CHAPTER VIII.
THE LODGER AND HIS LANDLADY.
SALLY was beginning to conceive a great fear of her guest, and terrorbeing the chief spring of activity, in a marvellously short time thecoffee was made, and she, with Lucy Maria holding the candle behind her,knocking at what they called the drawing-room door. When, in obedienceto his command, she entered, he was standing by the chimney-piece,gazing at her through an atmosphere almost hazy with tobacco smoke. Hehad got on his dressing-gown, which was pea-green, and a scarlet fez,and stood with his inquisitive smile and scowl, and his long pipe alittle removed from his lips.
"Oh, it's _you_? yes; no one--do you mind--except Mr. Larkin, or Mr.Levi, or Mr. Goldshed, ever comes in to me--always charmed to see_you_, and _them_--but there ends my public; so, my dear lady, ifany person should ask to see Mr. Dingwell, from New York in America,you'll simply say there's no such person here--yes--there's--_no_--_such_--_person_--_here_--upon my honour. And you're no true woman ifyou don't say so with pleasure--because it's a fib."
Sarah Rumble courtesied affirmatively.
"I forgot to give you this note--my letter of introduction. Here, ma'am,take it, and read it, if you can. It comes from those eminent harpies,the Messrs. Goldshed and Levi--your landlords, aren't they?"
Another courtesy from grave, dark-browed Miss Rumble acknowledged thefact.
"It is pleasant to be accredited by such gentlemen--good landlords, Idare say?"
"I've nothing to say against Mr. Levi; and I'm 'appy to say, sir, myrent's bin always paid up punctual," she said.
"Yes, just so--capital landlord! charming tenant; and I suspect if youdidn't, they'd find a way to make you--eh? Your coffee's not so bad--youmay make it next time just a degree stronger, bitter as wormwood andverjuice, please--black and bitter, ma'am, as English prejudice. Itisn't badly made, however--no, it _is_ really _good_. It isn't a commonChristian virtue, making good coffee--the Mahometans have a knack of it,and you must be a bit of a genius, ma'am, for I think you'll make itvery respectably by to-morrow evening, or at latest, by next year. Youshall do everything well for me, madam. The Dingwells are always d--dflighty, wicked, unreasonable people, ma'am, and you'll find me aregular Dingwell, and _worse_, madam. Look at me--don't I look like avampire. I tell you, ma'am, I've been buried, and they would not let merest in my grave, and they've called me up by their infernalincantations, and here I am, ma'am, an evoked spirit. I have not readthat bit of paper. How do they introduce me--as Mr. Dingwell, or Mr.Dingwell's ghost? I'm wound up in a sort of way; but I'm deficient inblood, ma'am, and in heat. You'll have to keep the fire up always like_this_, Mrs. Rumble. You'd better mind, or you'll have me a bit too likea corpse to be pleasant. Egad! I frighten myself in the glass, ma'am.There is what they call transfusion of blood _now_, ma'am, and a verysensible thing it is. Pray, don't you think so?"
"I do suppose what you say's correct, sir."
"When a fellow comes out of the grave, ma'am--that's sherry in thatbottle; be kind enough to fill this glass--he's chilly, and he wantsblood, Mrs. Rumble. A gallon, or so, transfused into my veins wouldn'thurt me. You can't _make_ blood fast enough for the wear and tear oflife, especially in a place like merry England, as the poets callit--and merry England is as damp all over as one of your charnel vaultsunder your dirty churches. Egad! it's enough to make a poor ghost likeme turn vampire, and drain those rosy little brats of yours--ha, ha,ha!--_your_ children, are they, Mrs. Rumble--eh?"
"No, sir, please--my brother's children."
"Your _brother's_--ho! He doesn't live _here_, I hope?"
"He's dead, sir."
"Dead--is he?"
"Five years last May, sir."
"Oh! that's good. And their mother?--some more sherry, please."
"Dead about four years, poor thing! They're orphans, sir, please."
"'Gad! I _do_ please; it's a capital arrangement, ma'am, as they _are_here, and you mustn't let 'em go among the children that swarm aboutplaces like this. Egad! ma'am, I've no fancy for scarlatina orsmall-pox, or any sort or description of your nursery maladies."
"They're very 'ealthy, sir, I thank you," said grave Sarah Rumble, alittle mistaking Mr. Dingwell's drift.
"Very glad to hear it, ma'am."
"Very kind o' you, sir," she said, with a courtesy.
"Kind, of course, yes, very kind," he echoed.
"Very 'ealthy, indeed, sir, I'm thankful to say."
"Well, yes, they do look well--for town brats, you know--plump androsy--hang 'em, little skins of sweet red wine; egad! enough to make afellow turn vampire, as I said. Give me a little more sherry--thank you,ma'am. Any place near here where they sell ice?"
"Yes, sir, there's Mr. Candy's hice-store, in Love Lane, sir."
"You must arrange to get me a pound, or so, every day at twelve o'clock,broken up in lumps, like sugar, and keep it in a cold cellar; do youmind, ma'am?"
"Yes, sir, please."
"How old are _you_, ma'am? Well, _no_, you need not mind--hardly a fairquestion; a steady woman--a lady who has seen the world--_some_thing ofit, hey?" said he; "so have _I_--I'm a steady old fellow, egad!--youmust give me a latch-key, ma'am."
"Yes, sir."
"Some ten or twelve years will see us out; curious thing life, ma'am,eh? ha, ha, ha!--Sparkling cup, ma'am, while it lasts--_some_times; pitythe flask has so few glasses, and is flat so soon; isn't it so, ma'am?"
