The Last Tenant

"Do you feel better?" I asked, with a smiling nod at her.

"Ever so much, sir; thank yer kindly," she said humbly and gratefully. "I'm good for another day."

"And for many more after that," I said. "I dare say we shall be able to do something for you if you are a good girl."

"I aint bad, sir," she said, with an imploring look; "don't believe that I am. I never forgit what Molly sed-" she stopped with a sudden gasp. "You aint come from 'er, 'ave yer, sir?"

"From Molly, my dear? No, we have not come from her. Who is Molly?"

"My sister, sir," she replied with a sigh; "the only one, I aint got no other brothers or sisters."

"You have a mother and father, my dear?"

"No, sir, there was only Molly and me."

"Some relatives, surely?"

"No, sir, not as I knows on."

"Have you no home, my dear?"

"No, sir, 'xcept this, unless you turn me out of it."

"If we do turn you out of it, my child, it will be to put you in a better one."

"Don't, sir; oh, please don't!" she cried.

"Not put you in a more comfortable home, my dear?" I asked in surprise.

"I don't want a more comfortable one, sir, till Molly comes back. If she don't find me 'ere, where's she to look for me, and 'ow am I to know? I 'ope you won't turn me away; I do 'ope it, sir!"

"There, there, my dear," I said, "you need not distress yourself. Depend upon it we will do nothing that you do not wish done, and that is not for your good. We will see about it all presently. Where is your sister?"

"That's wot I want to know, sir; that's wot I want to find out. Oh, wot wouldn't I give if I knew where Molly was!"

There was pregnant matter here for me to think about. The child did not want to find another home till her sister came back. Came back where? To this Heaven-forsaken house. It was here that Molly would come to look for the poor little waif. The conclusion was that Molly knew something of the house, was familiar with it, else she would not expect to find her young sister in it. Was it a reasonable conclusion that she knew something of the last tenant, and could give me some information concerning him? I did not pursue the subject with the little girl in this direction, deeming it best to await a more advantageous opportunity for learning what I desired to know.

"What was it Molly said to you that you will never forget?" I asked.

"She said, Molly did, 'Look 'ere, Barbara, mind you're good, and mind you allus keep good. If you don't you shan't be no sister of mine.' That's wot I won't forgit as long as ever I live. But O Molly, Molly, why don't you come back? Why don't you come back!"

The imploring earnestness of this appeal powerfully affected me, and I gazed pitifully at poor Barbara, from whose eyes the tears were streaming. That when she put her hands up to her eyes, she should keep her little fist tightly clenched, touched me to the heart; the little silver piece was her shield against hunger, for a few hours at least, and she clung to it instinctively through all her grief. I waited till she was calmer before I said:

"Dress yourself quickly, Barbara, and come upstairs with us. There's a nice fire there, and I want to talk to you about Molly. We will try and find her for you, and you shall not be hungry again. Will you trust me?"

"Yes, sir, I will; no one could speak kinder, and you're not the sort of gentleman to take me in. Perhaps you won't mind telling me 'ow long you've been 'ere. I didn't know there was anybody in the house but me."

"We came only a few hours ago, Barbara," I answered, "and I have been here but once before."

"Wot did you come the first time for, sir?"

"The house is to let, and I thought of taking it."

"To live in, sir?"

"Yes, to live in."

"But you're never going to, sir?"

"No, I am not going to."

"I should say yer wouldn't," she muttered. "Who would, I'd like to know? What did you come for this time, sir?"

"I will tell you more when you're dressed," I said. "It will be warmer and nicer upstairs. Be as quick as you can."

Bob and I went out of the kitchen while Barbara put on her ragged garments, in which she looked a truly miserable object; Bob patted her cheek, and I took her hand and led her upstairs, the cat following at our heels. I noticed that she kept her eyes closed most of the time, and that when she lifted her lids she did so timorously and apprehensively, but I refrained at present from asking her the reason of this. It was only when we were in the room which we had selected for our sleeping apartment that she opened her eyes and kept them open.

"Now, Barbara," I said, putting a chair by the fireside for her, "sit down there, and warm yourself; then we will talk."

She sat down obediently, and spread out her thin hands to the comforting flame, and with a kind of wonder watched Bob as he put the kettle on and prepared to make the tea. He poured out a cup, and put in milk and sugar liberally, and gave it to her. She thanked him and drank it, saying when the cup was empty, "That's good, sir."

"Are you ready to talk, Barbara?" I asked.

"Yes, if you please, sir."

