The Lodger - Marie Belloc Lowndes (story books for 5 year olds txt) đ
- Author: Marie Belloc Lowndes
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âNo,â he whispered. âNo, âtainât. But you see, child, weâve been going through a pretty bad timeâworse nor I should ever have let you know of, my dear. Ellenâs just feeling it nowâthatâs what it is. She didnât say nothing, for Ellenâs a good plucked one, but itâs told on herâitâs told on her!â
And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, and instinctively put her hand up to her head to see if her hair was all right.
She hadnât really been quite âoff.â It would have been better for her if she had. She had simply had an awful feeling that she couldnât stand upâmore, that she must fall down. Buntingâs words touched a most unwonted chord in the poor womanâs heart, and the eyes which she opened were full of tears. She had not thought her husband knew how she had suffered during those weeks of starving and waiting.
But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment. To her such betrayal betokened âfoolishness,â and so all she said was, âThereâs no need to make a fuss! I only turned over a little queer. I never was right off, Daisy.â
Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedly poured a little brandy. âI wouldnât touch such stuffâno, not if I was dying!â she exclaimed.
Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help of the table, on to her feet. âGo down again to the kitchen, childâ; but there was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice.
âYou havenât been eating properly, Ellenâthatâs whatâs the matter with you,â said Bunting suddenly. âNow I come to think of it, you havenât eat half enough these last two days. I always did sayâin old days many a time I telled youâthat a woman couldnât live on air. But there, you never believed me!â
Daisy stood looking from one to the other, a shadow over her bright, pretty face. âIâd no idea youâd had such a bad time, father,â she said feelingly. âWhy didnât you let me know about it? I might have got something out of Old Aunt.â
âWe didnât want anything of that sort,â said her stepmother hastily. âBut of courseâwell, I expect Iâm still feeling the worry now. I donât seem able to forget it. Those days of waiting, ofâofââ she restrained herself; another moment and the word âstarvingâ would have left her lips.
âBut everythingâs all right now,â said Bunting eagerly, âall right, thanks to Mr. Sleuth, that is.â
âYes,â repeated his wife, in a low, strange tone of voice. âYes, weâre all right now, and as you say, Bunting, itâs all along of Mr. Sleuth.â
She walked across to a chair and sat down on it. âIâm just a little tottery still,â she muttered.
And Daisy, looking at her, turned to her father and said in a whisper, but not so low but that Mrs. Bunting heard her, âDonât you think Ellen ought to see a doctor, father? He might give her something that would pull her round.â
âI wonât see no doctor!â said Mrs. Bunting with sudden emphasis. âI saw enough of doctors in my last place. Thirty-eight doctors in ten months did my poor missis have. Just determined on having âem she was! Did they save her? No! She died just the same! Maybe a bit sooner.â
âShe was a freak, was your last mistress, Ellen,â began Bunting aggressively.
Ellen had insisted on staying on in that place till her poor mistress died. They might have been married some months before they were married but for that fact. Bunting had always resented it.
His wife smile wanly. âWe wonât have no words about that,â she said, and again she spoke in a softer, kindlier tone than usual. âDaisy? If you wonât go down to the kitchen again, then I mustââshe turned to her stepdaughter, and the girl flew out of the room.
âI think the child grows prettier every minute,â said Bunting fondly.
âFolks are too apt to forget that beauty is but skin deep,â said his wife. She was beginning to feel better. âBut still, I do agree, Bunting, that Daisyâs well enough. And she seems more willing, too.â
âI say, we mustnât forget the lodgerâs dinner,â Bunting spoke uneasily. âItâs a bit of fish to-day, isnât it? Hadnât I better just tell Daisy to see to it, and then I can take it up to him, as youâre not feeling quite the thing, Ellen?â
âIâm quite well enough to take up Mr. Sleuthâs luncheon,â she said quickly. It irritated her to hear her husband speak of the lodgerâs dinner. They had dinner in the middle of the day, but Mr. Sleuth had luncheon. However odd he might be, Mrs. Bunting never forgot her lodger was a gentleman.
âAfter all, he likes me to wait on him, doesnât he? I can manage all right. Donât you worry,â she added after a long pause.
Perhaps because his luncheon was served to him a good deal later than usual, Mr. Sleuth ate his nice piece of steamed sole upstairs with far heartier an appetite than his landlady had eaten her nice slice of roast pork downstairs.
âI hope youâre feeling a little better, sir,â Mrs. Bunting had forced herself to say when she first took in his tray.
