fists; then reseating himself beside her, and supporting her in his

arms, added more calmly, ‘Rouse yourself, my dear girl. Pray, pray do.

You will revive yet.’

'‘Never again, George; never again,’ said the dying woman. ‘Let them

lay me by my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leave this

dreadful place, and should grow rich, you will have us removed to

some quiet country churchyard, a long, long way off - very far from

here - where we can rest in peace. Dear George, promise me you will.’

'‘I do, I do,’ said the man, throwing himself passionately on his knees

before her. ‘Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look - but one!’

'He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck grew stiff and

heavy. A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him; the lips

moved, and a smile played upon the face; but the lips were pallid, and

the smile faded into a rigid and ghastly stare. He was alone in the

world.

'That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, the

wretched man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on

God to witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himself

to revenge her death and that of his child; that thenceforth to the last

moment of his life, his whole energies should be directed to this one

object; that his revenge should be protracted and terrible; that his

hatred should be undying and inextinguishable; and should hunt its

object through the world.

'The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such

fierce ravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his

companions in misfortune shrank affrighted from him as he passed

by. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy, his face a deadly white, and

his body bent as if with age. He had bitten his under lip nearly

through in the violence of his mental suffering, and the blood which

had flowed from the wound had trickled down his chin, and stained

his shirt and neckerchief. No tear, or sound of complaint escaped him;

but the unsettled look, and disordered haste with which he paced up

and down the yard, denoted the fever which was burning within.

It was necessary that his wife's body should be removed from the

prison, without delay. He received the communication with perfect

calmness, and acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of

the prison had assembled to witness its removal; they fell back on

either side when the widower appeared; he walked hurriedly forward,

and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close to the lodge

gate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling of delicacy,

had retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly forward on men's

shoulders. A dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only by the

The Pickwick Papers