"I am going to ask you a good many questions, and perhaps they'll lead to good."

"I'll answer all I can, sir."

"So you sleep in this house regularly, Barbara?"

"Yes, sir; I aint got no other place. Where else'd I go to, I'd like to know?"

"How long have you lived here?"

"I can't tell you that, sir; it must be years and years."

"Since the house has been untenanted, perhaps?"

"Unwhat, sir?"

"I mean, Barbara, since it has been empty?"

"I dessay, sir. I know one thing-it was three weeks to a day after Molly went away that I first come 'ere, and I've 'ardly missed a night all the time. There was twice I couldn't git in for the snow, and I was 'most perished. When I did git in I was that numbed and froze that I could 'ardly move, but I knew I was done for if I didn't stir my pegs, so I put some sticks on the 'earthstone and set fire to 'em, and little by little I got thawed. It was touch and go with me then, sir, but I managed to dodge 'em that time. I don't know as I'd 'ave cared much one way or the other if it 'adn't been for Molly. Once there wos a gal she knew that throwed 'erself in the water, and she sed to me, sed Molly, 'It wos a wicked thing to do, Barbara,' she sed. 'There's 'eaven,' sed Molly, 'and there's 'ell,' she sed. 'If we do good things we go to 'eaven, if we do wicked things we go to the other place.' It's the way Molly used to talk to me that's kept me up over and over agin."

I had made up my mind not to interrupt Barbara even when she wandered from the subject in which I was most interested. By doing so I might lose valuable suggestions to be gathered from her chance words, and I naturally wished to hear everything it was in her power to impart. Impatient as I was to learn more of Molly-who evidently was imbued with a strong sense of duty, and whose story, I felt convinced, had a direct connection with the mystery I was endeavoring to solve-I recognized the advantage of leading gradually up to it. It was by far the wisest plan to allow her to ramble on in her own way, and not to startle her by abrupt questions.

"Why did you not light the fire in the stove, Barbara?"

"I wosn't sech a mug as that, sir," she replied with a faint dash of humor. "When smoke comes out of the chimney of a empty 'ouse the peeler sez, 'Ho, ho!' and in he pops to find out who's done it. Wot'd become of me then, I'd like to know? They'd 'ave made precious short work of me."

"And you have not lit a fire in a stove all the time you have been here."

"Never once, sir."

"How did you manage for coals, Barbara?"

"Well, sir, when I first come, there was a lot of coal in the cellar, and I used it all up. It lasted ever so long, but there was a end to it. Then I begun on the furniture and odd bits of sticks I found inside the house and out. Sometimes when it was dark and rainy I foller the coal wagons, and pick up wot drops from the sacks. Then there's dead branches; I've got 'arf a cupboardful downstairs."

"What time did you come" – I hesitated at the word-"home to-night?"

"Past one, I think, sir. I kep' out late trying to sell my matches, but I 'ad to give it up for a bad job."

"It was you we heard moving about?"

"Did I make a noise, sir? I don't, 'ardly ever, but I s'ppose I wos desp'rate, being so 'ungry, and thinking wot I should do to-morrer for grub. I wosn't long gitting my clothes off, cos I wanted to git to sleep quick and forgit everythink and everybody-everybody but Molly. I'm 'appy when I'm asleep, sir."

"Poor child! Do you mean to tell me, Barbara, that all these years you have never once been found out, that all these years you have come and gone from the house without being seen."

"Yes, sir, as fur as I know. If I aint clever in nothink else I've been clever in that. Oh, but the way I've had to dodge, and the tricks I've played! They'd fill a book if they wos took down. Allus coming 'ome late at night, looking about me, and turning another way if anybody wos near; allus very careful when I went out agin, peeping round corners, and 'iding quick if I 'eerd a step. Eyes, sir! I can see a mile off. Ears, sir! I could 'ear a blade o' grass whisper."

"You have had a hard life, my dear," I said, taking her hand. Despite her ragged clothes she looked more comfortable now. There was no wolf tearing at her vitals for food. This, and the warmth of the fire, the excitement of the conversation, the consciousness that we were her friends, and the novelty of such an association in a house in which she had not heard the voice of a human being during all the years she had slept and starved in it, had caused her cheeks to glow and her eyes to sparkle.

"Yes, sir, there's no denying it's 'ard, but it'll be all right when I see Molly agin."

"You expected to do so long before now?"

"Oh, yes, sir, ever so long before. She can't 'ave forgot me, she can't 'ave forgot me! You don't think that, do yer, sir?"

