She went forth, with her candle in her hand, and stood at the turn of the banister, confronting Mr. Dingwell, who, also furnished with a candle, was now about midway down the last flight of stairs.
“Egeria, in the thunder!” exclaimed the hard, scoffing tones of Mr. Dingwell; whom, notwithstanding her former encounter with him, she would hardly have recognised in his ugly disguise.
“A hoffle night for anyone to go out, sir,” she said, rather sternly, with a courtesy at the same time.
“Hoffle, is it?” said Mr. Dingwell, amused, with mock gravity.
“The hofflest, sir, I think I hever ‘ave remembered.”
“Why, ma’am, it isn’t raining; I put my hand out of the window. There’s none of that hoffle rain, ma’am, that gives a fellow rheumatism. I hope there’s no unusual fog — is there?”
“There, sir;” exclaimed she, as another loud peal rattled over Rosemary Court, with a blue glare through the lobby window and the fanlight in the hall. She paused, and lifted her hand to her eyes till it subsided, and then murmured an ejaculation.
“I like thunder, my dear. It reminds me of your name, dear Miss Rumble;” and he prolonged the name with a rolling pronunciation. “Shakespeare, you know, who says everything better than anyone else in the world, makes that remarkable old gentleman, King Lear, say, ‘Thunder, rumble thy bellyfull!’ Of course, I would not say that in a drawingroom, or to you; but kings are so refined they may say things we can’t, and a genius like Shakespeare hits it off.”
“I would not go out, sir, on such a night, without I was very sure it was about something good I was a-going,” said Miss Rumble, very pale.
“You labour under electro-phobia, my dear ma’am, and mistake it for piety. I’m not a bit afraid of that sort of artillery, ma’am. Here we are, two or three millions of people in this town; and two or three million of shots, and we’ll see by the papers, I venture to say, not three shots tell. Don’t you think if Jupiter really meant mischief he could manage something better?”
“I know, sir, it ought to teach us” — here she winced and paused; for another glare, followed by another bellow of the thunder, “long, loud, and deep,” interposed. “It should teach us some godly fear, if we has none by nature.”
Mr. Dingwell looked at his watch.
“Oh! Mr. Dingwell, it is hoffle. I wish you would only see it, sir.”
“See the thunder — eh?”
“My poor mother. She always made us go down on our knees, and say our prayers — she would — while the thunder was.”
“You’d have had rather long prayers tonight. How your knees must have ached — egad! I don’t wonder you dread it, Miss Sarah.”
“And so I do, Mr. Dingwell, and so I should. Which I think all other sinners should dread it also.”
“Meaning me.”
“And take warning of the wrath to come.”
Here was another awful clap.
“Hoffle it is, Mr. Dingwell, and a warnin’ to you, sent special, mayhap.”
“Hardly fair to disturb all the town for me, don’t you think?”
“You’re an old man, Mr. Dingwell.”
“And you’re an old woman, Miss Sarah,” said he — not caring to be reminded of his years by other people, though he playfully called himself on occasions an old “boy”— “as old as Abraham’s wife, whose namesake you are, though you have not lighted on an Abraham yet, nor become the mother of a great nation.”
“Old enough to be good enough, as my poor mother used to say, sir; I am truly; and sorry I am, Mr. Dingwell, to see you, on this hoffle night, bent on no good. I’m afraid, sir — oh, sir, sir, oughtn’t you think, with them sounds in your ears, Mr. Dingwell?”
“The most formidable thunder, my dear Sarah, proceeds from the silvery tongue of woman. I can stand any other. It frightens me. So, egad, if you please, I’ll take refuge in the open air, and go out, and patter a prayer.”
And with a nod and a smirk, having had fooling enough, he glided by Miss Rumble, who made him an appalled courtesy, and, setting down his candle on the hall-table, he said, touching his false whiskers with his finger tips, “Mind, not a word about these — upon my soul —— you’d better not.”
She made another courtesy. He stopped and looked at her for an answer.
“Can’t you speak?” he said.
“No, sir — sure — not a word,” she faltered.
