THE DEAF GENTLEMAN FROM HIS OWN APARTMENT
Our dear friend laid down his pen at the end of the foregoing paragraph,to take it up no more. I little thought ever to employ mine upon sosorrowful a task as that which he has left me, and to which I now devoteit.
As he did not appear among us at his usual hour next morning, we knockedgently at his door. No answer being given, it was softly opened; andthen, to our surprise, we saw him seated before the ashes of his fire,with a little table I was accustomed to set at his elbow when I left himfor the night at a short distance from him, as though he had pushed itaway with the idea of rising and retiring to his bed. His crutch andfootstool lay at his feet as usual, and he was dressed in hischamber-gown, which he had put on before I left him. He was reclining inhis chair, in his accustomed posture, with his face towards the fire, andseemed absorbed in meditation,—indeed, at first, we almost hoped he was.
Going up to him, we found him dead. I have often, very often, seen himsleeping, and always peacefully, but I never saw him look so calm andtranquil. His face wore a serene, benign expression, which had impressedme very strongly when we last shook hands; not that he had ever had anyother look, God knows; but there was something in this so very spiritual,so strangely and indefinably allied to youth, although his head was grayand venerable, that it was new even in him. It came upon me all at oncewhen on some slight pretence he called me back upon the previous night totake me by the hand again, and once more say, ‘God bless you.’
A bell-rope hung within his reach, but he had not moved towards it; norhad he stirred, we all agreed, except, as I have said, to push away histable, which he could have done, and no doubt did, with a very slightmotion of his hand. He had relapsed for a moment into his late train ofmeditation, and, with a thoughtful smile upon his face, had died.
I had long known it to be his wish that whenever this event should cometo pass we might be all assembled in the house. I therefore lost no timein sending for Mr. Pickwick and for Mr. Miles, both of whom arrivedbefore the messenger’s return.
It is not my purpose to dilate upon the sorrow and affectionate emotionsof which I was at once the witness and the sharer. But I may say, of thehumbler mourners, that his faithful housekeeper was fairly heart-broken;that the poor barber would not be comforted; and that I shall respect thehomely truth and warmth of heart of Mr. Weller and his son to the lastmoment of my life.
‘And the sweet old creetur, sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller to me in theafternoon, ‘has bolted. Him as had no wice, and was so free from temperthat a infant might ha’ drove him, has been took at last with that ’ereunawoidable fit o’ staggers as we all must come to, and gone off his feedfor ever! I see him,’ said the old gentleman, with a moisture in hiseye, which could not be mistaken,—‘I see him gettin’, every journey, moreand more groggy; I says to Samivel, “My boy! the Grey’s a-goin’ at theknees;” and now my predilictions is fatally werified, and him as I couldnever do enough to serve or show my likin’ for, is up the great uniwersalspout o’ natur’.’
I was not the less sensible of the old man’s attachment because heexpressed it in his peculiar manner. Indeed, I can truly assert of bothhim and his son, that notwithstanding the extraordinary dialogues theyheld together, and the strange commentaries and corrections with whicheach of them illustrated the other’s speech, I do not think it possibleto exceed the sincerity of their regret; and that I am sure theirthoughtfulness and anxiety in anticipating the discharge of many littleoffices of sympathy would have done honour to the most delicate-mindedpersons.
Our friend had frequently told us that his will would be found in a boxin the Clock-case, the key of which was in his writing-desk. As he hadtold us also that he desired it to be opened immediately after his death,whenever that should happen, we met together that night for thefulfilment of his request.
We found it where he had told us, wrapped in a sealed paper, and with ita codicil of recent date, in which he named Mr. Miles and Mr. Pickwickhis executors,—as having no need of any greater benefit from his estatethan a generous token (which he bequeathed to them) of his friendship andremembrance.
After pointing out the spot in which he wished his ashes to repose, hegave to ‘his dear old friends,’ Jack Redburn and myself, his house, hisbooks, his furniture,—in short, all that his house contained; and withthis legacy more ample means of maintaining it in its present state thanwe, with our habits and at our terms of life, can ever exhaust. Besidesthese gifts, he left to us, in trust, an annual sum of no insignificantamount, to be distributed in charity among his accustomed pensioners—theyare a long list—and such other claimants on his bounty as might, fromtime to time, present themselves. And as true charity not only covers amultitude of sins, but includes a multitude of virtues, such asforgiveness, liberal construction, gentleness and mercy to the faults ofothers, and the remembrance of our own imperfections and advantages, hebade us not inquire too closely into the venial errors of the poor, butfinding that they _were_ poor, first to relieve and then endeavour—at anadvantage—to reclaim them.
