THE LODGER AND HIS LANDLADY.
SALLY was beginning to conceive a great fear of her guest, and terror
being the chief spring of activity, in a marvellously short time the
coffee was made, and she, with Lucy Maria holding the candle behind her,
knocking at what they called the drawing-room door. When, in obedience
to his command, she entered, he was standing by the chimney-piece,
gazing at her through an atmosphere almost hazy with tobacco smoke. He
had got on his dressing-gown, which was pea-green, and a scarlet fez,
and stood with his inquisitive smile and scowl, and his long pipe a
little removed from his lips.
"Oh, it's _you_? yes; no one--do you mind--except Mr. Larkin, or Mr.
Levi, or Mr. Goldshed, ever comes in to me--always charmed to see
_you_, and _them_--but there ends my public; so, my dear lady, if
any person should ask to see Mr. Dingwell, from New York in America,
you'll simply say there's no such person here--yes--there's--_no_--
_such_--_person_--_here_--upon my honour. And you're no true woman if
you don't say so with pleasure--because it's a fib."
Sarah Rumble courtesied affirmatively.
"I forgot to give you this note--my letter of introduction. Here, ma'am,
take it, and read it, if you can. It comes from those eminent harpies,
the Messrs. Goldshed and Levi--your landlords, aren't they?"
Another courtesy from grave, dark-browed Miss Rumble acknowledged the
fact.
"It is pleasant to be accredited by such gentlemen--good landlords, I
dare say?"
"I've nothing to say against Mr. Levi; and I'm 'appy to say, sir, my
rent's bin always paid up punctual," she said.
"Yes, just so--capital landlord! charming tenant; and I suspect if you
didn't, they'd find a way to make you--eh? Your coffee's not so bad--you
may make it next time just a degree stronger, bitter as wormwood and
verjuice, please--black and bitter, ma'am, as English prejudice. It
isn't badly made, however--no, it _is_ really _good_. It isn't a common
Christian virtue, making good coffee--the Mahometans have a knack of it,
and you must be a bit of a genius, ma'am, for I think you'll make it
very respectably by to-morrow evening, or at latest, by next year. You
shall do everything well for me, madam. The Dingwells are always d--d
flighty, wicked, unreasonable people, ma'am, and you'll find me a
regular Dingwell, and _worse_, madam. Look at me--don't I look like a
vampire. I tell you, ma'am, I've been buried, and they would not let me
rest in my grave, and they've called me up by their infernal
incantations, and here I am, ma'am, an evoked spirit. I have not read
that bit of paper. How do they introduce me--as Mr. Dingwell, or Mr.
Dingwell's ghost? I'm wound up in a sort of way; but I'm deficient in
blood, ma'am, and in heat. You'll have to keep the fire up always like
_this_, Mrs. Rumble. You'd better mind, or you'll have me a bit too like
a corpse to be pleasant. Egad! I frighten myself in the glass, ma'am.
There is what they call transfusion of blood _now_, ma'am, and a very
sensible thing it is. Pray, don't you think so?"
"I do suppose what you say's correct, sir."
"When a fellow comes out of the grave, ma'am--that's sherry in that
bottle; be kind enough to fill this glass--he's chilly, and he wants
blood, Mrs. Rumble. A gallon, or so, transfused into my veins wouldn't
hurt me. You can't _make_ blood fast enough for the wear and tear of
life, especially in a place like merry England, as the poets call
it--and merry England is as damp all over as one of your charnel vaults
under your dirty churches. Egad! it's enough to make a poor ghost like
me turn vampire, and drain those rosy little brats of yours--ha, ha,
ha!--_your_ children, are they, Mrs. Rumble--eh?"
"No, sir, please--my brother's children."
"Your _brother's_--ho! He doesn't live _here_, I hope?"
"He's dead, sir."
"Dead--is he?"
"Five years last May, sir."
"Oh! that's good. And their mother?--some more sherry, please."
"Dead about four years, poor thing! They're orphans, sir, please."
"'Gad! I _do_ please; it's a capital arrangement, ma'am, as they _are_
here, and you mustn't let 'em go among the children that swarm about
places like this. Egad! ma'am, I've no fancy for scarlatina or
small-pox, or any sort or description of your nursery maladies."
"They're very 'ealthy, sir, I thank you," said grave Sarah Rumble, a
little mistaking Mr. Dingwell's drift.
"Very glad to hear it, ma'am."
"Very kind o' you, sir," she said, with a courtesy.
"Kind, of course, yes, very kind," he echoed.
"Very 'ealthy, indeed, sir, I'm thankful to say."
"Well, yes, they do look well--for town brats, you know--plump and
rosy--hang 'em, little skins of sweet red wine; egad! enough to make a
fellow turn vampire, as I said. Give me a little more sherry--thank you,
ma'am. Any place near here where they sell ice?"
"Yes, sir, there's Mr. Candy's hice-store, in Love Lane, sir."
"You must arrange to get me a pound, or so, every day at twelve o'clock,
broken up in lumps, like sugar, and keep it in a cold cellar; do you
mind, ma'am?"
"Yes, sir, please."
"How old are _you_, ma'am? Well, _no_, you need not mind--hardly a fair
question; a steady woman--a lady who has seen the world--_some_thing of
it, hey?" said he; "so have _I_--I'm a steady old fellow, egad!--you
must give me a latch-key, ma'am."
"Yes, sir."
"Some ten or twelve years will see us out; curious thing life, ma'am,
eh? ha, ha, ha!--Sparkling cup, ma'am, while it lasts--_some_times; pity
the flask has so few glasses, and is flat so soon; isn't it so, ma'am?"