"I am sure she has not, my dear. She was always a good sister to you, from what you have told me, and always a good girl."

"The best in all the wide world, sir. There's nobody like 'er, I don't care where you look. 'I'm more than yer sister Molly,' she sed, 'I'm yer mother, and I'll never, never turn from yer as long as I live.'"

"Tell me, Barbara. What was your sister?"

"A servant gal, sir. I'd like to be one."

"Was she in a situation in London?"

"In course she wos, sir."

"Where?"

"In this 'ouse, sir. That's why I'm 'ere now."

And that, thought I, looking down at the cat, is why I am here now. I glanced at Bob; the revelation that poor Barbara's sister was in domestic service with the last tenant had brought a flush of expectation into his face.

CHAPTER XVIII.

MOLLY

I continued the conversation.

"That must be a long time ago, Barbara?"

"Oh, yes, sir; ever so long ago."

"What was the name of her master?"

"I don't remember, sir."

"If you heard it, would you remember it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was it Mr. Nesbit?"

"That's the name, sir. 'E 'ad a daughter, sech a nice young lady, Molly told me."

"Miss Beatrice Nesbit?"

"That's 'er, sir. Molly was so fond of 'er, and she liked Molly, too."

"Do you know, Barbara, what became of Miss Beatrice?"

"No, sir; do you?"

I evaded the question. "Can you read?" I asked.

"Large letters, when they're wrote plain, sir."

"You can't read newspapers?"

"No, sir."

"When Molly went away-we will speak about that presently-did nobody tell you that something had happened in this house?"

"No, sir; I didn't speak about Molly or the 'ouse to nobody, and nobody spoke to me. Wot did 'appen, sir?"

"Never mind just now. It is for me to ask questions."

"I beg yer pardon, sir."

"No need, Barbara. Where and how did you live, my dear, while Molly was in service here?"

"It's 'ard to say, sir. I lived anywhere and any'ow. If it 'adn't been for Molly I don't think I'd 'ave lived at all. She used to say, used Molly, 'One day we'll live together, Barbara. When yer grows up, per'aps Miss Beatrice 'll give yer a place with 'er. Then we shall be in the same 'ouse, and we'll be as 'appy as the day's long.' The day aint come yet, sir."

"When Molly worked here used you to come and see her?"

"On the sly, sir. Mr. Nesbit, Molly sed, wouldn't allow no followers, and nobody else come to the 'ouse that didn't 'ave no business there, so I 'ad to come unbeknown to 'im. One night I wos in the kitching when Molly 'eard 'im coming down. She 'id me quick be'ind the clothes 'orse, as 'ad some things drying. It was lucky for me and Molly that he didn't ketch sight of me, or he'd 'ave bundled us both out. My 'eart wos in my mouth all the time."

"You saw Mr. Nesbit?"

"Yes, sir; I peeped through the things and sor 'im."

"A nice looking gentleman, Barbara?"

"Quite the other, sir; but 'e spoke smooth to Molly."

"Did you ever see Miss Beatrice?"

"Once, sir, the same way, and I think she knew I wos 'iding, but she never sed nothink. She was the nicest looking young lady I ever sor."

"Tell me about Molly going away."

"She sed she was going into the country with 'er master and Miss Beatrice, and that she wouldn't be away long. She give me some money, and promised to send me some more every week, but I aint 'eerd nothink of 'er from that day to this. There wos Mrs. Simpson, sir; she let me sleep in a corner of 'er room. She wos allus 'ard up, Mrs. Simpson wos, and two weeks after Molly wos gone she got into trouble, and went away, I don't know where to, and I'd no place to put my 'ead in. I walked about the streets and slep' in the park, and then I thought I'd come 'ere and wait for Molly. There wos nothink else for it, 'cause Mrs. Simpson 'ad cut 'er lucky, and Molly wouldn't know where else to look for me. It wos orfle lonesome 'ere at fust, and I wos frightened out of my life almost; but I got used to it after a bit, and it wos a slice of luck, wosn't it, sir, that I found a place to sleep in without being arsked to pay no rent? Then there wos the coal cellar pritty well full of coals, and lots of wood to make a fire with. Daytime I'd go out selling matches, begging, doing anythink to make a honest penny, and it wosn't easy to do that, I can tell yer. But 'ere I am, no better off and no wus since I begun, and never found out till to-night."

"You must have managed very cleverly, Barbara."

