BOB MILLET GIVES US SOME CURIOUS
INFORMATION ABOUT THE HOUSE
IN LAMB'S TERRACE.
"Now, Bob," said I, "here's a clean pipe and some bird's eye. Do you
remember our first cigar in your little bedroom in your father's
house? How we suffered, and vowed never to smoke again! We have time
for a pipe and a chat before my wife comes in. She has many virtues,
Bob, and a special one for which she deserves a medal--she does not
object to my smoking in any room in the house. Heaven knows what rules
she will lay down, and what changes for the worse there will be when
we move! I am not going to anticipate evils, however. Without
pretending that I am a philosopher, I take things as they come, and
try to make the best of them; it is the pleasantest way. Tell me what
you have been doing all these years."
He told me all about himself--of his leaving school with fair
expectations; of his entering into his father's business; of his
marrying for love, and, after three years of happy married life, of
the death of his wife, and the ruin of his prospects; of his
subsequent struggles and disappointments; and of his sinking lower and
lower until he found himself fixed upon that depressing platform which
is crowded with poor clerks struggling with all their might and main
for bread and butter. Except when he spoke of his wife there was no
sadness in his voice; and I saw that the cheerful temperament which
had distinguished him when we were at school together had not deserted
him.
"It has been a tussle," he said, "but I have managed to rub along, and
it might have been worse than it is. You don't mind my calling you
Ned, do you?"
"If I did," I replied, "I should have good reason to be ashamed of
myself. It was Ned and Bob when we were boys; it is Ned and Bob now
that we are elderly men. A few pounds more in my purse than in yours
can make no difference; and as far as that goes, I can spare a little
check if you need it."
"No, Ned," he responded quickly, "that is the last thing in the world
I hope I shall have to do. Though I don't sit down to a banquet every
day for dinner, I have never borrowed, and I never will if I can
possibly help it. Don't judge me by my sad looks--I have a
disagreeable impression that I am not a cheerful fellow to
contemplate; but if the truth were known there are much harder lots
than mine. I have a comical trick of twisting things to my own
advantage, and of rather pitying men who could sell me up over and
over again. Ned, as there is no station in life, however high, without
its miseries, so there is no station in life, however low, without its
compensations."
"You're the philosopher, Bob," quoth I.
"I don't know about that. I have grown into the belief that the poor
have as much enjoyment as the rich, and when I take a shilling's worth
in the gallery of a theater, I am positive that I don't get less
pleasure out of it than the people who sit in the stalls do out of
their half-guineas. If I am a philosopher that is the use I make of my
philosophy. Then, Ned, I have the past to think of; for three years
there was no happier man than I, and my sad memories are sweetened
with gratitude. And life is short after all; time flies; tomorrow we
shall all be on a level, rich and poor alike."
Thus spoke my old schoolfellow, Bob Millet, in his shabby coat, and
the regard I used to have for him grew stronger every minute that
passed.
When my wife came in, bustling and cheerful as usual, she nodded
brightly at us, sat down with a piece of needlework in her hand--she
is never idle, this wife of mine--and said:
"Now, Mr. Millet, let us hear about the house in Lamb's Terrace."
"I will tell you all I know. Have you the keys, Ned?"
"My wife has," I replied.
She opened her bag and took them out, remarking, as she wiped her
fingers, that they were very dusty.
"As you see," observed Bob, "they are covered with rust."
"They could have been used very little lately," I said.
"Hardly at all," said Bob; "and this is one of the singular features
in connection with the house with which you should be made acquainted.
Did not the information Mr. Gascoigne gave you of the last tenant
strike you as rather extraordinary?" He turned to my wife for an
answer, but she did not reply.
"It struck me as very extraordinary," I said. "I could not understand
it at all, nor can I now understand why a house, with so many rooms,
with stabling, a large garden, and so many other advantages, should be
offered at so low a rent."
Bob looked at me, looked at my wife, hesitated, coughed, cleared his
throat, and spoke.
"As a matter of fact, the house has been empty for four or five
years."
"Really a matter of fact?" inquired my wife. "Within your own
knowledge?"
"Not exactly that; I can speak only of what I have gathered."
"So that your matter of fact," observed my wife shrewdly, "is merely
hearsay."
"I must admit as much, I am afraid," he said a little awkwardly.
"Why should you be afraid to admit it?"
I detected in these questions one of my wife's favorite maneuvers.
When she met with opposition to a project which she had resolved to
carry out, she was in the habit of seizing upon any chance words which
she could construe in such a way as to confuse and confound the enemy.
Often had she driven me so hard that I have been compelled to beat a
retreat in despair, and to give up arguing with her.
