse which is elevated above the principal door. The Great White Horse is famous in the neighborhood in the same degree as a prize ox or a county paper chronicle turnip or unwieldy pig for its enormous size. Never was such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such clusters of moldy ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in beneath any one roof as are collected together between the four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich. It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach stopped at the same hour every evening. And it was from the same London coach that Mr. Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr. Peter Magnus dismounted on the particular evening to which this chapter of our history bears reference. Do you stop here, sir? inquired Mr. Peter Magnus when the striped bag and the red bag and the brown paper parcel and the leather hat box had all been deposited in the passage. Do you stop here, sir? I do, said Mr. Pickwick. To hear me, said Mr. Magnus, I never knew anything like these extraordinary coincidences while I stop here, too. I hope we dine together. The pleasure, replied Mr. Pickwick. I am not quite certain whether I have any friends here or not, though. Is there any gentleman of the name of Tubman here, waiter? A corpulent man with a fortnight snapkin under his arm and coeval stockings on his legs slowly desisted from his occupation of staring down the street on this question being put to him by Mr. Pickwick. And after minutely inspecting that gentleman's appearance from the crown of his hat to the lowest button of his gators, replied emphatically, No. Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass, inquired Mr. Pickwick. No. Nor Winkle. No. My friends have not arrived today, sir, said Mr. Pickwick. We will dine alone, then. Show us a private room, waiter. On this request being preferred, the corpulent man condescended to order the boots to bring in the gentleman's luggage, and, proceeding them down a long, dark passage, ushered them into a large, badly furnished apartment with a dirty grate in which a small fire was making a wretched attempt to be cheerful, but was fast sinking beneath the dispiriting influence of the place. After the lapse of an hour, a bit of fish and steak was served up to the travelers. And when the dinner was cleared away, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Peter Magnus drew their chairs up to the fire, and having ordered a bottle of the worst possible port wine at the highest possible price for the good of the house, drank brandy and water for their own. Mr. Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicative disposition, and the brandy and water operated with wonderful effect in warming into life the deepest hidden secrets of his bosom. After sundry accounts of himself, his family, his connections, his friends, his jokes, his business, and his brothers, most talkative men have a great deal to say about their brothers. Mr. Peter Magnus took a view of Mr. Pickwick through his colored spectacles for several minutes, and then said, with an air of modesty, and what do you think? What do you think, Mr. Pickwick? I have come down here for. Upon my word, said Mr. Pickwick, it is wholly impossible for me to guess, on business perhaps. Partly right, sir, replied Mr. Peter Magnus, but partly wrong at the same time. Try again, Mr. Pickwick. Really, said Mr. Pickwick, I must throw myself on your mercy to tell me or not as you may think best, for I should never guess if I were to try all night. Why, then, said Mr. Peter Magnus with a bashful titter, what should you think, Mr. Pickwick, if I had come down here to make a proposal, sir, eh? Think, that you are very likely to succeed, replied Mr. Pickwick, with one of his beaming smiles. Ah, said Mr. Magnus, but do you really think so, Mr. Pickwick? Do you, though? Certainly, said Mr. Pickwick. No, but you're joking, though. I am not indeed. Why, then, said Mr. Magnus, to let you into a little secret, I think so, too. I don't mind telling you, Mr. Pickwick, although I'm dreadful jealous by nature, horrid, that the lady is in this house. Here, Mr. Magnus took off his spectacles on purpose to wink and then put them on again. That's what you were running out of the room for, before dinner then, so often, said Mr. Pickwick, archly. Yes, you're right, that was it. Not such a fool as to see her, though. No, no, wouldn't do, you know. After having just come off a journey, wait till tomorrow, sir, double the chance, then. Mr. Pickwick, sir, there was a suit of clothes in that bag and a hat in that box, which I expect, and the effect they will produce, will be invaluable to me, sir. Indeed, said Mr. Pickwick. Yes, you must have observed my anxiety about them today. I do not believe that such another suit of clothes and such a hat could be bought for money, Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick congratulated the fortunate owner of the irresistible garments on their acquisition, and Mr. Peter Magnus remained a few moments apparently absorbed in contemplation. She's a fine creature, said Mr. Magnus. Is she, said Mr. Pickwick? Very, said Mr. Magnus. Very. She lives about twenty miles from here, Mr. Pickwick. I heard she would be here tonight at all tomorrow, four noon, and came down to seize the opportunity. I think an inn is a good sort of a place to propose to a single woman in, Mr. Pickwick. She is more likely to feel the loneliness of her situation in traveling, perhaps, than she would be at home. What do you think, Mr. Pickwick? I think it is very probable, replied that gentleman. I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick, said Mr. Peter Magnus. But I am naturally rather curious. What may you have come down here for? On a far less pleasant errand, sir, replied Mr. Pickwick. The color mounting to his face at the recollection. I have come down here, sir, to expose the treachery and falsehood of an individual upon whose truth and honor I placed implicit reliance. Dear me, said Mr. Peter Magnus, that's very unpleasant. It is a lady, I