MRS. PREEDY'S YOUNG MAN LODGER.
The door of the kitchen opened outwards into the passage, and the man,
turning the handle with his right hand, stood upon the threshold with
his left raised and resting, for support, upon the framework. In Mrs.
Preedy's imagination, the concealed hand held the deadly weapon with
which she was to be murdered. There was, however, nothing very murderous
in the intruder's face, and when he advanced a step and his arms fell
peaceably by his sides, Mrs. Preedy saw, with a sigh of relief, that his
hands were empty. This sigh of relief was accompanied by a recognition
of the man, in whom she beheld a lodger named Richard Manx, who had
been her tenant for exactly three weeks, and was exactly three weeks
in arrear of his rent. Mrs Preedy called him her young man lodger.
He was probably younger than he looked, for his complexion was dark and
his black hair was thick and long. His eyes were singularly bright, and
had a cat-like glare in them--so that one might be forgiven the fancy
that, like a cat's, they would shine in the dark. He spoke with a
slightly foreign accent, and his mode of expression may be described
as various, affording no clue to his nationality.
Mrs. Preedy was re-assured. The frightful impressions produced by her
dream died away, and the instincts of the professional landlady asserted
themselves. "My young man lodger has come to pay his rent," was her
first thought, and a gracious and stereotyped smile appeared on her
lips. The sweet illusion swiftly vanished, and her second thought was,
"He is drunk." This, also, did not hold its ground, and Mrs. Preedy then
practically summed up the case: "He has come to beg--a candle, a piece
of bread, a lump of soap--somethink he is in want of, and ain't got
money to pay for. And his excuse is that he is a foringer, or that all
the shops are shut. I don't believe he's got a penny in his pocket. You
don't deceive me, young man; I wasn't born yesterday!"
Mrs. Preedy glanced towards the clock, and her glance was arrested on
its way by the weather indicator, with the old wooden farmer in full
view. Grotesque and improbable as were the fancies in which he had
played a tragic part, Mrs. Preedy could not resist the temptation of
ascertaining with her own eyes whether the young wooden woman, whom she
dreamt he had murdered, was in existence; and she rose and pushed the
old farmer into his bower. Out sailed the young woman, with her vacant
face and silly leer, as natural as life, and an impetus having been
given to the machinery, she and her male companion who had lived under
the same roof for years, and yet were absolute strangers to each other
(a striking illustration of English manners), swung in and out, in and
out, predicting fair weather foul weather, fair weather foul weather,
with the most reckless indifference of consequences. In truth, without
reference to the mendacious prophets, the weather gave every indication
of being presently very foul indeed. Thunder was in the air; the wind
was sobbing in the Square, and a few heavy drops of rain had fallen with
thuds upon roof and pavement.
The hands of the clock pointed to twelve.
"A nice time," thought Mrs. Preedy, "to come creeping downstairs into my
kitchen! I never did like them foringers! But I'd give anything to get
my 'ouse full--whether the lodgers paid or not for a week or two. Did
the young man expect to find me out, or asleep? Is there anything goin'
on atween 'im and Becky?"
This dark suspicion recommended itself to her mind, and she readily gave
it admittance. It is to be feared that Mrs. Preedy's experiences had not
led her to a charitable opinion of maids-of-all-work. Becky, as Mrs.
Preedy called her servant, was a new girl, and had been in her service
for nearly a fortnight. Mrs. Preedy had been agreeably disappointed in
the girl, whom she did not expect to stay in the house a week. Since the
murder at No. 119, she had had eight different servants, not one of whom
stayed for longer than a few days--two had run away on the second day,
declaring that the ghost of the murdered man had appeared to them on the
first night, and that they wouldn't sleep another in such a place for
"untold gold." But Becky remained.
"Is there anything goin' on atween 'im and Becky?" was Mrs. Preedy's
thought, as she looked at the clock.
Richard Manx's eyes followed hers.
"It is--a--what you call wrong," he muttered.
"Very wrong," said Mrs. Preedy, aloud, under the impression that he
had unwittingly answered her thought, "and you ought to be ashamed of
yourself. You may do what you like in your own country, but I don't
allow such goings on in my 'ouse."
"I was--a--thinking of your watch-clock," said Richard Manx. "It is
not--a--right. Five, ten, fifteen minutes are past, and I counted twelve
by the church bells. Midnight, that is it--twelve of the clock."
"It's time for all decent people to be abed and asleep," remarked Mrs.
Preedy.
"In bed--ah!--but in sleep--that is not the same thing. _You_ are not
so."
"I've got my business to look after," retorted Mrs. Preedy. "I suppose
you 'aven't come to pay your rent?"
"To pay? Ah, money! It is what you call it, tight. No, I have not come
money to pay."
"And 'ow am I to pay _my_ rent, I should like to know, if you don't pay
yours? Can you tell me that, young man?"
"I cannot--a--tell you. I am not a weezard."
Although Mrs. Preedy had fully regained her courage she could not think
of a fitting rejoinder to this remark; so for a moment she held her
tongue.
She had occupied her house for thirty years, living, until a short time
since, in tolerable comfort upon the difference between the rent she
received from her lodgers and the rent she paid to the agent of the
estate upon which Great Porter Square was situated. It was a great and
wealthy estate. Mrs. Preedy had never seen her aristocratic landlord,
who owned not only Great Porter Square but a hundred squares and streets
in the vicinity, in addition to lovely tracts of woodland and grand
mansions in the country. The income of this to-be-envied lord was
said to be a sovereign a minute. London, in whose cellars and garrets
hundreds of poor wretches yearly die of starvation, contains many such
princes.
