“You may well say that Becky,” said Mrs. Preedy, with a woeful sigh; “it’s hard to say what things will come to if they go on much longer like this.”
“I hope it’s more than one lodger,” I observed; “I hope it’s a family.”
“No, Becky,” she replied, “it’s only one—a man; he’s taken the attic at three shillings a week, and between you and me and the post, I shall reckon myself lucky if I get it. I can’t say I like the looks of him, but I can’t afford to be too nice.”
When I saw the man, who gives himself out as Richard Manx, I liked the looks of him as little as my mistress. He is dark-complexioned, and has long black hair; there is a singular and most unnatural look in his eyes—they are cat’s eyes, and shift from side to side stealthily—not to be trusted, not for a moment to be trusted! He has black whiskers and a black moustache; and he has large, flat feet. The moment I saw him he inspired me with an instinctive repugnance towards him; I regarded him with an aversion which I did not trouble myself to examine and justify. I believe in first impressions.
So strong was my feeling that I said to Mrs. Preedy I hoped I should not have to wait upon him.
“He does not require waiting upon,” said Mrs. Preedy, “he has taken the garret, without attendance. He says that he will not even trouble us to make his bed or sweep out his room.”
“So much the better,” thought I, and I did my best not to meet him. I must do him the justice to say that he appeared as anxious to avoid me as I was to avoid him; and for a fortnight we did not exchange a word.
And now, my dear, prepare for an inconsistency, and call me a bundle of contradictions.
I have made up my mind no longer to avoid Richard Manx; I have made up my mind to worm myself, if I can, in his confidence; I have made up my mind not to lose sight of him, unless, indeed, he suddenly disappears from the house and the neighbourhood, and so puts it out of my power to watch his movements.