Hunted Down | Charles Dickens | Full Audiobook

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Hunted Down by Charles Dickens Most of us see some romances in life. In my
capacity as Chief Manager of a Life Assurance Office, I think I have within the last thirty
years seen more romances than the generality of men, however unpromising the opportunity
may, at first sight, seem. As I have retired, and live at my ease, I
possess the means that I used to want, of considering what I have seen, at leisure.
My experiences have a more remarkable aspect, so reviewed, than they had when they were
in progress. I have come home from the Play now, and can recall the scenes of the Drama
upon which the curtain has fallen, free from the glare, bewilderment, and bustle of the
Theatre. Let me recall one of these Romances of the
real world. There is nothing truer than physiognomy, taken
in connection with manner. The art of reading that book of which Eternal Wisdom obliges
every human creature to present his or her own page with the individual character written
on it, is a difficult one, perhaps, and is little studied. It may require some natural
aptitude, and it must require (for everything does) some patience and some pains. That these
are not usually given to it, – that numbers of people accept a few stock commonplace expressions
of the face as the whole list of characteristics, and neither seek nor know the refinements
that are truest, – that You, for instance, give a great deal of time and attention to
the reading of music, Greek, Latin, French, Italian, Hebrew, if you please, and do not
qualify yourself to read the face of the master or mistress looking over your shoulder teaching
it to you, – I assume to be five hundred times more probable than improbable. Perhaps a little
self-sufficiency may be at the bottom of this; facial expression requires no study from you,
you think; it comes by nature to you to know enough about it, and you are not to be taken
in. I confess, for my part, that I HAVE been taken
in, over and over again. I have been taken in by acquaintances, and I have been taken
in (of course) by friends; far oftener by friends than by any other class of persons.
How came I to be so deceived? Had I quite misread their faces? No. Believe me, my first impression of those
people, founded on face and manner alone, was invariably true. My mistake was in suffering
them to come nearer to me and explain themselves away. The partition which separated my own office
from our general outer office in the City was of thick plate-glass. I could see through
it what passed in the outer office, without hearing a word. I had it put up in place of
a wall that had been there for years, – ever since the house was built. It is no matter
whether I did or did not make the change in order that I might derive my first impression
of strangers, who came to us on business, from their faces alone, without being influenced
by anything they said. Enough to mention that I turned my glass partition to that account,
and that a Life Assurance Office is at all times exposed to be practised upon by the
most crafty and cruel of the human race. It was through my glass partition that I first
saw the gentleman whose story I am going to tell. He had come in without my observing it, and
had put his hat and umbrella on the broad counter, and was bending over it to take some
papers from one of the clerks. He was about forty or so, dark, exceedingly well dressed
in black, – being in mourning, – and the hand he extended with a polite air, had a particularly
well-fitting black-kid glove upon it. His hair, which was elaborately brushed and oiled,
was parted straight up the middle; and he presented this parting to the clerk, exactly
(to my thinking) as if he had said, in so many words: ‘You must take me, if you please,
my friend, just as I show myself. Come straight up here, follow the gravel path, keep off
the grass, I allow no trespassing.’ I conceived a very great aversion to that
man the moment I thus saw him. He had asked for some of our printed forms,
and the clerk was giving them to him and explaining them. An obliged and agreeable smile was on
his face, and his eyes met those of the clerk with a sprightly look. (I have known a vast
quantity of nonsense talked about bad men not looking you in the face. Don’t trust that
conventional idea. Dishonesty will stare honesty out of countenance, any day in the week, if
there is anything to be got by it.) I saw, in the corner of his eyelash, that
he became aware of my looking at him. Immediately he turned the parting in his hair toward the
glass partition, as if he said to me with a sweet smile, ‘Straight up here, if you please.
Off the grass!’ In a few moments he had put on his hat and
taken up his umbrella, and was gone. I beckoned the clerk into my room, and asked,
‘Who was that?’ He had the gentleman’s card in his hand. ‘Mr.