presume, eh? Sly, Mr. Pickwick, sly. Well, Mr. Pickwick, sir, I wouldn't probe your feelings for the world. Painful subjects, these, sir, very painful. Don't mind me, Mr. Pickwick, if you wish to give vent to your feelings. I know what it is to be jolted, sir. I have endured that sort of thing three or four times. I am much obliged to you for your condolence on what you presumed to be my melancholy case, said Mr. Pickwick, winding up his watch and laying it on the table. But, no, no, said Mr. Peter Magnus. Not a word more. It's a painful subject. I see, I see. What's the time, Mr. Pickwick? Past twelve. Dear me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do sitting here. I shall be pale tomorrow, Mr. Pickwick. At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chambermaid, and the striped bag, the red bag, the leathern hat box, and the brown paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bedroom, he retired in company with a Japan candlestick to one side of the house. While Mr. Pickwick and another Japan candlestick were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings to another. This is your room, sir, said the chambermaid. Very well, replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large, double-bedded room with a fire. Upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment, the Mr. Pickwick's short experience of the accommodations of the great white horse had led him to expect. Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course, said Mr. Pickwick. Oh, no, sir. Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more tonight. Yes, sir. And bidding Mr. Pickwick good night, the chambermaid retired and left him alone. Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him. Then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell, and from that lady it wandered by a natural process to the dingy county house of Dodson and Fogg. From Dodson and Fogg's, it flew off at a tangent to the very center of the history of the queer client, and then it came back to the great white horse at Ipswich with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep. So he roused himself and began to undress when he recollected he had left his watch on the table downstairs. Now, this watch was a special favorite with Mr. Pickwick, having been carried about beneath the shadow of his waistcoat for a greater number of years than we feel called upon to state it present. The possibility of going to sleep unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow or in the watch pocket over his head had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. So, as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat of which he had just divested himself, and taking the Japan candle stick in his hand walked quietly downstairs. The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend. And again and again when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage and began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore, room after room did he peep into. At length, as he was on the point of giving up the search and despair, he opened the door of the identical room in which he had spent the evening and beheld his missing property on the table. Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bedchamber. If his progress downward had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing. Rows of doors garnished with boots of every shape, make, and size branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door which resembled his own when a gruff cry from within of, Who the devil's that? Or what do you want here? Caused him to steal away on tiptoe with a perfectly marvelous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in, right at last. There were the two beds whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the drafts of air through which he had passed and sank into the socket as he closed the door after him. No matter, said Mr. Pickwick, I can undress myself just as well by the light of the fire. The bedstead stood, one on each side of the door, and on the inner side of each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottom chair, just wide enough to admit of a person as getting into or out of bed on that side if he or she thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottom chair and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. He then took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat and neckcloth, and slowly drawing on his tasseled nightcap, secured it firmly on his head. By tying beneath his chin the strings, which he always had attached to that article of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewilderment struck upon his mind. Throwing himself back in the rush-bottom chair, Mr. Pickwick lacked to himself so hardly that it would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles that expanded his amiable features as they shone forth from beneath the nightcap. It is the best idea, said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the nightcap strings. It is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering about these staircases that I ever heard of, droll, droll, very droll. Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best possible humor, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption. To wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table and set down the light upon it. The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick's features was instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly, and with so little noise, that Mr. Pickwick had had no time to call out or oppose their entrance. Who could it be? A robber? Some evil-minded person who had seen him come upstairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps? What was he to do? The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself was by creeping onto the bed and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this maneuver he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage and looked out. Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their back hair. However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night, for she had brought a rush light and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away like a gigantic lighthouse in a particularly small piece of water. Blast my soul, thought Mr. Pickwick. What a dreadful thing! Said the lady, and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with automaton-like rapidity. I never met with anything so awful as this, thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap. Never! This is fearful! It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward, so I went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair, had carefully enveloped it in a muslin nightcap with a small plated border, and was gazing pensively on the fire. This matter is growing alarming, reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. I can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady it is clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out, she'll alarm the house. But if I remain here, the consequences will be still more frightful. Mr. Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him. But he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and do what he would, he couldn't get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains and called out, very loudly, Ha-ha! That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident by her falling up against the rush-light shade. That she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of imagination was equally clear. For when Mr. Pickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away stone dead with fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before. Most extraordinary female this, thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. Ha-ha! These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy. Gracious heaven! said the middle-aged lady. What's that? It's, it's only a gentleman, ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick, from behind the curtains. A gentleman, said the lady, with a terrific scream. It's all over, thought Mr. Pickwick. A strange man, shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door. Ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head in the extremity of his desperation. Ma'am! Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick's nightcap driven her back into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her. Wretch, said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands. What do you want here? Nothing, ma'am, nothing, whatever, ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. Nothing, said the lady, looking up. Nothing, ma'am, upon my honor, said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. I am almost ready to sink, ma'am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my night. Here the lady hastily snatched off hers. But I can't get it off, ma'am. Here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the statement. It is evident to me, ma'am, now that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma'am, when you suddenly entered it. If this improbable story be really true, sir, said the lady, sobbing violently, you will leave it instantly. I will, ma'am, with the greatest pleasure, replied Mr. Pickwick. Instantly, sir, said the lady. Certainly, ma'am, interposed Mr. Pickwick very quickly. Certainly, ma'am, I am very sorry, ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed to have been the innocent occasion of this alarming emotion. Deeply sorry, ma'am. The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick's character was beautifully displayed at this moment under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap after the manner of the old patrol, although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, nothing could subdue his native politeness. I am exceedingly sorry, ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room, said the lady. Immediately, ma'am, this instant, ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door and dropping both his shoes with a crash and so doing. I trust, ma'am, resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes and turning round to bow again. I trust, ma'am, that my unblemished character and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex will plead as some slight excuse for this. But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage and locked in bolt of the door behind him. Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house in the middle of the night half-dressed. It was not to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at and perhaps killed by some wakeful traveler. He had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared. So, after groping his way a few paces down the passage and to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots and so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall to wait for morning as philosophically as he might. He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience. For he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man bearing a light appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognized the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who, after sitting up thus late in conversation with the boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, where is my bedroom? Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise, and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times that he turned round and led the way to the long sought apartment. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night that it ever were heard of. Very likely, sir, replied Mr. Weller, dryly. But of this I am determined, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, that if I were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it alone again. That's the very prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir, replied Mr. Weller. You rather want somebody to look out at you, sir, when your judgment goes out of wizarding. What do you mean by that, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick? He raised himself in bed and extended his hand as if he were about to say something more, but suddenly checking himself turned round and bade his valley good night. Good night, sir, replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the door, shook his head, walked on, stopped, snucked the candle, shook his head again, and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in the profoundest meditation. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens This liberal box recording is in the public domain, recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens Chapter 23 In which Mr. Samuel Weller begins to devote his energies to the return match between himself and Mr. Trotter. In a small room in the vicinity of the stable yard, betimes in the morning which was ushered in by Mr. Pickwick's adventure with the middle-aged lady in the yellow curlpapers, sat Mr. Weller Sr., preparing himself for his journey to London. He was sitting in an excellent attitude for having his portrait taken, and here it is. It is very possible that at some earlier period of his career Mr. Weller's profile might have presented a bold and determined outline. His face, however, had expanded under the influence of good living and a disposition remarkable for resignation. And its bold, fleshy curves had so far extended beyond the limits originally assigned them, that unless you took a full view of his countenance in front, it was difficult to distinguish more than the extreme chip of a very Rubicon's nose. His chin, from the same cause, had acquired the grave and imposing form which is generally described by prefixing the word double to that expressive feature. And his complexion exhibited that particularly modelled combination of colors which is only to be seen in gentlemen of his profession and in underdone roast beef. Round his neck he wore a crimson traveling shawl, which merged into his chin by such imperceptible gradations that it was difficult to distinguish the folds of the one from the folds of the other. Over this he mounted a long waistcoat of a broad pink striped pattern and over that again a wide-skirted green coat ornamented with large brass buttons, whereof the two which garnished the waist were so far apart that no man had ever beheld them both at the same time. His hair, which was short, sleek and black, was just visible beneath the capacious brim of a low-crowned brown hat. His legs were encased in necord breeches and painted top boots. And a copper watch chain, terminating in one seal and a key of the same material, dangled loosely from his capacious waistband. We have said that Mr. Weller was engaged in preparing for his journey to London. He was taking sustenance, in fact. On the table before him stood a pot of ale, a cold round of beef, and a very respectable looking loaf, to each of which he distributed his favors in churn with the most rigid impartiality. He had just cut a mighty slice from the ladder when the footsteps of somebody entering the room caused him to raise his head, and he beheld his son. Mornon, Sammy, said the father. The son walked up to the pot of ale and nodding significantly to his parent, took a long draft by way of reply. Very good power of suction, Sammy, said Mr. Weller, the elder, looking into the pot, when his first-born had set it down half-empty. You'd have made an uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you had been born in that station alive. Yes, I just say I should have managed to pick up a respectable living, replied Sam, applying himself to the cold beef with considerable vigor. I'm very sorry, Sammy, said the elder Mr. Weller, shaking up the ale, by describing small circles with the pot, preparatory to drinking. I'm very sorry, Sammy, to hear from your lips as you let yourself be gammoned by that air mulberry man. I always thought, up to three days ago, that the names of veller and gammon could never come into contract. Sammy, never. Always except in the case of a witter, of course, said Sam. Witters, Sammy, replied Mr. Weller, slightly changing color. Witters are exceptions to every rule. I have heard how many ordinary women one witter is equal to in trying to come and over you. I think it's five and twenty, but I don't rightly know whether it ain't more. Well, that's pretty well, said Sam. Besides, continued Mr. Weller, not noticing the interruption. That's a very different thing. You know what the council said, Sammy, as defendant the gentleman has beat his wife at the poker whenever he got jolly. And art her all, my lord, says he. That's a amiable weakness. So I says respect in witters, Sammy, and so you'll save when you get as old as me. I ought to heno'd better, I know, said Sam. Ought to heno'd better, repeated Mr. Weller, striking the table with his fist. Ought to heno'd better. Why, I know a youngin' has hasn't had half and a quarter your education, has hasn't slept about the markets. No, not six months. Who'd a scorn'd to be led in in such a way? Scorn'd it, Sammy. In the excitement of feeling produced by this agonizing reflection, Mr. Weller rang the bell and ordered an additional pint of ale. Well, it's no use talking about it now, said Sam. It's over and can't be helped. And that's one consolation, as they always says in Turkey, when they cut the wrong man's head off. It's my innings now, Governor. And as soon as I catch his hold of this ere trotter, I'll have a goodin'. I hope you will, Sammy. I hope you will, returned Mr. Weller. Here's your health, Sammy, and may you speedily wipe off the disgrace as you've inflicted on the family name. In honor of this toast, Mr. Weller imbibed at a draft, at least two-thirds of a newly arrived pint, and handed it over to his son to dispose of the remainder, which he instantaneously did. And now, Sammy, said Mr. Weller, consulting a large double-faced silver watch that hung at the end of the copper chain. Now it's time I was up at the office to get my vey-bill and see the coach loaded. For coaches, Sammy, is like guns. They're required to be loaded with very great care before they go off. At this parental and professional joke, Mr. Weller, Jr., smiled a filial smile. His revered parent continued in