Richard Manx rented a room in the garret of Mrs. Preedy's house, for
which he had to pay three shillings a week. It was furnished, and the
rent could not be considered unreasonable. Certainly there was in the
room nothing superfluous. There were a truckle bed, with a few worn-out
bed clothes, a japanned chest of drawers, so ricketty that it had to be
propped up with bits of paper under two of its corners, a wreck of a
chair, an irregular piece of looking-glass hooked on to the wall, an old
fender before the tiniest fire-place that ever was seen, a bent bit of
iron for a poker, an almost bottomless coal scuttle, a very small trunk
containing Richard Manx's personal belongings, a ragged towel, and a
lame washstand with toilet service, every piece of which was chipped
and broken. In an auction the lot might have brought five shillings;
no broker in his senses would have bid higher for the rubbish.
"If you 'aven't come to pay your rent," demanded Mrs. Preedy, "what
_'ave_ you come for?"
Richard Manx craned his neck forward till his face was at least six
inches in advance of his body, and replied in a hoarse whisper:
"I have--a--heard it once more again!"
The effect of these words upon Mrs. Preedy was extraordinary. No sooner
had they escaped her lodger's lips than she started from her chair,
upsetting her glass of gin in her excitement, and, pulling him into the
room, shut the door behind him. Then she opened the door of the little
cupboard in which the servant slept, and called softly:
"Becky!" and again, "Becky! Becky!"
The girl must have been a sound sleeper, for even when her mistress
stepped to her bedside, and passed her hand over her face, she did not
move or speak. Returning to the kitchen, Mrs. Preedy closed the door of
the sleeping closet, and said to Richard Manx:
"Look 'ere, young man, I don't want none of your nonsense, and, what's
more, I won't stand none!" And instantly took the heart out of her
defiance by crying, in an appealing tone: "Do you want to ruin me?"
"What think you of me?" asked Richard Manx, in return. "No, I wish not
to ruin. But attend. You call your mind back to--a--one week from now.
It is Wednesday then--it is Wednesday now. I sit up in my garret in the
moon. I think--I smoke. Upon my ear strikes a sound. I hear scratching,
moving. Where? At my foot? No. In my room? No; I can nothing see. Where,
after that? In this house? Who can say? In the next to this? Ah! I
think of what is there done, three months that are past. My blood--that
is it--turn cold. I cannot, for a some time, move. You tell me, you,
that there is no--a--man, or--a--woman, or--a--child in the apartment
under-beneath where I sit. I am one myself _in_ that room--no wife,
no--a--child. I speak myself to--I answer myself to. No-- I am
not--a--right. Something there is that to me speaks. The wind, the
infernal--like a voice, it screams, and whistles, and what you call,
sobs. That is it. Like a child, or a woman, or a man for mercy calling!
Ah! it make my hair to rise. Listen you. It speaks once more again!"
It was the wind in the streets that was moaning and sobbing; and during
the pause, a flash of lightning darted in, causing Richard Manx to start
back with the manner of a man upon whom divine vengeance had suddenly
fallen. It was followed, in a little while, by a furious bursting of
thunder, which shook the house. They listened until the echoes died
away, and even then the spirit of the sound remained in their ears with
ominous portent.
"It is an angry night," said Richard Manx. "I will--a--continue what I
was saying. It is Wednesday of a week past. I in my garret sit and I
smoke. I hear the sound. It is what you call--a--secret. To myself I
think there is in that house next to this the blood of a man murdered.
Why shall there not be in this house, to-morrow that rises, the blood of
one other man murdered. And that man! Who shall it be? Myself--I. So I
rouse my courage up, and descend from my garret in the moon to the door
of the street. Creeping--is that so, your word?--creeping after me a
spirit comes--not for me to see, not for me to touch--but to hear with
my ears. All is dark. In the passage appear you, and ask me what? I
tell you, and you laugh--but not laugh well, it is like a cry--and
you say, it is--a fancy; it is nothing I hear. And you, with hands
so"--(clasping his hands together, somewhat tragically)--"beg of me not
to any speak of what I hear. I consent; I say, I will not of it speak."
"And you 'aven't?" inquired Mrs. Preedy, anxiously.
Richard Manx laid his hand on his breast. "On my honour, no; I speak
not of it. I think myself, 'The lady of the house is--a--right. I hear
only--a--fancy. I will not trouble. I will let to-morrow come.' It come,
and another to-morrow, and another, and still another. Nothing I hear.
But to-night--again! I am smoking myself in bed. Be not afraid--I shall
not put your house in a fire. It would not be bad. You are what they
call insured?" Mrs. Preedy nodded. "Listen you--comes the rain. Ah--and
the wind. God in heaven! that fire-flash!"
It blinded them for a moment or two. Then, after the briefest
interval, pealed the thunder, with a crash which almost deafened them.
Instinctively, Richard Manx drew nearer to Mrs. Preedy, and she also
moved closer to him. At such times as this, when nature appears to
be warring against mortals, the human craving for companionship and
visible, palpable sympathy most strongly asserts itself.
Either the breaking of the storm, or some other cause, had produced a
strange effect upon Becky, whom Mrs. Preedy supposed to be sleeping in
the little room adjoining the kitchen; for the girl in her night-dress
was kneeling on the ground, with her head close to the door, listening,
with her heart and soul in her ears, to the conversation between her
mistress and the young man lodger. It would have astonished Mrs. Preedy
considerably had she detected her maid-of-all-work in such a position.
The thunder and lightning continued for quite five minutes, and then
they wandered into the country and awoke the echoes there, leaving the
rain behind them, which poured down like a deluge over the greater part
of the city.