Julius Slinkton, Middle Temple.’ ‘A barrister, Mr. Adams?’ ‘I think not, sir.’ ‘I should have thought him a clergyman, but
for his having no Reverend here,’ said I. ‘Probably, from his appearance,’ Mr. Adams
replied, ‘he is reading for orders.’ I should mention that he wore a dainty white
cravat, and dainty linen altogether. ‘What did he want, Mr. Adams?’ ‘Merely a form of proposal, sir, and form
of reference.’ ‘Recommended here? Did he say?’ ‘Yes, he said he was recommended here by a
friend of yours. He noticed you, but said that as he had not the pleasure of your personal
acquaintance he would not trouble you.’ ‘Did he know my name?’ ‘O yes, sir! He said, “There IS Mr. Sampson,
I see!”‘ ‘A well-spoken gentleman, apparently?’ ‘Remarkably so, sir.’ ‘Insinuating manners, apparently?’ ‘Very much so, indeed, sir.’ ‘Hah!’ said I. ‘I want nothing at present,
Mr. Adams.’ Within a fortnight of that day I went to dine
with a friend of mine, a merchant, a man of taste, who buys pictures and books, and the
first man I saw among the company was Mr. Julius Slinkton. There he was, standing before
the fire, with good large eyes and an open expression of face; but still (I thought)
requiring everybody to come at him by the prepared way he offered, and by no other. I noticed him ask my friend to introduce him
to Mr. Sampson, and my friend did so. Mr. Slinkton was very happy to see me. Not too
happy; there was no over-doing of the matter; happy in a thoroughly well-bred, perfectly
unmeaning way. ‘I thought you had met,’ our host observed. ‘No,’ said Mr. Slinkton. ‘I did look in at
Mr. Sampson’s office, on your recommendation; but I really did not feel justified in troubling
Mr. Sampson himself, on a point in the everyday, routine of an ordinary clerk.’ I said I should have been glad to show him
any attention on our friend’s introduction. ‘I am sure of that,’ said he, ‘and am much
obliged. At another time, perhaps, I may be less delicate. Only, however, if I have real
business; for I know, Mr. Sampson, how precious business time is, and what a vast number of
impertinent people there are in the world.’ I acknowledged his consideration with a slight
bow. ‘You were thinking,’ said I, ‘of effecting a policy on your life.’ ‘O dear no! I am afraid I am not so prudent
as you pay me the compliment of supposing me to be, Mr. Sampson. I merely inquired for
a friend. But you know what friends are in such matters. Nothing may ever come of it.
I have the greatest reluctance to trouble men of business with inquiries for friends,
knowing the probabilities to be a thousand to one that the friends will never follow
them up. People are so fickle, so selfish, so inconsiderate. Don’t you, in your business,
find them so every day, Mr. Sampson?’ I was going to give a qualified answer; but
he turned his smooth, white parting on me with its ‘Straight up here, if you please!’
and I answered ‘Yes.’ ‘I hear, Mr. Sampson,’ he resumed presently,
for our friend had a new cook, and dinner was not so punctual as usual, ‘that your profession
has recently suffered a great loss.’ ‘In money?’ said I. He laughed at my ready association of loss
with money, and replied, ‘No, in talent and vigour.’ Not at once following out his allusion, I
considered for a moment. ‘HAS it sustained a loss of that kind?’ said I. ‘I was not aware
of it.’ ‘Understand me, Mr. Sampson. I don’t imagine
that you have retired. It is not so bad as that. But Mr. Meltham – ‘ ‘O, to be sure!’ said I. ‘Yes! Mr. Meltham,
the young actuary of the “Inestimable.”‘ ‘Just so,’ he returned in a consoling way. ‘He is a great loss. He was at once the most
profound, the most original, and the most energetic man I have ever known connected
with Life Assurance.’ I spoke strongly; for I had a high esteem
and admiration for Meltham; and my gentleman had indefinitely conveyed to me some suspicion
that he wanted to sneer at him. He recalled me to my guard by presenting that trim pathway
up his head, with its internal ‘Not on the grass, if you please – the gravel.’ ‘You knew him, Mr. Slinkton.’ ‘Only by reputation. To have known him as
an acquaintance or as a friend, is an honour I should have sought if he had remained in
society, though I might never have had the good fortune to attain it, being a man of
far inferior mark. He was scarcely above thirty, I suppose?’ ‘About thirty.’ ‘Ah!’ he sighed in his former consoling way.
‘What creatures we are! To break up, Mr. Sampson, and become incapable of business at that time
of life! – Any reason assigned for the melancholy fact?’ (‘Humph!’ thought I, as I looked at him. ‘But
I WON’T go up the track, and I WILL go on the grass.’) ‘What reason have you heard assigned, Mr.
Slinkton?’ I asked, point-blank. ‘Most likely a false one. You know what Rumour
is, Mr. Sampson. I never repeat what I hear; it is the only way of paring the nails and
shaving the head of Rumour. But when YOU ask me what reason I have heard assigned for Mr.
Meltham’s passing away from among men, it is another thing. I am not gratifying idle
gossip then. I was told, Mr. Sampson, that Mr. Meltham had relinquished all his avocations
and all his prospects, because he was, in fact, broken- hearted. A disappointed attachment
I heard, – though it hardly seems probable, in the case of a man so distinguished and
so attractive.’ ‘Attractions and distinctions are no armour
against death,’ said I. ‘O, she died? Pray pardon me. I did not hear
that. That, indeed, makes it very, very sad. Poor Mr. Meltham! She died? Ah, dear me! Lamentable,
lamentable!’ I still thought his pity was not quite genuine,
and I still suspected an unaccountable sneer under all this, until he said, as we were
parted, like the other knots of talkers, by the announcement of dinner: ‘Mr. Sampson, you are surprised to see me
so moved on behalf of a man whom I have never known. I am not so disinterested as you may
suppose. I have suffered, and recently too, from death myself. I have lost one of two
charming nieces, who were my constant companions. She died young – barely three-and-twenty;
and even her remaining sister is far from strong. The world is a grave!’ He said this with deep feeling, and I felt
reproached for the coldness of my manner. Coldness and distrust had been engendered
in me, I knew, by my bad experiences; they were not natural to me; and I often thought
how much I had lost in life, losing trustfulness, and how little I had gained, gaining hard
caution. This state of mind being habitual to me, I troubled myself more about this conversation
than I might have troubled myself about a greater matter. I listened to his talk at
dinner, and observed how readily other men responded to it, and with what a graceful
instinct he adapted his subjects to the knowledge and habits of those he talked with. As, in
talking with me, he had easily started the subject I might be supposed to understand
best, and to be the most interested in, so, in talking with others, he guided himself
by the same rule. The company was of a varied character; but he was not at fault, that I
could discover, with any member of it. He knew just as much of each man’s pursuit as
made him agreeable to that man in reference to it, and just as little as made it natural
in him to seek modestly for information when the theme was broached. As he talked and talked – but really not too
much, for the rest of us seemed to force it upon him – I became quite angry with myself.
I took his face to pieces in my mind, like a watch, and examined it in detail. I could
not say much against any of his features separately; I could say even less against them when they
were put together. ‘Then is it not monstrous,’ I asked myself, ‘that because a man happens
to part his hair straight up the middle of his head, I should permit myself to suspect,
and even to detest him?’ (I may stop to remark that this was no proof
of my sense. An observer of men who finds himself steadily repelled by some apparently
trifling thing in a stranger is right to give it great weight. It may be the clue to the
whole mystery. A hair or two will show where a lion is hidden. A very little key will open
a very heavy door.) I took my part in the conversation with him
after a time, and we got on remarkably well. In the drawing-room I asked the host how long
he had known Mr. Slinkton. He answered, not many months; he had met him at the house of
a celebrated painter then present, who had known him well when he was travelling with
his nieces in Italy for their health. His plans in life being broken by the death of
one of them, he was reading with the intention of going back to college as a matter of form,
taking his degree, and going into orders. I could not but argue with myself that here
was the true explanation of his interest in poor Meltham, and that I had been almost brutal
in my distrust on that simple head. On the very next day but one I was sitting
behind my glass partition, as before, when he came into the outer office, as before.
The moment I saw him again without hearing him, I hated him worse than ever. It was only for a moment that I had this opportunity;
for he waved his tight-fitting black glove the instant I looked at him, and came straight
in. ‘Mr. Sampson, good-day! I presume, you see,
upon your kind permission to intrude upon you. I don’t keep my word in being justified
by business, for my business here – if I may so abuse the word – is of the slightest nature.’ I asked, was it anything I could assist him
in? ‘I thank you, no. I merely called to inquire
outside whether my dilatory friend had been so false to himself as to be practical and
sensible. But, of course, he has done nothing. I gave him your papers with my own hand, and
he was hot upon the intention, but of course he has done nothing. Apart from the general
human disinclination to do anything that ought to be done, I dare say there is a specially
about assuring one’s life. You find it like will-making. People are so superstitious,
and take it for granted they will die soon afterwards.’ ‘Up here, if you please; straight up here,
Mr. Sampson. Neither to the right nor to the left.’ I almost fancied I could hear him breathe
the words as he sat smiling at me, with that intolerable parting exactly opposite the bridge
of my nose. ‘There is such a feeling sometimes, no doubt,’
I replied; ‘but I don’t think it obtains to any great extent.’ ‘Well,’ said he, with a shrug and a smile,
‘I wish some good angel would influence my friend in the right direction. I rashly promised
his mother and sister in Norfolk to see it done, and he promised them that he would do
it. But I suppose he never will.’ He spoke for a minute or two on indifferent
topics, and went away. I had scarcely unlocked the drawers of my
writing-table next morning, when he reappeared. I noticed that he came straight to the door
in the glass partition, and did not pause a single moment outside. ‘Can you spare me two minutes, my dear Mr.
Sampson?’ ‘By all means.’ ‘Much obliged,’ laying his hat and umbrella
on the table; ‘I came early, not to interrupt you. The fact is, I am taken by surprise in
reference to this proposal my friend has made.’ ‘Has he made one?’ said I. ‘Ye-es,’ he answered, deliberately looking
at me; and then a bright idea seemed to strike him – ‘or he only tells me he has. Perhaps
that may be a new way of evading the matter. By Jupiter, I never thought of that!’ Mr. Adams was opening the morning’s letters
in the outer office. ‘What is the name, Mr. Slinkton?’ I asked. ‘Beckwith.’ I looked out at the door and requested Mr.
Adams, if there were a proposal in that name, to bring it in. He had already laid it out
of his hand on the counter. It was easily selected from the rest, and he gave it me.
Alfred Beckwith. Proposal to effect a policy with us for two thousand pounds. Dated yesterday. ‘From the Middle Temple, I see, Mr. Slinkton.’ ‘Yes. He lives on the same staircase with
me; his door is opposite. I never thought he would make me his reference though.’ ‘It seems natural enough that he should.’ ‘Quite so, Mr. Sampson; but I never thought
of it. Let me see.’ He took the printed paper from his pocket. ‘How am I to answer all these
questions?’ ‘According to the truth, of course,’ said
I. ‘O, of course!’ he answered, looking up from
the paper with a smile; ‘I meant they were so many. But you do right to be particular.
It stands to reason that you must be particular. Will you allow me to use your pen and ink?’ ‘Certainly.’ ‘And your desk?’ ‘Certainly.’ He had been hovering about between his hat
and his umbrella for a place to write on. He now sat down in my chair, at my blotting-
paper and inkstand, with the long walk up his head in accurate perspective before me,
as I stood with my back to the fire. Before answering each question he ran over
it aloud, and discussed it. How long had he known Mr. Alfred Beckwith? That he had to
calculate by years upon his fingers. What were his habits? No difficulty about them;
temperate in the last degree, and took a little too much exercise, if anything. All the answers
were satisfactory. When he had written them all, he looked them over, and finally signed
them in a very pretty hand. He supposed he had now done with the business. I told him
he was not likely to be troubled any farther. Should he leave the papers there? If he pleased.
Much obliged. Good-morning. I had had one other visitor before him; not
at the office, but at my own house. That visitor had come to my bedside when it was not yet
daylight, and had been seen by no one else but by my faithful confidential servant. A second reference paper (for we required
always two) was sent down into Norfolk, and was duly received back by post. This, likewise,
was satisfactorily answered in every respect. Our forms were all complied with; we accepted
the proposal, and the premium for one year was paid. For six or seven months I saw no more of Mr.
Slinkton. He called once at my house, but I was not at home; and he once asked me to
dine with him in the Temple, but I was engaged. His friend’s assurance was effected in March.
Late in September or early in October I was down at Scarborough for a breath of sea-air,
where I met him on the beach. It was a hot evening; he came toward me with his hat in
his hand; and there was the walk I had felt so strongly disinclined to take in perfect
order again, exactly in front of the bridge of my nose. He was not alone, but had a young lady on
his arm. She was dressed in mourning, and I looked
at her with great interest. She had the appearance of being extremely delicate, and her face
was remarkably pale and melancholy; but she was very pretty. He introduced her as his
niece, Miss Niner. ‘Are you strolling, Mr. Sampson? Is it possible
you can be idle?’ It WAS possible, and I WAS strolling. ‘Shall we stroll together?’ ‘With pleasure.’ The young lady walked between us, and we walked
on the cool sea sand, in the direction of Filey. ‘There have been wheels here,’ said Mr. Slinkton.
‘And now I look again, the wheels of a hand-carriage! Margaret, my love, your shadow without doubt!’ ‘Miss Niner’s shadow?’ I repeated, looking
down at it on the sand. ‘Not that one,’ Mr. Slinkton returned, laughing.
‘Margaret, my dear, tell Mr. Sampson.’ ‘Indeed,’ said the young lady, turning to
me, ‘there is nothing to tell – except that I constantly see the same invalid old gentleman
at all times, wherever I go. I have mentioned it to my uncle, and he calls the gentleman
my shadow.’ ‘Does he live in Scarborough?’ I asked. ‘He is staying here.’ ‘Do you live in Scarborough?’ ‘No, I am staying here. My uncle has placed
me with a family here, for my health.’ ‘And your shadow?’ said I, smiling. ‘My shadow,’ she answered, smiling too, ‘is
– like myself – not very robust, I fear; for I lose my shadow sometimes, as my shadow loses
me at other times. We both seem liable to confinement to the house. I have not seen
my shadow for days and days; but it does oddly happen, occasionally, that wherever I go,
for many days together, this gentleman goes. We have come together in the most unfrequented
nooks on this shore.’ ‘Is this he?’ said I, pointing before us. The wheels had swept down to the water’s edge,
and described a great loop on the sand in turning. Bringing the loop back towards us,
and spinning it out as it came, was a hand-carriage, drawn by a man. ‘Yes,’ said Miss Niner, ‘this really is my
shadow, uncle.’ As the carriage approached us and we approached
the carriage, I saw within it an old man, whose head was sunk on his breast, and who
was enveloped in a variety of wrappers. He was drawn by a very quiet but very keen-looking
man, with iron-gray hair, who was slightly lame. They had passed us, when the carriage
stopped, and the old gentleman within, putting out his arm, called to me by my name. I went
back, and was absent from Mr. Slinkton and his niece for about five minutes. When I rejoined them, Mr. Slinkton was the
first to speak. Indeed, he said to me in a raised voice before I came up with him: ‘It is well you have not been longer, or my
niece might have died of curiosity to know who her shadow is, Mr. Sampson.’ ‘An old East India Director,’ said I. ‘An
intimate friend of our friend’s, at whose house I first had the pleasure of meeting
you. A certain Major Banks. You have heard of him?’ ‘Never.’ ‘Very rich, Miss Niner; but very old, and
very crippled. An amiable man, sensible – much interested in you. He has just been expatiating
on the affection that he has observed to exist between you and your uncle.’ Mr. Slinkton was holding his hat again, and
he passed his hand up the straight walk, as if he himself went up it serenely, after me. ‘Mr. Sampson,’ he said, tenderly pressing
his niece’s arm in his, ‘our affection was always a strong one, for we have had but few
near ties. We have still fewer now. We have associations to bring us together, that are
not of this world, Margaret.’ ‘Dear uncle!’ murmured the young lady, and
turned her face aside to hide her tears. ‘My niece and I have such remembrances and
regrets in common, Mr. Sampson,’ he feelingly pursued, ‘that it would be strange indeed
if the relations between us were cold or indifferent. If I remember a conversation we once had together,
you will understand the reference I make. Cheer up, dear Margaret. Don’t droop, don’t
droop. My Margaret! I cannot bear to see you droop!’ The poor young lady was very much affected,
but controlled herself. His feelings, too, were very acute. In a word, he found himself
under such great need of a restorative, that he presently went away, to take a bath of
sea-water, leaving the young lady and me sitting by a point of rock, and probably presuming
– but that you will say was a pardonable indulgence in a luxury – that she would praise him with
all her heart. She did, poor thing! With all her confiding
heart, she praised him to me, for his care of her dead sister, and for his untiring devotion
in her last illness. The sister had wasted away very slowly, and wild and terrible fantasies
had come over her toward the end, but he had never been impatient with her, or at a loss;
had always been gentle, watchful, and self-possessed. The sister had known him, as she had known
him, to be the best of men, the kindest of men, and yet a man of such admirable strength
of character, as to be a very tower for the support of their weak natures while their
poor lives endured. ‘I shall leave him, Mr. Sampson, very soon,’
said the young lady; ‘I know my life is drawing to an end; and when I am gone, I hope he will
marry and be happy. I am sure he has lived single so long, only for my sake, and for
my poor, poor sister’s.’ The little hand-carriage had made another
great loop on the damp sand, and was coming back again, gradually spinning out a slim
figure of eight, half a mile long. ‘Young lady,’ said I, looking around, laying
my hand upon her arm, and speaking in a low voice, ‘time presses. You hear the gentle
murmur of that sea?’ She looked at me with the utmost wonder and
alarm, saying, ‘Yes!’ ‘And you know what a voice is in it when the
storm comes?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘You see how quiet and peaceful it lies before
us, and you know what an awful sight of power without pity it might be, this very night!’ ‘Yes!’ ‘But if you had never heard or seen it, or
heard of it in its cruelty, could you believe that it beats every inanimate thing in its
way to pieces, without mercy, and destroys life without remorse?’ ‘You terrify me, sir, by these questions!’ ‘To save you, young lady, to save you! For
God’s sake, collect your strength and collect your firmness! If you were here alone, and
hemmed in by the rising tide on the flow to fifty feet above your head, you could not
be in greater danger than the danger you are now to be saved from.’ The figure on the sand was spun out, and straggled
off into a crooked little jerk that ended at the cliff very near us. ‘As I am, before Heaven and the Judge of all
mankind, your friend, and your dead sister’s friend, I solemnly entreat you, Miss Niner,
without one moment’s loss of time, to come to this gentleman with me!’ If the little carriage had been less near
to us, I doubt if I could have got her away; but it was so near that we were there before
she had recovered the hurry of being urged from the rock. I did not remain there with
her two minutes. Certainly within five, I had the inexpressible satisfaction of seeing
her – from the point we had sat on, and to which I had returned – half supported and
half carried up some rude steps notched in the cliff, by the figure of an active man.
With that figure beside her, I knew she was safe anywhere. I sat alone on the rock, awaiting Mr. Slinkton’s
return. The twilight was deepening and the shadows were heavy, when he came round the
point, with his hat hanging at his button-hole, smoothing his wet hair with one of his hands,
and picking out the old path with the other and a pocket-comb. ‘My niece not here, Mr. Sampson?’ he said,
looking about. ‘Miss Niner seemed to feel a chill in the
air after the sun was down, and has gone home.’ He looked surprised, as though she were not
accustomed to do anything without him; even to originate so slight a proceeding. ‘I persuaded Miss Niner,’ I explained. ‘Ah!’ said he. ‘She is easily persuaded – for
her good. Thank you, Mr. Sampson; she is better within doors. The bathing-place was farther
than I thought, to say the truth.’ ‘Miss Niner is very delicate,’ I observed. He shook his head and drew a deep sigh. ‘Very,
very, very. You may recollect my saying so. The time that has since intervened has not
strengthened her. The gloomy shadow that fell upon her sister so early in life seems, in
my anxious eyes, to gather over her, ever darker, ever darker. Dear Margaret, dear Margaret!
But we must hope.’ The hand-carriage was spinning away before
us at a most indecorous pace for an invalid vehicle, and was making most irregular curves
upon the sand. Mr. Slinkton, noticing it after he had put his handkerchief to his eyes, said; ‘If I may judge from appearances, your friend
will be upset, Mr. Sampson.’ ‘It looks probable, certainly,’ said I. ‘The servant must be drunk.’ ‘The servants of old gentlemen will get drunk
sometimes,’ said I. ‘The major draws very light, Mr. Sampson.’ ‘The major does draw light,’ said I. By this time the carriage, much to my relief,
was lost in the darkness. We walked on for a little, side by side over the sand, in silence.
After a short while he said, in a voice still affected by the emotion that his niece’s state
of health had awakened in him, ‘Do you stay here long, Mr. Sampson?’ ‘Why, no. I am going away to-night.’ ‘So soon? But business always holds you in
request. Men like Mr. Sampson are too important to others, to be spared to their own need
of relaxation and enjoyment.’ ‘I don’t know about that,’ said I. ‘However,
I am going back.’ ‘To London?’ ‘To London.’ ‘I shall be there too, soon after you.’ I knew that as well as he did. But I did not
tell him so. Any more than I told him what defensive weapon my right hand rested on in
my pocket, as I walked by his side. Any more than I told him why I did not walk on the
sea side of him with the night closing in. We left the beach, and our ways diverged.
We exchanged goodnight, and had parted indeed, when he said, returning, ‘Mr. Sampson, MAY I ask? Poor Meltham, whom
we spoke of, – dead yet?’ ‘Not when I last heard of him; but too broken
a man to live long, and hopelessly lost to his old calling.’ ‘Dear, dear, dear!’ said he, with great feeling.
‘Sad, sad, sad! The world is a grave!’ And so went his way. It was not his fault if the world were not
a grave; but I did not call that observation after him, any more than I had mentioned those
other things just now enumerated. He went his way, and I went mine with all expedition.
This happened, as I have said, either at the end of September or beginning of October.
The next time I saw him, and the last time, was late in November. I had a very particular engagement to breakfast
in the Temple. It was a bitter north-easterly morning, and the sleet and slush lay inches
deep in the streets. I could get no conveyance, and was soon wet to the knees; but I should
have been true to that appointment, though I had to wade to it up to my neck in the same
impediments. The appointment took me to some chambers in
the Temple. They were at the top of a lonely corner house overlooking the river. The name,
MR. ALFRED BECKWITH, was painted on the outer door. On the door opposite, on the same landing,
the name MR. JULIUS SLINKTON. The doors of both sets of chambers stood open, so that
anything said aloud in one set could be heard in the other. I had never been in those chambers before.
They were dismal, close, unwholesome, and oppressive; the furniture, originally good,
and not yet old, was faded and dirty, – the rooms were in great disorder; there was a
strong prevailing smell of opium, brandy, and tobacco; the grate and fire-irons were
splashed all over with unsightly blotches of rust; and on a sofa by the fire, in the
room where breakfast had been prepared, lay the host, Mr. Beckwith, a man with all the
appearances of the worst kind of drunkard, very far advanced upon his shameful way to
death. ‘Slinkton is not come yet,’ said this creature,
staggering up when I went in; ‘I’ll call him. – Halloa! Julius Caesar! Come and drink!’
As he hoarsely roared this out, he beat the poker and tongs together in a mad way, as
if that were his usual manner of summoning his associate. The voice of Mr. Slinkton was heard through
the clatter from the opposite side of the staircase, and he came in. He had not expected
the pleasure of meeting me. I have seen several artful men brought to a stand, but I never
saw a man so aghast as he was when his eyes rested on mine. ‘Julius Caesar,’ cried Beckwith, staggering
between us, ‘Mist’ Sampson! Mist’ Sampson, Julius Caesar! Julius, Mist’ Sampson, is the
friend of my soul. Julius keeps me plied with liquor, morning, noon, and night. Julius is
a real benefactor. Julius threw the tea and coffee out of window when I used to have any.
Julius empties all the water-jugs of their contents, and fills ’em with spirits. Julius
winds me up and keeps me going. – Boil the brandy, Julius!’ There was a rusty and furred saucepan in the
ashes, – the ashes looked like the accumulation of weeks, – and Beckwith, rolling and staggering
between us as if he were going to plunge headlong into the fire, got the saucepan out, and tried
to force it into Slinkton’s hand. ‘Boil the brandy, Julius Caesar! Come! Do
your usual office. Boil the brandy!’ He became so fierce in his gesticulations
with the saucepan, that I expected to see him lay open Slinkton’s head with it. I therefore
put out my hand to check him. He reeled back to the sofa, and sat there panting, shaking,
and red-eyed, in his rags of dressing-gown, looking at us both. I noticed then that there
was nothing to drink on the table but brandy, and nothing to eat but salted herrings, and
a hot, sickly, highly-peppered stew. ‘At all events, Mr. Sampson,’ said Slinkton,
offering me the smooth gravel path for the last time, ‘I thank you for interfering between
me and this unfortunate man’s violence. However you came here, Mr. Sampson, or with whatever
motive you came here, at least I thank you for that.’ ‘Boil the brandy,’ muttered Beckwith. Without gratifying his desire to know how
I came there, I said, quietly, ‘How is your niece, Mr. Slinkton?’ He looked hard at me, and I looked hard at
him. ‘I am sorry to say, Mr. Sampson, that my niece
has proved treacherous and ungrateful to her best friend. She left me without a word of
notice or explanation. She was misled, no doubt, by some designing rascal. Perhaps you
may have heard of it.’ ‘I did hear that she was misled by a designing
rascal. In fact, I have proof of it.’ ‘Are you sure of that?’ said he. ‘Quite.’ ‘Boil the brandy,’ muttered Beckwith. ‘Company
to breakfast, Julius Caesar. Do your usual office, – provide the usual breakfast, dinner,
tea, and supper. Boil the brandy!’ The eyes of Slinkton looked from him to me,
and he said, after a moment’s consideration, ‘Mr. Sampson, you are a man of the world,
and so am I. I will be plain with you.’ ‘O no, you won’t,’ said I, shaking my head. ‘I tell you, sir, I will be plain with you.’ ‘And I tell you you will not,’ said I. ‘I
know all about you. YOU plain with any one? Nonsense, nonsense!’ ‘I plainly tell you, Mr. Sampson,’ he went
on, with a manner almost composed, ‘that I understand your object. You want to save your
funds, and escape from your liabilities; these are old tricks of trade with you Office-gentlemen.
