Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 1
Page 12
CHAPTER XII.
MRS. PREEDY HAS DREADFUL DREAMS.
So profound was the sleep of Mrs. Preedy, lodging-house keeper, whom weleft slumbering in the first chapter of our story, that we have beenable, without disturbing her, to make the foregoing extracts from thecopies of the _Evening Moon_ which lay on the table immediately beneathher nose. Deep as were her slumbers, they were not peaceful. Murderwas in her brain, and it presented itself to her in a thousand hideousand grotesque shapes. Overwhelming, indeed, was her trouble. Only thatmorning had she said to Mrs. Beale, a bosom friend and neighbour on theother side of the Square--
"I shall never rest easy in my mind till the man's caught and hung!"
Dreams, it is said, "go by contrary." If you dream of a marriage, itmeans death; if you dream of death, it means marriage. Happy augury,then, that Mrs. Preedy should dream that her dead and buried husband,her "blessed angel," was alive, that he had committed the murder, andthat she was putting on her best black to see him hanged. Curious tosay, in her unconscious state, this otherwise distressing dream wasrather enjoyable, for through the tangled threads of the crime andits punishment ran the refrain of a reproach she used to hurl at herhusband, when fortune went against him, to the effect that she alwaysknew he would come to a bad end. So altogether, it was a comfortablehanging--Mr. Preedy being dead and out of the reach of danger, and Mrs.Preedy being alive to enjoy it.
A more grotesque fancy was it to dream that the wooden old impostorin the weather indicator on her mantelshelf was the murderer. Thisantiquated farmer, who was about four inches in height, unhooked himselffrom his catgut suspender, slid down to the ground, and stood upon thefloor of the kitchen, with Murder in his Liliputian carcase. With nosense of wonder did the dreamer observe the movements of this incredibledwarf-man. He looked around warily, his wooden finger at his woodenlips. All was quiet. He walked to the wall, covering about a quarterof an inch at every step, and rapped at it. A small hole appeared; hevanished through it. The opening was too small for Mrs. Preedy's body,and the current of her fancies carried her to a chair, upon which shesat and waited for the murderer's return. The opening in the wall led tothe next house, No. 119, and the sleeper knew that, as she waited, thedreadful deed was being done. The wooden old impostor returned, withsatisfaction in his face and blood on his fingers, which he wiped onMrs. Preedy's apron. He slid up to his bower in the weather indicator,and re-hooked himself on to his catgut suspender, and stood "tremblingin the balance," but perfectly easy in his mind, predicting foulweather.
"Ah, my man," said Mrs. Preedy, in her sleep, shaking her fist at him,"it will be foul weather for you to-morrow, when I have you taken up andhanged for it!"
Then came another fancy, that he had murdered the wooden young womanin her bower (so that she should not appear as a witness), and that itwould never be fine weather any more.
These and other fancies faded and were blotted out, as though they hadnever been, and a dread silence fell upon the soul of the slumberingwoman.
She was alone in a room, from which there was no outlet but a doorwhich was locked on the outside. No person was within hail. She was cutoff from the world, and from all chance of help. She had been asleep,dreaming of an incident in her childhood's days. A dream within a dream.
From the inner dream she was suddenly awakened. Still asleep, andnodding over the table, upon which lay the copies of the _Evening Moon_,she believed herself to be awake. What had roused her? A footfall uponthe stairs in the upper part of the house.
It was a deserted house, containing no other occupant but herself. Thedoor was locked; it was impossible to get out. The very bed in which shelay was a prison; she could not move from it. Afraid almost to breathe,she listened in fear to the sound which had fallen on her sleepingsenses.
She knew exactly how the house was built--was familiar with every roomand every stair. Another footfall--another--a long pause between each.The man, who was creeping down to her chamber to murder her, wasdescending the staircase which led from the third to the second floor.He reached it, and paused again.
There was no doubt about his intention. In her dream, it appeared as ifshe knew the whole history of this murderer, and that he was the terrorof every householder in London. He worked in secret, and always withfatal, deadly effect. He left nothing to chance. And Mrs. Preedy was tobe his next victim.
She could not avert her doom; she could only wait for it.
From the second floor to the first, step by step, she followed himin her imagination. Slow and sure was his progress. Frantic were herefforts to escape from the bed, but the sheets held her tight, likesheets of steel.
* * * * *
In reality a man _was_ descending the stairs to the kitchen. There wassomething stealthy in his movements which curiously contrasted with acertain air of bravado, which, if it were assumed, was entirely thrownaway, as no eye was on him as he crept from the top of the house to thebottom.
* * * * *
In her dream, influenced as dreams are in an excited brain by any sound,however light, Mrs. Preedy accompanied this man in his slow progressfrom his attic to her kitchen. He reached the landing, which led thisway to the street door, and that to the room in which Mrs. Preedy lay inher nightmare of terror. Which direction would he take?
Downwards!--to the bed in which she was imprisoned. Her last momentswere approaching.
She strove to think of a prayer, but her tongue clave to the roof of hermouth. Closer--closer--he came. He opened the door, and stood upon thethreshold. The louder sound than the sound of his steps aroused her tofull consciousness, and, opening her eyes, she confronted him with aface white with fear.
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