“A very ancient and honourable name, well known in nursery history. Describe him.”
“There’s not much about him to describe. He’s like any other commonplace gentleman who is drawing on towards middle-age, with little in his appearance to distinguish him from any one else. He is about five-and-forty years old, as near as I can judge. Short black hair, with just a tinge of grey in it; no beard or whiskers; dressed in a new glossy suit of black clothes; wears black gloves, much too long in the fingers, and an old-fashioned black satin stock, fastened with a little pearl brooch. He has a good-tempered looking face, lighted up by two quick black eyes. He is deaf to a very slight extent, and you have to elevate your voice when speaking to him. He has a habit of carrying his head forward a little, and partly on one side, which gives him the appearance of being continually listening for something which he is expecting every moment to hear.”
“A description worthy of a passport. When does he arrive?”
“About noon to-morrow. He sleeps at one of the hotels to-night. But I forgot to say that he will only be a temporary lodger. He has engaged the rooms by the week, as his stay in Markhallow will only be a short one. He may want the rooms for one month, two months, or three months, he said,—just as the fancy takes him, and dependent on how soon he grows tired of our little town.”
“Ah, well! I suppose a temporary lodger is better than none. What references did he give?”
“References!” exclaimed Annie, in blank dismay. “Upon my word, I was so taken up with the idea of letting the rooms, that I forgot all about references.”
“Through which forgetfulness,” I said, severely, “you introduce into the house a person of whom we know absolutely nothing.”
“Oh! he’s thoroughly respectable, my dear; you may tell that at once from his appearance!”
“No doubt. Forgers and genteel pickpockets are generally men of very respectable appearance. Their respectability is part of their stock in trade. This fellow, for anything we know to the contray, may be one of the two men who broke out of a London prison t’other day, come down to this little place to hide till the affair has blown over.” Seeing, however, that Annie was inclined to lapse into a “moist relentment,” I added, with my usual good nature: “But don’t distress yourself about it; it may turn out all right, you know; and I can ask him for his references when he comes to-morrow.”
Punctual to appointment, Mr. Twoshoes arrived at noon the following day; and I may here say that my wife’s description of him was so close and faithful, that I can find nothing to add to it. A portmanteau and a writing-case formed the whole of our new lodger’s luggage.
“Mr. Starling, I suppose?” he said, with a pleasant smile, and a hearty shake of the hand. “I hope we shall suit one another; at least, I am sure it shall not be my fault if we don’t. Fine old city this of yours,” he went on, after we had introduced him into his rooms. “I am quite in love with it already. I flatter myself that I have always retained a dash of poetry in my composition, notwithstanding that my life has been such a hard and practical one; and if anything could revive that sentiment within my breast, it would be the sight of your grand old cathedral; and I may tell you, in confidence, that when I, James Twoshoes, was rambling through its aisles this morning, I felt more than half-inclined to try my hand at a sonnet.”
He sat down as he said this, and laughed in a hearty way that it did one good to listen to. Who could ask such a man for references? From that moment I gave up the idea as an absurdity.
“Your good lady,” he went on, “has, I presume, told you that I am only here for a short time. My stay may be limited to three weeks, or it may extend over three months. For my part, I’m a fellow who always makes a point of giving way to my whims. So long as a place takes my fancy, there I stick, as fast as a barnacle,—till some fine morning a whim pops into my brain, and then, hey, presto! I’m off by the first train—whither I know, at the time, no more than the man in the moon. Rather an uncomfortable, vagabond sort of existence, you probably think. So it is. I grant it. But what can a fellow do whose whims are the master of him? Give way to them, of course; and that’s just what I do. Well, well,” he went on, “I’ve seen many a more lively and populous place than Markhallow that hasn’t pleased me half so well. I’ll take a cutlet for dinner, if you please; and any little pastry you may have on hand.”
I saw nothing more of Mr. Twoshoes that day, for when I reached home in the evening, he was seated upstairs in his own room, as my wife told me, smoking an immense meerschaum, in company with some gin-and-water and a newspaper. To say that my wife and I were prepossessed in favour of our new lodger, is merely to state the bare fact of the case. We were delighted with him, and felt sure that he would bear comparison with even such a model individual as the Rev. Mr. Adolphus.
Mr. Twoshoes went out in the course of the following forenoon, and shortly returned, bringing with him a canary and cage, which he proceeded to hang up in his room with evident delight; and on the bird turning out to be a famous whistler, he had Annie and me specially upstairs to listen to it, and give him our opinion as to its qualifications. In the course of this day, too, we discovered that our lodger was a performer on the flute. We heard him tootle-tootle-ing in his rooms in a wandering, aimless sort of way for some minutes before he settled down into any tune; but he seemed to get into the proper groove at last, and then went on with one tune after another, from tea-time till dusk. I cannot say that he impressed me as being a very good player; and all his tunes were of an old fashioned, sentimental kind, such as had had their day, and gone out of vogue, a dozen years before; indeed, to hear him at dusk, tootling feebly through his open window, you would have taken him to be some love-sick swain of eighteen, rather than the hard-headed practical