a solemn tone. I'm a-going to leave you, Sammelville, my boy, and there's no tellin' venice. I'll see you again. Your mother-in-law may have been too much for me, or a thousand things may have happened by the time you next cheers any news of the celebrated Mr. Weller of the bell savage. The family name depends very much upon you, Sammelville, and I hope you'll do what's right by it. Upon all little pints of reading, I know I may trust you as well as if it was my own self. So I've only this here one little bit of advice to give you. If ever you get to upwards of fifty and feels disposed to go a merry in anybody, no matter who, just you shut yourself up in your own room if you've got one, and pison yourself offhand. Hang in's Walger, so don't you have nothing to say to that. Pison yourself, Sammelville, my boy, pison yourself, and you'll be glad on it afterwards. With these affecting words Mr. Weller looked steadfastly on his son, and turning slowly upon his heel, disappeared from his sight. In the contemplative mood which these words had awakened, Mr. Samuel Weller walked forth from the great white horse when his father had left him, and bending his steps towards St. Clement's Church endeavored to dissipate his melancholy by strolling among his ancient precincts. He had loitered about for some time when he found himself in a retired spot, a kind of courtyard of venerable appearance, which he discovered had no other outlet than the turning by which he had entered. He was about retracing his steps when he was suddenly transfixed to the spot by a sudden appearance. In the mode and manner of this appearance we now proceed to relate. Mr. Samuel Weller had been staring up at the old brick houses now and then in his deep abstraction, bestowing a wink upon some healthy-looking servant girl as she drew up a blind, or through open a bedroom window. When the green gate of a garden at the bottom of the yard opened, and a man having emerged there from closed the green gate very carefully after him, and walked briskly towards the very spot where Mr. Weller was standing. Now taking this as an isolated fact, unaccompanied by any attendant circumstances, there was nothing very extraordinary in it, because in many parts of the world men do come out of gardens, close green gates after them, and even walk briskly away without attracting any particular share of public observation. It is clear, therefore, that there must have been something in the man, or in his manner, or both, to attract Mr. Weller's particular notice. Whether there was or not, we must leave the reader to determine when we have faithfully recorded the behavior of the individual in question. When the man had shut the green gate after him, he walked, as we have said twice already, with a brisk pace up the courtyard. But he no sooner caught sight of Mr. Weller than he faltered, and stopped, as if uncertain for the moment, what course to adopt. As the green gate was closed behind him, and there was no other outlet but the one in front, however, he was not long in perceiving that he must pass Mr. Samuel Weller to get away. He therefore resumed his brisk pace and advanced, staring straight before him. The most extraordinary thing about the man was, that he was contorting his face into the most fearful and astonishing grimaces that ever were beheld. Nature's handy work never was disguised with such extraordinary artificial carving as the man had overlaid his countenance with in one moment. Well, said Mr. Weller to himself, as the man approached, this is very odd. I could have swore it was him. Up came the man, and his face became more frightfully distorted than ever as he drew nearer. I could take my oath to that air black hair and mulberry suit, said Mr. Weller. Only I never see such a face as that afore. As Mr. Weller said this, the man's features assumed an unearthly twinge, perfectly hideous. He was obliged to pass very near Sam, however, and the scrutinizing glance of that gentleman enabled him to detect, under all these appalling twists of feature, something too light the small eyes of Mr. Job Trotter to be easily mistaken. Hello, you, sir! shouted Sam fiercely. The stranger stopped. Hello! repeated Sam, still more gruffly. The man with the horrible face looked with the greatest surprise up the court and down the court and in at the windows of the houses everywhere but at Sam Weller, and took another step forward when he was brought to again by another shout. Hello, you, sir! said Sam for the third time. There was no pretending to mistake where the voice came from now, so the stranger, having no other resource, at last looked Sam Weller full in the face. I won't do, Job Trotter, said Sam. Come, none of that air nonsense. You ain't so wary, handsome, that you can afford to throw away many of your good looks. Bring them air eyes yorn back into their proper places or I'll knock them out of your head. Do you hear? As Mr. Weller appeared fully disposed to act up to the spirit of this address, Mr. Trotter gradually allowed his face to resume its natural expression and then, giving a start of joy, exclaimed, What do I see, Mr. Walker? Ah, replied Sam. You're very glad to see me, ain't you? Glad, exclaimed Job Trotter. Oh, Mr. Walker, if you had but known how I have looked forward to this meeting. It is too much, Mr. Walker. I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot. And with these words Mr. Trotter burst into a regular inundation of tears and flinging his arms around those of Mr. Weller embraced him closely in an ecstasy of joy. Get off! Cried Sam, indignant at this process and vainly endeavoring to extricate himself from the grasp of his enthusiastic acquaintance. Get off, I tell you! What are you crying over me for, you portable engine? Because I am so glad to see you, replied Job Trotter, gradually releasing Mr. Weller as the first symptoms of his pugnacity disappeared. Oh, Mr. Walker, this is too much. Too much, echoed Sam. I think it is too much, Rayther. Now what have you got to say to me, eh? Mr. Trotter made no reply for the little pink pocket handkerchief was in full