The Tenants of Malory. Volume 2

"Very, mind. As strong as the devil it must be, and as clear as – as your conscience." He was getting out a tin case, as he spoke. "Here it is. I got it in – I forget the name – a great place, near one of your bridges. I suppose it's as good as any to be had in this place. Of course it isn't all coffee. We must go to the heathen for that; but if they haven't ground up toasted skeletons, or anything dirty in it, I'm content. I'm told you can't eat or drink a mouthful here without swallowing something you never bargained for. Everything is drugged. Look at our Caiquejees! You have no such men in your padded Horse-guards. And what do they live on? Why, a crust of brown bread and a melon, and now and then a dish of pilauf! But it's good – it's pure – it's what it calls itself. You d – d Christian cheats, you're an opprobrium to commerce and civilisation; you're the greatest oafs on earth, with all your police and spies. Why it's only to will it, and you don't; you let it go on. We are assuredly a beastly people!"

"Sugar, please, sir?"

"No, thank you."

"Take milk, sir?"

"Heaven forbid! Milk, indeed! I tell you what, Mrs. – What's your name? – I tell you, if the Sultan had some of your great fellows – your grocers, and bakers, and dairymen, and brewers, egad! – out there, he'd have 'em on their ugly faces and bastinado their great feet into custard pudding! I've seen fellows – and devilish glad I was to see it, I can tell you – screaming like stuck pigs, and their eyes starting out of their heads, and their feet like bags of black currant jelly, ha, ha, ha! – for a good deal less. Now, you see, ma'am, I have high notions of honesty; and this tin case I'm going to give you will give me three small cups of coffee, as strong as I've described, six times over; do you understand? – six times three, eighteen; eighteen small cups of coffee; and don't let those pretty little foxes' cubs down stairs meddle with it. Tell 'em I know what I'm about, and they'd better not, ha, ha, ha! nor with anything that belongs to me, to the value of a single piastre."

Miss Sarah Rumble was a good deal dismayed by the jubilant severity of Mr. Dingwell's morals. She would have been glad had he been of a less sharp and cruel turn of pleasantry. Her heart was heavy, and she wished herself a happy deliverance, and had a vague alarm about the poor little children's falling under suspicion, and of all that might follow. But what could she do? Poverty is so powerless, and has so little time to weigh matters maturely, or to prepare for any change; its hands are always so full, and its stomach so empty, and its spirits so dull.

"I wish those d – d curtains were off the bed," and again they underwent the same disgusting process; "and the bed-clothes, egad! They purify nothing here. You know nothing about them either, of course? No – but they would not like to kill me. No; – that would not do. Knock their little game on the head, eh? I suppose it is all right. What's prevalent here now? What sort of – I mean what sort of death– fever, small-pox, or scarlatina – eh? Much sickness going?"

"Nothink a'most, sir; a little measles among the children."

"No objection to that; it heads them down a bit, and does not trouble us. But what among the grown people?"

"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 glass, 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 glass – 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 —something 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 —sometimes; pity the flask has so few glasses, and is flat so soon; isn't it so, ma'am?"