THE DEAF LODGER
The letter was superscribed: "Private and Confidential." It was written
in these words:
"Sir,--You will do me grievous wrong if you suppose that I am trying to
force myself on your acquaintance. My object in writing is to prevent you
(if I can) from misinterpreting my language and my conduct, on the only
two occasions when we happen to have met.
"I am conscious that you must have thought me rude and
ungrateful--perhaps even a little mad--when I returned your kindness last
night, in honoring me with a visit, by using language which has justified
you in treating me as a stranger.
"Fortunately for myself, I gave you my autobiography to read. After what
you now know of me, I may hope that your sense of justice will make some
allowance for a man, tried (I had almost written, cursed) by such
suffering as mine.
"There are other deaf persons, as I have heard, who set me a good
example.
"They feel the consolations of religion. Their sweet tempers find relief
even under the loss of the most precious of all the senses. They mix with
society; submitting to their dreadful isolation, and preserving
unimpaired sympathy with their happier fellow-creatures who can hear. I
am not one of those persons. With sorrow I say it--I never have
submitted, I never can submit, to my hard fate.
"Let me not omit to ask your indulgence for my behavior, when we met at
the cottage this morning.
"What unfavorable impression I may have produced on you, I dare not
inquire. So little capable am I of concealing the vile feelings which
sometimes get the better of me, that Miss Cristel (observe that I mention
her with respect) appears to have felt positive alarm, on your account,
when she looked at me.
"I may tell you, in confidence, that this charming person came to my side
of the cottage, as soon as you had taken your departure, to intercede
with me in your favour. 'If your wicked mind is planning to do evil to
Mr. Roylake,' she wrote in my book, 'either you will promise me to give
it up, or I will never allow you to see me again; I will even leave home
secretly, to be out of your way.' In that strong language she
expressed--how shall I refer to it?--shall I say the sisterly interest
that she felt in your welfare?"
I laid down the letter for a moment. If I had not already reproached
myself for having misjudged Cristel--and if I had not, in that way, done
her some little justice in my own better thoughts--I should never have
recovered my self-respect after reading the deaf man's letter. The good
girl! The dear good girl! Yes: that was how I thought of her, under the
windows of my stepmother's boudoir--while Mrs. Roylake, for all I knew to
the contrary, might be looking down at me, and when Lady Lena, the noble
and beautiful, was coming to dinner!
The letter concluded as follows:
"To return to myself. I gave Miss Cristel the promise on which she had
insisted; and then, naturally enough, I inquired into her motive for
interfering in your favour.
"She frankly admitted that she was interested in you. First: in grateful
remembrance of old times, when you and your mother had been always good
to her. Secondly: because she had found you as kind and as friendly as
ever, now that you were a man and had become the greatest landowner in
the county. There was the explanation I had asked for, at my service.
And, on that, she left me.
"Did I believe her when I was meditating on our interview, alone in my
room? Or did I suspect you of having robbed me of the only consolation
that makes my life endurable?
"No such unworthy suspicion as this was admitted to my mind. With all my
heart, I believe her. And with perfect sincerity, I trust You.
"If your knowledge of me has failed to convince you that there is any
such thing as a better side to my nature, you will no doubt conclude that
this letter is a trick of mine to throw you off your guard; and you will
continue to distrust me as obstinately as ever. In that case, I will
merely remind you that my letter is private and confidential, and I will
not ask you to send me a reply.
"I remain, Sir, yours as you may receive me,
"THE DEAF LODGER
I wonder what another man, in my position, would have done when he had
read this letter? Would he have seen in it nothing to justify some
respect and some kindly feeling towards the writer? Could he have
reconciled it to his conscience to leave the afflicted man who had
trusted him without a word of reply?
For my part (do not forget what a young man I was in those days), I made
up my mind to reply in the friendliest manner--that is to say, in person.
After consulting my watch, I satisfied myself that I could go to the
mill, and get back again, before the hour fixed for our late
dinner--supper we should have called it in Germany. For the second time
that day, and without any hesitation, I took the road that led to
Fordwitch Wood.
Crossing the glade, I encountered a stout young woman, filling a can with
water from the spring. She curtseyed on seeing me. I asked if she
belonged to the village.
The reply informed me that I had taken another of my servants for a
stranger. The stout nymph of the spring was my kitchen-maid; and she was
fetching the water which we drank at the house; "and there's no water,
sir, like _yours_ for all the country round." Furnished with these stores
of information, I went my way, and the kitchen-maid went hers. She spoke,
of course, of having seen her new master, on returning to the servants'
hall. In this manner, as I afterwards heard, the discovery of me at the
spring, and my departure by the path that led to the mill, reached Mrs.
Roylake's ears--the medium of information being the lady's own maid. So
far, Fordwitch Wood seemed to be a place to avoid, in the interests of my
domestic tranquillity.
Arriving at the cottage, I found the Lodger standing by the open window
at which I had first seen him.
But on this occasion, his personal appearance had undergone a singular
process of transformation. The lower part of his face, from his nostrils
to his chin, was hidden by a white handkerchief tied round it. He had
removed the stopper from a strangely shaped bottle, and was absorbed in
watching some interesting condition in a dusky liquid that it contained.
