CHAPTER XIII.
MRS. PREEDY'S YOUNG MAN LODGER.
The door of the kitchen opened outwards into the passage, and the man,turning the handle with his right hand, stood upon the threshold withhis left raised and resting, for support, upon the framework. In Mrs.Preedy's imagination, the concealed hand held the deadly weapon withwhich she was to be murdered. There was, however, nothing very murderousin the intruder's face, and when he advanced a step and his arms fellpeaceably by his sides, Mrs. Preedy saw, with a sigh of relief, that hishands were empty. This sigh of relief was accompanied by a recognitionof the man, in whom she beheld a lodger named Richard Manx, who hadbeen her tenant for exactly three weeks, and was exactly three weeksin arrear of his rent. Mrs Preedy called him her young man lodger.
He was probably younger than he looked, for his complexion was dark andhis black hair was thick and long. His eyes were singularly bright, andhad a cat-like glare in them--so that one might be forgiven the fancythat, like a cat's, they would shine in the dark. He spoke with aslightly foreign accent, and his mode of expression may be describedas various, affording no clue to his nationality.
Mrs. Preedy was re-assured. The frightful impressions produced by herdream died away, and the instincts of the professional landlady assertedthemselves. "My young man lodger has come to pay his rent," was herfirst thought, and a gracious and stereotyped smile appeared on herlips. The sweet illusion swiftly vanished, and her second thought was,"He is drunk." This, also, did not hold its ground, and Mrs. Preedy thenpractically summed up the case: "He has come to beg--a candle, a pieceof bread, a lump of soap--somethink he is in want of, and ain't gotmoney to pay for. And his excuse is that he is a foringer, or that allthe shops are shut. I don't believe he's got a penny in his pocket. Youdon't deceive me, young man; I wasn't born yesterday!"
Mrs. Preedy glanced towards the clock, and her glance was arrested onits way by the weather indicator, with the old wooden farmer in fullview. Grotesque and improbable as were the fancies in which he hadplayed a tragic part, Mrs. Preedy could not resist the temptation ofascertaining with her own eyes whether the young wooden woman, whom shedreamt he had murdered, was in existence; and she rose and pushed theold farmer into his bower. Out sailed the young woman, with her vacantface and silly leer, as natural as life, and an impetus having beengiven to the machinery, she and her male companion who had lived underthe same roof for years, and yet were absolute strangers to each other(a striking illustration of English manners), swung in and out, in andout, predicting fair weather foul weather, fair weather foul weather,with the most reckless indifference of consequences. In truth, withoutreference to the mendacious prophets, the weather gave every indicationof being presently very foul indeed. Thunder was in the air; the windwas sobbing in the Square, and a few heavy drops of rain had fallen withthuds upon roof and pavement.
The hands of the clock pointed to twelve.
"A nice time," thought Mrs. Preedy, "to come creeping downstairs into mykitchen! I never did like them foringers! But I'd give anything to getmy 'ouse full--whether the lodgers paid or not for a week or two. Didthe young man expect to find me out, or asleep? Is there anything goin'on atween 'im and Becky?"
This dark suspicion recommended itself to her mind, and she readily gaveit admittance. It is to be feared that Mrs. Preedy's experiences had notled her to a charitable opinion of maids-of-all-work. Becky, as Mrs.Preedy called her servant, was a new girl, and had been in her servicefor nearly a fortnight. Mrs. Preedy had been agreeably disappointed inthe girl, whom she did not expect to stay in the house a week. Since themurder at No. 119, she had had eight different servants, not one of whomstayed for longer than a few days--two had run away on the second day,declaring that the ghost of the murdered man had appeared to them on thefirst night, and that they wouldn't sleep another in such a place for"untold gold." But Becky remained.
"Is there anything goin' on atween 'im and Becky?" was Mrs. Preedy'sthought, as she looked at the clock.
Richard Manx's eyes followed hers.
"It is--a--what you call wrong," he muttered.
"Very wrong," said Mrs. Preedy, aloud, under the impression that hehad unwittingly answered her thought, "and you ought to be ashamed ofyourself. You may do what you like in your own country, but I don'tallow such goings on in my 'ouse."
"I was--a--thinking of your watch-clock," said Richard Manx. "It isnot--a--right. Five, ten, fifteen minutes are past, and I counted twelveby the church bells. Midnight, that is it--twelve of the clock."
"It's time for all decent people to be abed and asleep," remarked Mrs.Preedy.
"In bed--ah!--but in sleep--that is not the same thing. _You_ are notso."
"I've got my business to look after," retorted Mrs. Preedy. "I supposeyou 'aven't come to pay your rent?"
"To pay? Ah, money! It is what you call it, tight. No, I have not comemoney to pay."
"And 'ow am I to pay _my_ rent, I should like to know, if you don't payyours? Can you tell me that, young man?"
"I cannot--a--tell you. I am not a weezard."
Although Mrs. Preedy had fully regained her courage she could not thinkof a fitting rejoinder to this remark; so for a moment she held hertongue.
She had occupied her house for thirty years, living, until a short timesince, in tolerable comfort upon the difference between the rent shereceived from her lodgers and the rent she paid to the agent of theestate upon which Great Porter Square was situated. It was a great andwealthy estate. Mrs. Preedy had never seen her aristocratic landlord,who owned not only Great Porter Square but a hundred squares and streetsin the vicinity, in addition to lovely tracts of woodland and grandmansions in the country. The income of this to-be-envied lord wassaid to be a sovereign a minute. London, in whose cellars and garretshundreds of poor wretches yearly die of starvation, contains many suchprinces.
