A CHANGE OF SCENE AND CIRCUMSTANCES.—AN EVENT IN LONDON.
The recent events which followed each other so rapidly, were strangely
concluded by the sudden and mysterious disappearance of Sir Francis
Varney. That he should thus have eluded all, was aggravating to a very
large class of people, who seemed to insist that he should have come to
some notable catastrophe.
“Had he only been killed,” they argued, “we should have known the last
of him.”
Of the truth of this there could be no doubt. When a man is dead and
buried, you do, as far as human nature serves, know the end of him; but
this great fact does not always come within the knowledge of men, who
sometimes, contrary to expectation, drop off themselves, and instead of
knowing the end of somebody else, why, somebody else knows the end of
them.
It is a well known fact, that as some die before others, that it does
sometimes happen that those who wish to see another out, may be seen
out themselves; besides, taking the question of longevity aside, it
does not follow, because we so wish to come to the conclusion of an
affair, that its author may but change the scene, and transport it
elsewhere, and the good and curious lieges become defrauded of their
self-satisfying knowledge, viz., the end of the affair.
Of course it was an aggravation, to know that there was an interesting
and highly exciting affair gone off, and they were not allowed to peep
into that mystery, the future; but so it was—they were not gratified.
Some were of the opinion that he had departed this life in a mysterious
and unsatisfactory, because secret manner, and that was why nobody
could tell anything about it.
But there were other opinions afloat, and among others, that of the
admiral, which was pretty general, which was, that he had very likely
disappeared from that part of the world, to seek in some other place
the renovation his system required, by means that were natural to him,
but hideous in others to contemplate or think of.
This was generally the received opinion, for it was universally
admitted by the wise people thereabouts, that he must at certain times
recruit himself.
The opinion thus entertained by all who lived thereabouts, became less
and less absorbing; other matters began to be thought of, things began
to flow into their usual channel, and a subsidence took place in the
turmoil and excitement consequent upon the presence of the vampyre.
About this period, while these parts were regaining their original
serenity and calmness, and while the vampyre was looked upon as an
awful and fearful episode in the life of those who lived there, there
happened in London a circumstance that it is necessary to relate to the
reader, inasmuch as it is very important, and bears strongly on our
story.
Not far from Bloomsbury-square, which, at the period of our story, was
a very fashionable place, and in one of the first streets thereabout,
was the house of a widow, whose name was Meredith. She had been the
wife of a man in good circumstances, but at his death she was left with
a house filled with furniture, some little loose cash, and several
daughters, marriageable and unmarriageable, this being all Mr. Meredith
had to leave.
There could be but one way of obtaining a living—at least, but one that
suggested itself to her, which was to turn lodging-house keeper of the
better sort. Her children had been well educated, that is, sufficiently
so, to pass off in life, in decent society, without any particular
remark.
As she was well calculated for the object she had in view, it was no
wonder that she succeeded in her undertaking, and appeared to do very
well.
About this time an arrival occurred at an hotel not very far from
this spot, which caused a communication to pass to Mrs. Meredith, who
had been recommended lodgers from the hotel, when any of the inmates
desired to be accommodated, and wished for a place with all the
comforts of a home, and domestic attention.
“Mrs. Meredith,” said the head waiter of the hotel, “I wish to have a
word in private with you.”
“With greatest pleasure, Mr. Jones,” said Mrs. Meredith, who was
extremely civil to the waiter; “will you be pleased to sit down.”
“I have not the time, I thank you—I have not time; but I have run over
to you to inform you we have an old invalid colonel at our place, who
seems as if he did not know what he wanted; he wants some kind of
lodging—he don’t like the hotel—whether there is some genteel family,
whose kind attentions would soothe his disorders, and, I suppose, his
temper.”
“Oh, poor gentleman,” said Mrs. Meredith; “how unfortunate he should
suffer—is he rich?”
“Yes, I believe so—very rich, he’s a colonel in the India service; he’s
been a fine man, but he has had some hard knocks. I have seen more
rickety matters than he before to-day, and he will do very well. I told
him I knew where there was a lady who occasionally admitted an inmate
to her house, which was a large one, but she must be satisfied that her
lodger is a gentleman.
“‘Has she any family?’ he inquired; ‘because I hate to go where there’s
nobody but the lady of the house, because she can’t always attend upon
me, read to me, and the like of that.’”
“Goodness me, what an odd man!”
“Yes, but he pays well; a retired colonel—large fortune. You know that
these East Indians expect I don’t know what; they are even fed by
beautiful young black virgins.”
“The wretch!”
“Oh, dear, no; it’s the custom of the country; so, you see, he’s been
humoured, and it will be necessary yet to humour him, if you mean to
have him for your lodger. I expect he’ll only be troublesome; but, when
they pay for trouble, why, it’s all profit.”
“Very true,” replied Mrs. Meredith; “is he a single man?”
“Yes, oh, yes; I believe he has never been married; has had so much to
do in India, that he had nothing to do with marriages.”
“Where does he come from?”
“India. I believe he had a very fine palace of his own, at
Puttytherapore, so I’m told. Lord, he seems to think nothing of these
parts—but he’s an odd man; however, as he pays well, he’ll make a good
lodger anywhere.”
“Well, you may tell him, Mr. Jones, that we have a fine suite of rooms
for his accommodation on the first floor, and bed rooms—every attention
he can wish. You know our terms, Mr. Jones, I think—but I may as well
tell you—five guineas a-week.”
“Five guineas a-week, eh?”
“Yes; that is moderate, when you come to consider what a trouble and an
expense it will be to get such things as will please the palate of an
Indian.”
“It is a trouble, certainly.”
“And, besides that, he will have such a place and furniture as he
seldom meets with in London; besides, from what you say, there will be
little trouble in attending to him by myself and daughters, and you
know I have several.”
“Exactly—exactly; that is the thing he seems to desire; you will,
therefore, have a preference over any one else who may have anything
that he wants—a kind of domestic hearth; he has none of his own, you
see.”
“Has he no friends?”
“None living, I dare say; besides, he would hardly like to trust
himself along with relations, who would poison him for the sake of his
money; and, if he have any living, he may know nothing of them, where
they are, or anything else, and they would be as strangers to him,
for he would not be able to recognise them—but I must go now. Five
guineas—that includes all?”
“Yes; all, except wines and liquors, you know.”
“Very well, I’ll let him know; and, perhaps, you’ll be in the way, in
case he should come round this evening to examine the place.”
“Do you think there is any chance of his coming in to-night.”
“Really, I cannot tell; he may, or may not, just as he pleases—he is an
odd fish; but, good Mrs. Meredith, I will talk to him.”
The waiter left; and Mrs. Meredith sat in her parlour, which was her
own private apartment, which she and her daughters usually retired to
and received their own friends. Here they remained, in some degree kept
in continual expectation; nothing was said, for some time, by either
mother or daughter, for there was but one at home at that time.
“Do you know, Margaret,” she said, “we are likely to have a new lodger?”
“Indeed, ma?”
“Yes, my dear; he is a fidgetty old man, a colonel from India; he
is vastly rich, I am given to understand, and will require all the
attentions of a relative. He will pay very handsomely; in fact, my
dear, he will keep us all with a little care and management.”
“Well, ma, the men ought to do so, the creatures!—what are they for,
if they don’t. I’m sure, if ever I come to marry, which I am sure
I sha’n’t, and if I found that he didn’t find me in all I wanted,
wouldn’t I lead him a life!—I rather think I would,” said the amiable
child; “I’d never let him know peace night nor day. It would be
useless for him to tell me misfortune had deprived him of means; that
wouldn’t do for me. Oh, dear, no; a married man has no right to meet
misfortunes; indeed, he deserves to be punished for having a wife at
all under such circumstances.”
“A very proper spirit, my dear; but you must never let such a thing as
that pass your lips, because it would be very likely to cause you to
lose a chance; the men are so fastidious now a-days, and they think
they win us, when we angle for, and catch them.”
“And this lodger, ma?”
“Oh, he’s, as I told you, a rich old East Indian.”
At this moment, a coach drove up to the door, and a tremendous
double rap was played off upon the door, as if it had been committed
by a steam-engine; so loud and so long was the application for the
admittance, that both mother and daughter started.
“Dear me, that must be him,” said the mother; “yes, a coach and
all—there—there, I declare.”
“What, ma?”
“Why, look at that girl next door out in the balcony; there’s Miss
Smith—that girl is always trying to attract some person or other; and
the men affect to believe that she is beautiful; for my part, I think a
girl of seventeen ought to have more modesty.”
“The hussy!” said the young lady, contemptuously.
The servant now entered to inform her that a gentleman had called about
the apartments.
“Ask him up stairs,” said Mrs. Meredith; and she prepared to follow the
colonel so soon as she heard he was ascending the stairs, which was a
slow job to him, as he walked lame, with a gold headed cane.
When Mrs. Meredith came to the room, she saw a tall gentleman; his
height was lost, on account of him stooping; he wore a green shade
over one eye, and he had one arm in a sling; besides which, as we have
before related, he was rather lame.
“Not so bad as I thought for,” muttered Mrs. Meredith, to herself, as
she curtseyed to his salute.
“I have been recommended to seek here a lodging, ma’am. I do not know
if I am correct in believing you have such as I want.”
“This, sir, is the sitting-room; it is a very handsome one, and above
what is usually offered at a lodging-house. The fact is, sir, the house
was never furnished for letting, but for our own private occupation;
therefore, it has all of the comforts of a private residence.”
“That is what I chiefly want. You see, I do not care to undertake the
trouble of setting up an establishment myself. I am alone, I may say;
therefore it is I seek such a lodging as comes nearest to what I should
myself choose if I were to make a home of my own.”
“Precisely, sir. There is the back drawing-room, and a bed room
up-stairs.”
“Oh, very good; I need, I presume, make no inquiry as to what kind of
table you keep; the best, I dare say. I was informed of the price you
asked.”
“Yes; we consider that quite moderate, sir.”
“I dare say,” said the Indian, looking about the place with an air of
curiosity; “I dare say.”
“Yes, sir, you see the advantages we offer are much above the usual
run. Besides, you are an invalid, and will require extra attention.”
“Yes; there is much truth in that; I have been used to it, and
therefore you will see that I bargain for it; but, at the same time,
you will not find me difficult to please, I flatter myself; but we
shall know more of each other the longer we are together.”
“Certainly, sir. I can assure you, that should you take the apartments,
nothing on my part, or my daughters’, will be wanting to make your stay
agreeable.”
The stranger examined the appearance of the room, and the others,
and then, after much conversation with them, he agreed to take the
lodgings, and to come into them on the morrow, as he was extremely
particular as to well-aired beds, and should require them all to be
re-aired.
“And now, madam, before I finally agree to come in, will you show me
the means of escape, if any, in case of fire. I am anxious about that;
I have read so many calamities arising from that cause of late in
London that I am somewhat nervous about it, though I am so much of an
invalid that I should hardly be able to avail myself of it.”
“You shall see, sir,” said Mrs. Meredith; “we have ample and safe
accommodation in that respect. You see, here is a pair of broad steps
that lead up to that door—a trap-door; and here is another, that opens
upon the leads at the top of the house.”
The colonel made shift to walk up, and to look over the house-tops;
there was a sea of chimneys and pantiles, at the same time they were
all easy of access on this side of the street; so there was no danger
from fire, and each house there was similarly provided.
“Well, madam, I think I may say that this affair is concluded. I will
leave you my card, and, if you think proper, you can obtain what
information you desire of me at the hotel.”
“I am quite satisfied, sir,” said the landlady, as she took the card
that was proffered her, and also a bank-note which he offered her, in
token of his taking possession of the lodgings.