“Good girl!” he said, and opened the door, with his latchkey in his pocket, on pitchy darkness, which was instantaneously illuminated by the lightning, and another awful roar of thunder broke over their heads.
“The voice of heaven in warning!” she murmured to herself, as she stood by the banisters, dazzled by the gleam, and listening to the reverberation ringing in her ears. “I pray God he may turn back yet.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Another shot, Miss Rumble — missed again, you see.” He nodded, stepped out upon the flags, and shut the door. She heard his steps in the silence that followed, traversing the court.
“Oh dear! but I wish he was gone, right out — a hoffle old man he is. There’s a weight on my conscience like, and a fright in my heart, there is, ever since he camed into the ‘ouse. He is so presumptious. To see that hold man made hup with them rings and whiskers, like a robber or a play-actor! And defyin’ the blessed thunder of heaven — a walking hout, a mockin’ and darin’ it, at these hours — Oh law!”
The interjection was due to another flash and peal.
“I wouldn’t wonder — no more I would — if that flash was the death o’ ‘im!”
* * *
CHAPTER XI.
THE PALE HORSE.
Sally Rumble knocked at the usual hour at the old man’s door next morning.
“Come in, ma’am,” he answered, in a weary, peevish voice. “Open the window-shutter, and give me some light, and hand me my watch, please.”
All which she did.
“I have not closed my eyes from the time I lay down.”
“Not ailing, sir, I hope?”
“Just allow me to count, and I’ll tell you, my dear.”
He was trying his pulse.
“Just as I thought, egad. The pale horse in the Revelation, ma’am, he’s running a gallop in my pulse; it has been threatening the last three days, and now I’m in for it, and I should not be surprised, Miss Sally, if it ended in a funeral in our alley.”
“God forbid, sir.”
“Amen, with all my heart. Ay, the pale horse; my head’s splitting; oblige me with the looking-glass, and a little less light will answer. Thank you — very good. Just draw the curtain open at the foot of the bed; please, hold it nearer — thank you. Yes, a ghost, ma’am — ha, ha — at last, I do suppose. My eyes, too — I’ve seen pits, with the water drying up, hollow — ay, ay; sunk — and — now — did you see? Well, look at my tongue — here” — and he made the demonstration; “you never saw a worse tongue than that, I fancy; that tongue, ma’am, is eloquent, I think.”
“Please God, sir, you’ll soon be better.”
“Draw the curtain a bit more; the light falls oddly, or — does it? — my face. Did you ever see, ma’am, a face so nearly the colour of a coffin-plate?”
“Don’t be talking, sir, please, of no such thing,” said Sally Rumble, taking heart of grace, for women generally pluck up a spirit when they see a man floored by sickness. “I’ll make you some whey or barley-water, or would you like some weak tea better?”
“Ay; will you draw the curtain close again, and take away the looking-glass? Thanks. I believe I’ve drunk all the water in the carafe. Whey — well, I suppose it’s the right thing; caudle when we’re coming in, and whey, ma’am, when we’re going out. Baptism of Infants, Burial of the Dead! My poor mother, how she did put us through the prayer-book, and Bible — Bible. Dear me.”
“There’s a very good man, sir, please — the Rev. Doctor Bartlett, though he’s gone rather old. He came in, and read a deal, and prayed,
every day with my sister when she was sick, poor thing.”
“Bartlett? What’s his Christian name? You need not speak loud — it plays the devil with my head.”
“The Reverend Thomas Bartlett, please, sir.”
“Of Jesus?”
“What, sir, please?”
“Jesus College.”
“Don’t know, I’m sure, sir.”
“Is he old?”
“Yes, sir, past seventy.”
“Ha — well I don’t care a farthing about him,” said Mr. Dingwell.
“Will you, please, have in the apothecary, sir? I’ll fetch him directly, if you wish.”
“No — no apothecary, no clergyman; I don’t believe in the Apostles’ Creed, ma’am, and I do believe in the jokes about apothecaries. If I’m to go, I’ll go quietly, if you please.”
