第114章

IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTH INTO HIS FAVOURITETHEME, AND RELATES A STORY ABOUT A QUEER CLIENT"A HA !" said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and appearance concluded the last chapter, "Aha! who was talking about the Inns?""I was, sir," replied Mr.Pickwick; "I was observing what singular old places they are."" You !" said the old man, contemptuously, "What do you know of the time when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read and read, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reason wandered beneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers were exhausted; till morning's light brought no freshness or health to them;and they sank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful energies to their dry old books? Coming down to a later time, and a very different day, what do you know of the gradual sinking beneath consumption, or the quick wasting of fever--the grand results of `life' and dissipation--which men have undergone in these same rooms? How many vain pleaders for mercy, do you think have turned away heart-sick from the lawyer's office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge in the gaol? They are no ordinary houses, those.There is not a panel in the old wainscotting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale of horror--the romance of life, sir, the romance of life! Common-place as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific sounding name, than the true history of one old set of chambers."There was something so odd in the old man's sudden energy, and the subject which had called it forth, that Mr.Pickwick was prepared with no observation in reply; and the old man checking his impetuosity, and resuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previous excitement, said:

"Look at them in another light: their most common-place and least romantic.

What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy man who has spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, to enter the profession, which will never yield him a morsel of bread.The waiting--the hope--the disappointment--the fear--the misery--the poverty--the blight on his hopes, and end to his career--the suicide perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard.Am I not right about them?" And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight at having found another point of view in which to place his favourite subject.

Mr.Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder of the company smiled, and looked on in silence.

"Talk of your German universities," said the little old man."Pooh, pooh! there's romance enough at home without going half a mile for it;only people never think of it."

"I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before, certainly,"said Mr.Pickwick, laughing.

"To be sure you didn't," said the little old man, "of course not.As a friend of mine used to say to me, `What is there is 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 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?"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 bed-room 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 mightn't be able to fancy there was any one behind him--`I can't make it out,' said he; and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame from top to toe.`I have felt this strange feeling before,' said he, `I cannot help thinking there's something wrong about that closet.' He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in his hand, and his face--well!" As the little old man concluded, he looked round on the attentive faces of his wondering auditory with a smile of grim delight.

"What strange things these are you tell us of, sir," said Mr.Pickwick, minutely scanning the old man's countenance, by the aid of his glasses.

"Strange!" said the little old man."Nonsense! you think them strange, because you know nothing about it.They are funny, but not uncommon.""Funny!" exclaimed Mr.Pickwick, involuntarily.

"Yes, funny, are they not?" replied the little old man, with a diabolical leer; and then, without pausing for an answer, he continued: