Page:The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.djvu/281

219 THE PICKWICK CLUB. 219

pillars of living fire. The bones of men, who had perished in the dreary waste, lay scattered at his feet ; a fearful light fell on everything around ; and 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 waded 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 I It was indeed a well ; and the clear fresh stream was running at his fieet. He drank deeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sunk into a delicious trance. The sound of approaching foot- steps roused him. An old grey-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. It was he again. He wound his arms round the old man's body, and held him back. He struggled in powerful con- vulsions, 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 left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to find himself rich and free : to hear that the parent who would have let him die in gaol — would ! who had let those who were far dearer to him than his own existence, die of want and the sickness of heart that me^ the heart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even of his health and strength, he had put off the act till it was too late, and now might gnash his teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealth his remissness had left him. He woke to this, and he woke 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 I
 * ilicine cannot cure — had been found, dead in his bed of down. He had all

" 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 for ever; 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 summer time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he would issue from his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wan- dering 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 fragments of the rock, and burying his face in his hands, remain 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