But you will not do it, sir; you will not succeed. You have not an easy adversary to
play against, when you play against me. We shall have to inquire, in due time, when and
how Mr. Beckwith fell into his present habits. With that remark, sir, I put this poor creature,
and his incoherent wanderings of speech, aside, and wish you a good morning and a better case
next time.’ While he was saying this, Beckwith had filled
a half-pint glass with brandy. At this moment, he threw the brandy at his face, and threw
the glass after it. Slinkton put his hands up, half blinded with the spirit, and cut
with the glass across the forehead. At the sound of the breakage, a fourth person came
into the room, closed the door, and stood at it; he was a very quiet but very keen-looking
man, with iron-gray hair, and slightly lame. Slinkton pulled out his handkerchief, assuaged
the pain in his smarting eyes, and dabbled the blood on his forehead. He was a long time
about it, and I saw that in the doing of it, a tremendous change came over him, occasioned
by the change in Beckwith, – who ceased to pant and tremble, sat upright, and never took
his eyes off him. I never in my life saw a face in which abhorrence and determination
were so forcibly painted as in Beckwith’s then. ‘Look at me, you villain,’ said Beckwith,
‘and see me as I really am. I took these rooms, to make them a trap for you. I came into them
as a drunkard, to bait the trap for you. You fell into the trap, and you will never leave
it alive. On the morning when you last went to Mr. Sampson’s office, I had seen him first.
Your plot has been known to both of us, all along, and you have been counter- plotted
all along. What? Having been cajoled into putting that prize of two thousand pounds
in your power, I was to be done to death with brandy, and, brandy not proving quick enough,
with something quicker? Have I never seen you, when you thought my senses gone, pouring
from your little bottle into my glass? Why, you Murderer and Forger, alone here with you
in the dead of night, as I have so often been, I have had my hand upon the trigger of a pistol,
twenty times, to blow your brains out!’ This sudden starting up of the thing that
he had supposed to be his imbecile victim into a determined man, with a settled resolution
to hunt him down and be the death of him, mercilessly expressed from head to foot, was,
in the first shock, too much for him. Without any figure of speech, he staggered under it.
But there is no greater mistake than to suppose that a man who is a calculating criminal,
is, in any phase of his guilt, otherwise than true to himself, and perfectly consistent
with his whole character. Such a man commits murder, and murder is the natural culmination
of his course; such a man has to outface murder, and will do it with hardihood and effrontery.
It is a sort of fashion to express surprise that any notorious criminal, having such crime
upon his conscience, can so brave it out. Do you think that if he had it on his conscience
at all, or had a conscience to have it upon, he would ever have committed the crime? Perfectly consistent with himself, as I believe
all such monsters to be, this Slinkton recovered himself, and showed a defiance that was sufficiently
cold and quiet. He was white, he was haggard, he was changed; but only as a sharper who
had played for a great stake and had been outwitted and had lost the game. ‘Listen to me, you villain,’ said Beckwith,
‘and let every word you hear me say be a stab in your wicked heart. When I took these rooms,
to throw myself in your way and lead you on to the scheme that I knew my appearance and
supposed character and habits would suggest to such a devil, how did I know that? Because
you were no stranger to me. I knew you well. And I knew you to be the cruel wretch who,
for so much money, had killed one innocent girl while she trusted him implicitly, and
who was by inches killing another.’ Slinkton took out a snuff-box, took a pinch
of snuff, and laughed. ‘But see here,’ said Beckwith, never looking
away, never raising his voice, never relaxing his face, never unclenching his hand. ‘See
what a dull wolf you have been, after all! The infatuated drunkard who never drank a
fiftieth part of the liquor you plied him with, but poured it away, here, there, everywhere
– almost before your eyes; who bought over the fellow you set to watch him and to ply
him, by outbidding you in his bribe, before he had been at his work three days – with
whom you have observed no caution, yet who was so bent on ridding the earth of you as
a wild beast, that he would have defeated you if you had been ever so prudent – that
drunkard whom you have, many a time, left on the floor of this room, and who has even
let you go out of it, alive and undeceived, when you have turned him over with your foot
– has, almost as often, on the same night, within an hour, within a few minutes, watched
you awake, had his hand at your pillow when you were asleep, turned over your papers,
taken samples from your bottles and packets of powder, changed their contents, rifled
every secret of your life!’ He had had another pinch of snuff in his hand,
but had gradually let it drop from between his fingers to the floor; where he now smoothed
it out with his foot, looking down at it the while. ‘That drunkard,’ said Beckwith, ‘who had free
access to your rooms at all times, that he might drink the strong drinks that you left
in his way and be the sooner ended, holding no more terms with you than he would hold
with a tiger, has had his master-key for all your locks, his test for all your poisons,
his clue to your cipher- writing. He can tell you, as well as you can tell him, how long
it took to complete that deed, what doses there were, what intervals, what signs of
gradual decay upon mind and body; what distempered fancies were produced, what observable changes,
what physical pain. He can tell you, as well as you can tell him, that all this was recorded
