The Tenants of Malory. Volume 2. Le Fanu Joseph Sheridan

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СКАЧАТЬ and your friend, Jemmie, there, perhaps before me – though I'm an old boy. Younkers go off sometimes by the score. I've seen 'em trundled out in fever and plague, egad, lying in rows, like plucked chickens in a poulterer's shop. And they say you have scarlatina all about you here, now; bad complaint, you know, that kills the little children. You need not frighten yourselves though, because it must happen, sooner or later – die you must. It's the penalty, you know, because Eve once eat an apple."

      "Yes, sir."

      "Rather hard lines on us, isn't it? She eat an apple, and sin, and death, and colic – I never eat an apple in consequence —colic came into the world, and cider, as a consequence – the worst drink ever invented by the devil. And now go on and learn your Church Catechism thoroughly, and you'll both turn into angels. Upon my life, I think I see the feathers beginning to sprout from your shoulders already. You'll have wings, you know, if all goes right, and tails for anything I know."

      The little boy looked in his face perplexed and frightened – the little girl, answering his haggard grin with an attempted smile, showed also bewilderment and dismay in her eyes. They were both longing for the return of their aunt.

      Childish nature, which is only human nature without its scarf skin, is always afraid of irony. It is not its power, but its treachery that is dreadful – the guise of friendship hiding a baleful purpose underneath. One might fancy the seasoned denizens of Gehenna welcoming, complimenting, and instructing new comers with these profound derisions. How children delight in humour! how they wince and quail under irony! Be it ever so rudely fashioned and clumsily handled, still it is to them a terrible weapon. If children are to be either ridiculed or rebuked, let it be honestly, in direct terms. We should not scare them with this jocularity of devils.

      Having thus amused himself with the children for a time, he unlocked his leather bag, took out two or three papers, ordered the little girl to snuff the candle, and pulled it across the table to the corner next himself, and, sitting close by, tried to read, holding the letter almost in the flame, screwing his white eyebrows together, and shifting his position, and that of the candle also, with very little regard to the studious convenience of the children.

      He gave it up. The red and smoky light tried his eyes too severely. So, not well pleased, he locked his letters up again.

      "Cat's eyes – owls! How the devil they read by it passes my comprehension. Any more candles here – hey?" he demanded with a sudden sharpness that made the children start.

      "Three, please sir."

      "Get 'em."

      "On the nail in the closet, please sir."

      "Get 'em, d – n it!"

      "Closet's locked, please sir. Aunt has the key."

      "Ha!" he snarled, and looked at the children as if he would like to pick a quarrel with them.

      "Does your aunt allow you to let the fire out on nights like this – hey? You're a charming young lady, you– and this young gentleman, in manners and appearance, everything the proudest aunt could desire; but I'm curious to know whether either one or the other is of the slightest earthly use; and secondly, whether she keeps a birch-rod in that closet – hey? – and now and then flogs you – ha, ha, ha! The expense of the rod is trifling, the pain not worth mentioning, and soon over, but the moral effects are admirable, better and more durable – take my word for it – than all the catechisms in Paternoster Row."

      The old gentleman seemed much tickled by his own pleasantries, and laughed viciously as he eyed the children.

      "You did not tell me a fib, I hope, my dear, about your aunt? She's a long time about coming; and, I say, do put a little coal on the fire, will you?"

      "Coal's locked up, please sir," said the child, who was growing more afraid of him every minute.

      "'Gad, it seems to me that worthy woman's afraid you'll carry off the bricks and plaster. Where's the poker? Chained to the wall, I suppose. Well, there's a complaint called kleptomania – it comes with a sort of irritation at the tips of the fingers, and I should not be surprised if you and your friend Jemmie, there, had got it."

      Jemmie looked at his fingers' ends, and up in the gentleman's face, in anxious amazement.

      "But there's a cure for it – essence of cane – and if that won't do, a capital charm – nine tails of a gray cat, applied under competent direction. Your aunt seems to understand that disorder – it begins with an itching in the fingers, and ends with a pain in the back – ha, ha, ha! You're a pair of theologians, and, if you've read John Bunyan, no doubt understand and enjoy an allegory."

      "Yes, sir, please, we will," answered poor Lucy Maria, in her perplexity.

      "And we'll be very good friends, Miss Maria Louise, or whatever your name is, I've no doubt, provided you play me no tricks and do precisely whatever I bid you; and, upon my soul, if you don't, Til take the devil out of my pocket and frighten you out of your wits, I will – ha, ha, ha! – so sure as you live, into fits!"

      And the old gentleman, with an ugly smile on his thin lips, and a frown between his white eyebrows, fixed his glittering gaze on the child and wagged his head.

      You may be sure she was relieved when, at that moment, she heard her aunt's well-known step on the lobby, and the latch clicked, the door opened, and Miss Rumble entered.

      CHAPTER VII

      MR. DINGWELL MAKES HIMSELF COMFORTABLE

      "Ah! —ho! you are Miss Rumble – hey?" said the old gentleman, fixing a scrutinising glance from under his white eyebrows upon Sally Rumble, who stood in the doorway, in wonder, not unmixed with alarm; for people who stand every hour in presence of Giant Want, with his sword at their throats, have lost their faith in fortune, and long ceased to expect a benevolent fairy in any stranger who may present himself dubiously, and anticipate rather an enemy. So, looking hard at the gentleman who stood before the little fire, with his hat on, and the light of the solitary dipt candle shining on his by no means pleasant countenance, she made him a little frightened courtesy, and acknowledged that she was Sally Rumble, though she could not tell what was to follow.

      "I've been waiting; I came here to see you – pray, shut the door – from two gentlemen, Jews whom you know —friends– don't be uneasy – friends of mine, friends of yours– Mr. Goldshed and Mr. Levi, the kindest, sweetest, sharpest fellows alive, and here's a note from them – you can read?"

      "Read! Law bless you – yes, sir," answered Sally.

      "Thanks for the blessing: read the note; it's only to tell you I'm the person they mentioned this morning, Mr. Dingwell. Are the rooms ready? You can make me comfortable – eh?"

      "In a humble way, sir," she answered, with a courtesy.

      "Yes, of course; I'm a humble fellow, and – I hear you're a sensible young lady. These little pitchers here, of course, have ears: I'll say all that's necessary as we go up: there's a fellow with a cab at the door, isn't there? Well, there's some little luggage of mine on it – we must get it up stairs; give the Hamal something to lend a hand; but first let me see my rooms."

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