To attract his attention by speaking was of course out of the question; I
could only wait until he happened to look my way.
My patience was not severely tried: he soon replaced the stopper in the
bottle, and, looking up from it, saw me. With his free hand, he quickly
removed the handkerchief, and spoke.
"Let me ask you to wait in the boat-house," he said; "I will come to you
directly." He pointed round the corner of the new cottage; indicating of
course the side of it that was farthest from the old building.
Following his directions, I first passed the door that he used in leaving
or returning to his room, and then gained the bank of the river. On my
right hand rose the mill building, with its big waterwheel--and, above
it, a little higher up the stream, I recognized the boat-house; built out
in the water on piles, and approached by a wooden pier.
No structure of this elaborate and expensive sort would have been set up
by my father, for the miller's convenience. The boat-house had been
built, many years since, by a rich retired tradesman with a mania for
aquatic pursuits. Our ugly river had not answered his expectations, and
our neighborhood had abstained from returning his visits. When he left
us, with his wherries and canoes and outriggers, the miller took
possession of the abandoned boat-house. "It's the sort of fixture that
don't pay nohow," old Toller remarked. "Suppose you remove it--there's a
waste of money. Suppose you knock it to pieces--is it worth a rich
gentleman's while to sell a cartload of firewood?" Neither of these
alternatives having been adopted, and nobody wanting an empty boat-house,
the clumsy mill boat, hitherto tied to a stake, and exposed to the worst
that the weather could do to injure it, was now snugly sheltered under a
roof, with empty lockers (once occupied by aquatic luxuries) gaping on
either side of it.
I was looking out on the river, and thinking of all that had happened
since my first meeting with Cristel by moonlight, when the voice of the
deaf man made itself discordantly heard, behind me.
"Let me apologize for receiving you here," he said; "and let me trouble
you with one more of my confessions. Like other unfortunate deaf people,
I suffer from nervous irritability. Sometimes, we restlessly change our
places of abode. And sometimes, as in my case, we take refuge in variety
of occupation. You remember the ideal narratives of crime which I was so
fond of writing at one time?"
I gave the affirmative answer, in the usual way.
"Well," he went on, "my literary inventions have ceased to interest me. I
have latterly resumed the chemical studies, associated with that happy
time in my life when I was entering on the medical profession. Unluckily
for you, I have been trying an experiment to-day, which makes such an
abominable smell in my room that I dare not ask you to enter it. The
fumes are not only disagreeable, but in some degree dangerous. You saw me
at the window, perhaps, with my nose and mouth protected before I opened
the bottle?"
I repeated the affirmative sign. He produced his little book of blank
leaves, and opened it ready for use.
"May I hope," he said, "that your visit is intended as a favorable reply
to my letter?"
I took the pencil, and answered him in these terms:
"Your letter has satisfied me that I was mistaken in treating you like a
stranger. I have come here to express my regret at having failed to do
you justice. Pray be assured that I believe in your better nature, and
that I accept your letter in the spirit in which you have written it."
He read my reply, and suddenly looked at me.
Never had I seen his beautiful eyes so brightly soft, so irresistibly
tender, as they appeared now. He held out his hand to me. It is one of my
small merits to be (in the popular phrase) as good as my word. I took his
hand; well knowing that the action committed me to accepting his
friendship.
In relating the events which form this narrative, I look back at the
chain, as I add to it link by link--sometimes with surprise, sometimes
with interest, and sometimes with the discovery that I have omitted a
circumstance which it is necessary to replace. But I search my memory in
vain, while I dwell on the lines that I have just written, for a
recollection of some attendant event which might have warned me of the
peril towards which I was advancing blindfold. My remembrance presents us
as standing together with clasped hands; but nothing in the slightest
degree ominous is associated with the picture. There was no sinister
chill communicated from his hand to mine; no shocking accident happened
close by us in the river; not even a passing cloud obscured the sunlight,
shining in its gayest glory over our heads.
After having shaken hands, neither he nor I had apparently anything more
to say. A little embarrassed, I turned to the boat-house window, and
looked out. Trifling as the action was, my companion noticed it.
"Do you like that muddy river?" he asked.
I took the pencil again: "Old associations make even the ugly Loke
interesting to me."
He sighed as he read those words. "I wish, Mr. Roylake, I could say the
same. Your interesting river frightens me."
It was needless to ask for the pencil again. My puzzled face begged for
an explanation.
"When you were in my room," he said, "you may have noticed a second
window which looks out on The Loke. I have got into a bad habit of
sitting by that window on moonlight nights. I watch the flow of the
stream, and it seems to associate itself with the flow of my thoughts.
Nothing remarkable, so far--while I am awake. But, later, when I get to
sleep, dreams come to me. All of them, sir, without exception connect
Cristel with the river. Look at the stealthy current that makes no sound.
