had carried up every separate article in the dead of the night,
and, at the best, had felt as wicked as a Resurrection Man. Every
article was blue and furry when brought into his rooms, and he had
had, in a murderous and guilty sort of way, to polish it up while
London slept.
Mr. Testator lived in his furnished chambers two or three years, or
more, and gradually lulled himself into the opinion that the
furniture was his own. This was his convenient state of mind when,
late one night, a step came up the stairs, and a hand passed over
his door feeling for his knocker, and then one deep and solemn rap
was rapped that might have been a spring in Mr. Testator’s easychair
to shoot him out of it; so promptly was it attended with that
effect.
With a candle in his hand, Mr. Testator went to the door, and found
there, a very pale and very tall man; a man who stooped; a man with
very high shoulders, a very narrow chest, and a very red nose; a
shabby-genteel man. He was wrapped in a long thread-bare black
coat, fastened up the front with more pins than buttons, and under
his arm he squeezed an umbrella without a handle, as if he were
playing bagpipes. He said, ‘I ask your pardon, but can you tell me
– ‘ and stopped; his eyes resting on some object within the
chambers.
‘Can I tell you what?’ asked Mr. Testator, noting his stoppage with
quick alarm.
‘I ask your pardon,’ said the stranger, ‘but – this is not the
inquiry I was going to make – DO I see in there, any small article
of property belonging to ME?’
Mr. Testator was beginning to stammer that he was not aware – when
the visitor slipped past him, into the chambers. There, in a
goblin way which froze Mr. Testator to the marrow, he examined,
first, the writing-table, and said, ‘Mine;’ then, the easy-chair,
and said, ‘Mine;’ then, the bookcase, and said, ‘Mine;’ then,
turned up a corner of the carpet, and said, ‘Mine!’ in a word,
inspected every item of furniture from the cellar, in succession,
and said, ‘Mine!’ Towards the end of this investigation, Mr.
Testator perceived that he was sodden with liquor, and that the
liquor was gin. He was not unsteady with gin, either in his speech
or carriage; but he was stiff with gin in both particulars.
Mr. Testator was in a dreadful state, for (according to his making
out of the story) the possible consequences of what he had done in
recklessness and hardihood, flashed upon him in their fulness for
the first time. When they had stood gazing at one another for a
little while, he tremulously began:
‘Sir, I am conscious that the fullest explanation, compensation,
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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller
and restitution, are your due. They shall be yours. Allow me to
entreat that, without temper, without even natural irritation on
your part, we may have a little – ‘
‘Drop of something to drink,’ interposed the stranger. ‘I am
agreeable.’
Mr. Testator had intended to say, ‘a little quiet conversation,’
but with great relief of mind adopted the amendment. He produced a
decanter of gin, and was bustling about for hot water and sugar,
when he found that his visitor had already drunk half of the
decanter’s contents. With hot water and sugar the visitor drank
the remainder before he had been an hour in the chambers by the
chimes of the church of St. Mary in the Strand; and during the
process he frequently whispered to himself, ‘Mine!’
The gin gone, and Mr. Testator wondering what was to follow it, the
visitor rose and said, with increased stiffness, ‘At what hour of
the morning, sir, will it be convenient?’ Mr. Testator hazarded,
‘At ten?’ ‘Sir,’ said the visitor, ‘at ten, to the moment, I shall
be here.’ He then contemplated Mr. Testator somewhat at leisure,
and said, ‘God bless you! How is your wife?’ Mr. Testator (who
never had a wife) replied with much feeling, ‘Deeply anxious, poor
soul, but otherwise well.’ The visitor thereupon turned and went