Honest Sally Rumble was heavy at heart to see this old man, who certainly did look ghastly enough to suggest ideas of the undertaker and the sexton, in so unsatisfactory a plight as to his immortal part. Was he a Jew? — there wasn’t a hair on his chin — or a Roman Catholic? — or a member of any one of those multitudinous forms of faith which she remembered in a stout volume, adorned with woodcuts, and entitled “A Dictionary of all Religions,” in a back parlour of her granduncle, the tallow-chandler?
“Give me a glass of cold water, ma’am,” said the subject of her solicitude.
“Thank you — that’s the best drink — slop, I think you call it — a sick man can swallow.”
Sally Rumble coughed a little, and fidgeted, and at last she said: “Please, sir, would you wish I should fetch any other sort of a minister?”
“Don’t plague me, pray; I believe in the prophet Rabelais and je m’en vais chercher un grand peutêtre — the two great chemists, Death, who is going to analyse, and Life, to recombine me. I tell you, ma’am, my head is bursting; I’m very ill; I’ll talk no more.”
She hesitated. She lingered in the room, in her great perplexity; and Mr. Dingwell lay back, with a groan.
“I’ll tell you what you may do: go down to your landlord’s office, and be so good as to say to either of those d —— d Jew fellows — I don’t care which — that I am as you see me; it mayn’t signify, it may blow over; but I’ve an idea it is serious; and tell them I said they had better know that I am very ill, and that I’ve taken no step about it.”
With another weary groan Mr. Dingwell let himself down on his pillow, and felt worse for his exertion, and very tired and stupid, and odd about the head, and would have been very glad to fall asleep; and with one odd pang of fear, sudden and cold, at his heart, he thought, “I’m going to die — I’m going to die — at last — I’m going to die.”
The physical nature in sickness acquiesces in death; it is the instructed mind that recoils; and the more versed about the unseen things of futurity, unless when God, as it were, prematurely glorifies it, the more awfully it recoils.
Mr. Dingwell was not more afraid than other sinners who have lived for the earthy part of their nature, and have taken futurity pretty much for granted, and are now going to test by the stake of themselves the value of their loose guesses.
No; he had chanced a great many things, and they had turned out for the most part better than he expected. Oh! no; the whole court, and the adjoining lanes, and, in short, the whole city of London, must go as he would — lots of company, it was not to be supposed it was anything very bad — and he was so devilish tired, over-fatigued — queer — worse than sea-sickness — that headache — fate — the change — an end — what was it? At all events, a rest, a sleep — sleep — could not be very bad; lots of sleep, sir, and the chance — the chance — oh, yes, things go pretty well, and I have not had my good luck yet. I wish I could sleep a bit — yes, let kingdom-come be all sleep — and so a groan, and the brain duller, and more pain, and the immense fatigue that demands the enormous sleep.
When Sarah Rumble returned, Mr. Dingwell seemed, she thought, a great deal heavier. He made no remark, as he used to do, when she entered the room. She came and stood by the bedside, but he lay with his eyes closed, not asleep; she could see by the occasional motion of his lips, and the fidgety change of his posture, and his weary groanings. She waited for a time in silence.
“Better, sir?” she half-whispered, after a minute or two.
“No,” he said, wearily.
Another silence followed, and then she asked, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Dingwell, sir?”
“Yes — water.”
So he drank a very little, and lay down again.
Miss Sarah Rumble stayed in the room, and nearly ten minutes passed without a word.
“What did he say?” demanded Mr. Dingwell so abruptly that Sarah Rumble fancied he had been dreaming.
“Who, sir, please?”
“The Jew — landlord,” he answered.
“Mr. Levi’s acoming up, sir, please — he expected in twenty minutes,” replied she.
Mr. Dingwell groaned; and two or three minutes more elapsed, and silence seemed to have reestablished itself in the darkened chamber, when Mr. Dingwell raised himself up with a sudden effort, and he said —
“Sarah Rumble, fetch me my desk.” Which she did, from his sitting-room.