In my last night's sleep, it made itself heard; it was flowing in my ears
with a water-music of its own. No longer my deaf ears; I heard, in my
dream, as well as you can hear. Yes; the same water-music, singing over
and over again the same horrid song: "Fool, fool, no Cristel for you; bid
her good-bye, bid her good-bye." I saw her floating away from me on those
hideous waters. The cruel current held me back when I tried to follow
her. I struggled and screamed and shivered and cried. I woke up with a
start that shook me to pieces, and cursed your interesting river. Don't
write to me about it again. Don't look at it again. Why did you bring up
the subject? I beg your pardon; I had no right to say that. Let me be
polite; let me be hospitable. I beg to invite you to come and see me,
when my room is purified from its pestilent smell. I can only offer you a
cup of tea. Oh, that river, that river, what devil set me talking about
it? I'm not mad, Mr. Roylake; only wretched. When may I expect you?
Choose your own evening next week."
Who could help pitying him? Compared with my sound sweet dreamless sleep,
what dreadful nights were his!
I accepted his invitation as a matter of course. When we had completed
our arrangements, it was time for me to think of returning to Trimley
Deen. Moving towards the door, I accidentally directed his attention to
the pier by which the boat-house was approached.
His face instantly reminded me of Cristel's description of him, when he
was strongly and evilly moved. I too saw "his beautiful eves tell tales,
and his pretty complexion change to a color which turned him into an ugly
man." He seized my arm, and pointed to the pier, at the end of it which
joined the river-bank. "Pray accept my excuses; I can't answer for my
temper if that wretch comes near me." With this apology he hurried away;
and sly Giles Toller, having patiently waited until the coast was clear,
accosted me with his best bow, and said: "Beautiful weather, isn't it,
sir?"
I had no remarks to make on the weather; but I was interested in
discovering what had happened at the cottage.
"You have mortally offended the gentleman who has just left me," I said.
"What have you done?"
Mr. Toller had purposes of his own to serve, and kept those purposes (as
usual) exclusively in view: _he_ presented deaf ears to me now!
"I don't think I ever remember such wonderful weather, sir, in my time;
and I'm an old fellow, as I needn't tell you. Being at the mill just now,
I saw you in the boat-house, and came to pay my respects. Would you be so
good as to look at this slip of paper, Mr. Gerard? If you will kindly ask
what it is, you will in a manner help me."
I knew but too well what it was. "The repairs again!" I said resignedly.
"Hand it over, you obstinate old man."
Mr. Toller was so tickled by my discovery, and by the cheering prospect
consequent on seeing his list of repairs safe in my pocket, that he
laughed until I really thought he would shake his lean little body to
pieces. By way of bringing his merriment to an end, I assumed a look of
severity, and insisted on knowing how he had offended the Lodger. My
venerable tenant, trembling for his repairs, drifted into a question of
personal experience, and seemed to anticipate that it might improve my
temper.
"When you have a woman about the house, Mr. Gerard, you may have noticed
that she's an everlasting expense to you--especially when she's a young
one. Isn't that so?"
I inquired if he applied this remark to his daughter.
"That's it, sir; I'm talking of Cristy. When her back's up, there isn't
her equal in England for strong language. My gentleman has misbehaved
himself in some way (since you were with us this morning, sir); how, I
don't quite understand. All I can tell you is, I've given him notice to
quit. A clear loss of money to me every week, and Cristy's responsible
for it. Yes, sir! I've been worked up to it by my girl. If Cristy's
mother had asked me to get rid of a paying lodger, I should have told her
to go to---- we won't say where, sir; you'll know where when you're
married yourself. The upshot of it is that I have offended my gentleman,
for the sake of my girl: which last is a luxury I can't afford, unless I
let the rooms again. If you hear of a tenant, say what a good landlord I
am, and what sweet pretty rooms I've got to let."
I led the way to the bank of the river, before Mr. Toller could make any
more requests.
We passed the side of the old cottage. The door was open; and I saw
Cristel employed in the kitchen.
My watch told me that I had still two or three minutes to spare; and my
guilty remembrance of the message that I had pinned to the door suggested
an immediate expression of regret. I approached Cristel with a petition
for pardon on my lips. She looked distrustfully at the door of
communication with the new cottage, as if she expected to see it opened
from the other side.
"Not now!" she said--and went on sadly with her household work.
"May I see you to-morrow?" I asked.
"It had better not be here, sir," was the only reply she made.
I offered to meet her at any other place which she might appoint. Cristel
persisted in leaving it to me; she spoke absently, as if she was thinking
all the time of something else. I could propose no better place, at the
moment, than the spring in Fordwitch Wood. She consented to meet me
there, on the next day, if seven o'clock in the morning would not be too
early for me. My German habits had accustomed me to early rising. She
heard me tell her this--and looked again at the Lodger's door--and
abruptly wished me good evening.
Her polite father was shocked at this unceremonious method of dismissing
the great man, who had only to say the word and stop the repairs. "Where
are your manners, Cristy?" he asked indignantly. Before he could say
another word, I was out of the cottage.
As I passed the spring on my way home, I thought of my two appointments.
On that evening, my meeting with the daughter of the lord. On the next
morning, my meeting with the daughter of the miller. Lady Lena at dinner;
Cristel before breakfast. If Mrs. Roylake found out _that_ social
contrast, what would she say? I was a merry young fool; I burst out
laughing.