- end_line
- 2020
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:45.581Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1940
- text
- me, I recall how I had more than once observed this same middle-aged
gentleman, and how that toward the close of one of Jimmy's dinners
he would sit at the table pretending to be earnestly talking with
beaming Jimmy, but all the while, with a half furtive sort of tremulous
eagerness and hastiness, pour down glass after glass of noble wine, as
if now, while Jimmy's bounteous sun was at meridian, was the time to
make his selfish hay.
At last I met a person famed for his peculiar knowledge of whatever
was secret or withdrawn in the histories and habits of noted people.
When I inquired of this person where Jimmy could possibly be, he took
me close to Trinity Church rail, out of the jostling of the crowd, and
whispered me, that Jimmy had the evening before entered an old house
of his (Jimmy's), in C-- Street, which old house had been for a time
untenanted. The inference seemed to be that perhaps Jimmy might be
lurking there now. So getting the precise locality, I bent my steps
in that direction, and at last halted before the house containing
the room of roses. The shutters were closed, and cobwebs were spun
in their crescents. The whole place had a dreary, deserted air. The
snow lay unswept, drifted in one billowed heap against the porch, no
footprint tracking it. Whoever was within, surely that lonely man was
an abandoned one. Few or no people were in the street; for even at that
period one fashion of the street had departed from it, while trade had
not as yet occupied what its rival had renounced.
Looking up and down the sidewalk a moment, I softly knocked at the
door. No response. I knocked again, and louder. No one came. I knocked
and rung both; still without effect. In despair I was going to quit the
spot, when, as a last resource, I gave a prolonged summons, with my
utmost strength, upon the heavy knocker, and then again stood still;
while from various strange old windows up and down the street, various
strange old heads were thrust out in wonder at so clamorous a stranger.
As if now frightened from its silence, a hollow, husky voice addressed
me through the keyhole.
"Who are you?" it said.
"A friend."
"Then shall you not come in," replied the voice, more hollowly than
before.
Great heavens! this is not Jimmy Rose, thought I, starting. This is the
wrong house. I have been misdirected. But still, to make all sure, I
spoke again.
"Is James Rose within there?"
No reply.
Once more I spoke:
"I am William Ford; let me in."
"Oh, I can not, I can not! I am afraid of every one."
It _was_ Jimmy Rose!
"Let me in, Rose; let me in, man. I am your friend."
"I will not. I can trust no man now."
"Let me in, Rose; trust at least one, in me."
"Quit the spot, or--"
With that I heard a rattling against the huge lock, not made by
any key, as if some small tube were being thrust into the keyhole.
Horrified, I fled fast as feet could carry me.
I was a young man then, and Jimmy was not more than forty. It was
five-and-twenty years ere I saw him again. And what a change. He
whom I expected to behold--if behold at all--dry, shrunken, meagre,
cadaverously fierce with misery and misanthropy--amazement! the old
Persian roses bloomed in his cheeks. And yet poor as any rat; poor
in the last dregs of poverty; a pauper beyond almshouse pauperism; a
promenading pauper in a thin, threadbare, careful coat; a pauper with
wealth of polished words; a courteous, smiling, shivering gentleman.
Ah, poor, poor Jimmy--God guard us all--poor Jimmy Rose!
- title
- Chunk 18