"The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his side. "I leave England to-morrow,' said Heyling, after a moment's pause-To-night I consign you to the living death to which you devoted her-a hopeless prison- "He raised his eyes to the old man's countenance, and paused. He lifted the light to his face, set it gently down, and left the apartment. "You had better see to the old man,' he said to the woman, as he opened the door, and motioned the officer to follow him into the street-'I think he is ill.' The woman closed the door, ran hastily up stairs, and found him lifeless. He had died in a fit. "Beneath a plain grave-stone, in one of the most peaceful and secluded churchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and the soft landscape around, forms the fairest spot in the garden of England, lie the bones of the young mother and her gentle child. But the ashes of the father do not mingle with theirs; nor from that night forward, did the attorney ever gain the remotest clue, to the subsequent history of his queer client." As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a peg in one corner, and taking down his hat and coat, put them on with great deliberation; and, without saying another word, walked slowly away. As the gentleman with the Mosaic studs had fallen asleep, and the major part of the company were deeply occupied in the humorous process of dropping melted tallow-grease into his brandy and water, Mr. Pickwick departed unnoticed, and having settled his own score, and that of Mr. Weller, he issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath the portal of the Magpie and Stump. CHAPTER XXII MR. PICKWICK JOURNEYS TO IPSWICH, AND MEETS WITH A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE WITH A MIDDLEAGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL PAPERS НАТ "THAT'ere your governor's luggage, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller senior, of his affectionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull Inn, Whitechapel, with a travelling bag and a small portmanteau. You might ha' made a worser guess than that, old feller," replied Mr. Weller the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting himself down upon it afterwards. "The Governor hisself'll be down here presently." 'He's a-cabbin' it, I suppose?" said the father. "Yes, he's a-havin' two mile o' danger at eight-pence," responded the son. "How's mother-in-law this mornin'?" "Queer, Sammy, queer," replied the elder Mr. Weller, with impressive gravity. "She's been gettin' rayther in the Methodistical order lately, Sammy; and she is uncommon pious, to be sure. She's too good a creetur for me, Sammy-I feel I don't deserve her." "Ah," said Mr. Samuel, "that's wery self-denyin' o' you." "Wery," replied his parent, with a sigh. "She's got hold o' some inwention for grown-up people being born again, Sammy-the new birth, thinks they calls it. I should wery much like to see that system in haction, Sammy. I should wery much like to see your motherin-law born again. Wouldn't I put her out to nurse!" "What do you think them women does t'other day," continued Mr. Weller, after a short pause, during which he had significantly struck the side of his nose with his fore-finger, some half-dozen times. "What do you think they does, t'other day, Sammy?" "Don't know," replied Sam, "what?" "Goes and gets up a grand tea drinkin' for a feller they calls their shepherd," said Mr. Weller. "I was a-standin' starin' in, at the pictur shop down at our place, when I sees 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 a-sittin' in our back parlour-fourteen women; I wish you could ha' heard 'em, Sammy. There they was, a-passin' resolutions, and wotin' supplies, and all sorts o' games. Well, what with your mother-in-law a-worrying me to go, and what with my looking for'ard to seein' some queer starts, if I did, I put my name down for a ticket; at six o'clock on the Friday evenin' I dresses myself out, wery smart, and off I goes vith the old 'ooman, and up we walks into a fust floor where there was tea things for thirty, and a whole lot o' women as begins whisperin' to one another, and lookin' at me, as if they'd had never seen a rayther stout gen'l'm'n of eight-and-fifty afore. By and bye, there comes a great bustle down stairs, and a lanky chap with a red nose and white neckcloth rushes up, and sings out,' Here's the shepherd a-coming to wisit his faithful |