“Put your hand under the bolster, and you’ll find two keys on a ring, and a pocketbook. Yes. Now, Sarah Rumble, unlock that desk. Very good. Put out the papers on the coverlet before me; first bolt the door. Thank you, ma’am. There are a parcel of letters among those, tied across with a red silk cord — just so. Put them in my hand — thank you — and place all the rest back again neatly — neatly, if you please. Now lock the desk; replace it, and come here; but first give me pen and ink, and bolt the door — try it again.”
And as she did so he scrawled an address upon the blank paper in which these letters were wrapt.
The brown visage of his grave landlady was graver than ever, as she returned to listen for further orders.
“Mrs. Sarah Rumble, I take you for an honest person; and as I may die this time, I make a particular request of you — take this little packet, and slip it between the feather-bed and the mattress, as near the centre as your arm will reach — thank you — remember it’s there. If I die, ma’am, you’ll find a ten-pound note wrapped about it, which I give to you; you need not thank — that will do. The letters addressed as they are you will deliver, without showing them, or saying one word to anyone but to the gentleman himself, into whose hands you must deliver them. You understand?”
“Yes, sir, please; I’m listening.”
“Well, attend. There are two Jew gentlemen — your landlord, Mr. Levi, and the old Jew, who have been with me once or twice — you know them; that makes two; and there is Mr. Larkin, the tall gentleman who has been twice here with them, with the lavender waistcoat and trousers, the eyeglass with the black ribbon, the black frock coat — heigho! oh, dear, my head! — the red grizzled whiskers, and bald head.”
“The religious gentleman, please, sir?”
“Exactly; the religious gentleman. Well, attend. The two Jews and the religious gentleman together make three; and those three gentlemen are robbers.”
“What, sir?”
“Robbers — robbers! Don’t you know what ‘robbers’ means? They are all three robbers. Now, I don’t think they’ll want to fiddle with my money till I’m dead.”
“Oh, Lord, sir!”
“‘Oh, Lord!’ of course. That will do. They won’t touch my money till I’m dead, if they trust you; but they will want my desk — at least Larkin will. I shan’t be able to look after things, for my head is very bad, and I shall be too drowsy — soon knocked up; so give ‘em the desk, if they ask for it, and these keys from under the pillow; and if they ask you if there are any other papers, say no; and don’t you tell them one word about the letters you’ve put between the beds here. If you betray me — you’re a religious woman — yes — and believe in God — may God d — n you; and He will, for you’ll be accessory to
the villany of those three miscreants. And now I’ve done what in me lies; and that is all — my last testament.”
And Mr. Dingwell lay down wearily. Sarah Rumble knew that he was very ill; she had attended people in fever, and seen them die. Mr. Dingwell was already perceptibly worse. As she was coming up with some whey, a knock came to the door, and opening it she saw Mr. Levi, with a very surly countenance, and his dark eyes blazing fiercely on her.
“How’sh Dingwell now?” he demanded, before he had time to enter, and shut the door; “worse, is he?”
“Well, he’s duller, sir.”
“In his bed? Shut the door.”
“Yes, sir, please. Didn’t get up this morning. He expected you two hours ago, sir.”
Levi nodded.
“What doctor did you fetch?” he asked.
“No doctor, please, sir. I thought you and him would choose.”
Levi made no answer; so she could not tell by his surly face, which underwent no change, whether he approved or not. He looked at his watch.
“Larkin wasn’t here to-day?”
“Mr. Larkin? No, sir, please.”
“Show me Dingwell’s room, till I have a look at him,” said the Jew, gloomily.
So he followed her upstairs, and entered the darkened room without waiting for any invitation, and went to the window, and pulled open a bit of the shutter.
“What’s it for?” grumbled Dingwell indistinctly from his bed.
“So you’ve bin and done it, you have,” said the Jew, walking up with his hands in his pockets, and eyeing him from a distance as he might a glandered horse.
Dingwell was in no condition to retort on this swarthy little man, who eyed him with a mixture of disgust and malignity.
“How long has he been thish way?” said the Jew, glowering on Sarah Rumble.
“Only to-day in bed, please, sir; but he has bin lookin’ awful bad this two or three days, sir.”
“Do you back it for fever?”
“I think it’s fever, sir.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 379
