The Tenants of Malory Volume II Part 8

"Nothink to signify in the court here, for three months a'most."

"And _then_, ma'am, what _was_ it, pray? Give those to your boy" (they were his boots); "let him rub 'em up, ma'am, he's not a bit too young to begin; and, egad! he had better do 'em _well_, too;" and thrusting his feet into a great pair of slippers, he reverted to his question--"What sickness was _then_, ma'am, three months ago, here in this pleasant little prison-yard of a place--hey?"

"Fever, please, sir, at No. 4. Three took it, please: two of 'em went to hospital."

"And never walked out?"

"Don't know, indeed, sir--and one died, please, sir, in the court here, and he left three little children."

"I hope they're gone away?"

"Yes, sir, please."

"Well, that's a release. Rest his soul, he's dead! as our immortal bard, that says everything so much better than anyone else, says; and rest our souls, _they're_ gone with their vile noise. So your bill of mortality is not much to signify; and make that coffee--d'ye see?--this moment, and let me have it as hot as--as the final abode of Dissenters and Catholics--I see you believe in the Church Catechism--immediately, if you please, to the next room."

So, with a courtesy, Sally Rumble tripped from the room, with the coffee-case in her hand.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE LODGER AND HIS LANDLADY.

SALLY was beginning to conceive a great fear of her guest, and terror being the chief spring of activity, in a marvellously short time the coffee was made, and she, with Lucy Maria holding the candle behind her, knocking at what they called the drawing-room door. When, in obedience to his command, she entered, he was standing by the chimney-piece, gazing at her through an atmosphere almost hazy with tobacco smoke. He had 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 a little 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, if any 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 if you 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 the fact.

"It is pleasant to be accredited by such gentlemen--good landlords, I dare say?"

"I've nothing to say against Mr. Levi; and I'm 'appy to say, sir, my rent's bin always paid up punctual," she said.

"Yes, just so--capital landlord! charming tenant; and I suspect if you didn't, they'd find a way to make you--eh? Your coffee's not so bad--you may make it next time just a degree stronger, bitter as wormwood and verjuice, please--black and bitter, ma'am, as English prejudice. It isn't badly made, however--no, it _is_ really _good_. It isn't a common Christian 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 it very respectably by to-morrow evening, or at latest, by next year. You shall do everything well for me, madam. The Dingwells are always d--d flighty, wicked, unreasonable people, ma'am, and you'll find me a regular Dingwell, and _worse_, madam. Look at me--don't I look like a vampire. I tell you, ma'am, I've been buried, and they would not let me rest in my grave, and they've called me up by their infernal incantations, and here I am, ma'am, an evoked spirit. I have not read that 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 in blood, 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 like a corpse to be pleasant. Egad! I frighten myself in the gla.s.s, ma'am.

There is what they call transfusion of blood _now_, ma'am, and a very sensible 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 that bottle; be kind enough to fill this gla.s.s--he's chilly, and he wants blood, Mrs. Rumble. A gallon, or so, transfused into my veins wouldn't hurt me. You can't _make_ blood fast enough for the wear and tear of life, especially in a place like merry England, as the poets call it--and merry England is as damp all over as one of your charnel vaults under your dirty churches. Egad! it's enough to make a poor ghost like me 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 about places like this. Egad! ma'am, I've no fancy for scarlatina or small-pox, or any sort or description of your nursery maladies."

"They're very 'ealthy, sir, I thank you," said grave Sarah Rumble, a little 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 and rosy--hang 'em, little skins of sweet red wine; egad! enough to make a fellow 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 you mind, ma'am?"

"Yes, sir, please."

"How old are _you_, ma'am? Well, _no_, you need not mind--hardly a fair question; a steady woman--a lady who has seen the world--_some_thing of it, hey?" said he; "so have _I_--I'm a steady old fellow, egad!--you must 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; pity the flask has so few gla.s.ses, 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 they drink 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."