"Oh, they don't make 'em much artfuller nor me," said the poor girl rather proudly. It was a pitiful boast from one who had suffered such hardships, and who, after years of struggle, presented so lamentable an appearance. "I aint told yer all, though," she continued eagerly. "I don't keep no count of the days 'xcept with bits of sticks-one stick, Monday, two sticks, Tuesday, three sticks, Wednesday, up to six sticks, Satterday, and then I know to-morrer's Sunday, and I begin all over again. Weeks I don't know 'ow to reckon, and that's why I can't tell 'ow long Molly's been away. I dessay it was three months when a Satterday night come-not the last by a good many-and I got 'ome as 'ungry as 'ungry could be, and not a ha'penny to get grub with. So wot do I do but prowl about on the chance of finding somethink that 'll 'elp me on. Molly used to sleep in the basement, next to the kitching, and there's a cupboard in the room. Wot 'yer think I found in that there cupboard on the top shelf, that I 'ad to stand on two chairs to git to? A wooden money-box, sir, that rattled as I shook it up. There wos letters outside wrote large by Molly, 'For Barbara.' Yer might 'ave knocked me down with a feather when I sor it, and I did tumble off the chairs and 'urt myself, but I 'ad the money box in my 'and for all that. It wos locked, and there wos no key, but I soon prised it open, and there it was, 'arf full of coppers that Molly'd been saving up for me, else she wouldn't 'ave wrote 'For Barbara' outside. Wosn't that good of Molly, sir?"

"Indeed it was," I replied.

"I counted it out-six and tenpence, no less, sir, and I kissed the box, and the writing, and the money too, and I only wanted Molly alongside of me to make me as 'appy as the day's long. It lasted me a long while, that money did."

"Did you ever find any more?" I asked.

"No, sir, though I looked everywhere for it."

"Now, Barbara, can you tell me the name of the place your sister was going to with Mr. Nisbet and Miss Beatrice?"

"No, sir, she didn't know 'erself, she sed, but she promised to write to me-in large letters-directly she got there."

"Where did she say she would send the letter?'

"To the house that Mrs. Simpson lived in, sir."

"You remained in that house two weeks after Molly went away?"

"Yes, sir."

"And no letter came?"

"No, sir."

"How can you be sure of that?"

"Mrs. Simpson didn't git none for me, sir-I'm sure of that, 'cause I know she wouldn't deceive me. Why should she? It wouldn't 'ave done 'er no good to keep it from me; and she wosn't one of that sort. Then, sir, there wos the two postmen as used to leave the letters in the street. I made bold to arsk both of 'em about it, 'Is there a letter for Barbara, wrote large, please?' I sed to them every day, and they sed no, there wosn't. 'You won't give it to no one else, will yer, please, when it comes?' I sed to them and they sed they wouldn't. After Mrs. Simpson wos gone I went to the street regularly, and 'ung about for the postmen, and arsked 'em if there wos a letter for Barbara, or if there'd been one, and they allus sed no, and that they'd keep it for me if they got 'old of it. But it never come, sir. I couldn't 'ave done nothink else to make sure of it, could I, sir?"

"You could do nothing more, Barbara; and you were very clever in doing what you did. Did you understand from Molly that she was going abroad?"

"Abroad, sir!" exclaimed Barbara, in manifest astonishment.

"Out of England, I mean."

"Oh, no, sir; she'd 'ave been sure to 'ave told me if she'd 'ad any idea of that. And she'd never 'ave done it, sir; she'd never 'ave gone so fur away from me!"

"I don't think she would, Barbara, if she had known it. Did she tell you she was going alone first, and that her master and Miss Beatrice were to follow afterward?"

"No, sir, they wos to go all together."

"Are you sure of that?"

"As sure as I can be, sir."

"You have given me sensible answers to all my questions, my dear. I noticed when you came upstairs with us that you kept your eyes closed. I suppose you were sleepy."

"It wasn't that, sir."

"What was the reason?"

"I was frightened, sir."

"Of what?"

Barbara looked around timidly, and drew closer to the fire. "There's shadders in this 'ere 'ouse," she said, in a low tone.

"There are shadows everywhere, Barbara," I answered, as Bob and I exchanged glances. "Tell us what you mean."

"I can't, sir; it's beyond me. I 'eerd once, permiscuous like, that there wos a 'ouse somewhere in these parts as wos 'aunted, and I sed to myself, 'It's this one.' Then I begun to feel shadders about. It's months and months since I've come 'igher than the kitching; I've been frightened to. It's allus as if somethink wos going to 'appen, and when you woke me up to-night I thought it 'ad."