day by day, as a lesson of experience for future service. He can tell you, better than
you can tell him, where that journal is at this moment.’ Slinkton stopped the action of his foot, and
looked at Beckwith. ‘No,’ said the latter, as if answering a question
from him. ‘Not in the drawer of the writing-desk that opens with a spring; it is not there,
and it never will be there again.’ ‘Then you are a thief!’ said Slinkton. Without any change whatever in the inflexible
purpose, which it was quite terrific even to me to contemplate, and from the power of
which I had always felt convinced it was impossible for this wretch to escape, Beckwith returned, ‘And I am your niece’s shadow, too.’ With an imprecation Slinkton put his hand
to his head, tore out some hair, and flung it to the ground. It was the end of the smooth
walk; he destroyed it in the action, and it will soon be seen that his use for it was
past. Beckwith went on: ‘Whenever you left here,
I left here. Although I understood that you found it necessary to pause in the completion
of that purpose, to avert suspicion, still I watched you close, with the poor confiding
girl. When I had the diary, and could read it word by word, – it was only about the night
before your last visit to Scarborough, – you remember the night? you slept with a small
flat vial tied to your wrist, – I sent to Mr. Sampson, who was kept out of view. This
is Mr. Sampson’s trusty servant standing by the door. We three saved your niece among
us.’ Slinkton looked at us all, took an uncertain
step or two from the place where he had stood, returned to it, and glanced about him in a
very curious way, – as one of the meaner reptiles might, looking for a hole to hide in. I noticed
at the same time, that a singular change took place in the figure of the man, – as if it
collapsed within his clothes, and they consequently became ill-shapen and ill-fitting. ‘You shall know,’ said Beckwith, ‘for I hope
the knowledge will be bitter and terrible to you, why you have been pursued by one man,
and why, when the whole interest that Mr. Sampson represents would have expended any
money in hunting you down, you have been tracked to death at a single individual’s charge.
I hear you have had the name of Meltham on your lips sometimes?’ I saw, in addition to those other changes,
a sudden stoppage come upon his breathing. ‘When you sent the sweet girl whom you murdered
(you know with what artfully made-out surroundings and probabilities you sent her) to Meltham’s
office, before taking her abroad to originate the transaction that doomed her to the grave,
it fell to Meltham’s lot to see her and to speak with her. It did not fall to his lot
to save her, though I know he would freely give his own life to have done it. He admired
her; – I would say he loved her deeply, if I thought it possible that you could understand
the word. When she was sacrificed, he was thoroughly assured of your guilt. Having lost
her, he had but one object left in life, and that was to avenge her and destroy you.’ I saw the villain’s nostrils rise and fall
convulsively; but I saw no moving at his mouth. ‘That man Meltham,’ Beckwith steadily pursued,
‘was as absolutely certain that you could never elude him in this world, if he devoted
himself to your destruction with his utmost fidelity and earnestness, and if he divided
the sacred duty with no other duty in life, as he was certain that in achieving it he
would be a poor instrument in the hands of Providence, and would do well before Heaven
in striking you out from among living men. I am that man, and I thank God that I have
done my work!’ If Slinkton had been running for his life
from swift-footed savages, a dozen miles, he could not have shown more emphatic signs
of being oppressed at heart and labouring for breath, than he showed now, when he looked
at the pursuer who had so relentlessly hunted him down. ‘You never saw me under my right name before;
you see me under my right name now. You shall see me once again in the body, when you are
tried for your life. You shall see me once again in the spirit, when the cord is round
your neck, and the crowd are crying against you!’ When Meltham had spoken these last words,
the miscreant suddenly turned away his face, and seemed to strike his mouth with his open
hand. At the same instant, the room was filled with a new and powerful odour, and, almost
at the same instant, he broke into a crooked run, leap, start, – I have no name for the
spasm, – and fell, with a dull weight that shook the heavy old doors and windows in their
frames. That was the fitting end of him. When we saw that he was dead, we drew away
from the room, and Meltham, giving me his hand, said, with a weary air, ‘I have no more work on earth, my friend.
But I shall see her again elsewhere.’ It was in vain that I tried to rally him.
He might have saved her, he said; he had not saved her, and he reproached himself; he had
lost her, and he was broken-hearted. ‘The purpose that sustained me is over, Sampson,
and there is nothing now to hold me to life. I am not fit for life; I am weak and spiritless;
I have no hope and no object; my day is done.’ In truth, I could hardly have believed that
the broken man who then spoke to me was the man who had so strongly and so differently
impressed me when his purpose was before him. I used such entreaties with him, as I could;
but he still said, and always said, in a patient, undemonstrative way, – nothing could avail
him, – he was broken-hearted. He died early in the next spring. He was buried
by the side of the poor young lady for whom he had cherished those tender and unhappy
regrets; and he left all he had to her sister. She lived to be a happy wife and mother; she
married my sister’s son, who succeeded poor Meltham; she is living now, and her children
ride about the garden on my walking-stick when I go to see her.

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