There was a dead silence; Mary Ann had fainted.
I took steps—down the rest of the stairs—to make myself scarce before Mary Ann came to, so I shut the door quietly, and marched rapidly up the street, with my head buried in the umbrella. The wind nearly carried my beard away, but I held fast, and tacked to the lee side, where I made good progress. Then I walked up La Trobe Street, and made my way, across the open space, towards Collingwood.
In a quarter of an hour I was in the neighbourhood of the house I was looking for, so I called a council of war with myself, and came to a unanimous decision as to what I should do. I ran a parallel up to the place, took a flying survey through a little hole in the umbrella, and passed on; then I twirled the hole round, and took a squint at the other side of the street. Nearly opposite the house I had looked at was one with a bill in the window, on which was "House to Let." Just as Wellington took possession of the house of La Haye Sainte on the Field of Waterloo, so would I take possession of this empty domicile for strategic purposes. Two great minds may hit upon the same idea.
I turned into another street, and went down a right-of-way to the back of the empty house. Fortunately I found the gate open, so I went into the yard. It was a squalid place, full of water, dreary and wretched in the extreme. The door was locked, and the windows were latched. Should I get in at the door or window? As I usually travel by the shortest road, I thrust my hand through the glass, pulled the catch back, threw the sash up, put my leg over the sill, then jumped into the room, which was about twelve feet square. The floor was blotched and greasy, the walls damp and frowsy, with great strips of paper hanging down at the ceiling. I shut the window, but left it unfastened, then unlocked the door, and opened it a few inches to leave a way of retreat in case of need. If worsted by the enemy (which may happen to the best general), retreat in good order, like Sir John Moore at Corunna, who was covered with glory, a mantle, and Westminster Abbey; or if not by the latter, he ought to have been.
I explored the four rooms, baton in hand—there was not a soul in the place; then I stood at one of the front windows, a little way back, and reconnoitred. The rain had ceased. Black masses of cloud were hurrying up from the south, and clawing at the chimney-pots. The wind howled in the lum, and whistled through the keyhole. The weatherboard walls creaked and groaned like a ship's timbers in a gale. The front gate swung on its one hinge, and grated on the gravel path. Rank weeds filled the strip of garden, and the paling fence clattered like castanets, without tune, rhyme, or reason.
I had barely noted what I have set down, when the door of the opposite house was opened a few inches, and a black eye, like a search-light, flashed to right and left. Evidently the coast was clear, and the sweep satisfactory, for the other eye hove in sight, accompanied by a face in perfect drawing and colouring, such as Sir John Millais or Marcus Stone loves to paint.
"Sold again!" I said to myself; "this is a lady and no mistake!" I was just about to beat a retreat, cover up my tracks, destroy my bridges, burn my boats, or whatever is the appropriate expression, under my crushing defeat. I ground my teeth with chagrin and hunger. It was nearly six o'clock, and in another hour it would be dark. I had no stomach for such work under the unforeseen circumstances that had developed.
The lady had a basket on her arm, which gave my thoughts a new direction. She must be on a charitable mission to the reprobate sweep who lived there, trying to whitewash him with tracts, and sweeten his life with sugar and tea. "This is the solution of the situation, no doubt," I thought. I must not desert my post, but watch. Putting my theory into practice, I glued my eyes on the lady to see what was her next move. She came out on the step, and furtively peered up and down the street with an anxious face. First impressions are not always best. I did not like her looks half so well as I did. She did not improve on closer inspection. However, everything suffers on a wet day. Beauty does not count for much, and classical features are nowhere muffled in a hood and dripping umbrella. Helen of Troy and Cleopatra did not show themselves on a rainy day.
She pulled a shawl over her head, and hid her face as well as she could, then shut the door, and walked up the street, glancing over her shoulder every second or two.
"You are no better than you ought to be," I thought. "Like a fair apple without, but with rottenness at the heart—a whited sepulchre, with foulness within. There is some secret here!"