"I never drank wine, sir, but once."
"No! where was that?"
"At Mr. Snelly's wedding, twenty years since."
"'Gad! you'd make a good Turk, ma'am--don't mistake me--it's only they
drink no wine. You've found life an up-hill business, then, hey?"
Mrs. Rumble sighed profoundly, shook her head, and said,--
"I've 'ad my trials, sir."
"Ha, ha, ha! to be sure, why not? then you're a bit _tired_, I dare say;
what do you think of death?"
"I wish I was ready, sir."
"An ugly fellow, hey? I don't like the smell of him, ma'am."
"We has our hopes, sir."
"Oh! sure and certain hope--yes, the resurrection, hey?"
"Yes, sir, there's only one thing troubles me--them poor little
children. I wouldn't care how soon I went if they was able to do for
themselves."
"They do that very early in London--girls especially; and you're giving
them such an excellent training--Sunday school--eh--and Church
Catechism, I see. The righteous are never forsaken, my excellent mother
used to tell me; and if the Catechism does not make little Miss
what's-her-name righteous, I'm afraid the rosy little rogue has a spice
of the devil in her."
"God forbid, sir."
"Amen, of course. I'm sure they're all right--I hope they are--for I'll
whip 'em both; I give you fair warning, on my honour, I will, if they
give me the least trouble."
"I'll be very careful, sir, and keep them out of the way," said the
alarmed Sarah Rumble.
"Oh! I don't care about _that_; _let_ 'em run about, as long as they're
good; I've no objection in life to children--quite the contrary--plump
little rogues--I like 'em--only, egad! if they're naughty, I'll turn 'em
up, mind."
Miss Rumble looked at him with as much alarm as if the threat had been
to herself.
He was grinning at her in return, and nodded once or twice sharply.
"Yes, ma'am, lollypops and sugar-candy when they're good; but, egad!
when they're naughty, ma'am, you'll hear 'em squalling."
Miss Rumble made an alarmed courtesy.
"'Gad, I forgot how cold this d----d town is. I say, you'll keep a fire
in my bed-room, please; lay on enough to carry me through the night, do
you mind?"
"Yes, sir."
"And poke this fire up, and put some more wood, or coal, on it; I don't
expect to be ever warm again--in _this_ world, eh?--ha, ha, ha! I
remember our gardener, when we were boys, telling me a story of a
preacher in a hard frost, telling his congregation that hell was a
terribly cold place, lest if he described what good fires they kept
there they'd all have been wishing to get into it. Did you ever know any
one, ma'am, of my name, _Dingwell_, before, eh? Where were you born?"
"London, sir, please."
"Ho! Canterbury was _our_ place; we were great people, the Dingwells,
there once. My father failed, though--fortune of war--and I've seen all
the world since; 'gad, I've met with queer people, ma'am, and one of
those chances brings me here now. If I had not met the oddest fish I
ever set my eyes on, in the most out-o'-the-way-place on earth, I should
not have had the happiness of occupying this charming apartment at this
moment, or of making your acquaintance, or that of your plump little
Cupid and Psyche, down stairs. London, I suppose, is pretty much what it
always was, where any fellow with plenty of money may have plenty of
fun. Lots of sin in London, ma'am, eh? Not quite so good as Vienna. But
the needs and pleasures of all men, according to their degree, are
wonderfully provided for; wherever money is there is a market--for the
cabman's copper and the guinea of the gentleman he drives--everything
for money, ma'am--bouquets, and smiles, and coffins, wooden or leaden,
according to your relative fastidiousness. But things change very fast,
ma'am. Look at this map; I should not know the town--a wilderness, egad!
and no one to tell you where fun is to be found."
She gazed, rather frightened, at this leering, giggling old man, who
stood with his shoulders against the chimney-piece, and his hands
tumbling over his shillings in his pockets, and his sinister and weary
face ever so little flushed with his sherry and his talk.
"Well, if you can give a poor devil a wrinkle of any sort--hey?--it will
be a charity; but, egad! I'm as sleepy as the Homilies," and he yawned
direfully. "Do, like an angel, go and see to my room, I can scarcely
keep my eyes open."
From the next room she heard him _hi-yeawing_ in long-drawn yawns, and
talking in snatches to himself over the fire, and when she came back he
took the candle and said,--
"Beaten, ma'am, fairly beaten to-night. Not quite what I was, though I'm
good for something still; but an old fellow can't get on without his
sleep."
Mr. Dingwell's extraordinary communicativeness would have quite charmed
her, had it not been in a faint way racy of corruption, and followed
with a mocking echo of insult, which she caught, but could not
accurately interpret. The old rascal was irrepressibly garrulous; but he
was too sleepy to talk much more, and looked ruefully worn out.
He took the bed-room candle with a great yawn, and staggering, I am
bound to say only with sleep, he leaned for a moment against the doorway
of his room, and said, in his grimmer vein,--
"You'll bring me a cup of coffee, mind, at eight o'clock--_black_, no
milk, no sugar--and a bit of dry toast, as thin as a knife and as hard
as a tile; _do_ you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And why the devil don't you say so? And, lest I should forget, Mr. Levi
will be here to-morrow, at eleven, with another gentleman. Show them
both up; and, I say, there are several things I'm particular about, and
I'll put them on paper--egad! that's the best way--to-morrow, and I'll
post it up in my room, like a firmaun, and you had better attend to
them, that's all;" and holding up his candle, as he stood in the
doorway, he gazed round the bed-room, and seemed satisfied, and shut
the door sharply in her face, without turning about, or perhaps
intending that rudeness, as she was executing her valedictory courtesy.