To the housekeeper he left an annuity, sufficient for her comfortablemaintenance and support through life. For the barber, who had attendedhim many years, he made a similar provision. And I may make two remarksin this place: first, that I think this pair are very likely to clubtheir means together and make a match of it; and secondly, that I thinkmy friend had this result in his mind, for I have heard him say, morethan once, that he could not concur with the generality of mankind incensuring equal marriages made in later life, since there were many casesin which such unions could not fail to be a wise and rational source ofhappiness to both parties.
The elder Mr. Weller is so far from viewing this prospect with anyfeelings of jealousy, that he appears to be very much relieved by itscontemplation; and his son, if I am not mistaken, participates in thisfeeling. We are all of opinion, however, that the old gentleman’sdanger, even at its crisis, was very slight, and that he merely labouredunder one of those transitory weaknesses to which persons of histemperament are now and then liable, and which become less and lessalarming at every return, until they wholly subside. I have no doubt hewill remain a jolly old widower for the rest of his life, as he hasalready inquired of me, with much gravity, whether a writ of habeascorpus would enable him to settle his property upon Tony beyond thepossibility of recall; and has, in my presence, conjured his son, withtears in his eyes, that in the event of his ever becoming amorous again,he will put him in a strait-waistcoat until the fit is past, anddistinctly inform the lady that his property is ‘made over.’
Although I have very little doubt that Sam would dutifully comply withthese injunctions in a case of extreme necessity, and that he would do sowith perfect composure and coolness, I do not apprehend things will evercome to that pass, as the old gentleman seems perfectly happy in thesociety of his son, his pretty daughter-in-law, and his grandchildren,and has solemnly announced his determination to ‘take arter the old ’unin all respects;’ from which I infer that it is his intention to regulatehis conduct by the model of Mr. Pickwick, who will certainly set him theexample of a single life.
I have diverged for a moment from the subject with which I set out, for Iknow that my friend was interested in these little matters, and I have anatural tendency to linger upon any topic that occupied his thoughts orgave him pleasure and amusement. His remaining wishes are very brieflytold. He desired that we would make him the frequent subject of ourconversation; at the same time, that we would never speak of him with anair of gloom or restraint, but frankly, and as one whom we still lovedand hoped to meet again. He trusted that the old house would wear noaspect of mourning, but that it would be lively and cheerful; and that wewould not remove or cover up his picture, which hangs in our dining-room,but make it our companion as he had been. His own room, our place ofmeeting, remains, at his desire, in its accustomed state; our seats areplaced about the table as of old; his easy-chair, his desk, his crutch,his footstool
, hold their accustomed places, and the clock stands in itsfamiliar corner. We go into the chamber at stated times to see that allis as it should be, and to take care that the light and air are not shutout, for on that point he expressed a strong solicitude. But it was hisfancy that the apartment should not be inhabited; that it should bereligiously preserved in this condition, and that the voice of his oldcompanion should be heard no more.
My own history may be summed up in very few words; and even those Ishould have spared the reader but for my friend’s allusion to me sometime since. I have no deeper sorrow than the loss of a child,—an onlydaughter, who is living, and who fled from her father’s house but a fewweeks before our friend and I first met. I had never spoken of this evento him, because I have always loved her, and I could not bear to tell himof her error until I could tell him also of her sorrow and regret.Happily I was enabled to do so some time ago. And it will not be long,with Heaven’s leave, before she is restored to me; before I find in herand her husband the support of my declining years.
For my pipe, it is an old relic of home, a thing of no great worth, apoor trifle, but sacred to me for her sake.
Thus, since the death of our venerable friend, Jack Redburn and I havebeen the sole tenants of the old house; and, day by day, have loungedtogether in his favourite walks. Mindful of his injunctions, we havelong been able to speak of him with ease and cheerfulness, and toremember him as he would be remembered. From certain allusions whichJack has dropped, to his having been deserted and cast off in early life,I am inclined to believe that some passages of his youth may possibly beshadowed out in the history of Mr. Chester and his son, but seeing thathe avoids the subject, I have not pursued it.
[Picture: The Deserted Chamber]
My task is done. The chamber in which we have whiled away so many hours,not, I hope, without some pleasure and some profit, is deserted; ourhappy hour of meeting strikes no more; the chimney-corner has grown cold;and MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK has stopped for ever.