And he had answered plaintively, querulously, âNo, I canât say I feel well to-day, Mrs. Bunting. I am tiredâvery tired. And as I lay in bed I seemed to hear so many soundsâso much crying and shouting. I trust the Marylebone Road is not going to become a noisy thoroughfare, Mrs. Bunting?â
âOh, no, sir, I donât think that. Weâre generally reckoned very quiet indeed, sir.â
She waited a momentâtry as she would, she could not allude to what those unwonted shouts and noises had betokened. âI expect youâve got a chill, sir,â she said suddenly. âIf I was you, I shouldnât go out this afternoon; Iâd just stay quietly indoors. Thereâs a lot of rough people aboutââ Perhaps there was an undercurrent of warning, of painful pleading, in her toneless voice which penetrated in some way to the brain of the lodger, for Mr. Sleuth looked up, and an uneasy, watchful look came into his luminous grey eyes.
âIâm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Bunting. But I think Iâll take your advice. That is, I will stay quietly at home, I am never at a loss to know what to do with myself so long as I can study the Book of Books.â
âThen youâre not afraid about your eyes, sir?â said Mrs. Bunting curiously. Somehow she was beginning to feel better. It comforted her to be up here, talking to Mr. Sleuth, instead of thinking about him downstairs. It seemed to banish the terror which filled her soulâaye, and her body, tooâat other times. When she was with him Mr. Sleuth was so gentle, so reasonable, soâso grateful.
Poor kindly, solitary Mr. Sleuth! This kind of gentleman surely wouldnât hurt a fly, let alone a human being. Eccentricâso much must be admitted. But Mrs. Bunting had seen a good deal of eccentric folk, eccentric women rather than eccentric men, in her long career as useful maid.
Being at ordinary times an exceptionally sensible, well-balanced woman, she had never, in old days, allowed her mind to dwell on certain things she had learnt as to the aberrations of which human nature is capableâeven well-born, well-nurtured, gentle human natureâas exemplified in some of the households where she had served. It would, indeed, be unfortunate if she now became morbid orâor hysterical.
So it was in a sharp, cheerful voice, almost the voice in which she had talked during the first few days of Mr. Sleuthâs stay in her house, that she exclaimed, âWell, sir, Iâll be up again to clear away in about half an hour. And if youâll forgive me for saying so, I hope you will stay in and have a rest to-day. Nasty, muggy weather âthatâs what it is! If thereâs any little thing you want, me or Bunting can go out and get it.â
******
It must have been about four oâclock when there came a ring at the front door.
The three were sitting chatting together, for Daisy had washed up âshe really was saving her stepmother a good bit of troubleâand the girl was now amusing her elders by a funny account of Old Auntâs pernickety ways.
âWhoever can that be?â said Bunting, looking up. âItâs too early for Joe Chandler, surely.â
âIâll go,â said his wife, hurriedly jumping up from her chair. âIâll go! We donât want no strangers in here.â
And as she stepped down the short bit of passage she said to herself, âA clue? What clue?â
But when she opened the front door a glad sigh of relief broke from her. âWhy, Joe? We never thought âtwas you! But youâre very welcome, Iâm sure. Come in.â
And Chandler came in, a rather sheepish look on his good-looking, fair young face.
âI thought maybe that Mr. Bunting would like to knowââ he began, in a loud, cheerful voice, and Mrs. Bunting hurriedly checked him. She didnât want the lodger upstairs to hear what young Chandler might be going to say.
âDonât talk so loud,â she said a little sharply. âThe lodger is not very well to-day. Heâs had a cold,â she added hastily, âand during the last two or three days he hasnât been able to go out.â
She wondered at her temerity, herâher hypocrisy, and that moment, those few words, marked an epoch in Ellen Buntingâs life. It was the first time she had told a bold and deliberate lie. She was one of those womenâthere are many, many suchâto whom there is a whole world of difference between the suppression of the truth and the utterance of an untruth.
But Chandler paid no heed to her remarks. âHas Miss Daisy arrived?â he asked, in a lower voice.
She nodded. And then he went through into the room where the father and daughter were sitting.
âWell?â said Bunting, starting up. âWell, Joe? Now you can tell us all about that mysterious clue. I suppose itâd be too good news to expect you to tell us theyâve caught him?â
âNo fear of such good news as that yet awhile. If theyâd caught him,â said Joe ruefully, âwell, I donât suppose I should be here, Mr. Bunting. But the Yard are circulating a description at last. Andâwell, theyâve found his weapon!â
âNo?â cried Bunting excitedly. âYou donât say so! Whatever sort of a thing is it? And are they sure âtis his?â
âWell, âtainât sure, but it seems to be likely.â
Mrs. Bunting had slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. But she was still standing with her back against the door, looking at the group in front of her. None of them were thinking of her âshe thanked God for that! She could hear everything that was said without joining in the talk and excitement.
âListen to this!â cried Joe Chandler exultantly. ââTainât given out yetânot for the public, that isâbut we was all given it by eight oâclock this morning. Quick work that, eh?â He read out:
âWANTED
A man, of age approximately 28, slight in figure, height approximately 5 ft. 8 in. Complexion dark. No beard or whiskers. Wearing a black diagonal coat, hard felt hat, high white collar, and tie. Carried a newspaper parcel. Very respectable appearance.â
Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, fluttering
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