"You began to feel shadows about, Barbara?"

"Yes, sir."

"But what have you seen?"

"Nothink, sir; but I know they're 'ere."

"Have you heard anything?"

"Only a shaking and rattling, sir."

"When there was a wind blowing, Barbara. From your description that must have been what you heard. Some of the window sashes are loose, and of course, in a high wind, they would make a noise." Barbara did not answer, but seemed dubious, and at the same time a little relieved. I glanced at the cat at my feet. "You have seen nothing to-night?"

"No, sir."

"You see no shadows now?"

"No, sir."

In these replies there was no such confirmation of my own strange experiences as I had expected, and hoped, to receive when she began to speak of shadows, and I ascribed her fears to the natural nervousness of a child living in a lonely house. They were no stronger than sensitive children living in comfortable homes, with parents and brothers and sisters around them, often suffer from. I had tired Barbara out with my string of questions; her eyelids were closing and opening; her head was nodding. In the silence that ensued she closed her eyes, and did not open them again. The child had fallen asleep.

CHAPTER XIX.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION

Bob and I conversed in whispers; but Barbara was sleeping so soundly that we might have spoken in our natural voices without fear of awaking her.

"What do you think of it, Bob?" I asked.

"I don't know what to think," he replied. "I only know one thing-that the child has spoken the truth."

"Of that there is no doubt," I said; "but what does it point to?"

He conveyed his answer in two words, "Foul play!"

I nodded.

"My own opinion, not newly formed, for I have had it all along; but what we have been told gives a new turn to it. And still," I added fretfully, "we are in the dark. Where can we look for direction as to the next step to be taken?"

"Has it not occurred to you," said Bob, "that it was singular that Mr. Nisbet should have had the body of his stepdaughter cremated instead of buried in the usual manner?"

"He may be an enthusiast on the subject of cremation," I observed. "Many eminent men advocate such a disposal of the dead."

"There is another answer to the question. We are both agreed that there has been foul play. If we are right, Mr. Nisbet, by having the body cremated, has effectually destroyed the most important evidence that could be sought against him."

"The doctor testified at the inquest to the cause of the young lady's death."

"Ah, the doctor. The inquiry agent gave you his name, I believe?"

"He did. It is Cooper."

"Might not something be gained from him?"

I caught at the suggestion.

"A good thought, Bob."

"We do not know," continued my shrewd adviser, "who this Dr. Cooper is, whether he is a practitioner of repute, and whether any relations of a confidential nature existed between him and Mr. Nisbet."

"You are letting in light," I said. "Go on."

"So far as you have gone you are ignorant of this doctor's standing. If he holds a good position, if he has an extensive practice, we shall obtain no assistance from him. No respectable medical man would run a risk for the sake of a bribe. As a rule, doctors are the kindest men in the world; but here and there you may meet with a backslider, or with one who has been careless in such a matter as this, or with one whose necessities lay him open to temptation. That is the extent of my suggestion; but it appears to me to be worth following up-on the off-chance, as sporting men say."

"It shall be followed up," I said. "To-morrow I will make inquiries concerning him. And now we will get a little sleep. It is not likely we shall be disturbed again."

We lay down in our clothes, and were awake betimes. But Barbara was up before us; and when we rose we found the room nicely tidied up, a bright fire burning, the kettle singing on the hob, and the table ready spread for breakfast.

"Bravo, Barbara," I said. "You are a handy little girl."

"I thought you'd like it done, sir," she said; "and I moved about very quiet so as not to wake yer. I slep' like a top, and I feel ever so much better than I did last night. But yer did give me a start, yer did, when yer come upon me in the kitching."

"You are not sorry for it now?"

"I'm glad, sir. It was a reg'lar slice of luck."

"You shall find it so. Any more shadows, Barbara?"

"No, sir. I never feel 'em in the daytime; it's only at night that I'm afeerd."

"We'll put a stop to all that, my girl. Let us get breakfast over; I dare say you're ready for it."

"That I am, sir. I'm allus ready to tuck in."

Despite the seriousness of our situation, we were quite a cheerful party. We had provided liberally, and we made a hearty meal, Barbara, to our mingled pity and admiration, proving herself a champion in that line. Had she been of colossal proportions instead of an attenuated mortal, literally all skin and bone, she could scarcely have eaten more. A full meal was a delightful novelty to her, and she greatly distinguished herself.