Richard Manx rented a room in the garret of Mrs. Preedy's house, forwhich he had to pay three shillings a week. It was furnished, and therent could not be considered unreasonable. Certainly there was in theroom nothing superfluous. There were a truckle bed, with a few worn-outbed clothes, a japanned chest of drawers, so ricketty that it had to bepropped up with bits of paper under two of its corners, a wreck of achair, an irregular piece of looking-glass hooked on to the wall, an oldfender before the tiniest fire-place that ever was seen, a bent bit ofiron for a poker, an almost bottomless coal scuttle, a very small trunkcontaining Richard Manx's personal belongings, a ragged towel, and alame washstand with toilet service, every piece of which was chippedand broken. In an auction the lot might have brought five shillings;no broker in his senses would have bid higher for the rubbish.
"If you 'aven't come to pay your rent," demanded Mrs. Preedy, "what_'ave_ you come for?"
Richard Manx craned his neck forward till his face was at least sixinches in advance of his body, and replied in a hoarse whisper:
"I have--a--heard it once more again!"
The effect of these words upon Mrs. Preedy was extraordinary. No soonerhad they escaped her lodger's lips than she started from her chair,upsetting her glass of gin in her excitement, and, pulling him into theroom, shut the door behind him. Then she opened the door of the littlecupboard in which the servant slept, and called softly:
"Becky!" and again, "Becky! Becky!"
The girl must have been a sound sleeper, for even when her mistressstepped to her bedside, and passed her hand over her face, she did notmove or speak. Returning to the kitchen, Mrs. Preedy closed the door ofthe sleeping closet, and said to Richard Manx:
"Look 'ere, young man, I don't want none of your nonsense, and, what'smore, I won't stand none!" And instantly took the heart out of herdefiance by crying, in an appealing tone: "Do you want to ruin me?"
"What think you of me?" asked Richard Manx, in return. "No, I wish notto ruin. But attend. You call your mind back to--a--one week from now.It is Wednesday then--it is Wednesday now. I sit up in my garret in themoon. I think--I smoke. Upon my ear strikes a sound. I hear s
cratching,moving. Where? At my foot? No. In my room? No; I can nothing see. Where,after that? In this house? Who can say? In the next to this? Ah! Ithink of what is there done, three months that are past. My blood--thatis it--turn cold. I cannot, for a some time, move. You tell me, you,that there is no--a--man, or--a--woman, or--a--child in the apartmentunder-beneath where I sit. I am one myself _in_ that room--no wife,no--a--child. I speak myself to--I answer myself to. No-- I amnot--a--right. Something there is that to me speaks. The wind, theinfernal--like a voice, it screams, and whistles, and what you call,sobs. That is it. Like a child, or a woman, or a man for mercy calling!Ah! it make my hair to rise. Listen you. It speaks once more again!"
It was the wind in the streets that was moaning and sobbing; and duringthe pause, a flash of lightning darted in, causing Richard Manx to startback with the manner of a man upon whom divine vengeance had suddenlyfallen. It was followed, in a little while, by a furious bursting ofthunder, which shook the house. They listened until the echoes diedaway, and even then the spirit of the sound remained in their ears withominous portent.
"It is an angry night," said Richard Manx. "I will--a--continue what Iwas saying. It is Wednesday of a week past. I in my garret sit and Ismoke. I hear the sound. It is what you call--a--secret. To myself Ithink there is in that house next to this the blood of a man murdered.Why shall there not be in this house, to-morrow that rises, the blood ofone other man murdered. And that man! Who shall it be? Myself--I. So Irouse my courage up, and descend from my garret in the moon to the doorof the street. Creeping--is that so, your word?--creeping after me aspirit comes--not for me to see, not for me to touch--but to hear withmy ears. All is dark. In the passage appear you, and ask me what? Itell you, and you laugh--but not laugh well, it is like a cry--andyou say, it is--a fancy; it is nothing I hear. And you, with handsso"--(clasping his hands together, somewhat tragically)--"beg of me notto any speak of what I hear. I consent; I say, I will not of it speak."
"And you 'aven't?" inquired Mrs. Preedy, anxiously.
Richard Manx laid his hand on his breast. "On my honour, no; I speaknot of it. I think myself, 'The lady of the house is--a--right. I hearonly--a--fancy. I will not trouble. I will let to-morrow come.' It come,and another to-morrow, and another, and still another. Nothing I hear.But to-night--again! I am smoking myself in bed. Be not afraid--I shallnot put your house in a fire. It would not be bad. You are what theycall insured?" Mrs. Preedy nodded. "Listen you--comes the rain. Ah--andthe wind. God in heaven! that fire-flash!"
It blinded them for a moment or two. Then, after the briefestinterval, pealed the thunder, with a crash which almost deafened them.Instinctively, Richard Manx drew nearer to Mrs. Preedy, and she alsomoved closer to him. At such times as this, when nature appears tobe warring against mortals, the human craving for companionship andvisible, palpable sympathy most strongly asserts itself.
Either the breaking of the storm, or some other cause, had produced astrange effect upon Becky, whom Mrs. Preedy supposed to be sleeping inthe little room adjoining the kitchen; for the girl in her night-dresswas kneeling on the ground, with her head close to the door, listening,with her heart and soul in her ears, to the conversation between hermistress and the young man lodger. It would have astonished Mrs. Preedyconsiderably had she detected her maid-of-all-work in such a position.
The thunder and lightning continued for quite five minutes, and thenthey wandered into the country and awoke the echoes there, leaving therain behind them, which poured down like a deluge over the greater partof the city.
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