force. What have you got to say to me before I knock your head off? repeated Mr. Weller in a threatening manner. Eh? said Mr. Trotter with a look of virtuous surprise. What have you got to say to me? Ay, Mr. Walker, don't call me Walker. My name is Weller. You know that well enough. What have you got to say to me? Bless you, Mr. Walker. Weller, I mean a great many things. If you will come away somewhere where we can talk comfortably, if you knew how I have looked for you, Mr. Weller. Very hard indeed, I suppose, said Sam dryly. Very, very sir, replied Mr. Trotter without moving a muscle of his face. But shake hands, Mr. Weller. Sam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then as evacuated by a sudden impulse, complied with his request. How, said Job Trotter as they walked away, how is your dear good master? Oh, he is a worthy gentleman, Mr. Weller. I hope he didn't catch cold that dreadful night, sir. There was a momentary look of deep slinus in Job Trotter's eye as he said this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller's clenched fist, as he burned with the desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam constrained himself, however, and replied that his master was extremely well. Oh, I am so glad, replied Mr. Trotter. Is he here? Is Yorn asked Sam by way of reply? Oh, yes, he is here, and I grieve to say, Mr. Weller, he is going on worse than ever. Ah, ah, said Sam. Oh, shocking, terrible. At a boarding school, said Sam. No, not at a boarding school, replied Job Trotter with the same sly look which Sam had noticed before. Not at a boarding school. At the house with the green gate, said Sam, eyeing his companion closely. No, no, oh, not there, replied Job, with a quickness very unusual to him. Not there. What was you a doing there? Asked Sam with a sharp glance. Got inside the gate by accident, perhaps? Why, Mr. Weller, replied Job. I don't mind telling you my little secrets, because, you know, we took such a fancy for each other when we first met. You recollect how pleasant we were that morning. Oh, yes, said Sam impatiently. I remember. Well, well, replied Job, speaking with great precision, and in the low tone of a man who communicates an important secret, in that house with the green gate, Mr. Weller, they keep a good many servants. So I should think from the look in it, interposed Sam. Yes, continued Mr. Trotter, and one of them is a cook who has saved up a little money, Mr. Weller, and is desirous if she can establish herself in life to open a little shop in the chandlery way, you see? Yes. Yes, Mr. Weller. Well, sir, I met her at a chapel that I go to, a very neat little chapel in this town, Mr. Weller, where they sing the number four collection of hymns, which I generally carry about with me in a little book, which you may perhaps have seen in my hand, and I got a little intimate with her, Mr. Weller, and from that an acquaintance sprung up between us, and I may venture to say, Mr. Weller, that I am to be the chandler. Ah, in a weary, amiable chandler you'll make, replied Sam, eyeing Job with a side look of intense dislike. The great advantage of this, Mr. Weller, continued Job, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke, will be that I shall be able to leave my present disgraceful service with that bad man, and to devote myself to a better and more virtuous life, more like the way in which I was brought up, Mr. Weller. You must have been weary, nicely brought up, said Sam. Oh, very Mr. Weller, very, replied Job. At the recollection of the purity of his youthful days, Mr. Trotter pulled forth the pink handkerchief and wept copiously. You must have been an uncommon nice boy to go to school with, said Sam. I was, sir, replied Job, heaving a deep sigh. I was the idol of the place. Ah, said Sam, I don't wonder at it. What a comfort you must have been to your blessed mother. At these words Mr. Job Trotter inserted an end of the pink handkerchief into the corner of each eye, one after the other, and began to weep copiously. What's the matter with the man, said Sam indignantly? Chelsea Waterworks says nothing to you. What are you, Melton Vith, now, the consciousness of willowny? I cannot keep my feelings down, Mr. Weller, said Job, after a short pause, to think that my master should have suspected the conversation I had with yours, and so dragged me away in a post-chase, and after persuading the sweet young lady to say she knew nothing of him, and bribing the schoolmistress to do the same, deserted her for a better speculation. Oh, Mr. Weller, it makes me shudder. Oh, that was the vey, was it? said Mr. Weller. To be sure it was, replied Job. Vel, said Sam, as they had now arrived near the hotel, I want to have a little bit of talk with you, Job. So if you're not particularly engaged, I should like to see you at the great white horse tonight, somewhere's about eight o'clock. I shall be sure to come, said Job. Yes, you'd better, replied Sam, with a very meaning look. Or else I shall perhaps be asking out of you at the other side of the green gate, and then I might cut you out, you know. I shall be sure to be with you, sir, said Mr. Trotter, and wringing Sam's hand with the utmost fervor he walked away. Take care, Job Trotter, take care, said Sam, looking after him. Or I shall be one too many for you this time. I shall indeed, having uttered this soliloquy, and looked after Job till he was to be seen no more, Mr. Weller made the best of his way to his master's bedroom. It's all in training, sir, said Sam. What's in training, Sam? inquired Mr. Pickwick. I've found him out, sir, said Sam. Found out who? That air-queer customer in the melancholy chap with the black hair. Impossible, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, with the greatest energy. Where are they, Sam? Where are they? Hush, hush, replied Mr. Weller, and as he assisted Mr. Pickwick to dress, he detailed the plan of action on which he proposed to enter. But when is this to be done, Sam? inquired Mr. Pickwick. All in good time, sir, replied Sam. Whether it was done in good time or not will be seen hereafter.