"I never drank wine, sir, but once."
"No! where was that?"
"At Mr. Snelly's wedding, twenty years since."
"'Gad! you'd make a good Turk, ma'am--don't mistake me--it's only theydrink no wine. You've found life an up-hill business, then, hey?"
Mrs. Rumble sighed profoundly, shook her head, and said,--
"I've 'ad my trials, sir."
"Ha, ha, ha! to be sure, why not? then you're a bit _tired_, I dare say;what do you think of death?"
"I wish I was ready, sir."
"An ugly fellow, hey? I don't like the smell of him, ma'am."
"We has our hopes, sir."
"Oh! sure and certain hope--yes, the resurrection, hey?"
"Yes, sir, there's only one thing troubles me--them poor littlechildren. I wouldn't care how soon I went if they was able to do forthemselves."
"They do that very early in London--girls especially; and you're givingthem such an excellent training--Sunday school--eh--and ChurchCatechism, I see. The righteous are never forsaken, my excellent motherused to tell me; and if the Catechism does not make little Misswhat's-her-name righteous, I'm afraid the rosy little rogue has a spiceof the devil in her."
"God forbid, sir."
"Amen, of course. I'm sure they're all right--I hope they are--for I'llwhip 'em both; I give you fair warning, on my honour, I will, if theygive me the least trouble."
"I'll be very careful, sir, and keep them out of the way," said thealarmed Sarah Rumble.
"Oh! I don't care about _that_; _let_ 'em run about, as long as they'regood; I've no objection in life to children--quite the contrary--plumplittle rogues--I like 'em--only, egad! if they're naughty, I'll turn 'emup, mind."
Miss Rumble looked at him with as much alarm as if the threat had beento herself.
He was grinning at her in return, and nodded once or twice sharply.
"Yes, ma'am, lollypops and sugar-candy when they're good; but, egad!when they're naughty, ma'am, you'll hear 'em squalling."
Miss Rumble made an alarmed courtesy.
"'Gad, I forgot how cold this d----d town is. I say, you'll keep a firein my bed-room, please; lay on enough to carry me through the night, doyou mind?"
"Yes, sir."
"And poke this fire up, and put some more wood, or coal, on it; I don'texpect to be ever warm again--in _this_ world, eh?--ha, ha, ha! Iremember our gardener, when we were boys, telling me a story of apreacher in a hard frost, telling his congregation that hell was aterribly cold place, lest if he described what good fires they keptthere they'd all have been wishing to get into it. Did yo
u ever know anyone, ma'am, of my name, _Dingwell_, before, eh? Where were you born?"
"London, sir, please."
"Ho! Canterbury was _our_ place; we were great people, the Dingwells,there once. My father failed, though--fortune of war--and I've seen allthe world since; 'gad, I've met with queer people, ma'am, and one ofthose chances brings me here now. If I had not met the oddest fish Iever set my eyes on, in the most out-o'-the-way-place on earth, I shouldnot have had the happiness of occupying this charming apartment at thismoment, or of making your acquaintance, or that of your plump littleCupid and Psyche, down stairs. London, I suppose, is pretty much what italways was, where any fellow with plenty of money may have plenty offun. Lots of sin in London, ma'am, eh? Not quite so good as Vienna. Butthe needs and pleasures of all men, according to their degree, arewonderfully provided for; wherever money is there is a market--for thecabman's copper and the guinea of the gentleman he drives--everythingfor money, ma'am--bouquets, and smiles, and coffins, wooden or leaden,according to your relative fastidiousness. But things change very fast,ma'am. Look at this map; I should not know the town--a wilderness, egad!and no one to tell you where fun is to be found."
She gazed, rather frightened, at this leering, giggling old man, whostood with his shoulders against the chimney-piece, and his handstumbling over his shillings in his pockets, and his sinister and wearyface ever so little flushed with his sherry and his talk.
"Well, if you can give a poor devil a wrinkle of any sort--hey?--it willbe a charity; but, egad! I'm as sleepy as the Homilies," and he yawneddirefully. "Do, like an angel, go and see to my room, I can scarcelykeep my eyes open."
From the next room she heard him _hi-yeawing_ in long-drawn yawns, andtalking in snatches to himself over the fire, and when she came back hetook the candle and said,--
"Beaten, ma'am, fairly beaten to-night. Not quite what I was, though I'mgood for something still; but an old fellow can't get on without hissleep."
Mr. Dingwell's extraordinary communicativeness would have quite charmedher, had it not been in a faint way racy of corruption, and followedwith a mocking echo of insult, which she caught, but could notaccurately interpret. The old rascal was irrepressibly garrulous; but hewas too sleepy to talk much more, and looked ruefully worn out.
He took the bed-room candle with a great yawn, and staggering, I ambound to say only with sleep, he leaned for a moment against the doorwayof his room, and said, in his grimmer vein,--
"You'll bring me a cup of coffee, mind, at eight o'clock--_black_, nomilk, no sugar--and a bit of dry toast, as thin as a knife and as hardas a tile; _do_ you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And why the devil don't you say so? And, lest I should forget, Mr. Leviwill be here to-morrow, at eleven, with another gentleman. Show themboth up; and, I say, there are several things I'm particular about, andI'll put them on paper--egad! that's the best way--to-morrow, and I'llpost it up in my room, like a firmaun, and you had better attend tothem, that's all;" and holding up his candle, as he stood in thedoorway, he gazed round the bed-room, and seemed satisfied, and shutthe door sharply in her face, without turning about, or perhapsintending that rudeness, as she was executing her valedictory courtesy.
The Tenants of Malory, Volume 2 Page 8
