‘The owners of the house permit us to occupy this floor and the basement, and as it’s more than we require, we let these rooms to lodgers. They’re not very grandly furnished, sir, but it’s all neat and clean.’
She threw open the shutters of the further apartment as she spoke, and the July sun streamed into the empty room. As its rays fell upon the unmade bed, my eye followed them and caught sight of a deep indentation in the mattress. The landlady saw it also, and looked amazed.
‘Some one has been taking a siesta here without your permission,’ I said, jestingly; but she did not seem to take my remark as a jest.
‘It must be my good man,’ she answered, hurriedly, as she shook the mattress; ‘perhaps he came in here to lie down for a bit. This hot weather makes the best feel weak, sir.’
‘Very true. And now, if you will accept me as a lodger, I will pay you my first week’s rent, and whilst I go back to the railway-station to fetch my valise, you must get me ready a chop or a steak, or anything that is most handy, for my dinner.’
All appeared to be satisfactory. My landlady assented to everything I suggested, and in another hour I was comfortably ensconced under her roof, had eaten my steak, and posted a letter to my wife, and felt very much in charity with all mankind. So I sat at the open window thinking how beautifully still and sweet all my surroundings were, and how much good work I should get through without fear of interruption or distraction. The office clerks had long gone home; the upper rooms were locked for the night; only an occasional patter along the wide uncarpeted staircase reminded me that I was not quite alone. Then I remembered the rats, and ‘The Origin of Dreams;’ and thinking it probable that my honest old couple retired to bed early, rang the bell to tell my landlady to be sure and leave me a good supply of candles.
‘You’re not going to sit up and write to-night, sir, are you?’ she inquired. ‘I am sure your rest would do you more good; you must be real tired.’
‘Not at all, my good Mrs Bizzey’ (Did I say her name was Bizzey?), ‘I am as fresh as a daisy, and could not close my eyes. Besides, as your friends, the rats, seem to make so free in the house, I should burn a light any way to warn them they had better not come too near me.’
‘Oh, I trust nothing will disturb you sir,’ she said, earnestly, as she withdrew to fetch the candles.
I unpacked my book-box and piled the big volumes on a side table. How imposing they looked! But I had no intention of poring over them that night. ‘The Origin of Dreams’ required thought—deep and speculative thought; and how could I be better circumstanced to indulge in it than stationed at that open window, with a pipe in my mouth, looking up at the dark blue sky bespangled with stars, and listening (if I may be allowed to speak so paradoxically) to the silence—for there is a silence that can be heard?