"Upon my word I don't know why," said Bob. "It was only a form of
speech. I seem to be getting into a tangle."
"I will assist you to get out of it," said my wife, with playful
severity. "Go on, Mr. Millet."
"It was originally taken on lease," continued Bob, "and the term
having expired, the tenant--I suppose we must call him so--wished to
renew. The landlord says, 'I will renew on one condition, that you
live in the house.' The tenant objects. 'What does it matter,' he
says, 'whether I live in the house or not, so long as the rent is
paid?' The landlord replies that it matters a great deal, that a house
cannot be kept in a satisfactory condition unless it is occupied, and
that he does not like to see his property fall into decay, as this
house has been allowed to do."
"Did you hear these words pass, Mr. Millet?" asked my wife.
"No; I am only throwing into shape what I have gathered."
Here we were interrupted by a knock at the door, and my wife was
called from the room to see a tradesman whom she had sent for to put
some locks in order. As she left us she gave Bob rather a queer look.
I took advantage of her absence by asking Bob why he hesitated when he
began to speak about the house.
"Well," he answered, "this is the first time I have had the pleasure
of seeing your wife, and I don't know if she is a nervous woman."
"She is not easily frightened," I said, "but what has that to do with
it?"
"Everything. I have heard that the house is haunted."
I clapped my hand on the table. "And that is the reason of the low
rent?"
"It looks like it, doesn't it?"
"And that is why the last tenant did not live in it?"
"Ah," said Bob, "now you strike another key. There is a mystery here
which I cannot fathom. Having a house on lease and being responsible
for the rent, he is bound to pay till his term has expired. Very
well--but here's the point, Ned: The lease having run out, and he
having all these years presumably paid a large sum of money every
quarter-day for value not received, why should he wish to renew? The
house is haunted, he will not live in it, he never even opens the door
to say how do you do to the property which is costing him so dear, and
now that his responsibility is at an end he wants to take it upon his
shoulders again, and to be allowed the privilege of continuing to pay
his rent without receiving any return for it. Men don't usually throw
their money away without some special reason, and this eccentric
proceeding on the part of the last tenant makes one rather curious."
"It is certainly very mysterious," I observed. "What was the rent he
paid for it?"
"I heard Mr. Gascoigne say a hundred and fifty pounds."
"And it is offered to us for ninety. Have you seen the house, Bob?"
"No."
"Mr. Gascoigne has, I suppose."
"I don't believe he has."
"Then how have you learnt all you have told me?"
"In this way. I was at my desk when the landlord--who is himself
only a leaseholder, having to pay ground rent to a wealthy
institution--called upon Mr. Gascoigne, and put the house into his
hands. Mr. Gascoigne, when he wrote down the particulars, expressed,
as you did, surprise at the low rent, and little by little all the
particulars came out. There appeared to me to be some feeling between
the landlord and the last tenant, but nothing transpired as to its
nature while I was present, and it is my belief that Mr. Gascoigne is
as much in the dark as I am. There had been trouble in obtaining the
keys, I understood. A house agent, you know, never refuses business,
and Mr. Gascoigne put the place on his books, but has not pushed it in
any way. He did not mention it to you till he had exhausted the list
of other available houses. It was only this morning that the rent was
reduced in the books to ninety pounds, in accordance with instructions
received from the landlord, and it was probably in accordance with
those instructions that Mr. Gascoigne made a strong effort to
prepossess you in favor of it. Your wife may be in any moment. Is she
to know that the house is haunted?"
I rubbed my forehead; I pondered; I laughed aloud.
"Tell her, Bob," I said; and then, at the idea of all her fond hopes
being once more dashed to the ground, I fairly held my sides, while
Bob gazed at me in wonder. I did not explain to him the cause of my
hilarity; I had no time, indeed, for my wife re-entered the room, and
resumed her seat and her needlework. I composed my features the moment
I heard her footstep; she would certainly have asked why I was so
merry, and any explanation I might have ventured to offer would have
been twisted by her to my shame and confusion, and would, moreover,
have made her more determined than ever to take the house.
"Where did we leave off, Mr. Millet?" she said, in a suspicious tone.
"Let me see--I think it was about the house falling into decay."
"Never mind that just now, Maria," I said. "Bob has something of the
utmost importance to impart to you. Brace your nerves--prepare for a
shock."
There was a note of triumph in my voice, and she turned her eyes upon
me, with an idea, I think, that I was going out of my mind.
"Well, Mr. Millet," she said, with a shrewd glance at him, "what is
this something of the highest importance that you have to impart to
me?"
"I was reluctant to mention it," said Bob, "before I spoke of it to
Ned, because I was doubtful how it would affect you. If you should
happen to hear of it when it was too late to retract you might say
with very good reason, 'But why did not Mr. Millet tell us before we
went over the house? Why did he leave us to find it out for ourselves
after we signed the lease?'"
"Find what out, Mr. Millet?"
"As a matter of fact," said Bob, and quickly withdrew the unfortunate
phrase, "I mean that I have heard the house has a bad name."
She frowned.
"A bad name!"
"Bad, in a certain way, They say it is haunted."
"Oh," said my wife, smiling, "is that all? They say? Who say?"
"I can't give you names," replied Bob, conspicuously nonplused,
"because I don't know them. I can only tell you what I have heard."
"I thought as much," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Merely hearsay. You might be more explicit, Mr. Millet. Haunted? By
what?"
"I don't know."
"When does _It_ appear?"
"I can't say."
"How tantalizing! Don't you think, Edward, that the news Mr. Millet
has given us makes the house all the more interesting?"
Thus effectually did she sweep away all my fond expectations. She made
no more of a haunted house than she would have done of a loose handle
to a door.
"If that is the view you take of it," I said, "perhaps it does. I am
always ready to please you, Maria, but till this moment I had no idea
that your taste lay in the direction of haunted houses. At all events,
you will not be able to say that you were not warned."
"You will not hear me say it. There is a proverb about giving a dog a
bad name and hanging him at once, and it seems to me to apply to the
house in Lamb's Terrace. If Mr. Millet could give us something to lay
hold of I might express myself differently."
"You can't lay hold of a ghost, Maria, unless those gentry have
undergone a radical change. For my part, I am much obliged to Bob. It
was out of consideration for you that he did not mention it at first."
"Mr. Millet was very kind, I am sure," she said stiffly; and then,
addressing him as though she would give him another chance, "Are you
acquainted with the last tenant?"
"No, I have never seen him."
"What is his name?"
"I do not know."
"Where does he live?"
"I do not know."
"Now, _do_ you think," she said, quizzing him, "that it is quite fair
to take away the character of an empty house upon such slender
grounds? It is like hitting a man when he's down, which I have heard
is not considered manly."
"I assure you," replied Bob gravely, "that what I have said has been
said with the best intentions."
"No doubt," said my wife composedly, meaning quite the other thing.
"Edward, our best plan will be to go and look over the house the first
thing in the morning."
"That settles it, Bob," I said, "for the present, at all events. What
do you say to coming here tomorrow evening and hearing our report of
the house?"
He looked at my wife, as if doubtful whether a second visit would be
agreeable to her; but she nodded pleasantly, and said:
"Yes, come, Mr. Millet; perhaps we shall be able to surprise you."
"Thank you," said Bob, and we talked of old times with rather eager
readiness, and for the rest of the evening carefully avoided the
subject which had so nearly brought him to grief. At ten o'clock he
took his departure, and a few minutes afterward Maria and I retired to
our bedroom.
"Good-night, dear," she said, in her most amiable tone, as I put out
the light.
"Good-night, dear," I replied, and disposed myself for sleep.
We are both healthy sleepers, and generally go off like a top, as the
saying is, a very short time after our heads touch the pillows. But
this night proved to be an exception, for we must have lain quite a
quarter of an hour in darkness when my wife began to speak.
"Are you asleep, Edward?"
"No, Maria."
"Do you know," she said drowsily, "I have a funny idea in my head."
"Have you?"
"Yes. It is that you and Mr. Millet laid a little plot for me."
"It isn't a funny idea, Maria; it is a perfectly absurd idea."
"That is what _you_ say, dear; it is never agreeable to be found out.
I dare say you thought yourselves very clever. It hasn't raised my
opinion of Mr. Millet. I should have liked to believe him a different
kind of person."
"Whatever are you driving at, Maria?" I said. "Bob Millet is the
simplest fellow in the world, and is incapable of laying a plot."
"Oh, there's no telling. You were old playmates, and he is anxious to
please you; he will find out by and by, perhaps, that I am not quite
the simpleton he takes me for."
"Poor old Bob!" I thought. "His ill-luck sticks to him."
Aloud I said, "You are a conundrum, Maria; I shall give you up."
"Better give up the plot," she said pleasantly.
"I will, when I know what it is."
"It was this--that you would invent a ridiculous story about the house
I have set my heart upon taking being haunted, so that I should be
frightened to go near it. You ought to have known me better, Edward,
and I must say you did it very clumsily; my consolation is that you
did not succeed. I am so sorry for you! Good-night, dear; I hope you
will sleep well."
I did sleep fairly well, though I was kept awake longer than usual by
my annoyance at the prejudice Maria entertained against my old friend
Bob.