“The Bastling Arms is the name of that there little inn,� said Mr. Popham. “The sign is the same as the crest on his notepaper and his seal-ring and the lock of that despatch-box.� He pointed to the despatch-box crowning the pile of solid, well-used, much be-labeled portmanteaux and imperials that occupied the corner near the door of the room—a comfortably furnished, rather dingy second-floor apartment in a quiet street above, and running parallel with, Oxford Circus. “The landlord died the day before yesterday—as if to oblige or aggravate me, I don’t know which!—and the widow, knowing my ambitions, dropped me a postcard to inform. Three hundred is wanted for the lease, stock, and goodwill, and fifty for the furniture, stable and yard-effects. A bargain, Miss Mellicent, if I only had the money! But as it goes, I’m a hundred and fifty short—unless John Henry’s ear is tingling at this moment with tidings of comfort and joy. Now, what do you mean by lighting a fire as if I wanted coddling, when you’ve a dozen people to look after, if you’ve one?�
Miss Mellicent was down on her knees at the old-fashioned grate, laying a fire. She struck a match and lighted the kindling, and, though it was mid-June, the bright blaze was welcome in the dingy sitting-room, whose window-panes streamed with torrents of rain.
“The gentlemen are all out but the third-floor front,� she said, “and when the rain began, and I thought of you sitting up here in the dim light alone, it seemed as if I might do this much to make things cheerfuller. For you’ve done so much for me ever since I came here�—her red and blackened knuckles went up to her pink-rimmed eyes—“you always done so much for me!�
“For you, my dear soul!� ejaculated Mr. Popham, with circular eyes. “You make too much of things, Miss Mellicent!�
“That’s one of ’em,� cried grateful Mellicent, turning upon him a thin, blushing face down which two tears openly trickled. “You’ve called me ‘Miss Mellicent’ from the first. From the time I came here to Mr. and Mrs. Davis, an orphan, ten years old, in my cheap black frock, made out of the skirt of poor mother’s mourning for poor father, you’ve always called me ‘Miss.’ It helped me, somehow; just as your carrying up the heavy cans of hot water and the coals did.�
“You was a bright-eyed, grateful little mouse, too,� said Mr. Popham retrospectively, “and many’s the time I’ve had it in my mind to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Davis about their driving a little thing like you so hard. They’re past driving now, that’s one comfort! It’s years since I’ve set eyes on either of ’em, now I come to think of it!�
“It’s years!� Mellicent echoed in a slightly bewildered way. “Why of course it would be years!�
“She was a mountain, was the venerable lady, and the old gentleman was a mere lath,� said Mr. Popham meditatively. “He used to answer the letters we wrote year by year, season in and season out, from the family seat at Helsham, from the Engadine, Aix, or Ems, Paris, or the Riviera, to say we were coming on such a day. Ten years ago the writing of the letters changed to a feminine hand—and since then I haven’t seen him.�
“Why—don’t you know—he died?� said Mellicent.
“Did he really?� cried Mr. Popham. “Well, it was like him to keep it so quiet, and like the old lady, too. Reminds me—I haven’t set eyes on her for a matter of five year and over!