Mrs. Meredith curtseyed, and the colonel left the apartment, and
descended the staircase with great deliberation, for he could not go
very swiftly; he was lame, and one arm was up in a sling, and therefore
he had not the free use of his limbs.
As he came down the stairs, and when near the mat, Margaret, the
eldest daughter, came out and passed into the back parlour, for no
other ostensible purpose than that of seeing the stranger, whose
eye was instantly, but only momentarily, fixed upon her; but it was
enough; they both saw each other, and had a glance at the features, and
Margaret disappeared.
The stranger stepped into the coach, and, as the door was being shut,
he looked up to the windows of the next house, where the young lady,
nothing daunted, still sat at the window; and so little was she
interested with her neighbour’s affairs, that she barely bestowed a
momentary glance upon the coach or its occupant, whose solitary optic
took notice of her, and then the Jehu drove away with his rumbling
vehicle.
“Well, I never saw such impudence, in my life!” said Mrs. Meredith, as
she came to the parlour-windows, which happened to bow outwards, and
gave her a better opportunity of watching her neighbours to the right
and left of her.
“What is the matter, ma’?” inquired her daughter.
“Why, there’s that minx still up yonder. I declare if she didn’t stare
at the colonel; he saw her, and noticed her, too. Well, I wouldn’t have
had her there to-day for a trifle; he will think he has got into a bad
neighbourhood, seeing her so bold. Really, now, she lays herself open
to all kinds of imputations. I do not mean to say any evil of her; but,
really, if she will do that now, what will she not do by-and-bye? I am
sorry she has no one to advise her better.”
“I am sure she is old enough to know better,” rejoined the daughter.
“I am quite sure she’s no beauty, and, if she wants to catch any of
the men, she won’t be successful in that manner; unless, indeed, she
doesn’t care whom she picks up with.”
“Oh, that is, I fear, too often the case with young girls with weak
intellects. But did you see our new lodger, my dear?”
“Yes, ma’.”
“And what did you think of him?” inquired Mrs. Meredith, with an
amiable whine, and a gentle rubbing of hands.
“Think, ma’, think—what can I think of a man whom I have hardly seen,
ma’? He only passed me; I could not recollect him again if I tried.”
“Ah, well, my dear, you know best. I can always recollect people whom
I have once seen? He is a very fine man—at least, he has been; he has
lost much of his height, for he is lame, and stoops much; but still he
has been a handsome man.”
“One eye, only, ma’, I think.”
“Yes, my dear, one eye, as you say; but I think a remarkably keen one,
too. He’s quite the gentleman, too; he’s been used to command, you can
see that. These military men have an air about them that you cannot
mistake; and even this gentleman, though, you see, wounded and lame,
yet he has the air of an officer about him.”
“He may have, ma’; but, you know, if he have the air of a general, with
nothing else, it would buy a very poor dinner.”
“So it would, my dear. You certainly are an extraordinary girl,
Margaret, a very extraordinary girl, and will be the making of your
family. Only suppose you should marry this rich colonel, what then,
eh?—I only say, suppose you were to marry him?—because it isn’t
certain, yet—well, wouldn’t that minx next door think you were lucky?
She would bite her nails in anger.”
“Yes, she would, ma’; but it may never happen. But, if she thinks
to get a beau that way, she’s much mistaken. I am sure she will get
insulted.”
“No wonder. But, Margaret, my dear, you must do your best to please
this gentleman; he wants to have people about him just as if he had his
own home. He has no friends or relatives; who knows what may happen
yet?”
“No, ma’; we don’t know what may happen, and I will do my best to
please him; but I sha’n’t court him, you know, ma’; he must do that.”
“Yes, certainly, my child, he must. No; you mustn’t appear anxious
about it; but merely say you are pleased to have his good opinion, and
you must be a little coy of everything else; for there are times when
such old gentlemen are easily entrapped. But I must set about having
things aired and put into order for his arrival to-morrow.”