No Name, Wilkie Collins [reading the story of the TXT] 📗

this time, with all the points, the “Noathe” included; and then repeated her question in louder tones. The veteran obstinately matched her by becoming deafer than ever.

“Yes, my dear,” he said, “you’re right; it is chilly in these passages; and unless I go back to my fire, my fire’ll go out⁠—won’t it? If you don’t feel sure of your pints of the compass, come in to me and I’ll put you right again.” He winked benevolently, whistled to the dogs, and hobbled off. Magdalen heard him chuckle over his own success in balking her curiosity on the subject of the second floor. “I know how to deal with ’em!” said old Mazey to himself, in high triumph. “Tall and short, native and foreign, sweethearts and wives⁠—I know how to deal with ’em!”

Left by herself, Magdalen exemplified the excellence of the old sailor’s method of treatment, in her particular case, by ascending the stairs immediately, to make her own observations on the second floor. The stone passage here was exactly similar, except that more doors opened out of it, to the passage on the first floor. She opened the two nearest doors, one after another, at a venture, and discovered that both rooms were bedchambers. The fear of being discovered by one of the woman-servants in a part of the house with which she had no concern, warned her not to push her investigations on the bedroom floor too far at starting. She hurriedly walked down the passage to see where it ended, discovered that it came to its termination in a lumber-room, answering to the position of the vestibule downstairs, and retraced her steps immediately.

On her way back she noticed an object which had previously escaped her attention. It was a low truckle-bed, placed parallel with the wall, and close to one of the doors on the bedroom side. In spite of its strange and comfortless situation, the bed was apparently occupied at night by a sleeper; the sheets were on it, and the end of a thick red fisherman’s cap peeped out from under the pillow. She ventured on opening the door near which the bed was placed, and found herself, as she conjectured from certain signs and tokens, in the admiral’s sleeping chamber. A moment’s observation of the room was all she dared risk, and, softly closing the door again, she returned to the kitchen regions.

The truckle-bed, and the strange position in which it was placed, dwelt on her mind all through the afternoon. Who could possibly sleep in it? The remembrance of the red fisherman’s cap, and the knowledge she had already gained of Mazey’s doglike fidelity to his master, helped her to guess that the old sailor might be the occupant of the truckle-bed. But why, with bedrooms enough and to spare, should he occupy that cold and comfortless situation at night? Why should he sleep on guard outside his master’s door? Was there some nocturnal danger in the house of which the admiral was afraid? The question seemed absurd, and yet the position of the bed forced it irresistibly on her mind.

Stimulated by her own ungovernable curiosity on this subject, Magdalen ventured to question the housekeeper. She acknowledged having walked from end to end of the passage on the second floor, to see if it was as long as the passage on the first; and she mentioned having noticed with astonishment the position of the truckle-bed. Mrs. Drake answered her implied inquiry shortly and sharply. “I don’t blame a young girl like you,” said the old lady, “for being a little curious when she first comes into such a strange house as this. But remember, for the future, that your business does not lie on the bedroom story. Mr. Mazey sleeps on that bed you noticed. It is his habit at night to sleep outside his master’s door.” With that meager explanation Mrs. Drake’s lips closed, and opened no more.

Later in the day Magdalen found an opportunity of applying to old Mazey himself. She discovered the veteran in high good humor, smoking his pipe, and warming a tin mug of ale at his own snug fire.

“Mr. Mazey,” she asked, boldly, “why do you put your bed in that cold passage?”

“What! you have been upstairs, you young jade, have you?” said old Mazey, looking up from his mug with a leer.

Magdalen smiled and nodded. “Come! come! tell me,” she said, coaxingly. “Why do you sleep outside the admiral’s door?”

“Why do you part your hair in the middle, my dear?” asked old Mazey, with another leer.

“I suppose, because I am accustomed to do it,” answered Magdalen.

“Ay! ay!” said the veteran. “That’s why, is it? Well, my dear, the reason why you part your hair in the middle is the reason why I sleep outside the admiral’s door. I know how to deal with ’em!” chuckled old Mazey, lapsing into soliloquy, and stirring up his ale in high triumph. “Tall and short, native and foreign, sweethearts and wives⁠—I know how to deal with ’em!”

Magdalen’s third and last attempt at solving the mystery of the truckle-bed was made while she was waiting on the admiral at dinner. The old gentleman’s questions gave her an opportunity of referring to the subject, without any appearance of presumption or disrespect; but he proved to be quite as impenetrable, in his way, as old Mazey and Mrs. Drake had been in theirs. “It doesn’t concern you, my dear,” said the admiral, bluntly. “Don’t be curious. Look in your Old Testament when you go downstairs, and see what happened in the Garden of Eden through curiosity. Be a good girl, and don’t imitate your mother Eve.”

Late at night, as Magdalen passed the end of the second-floor passage, proceeding alone on her way up to her own room, she stopped and listened. A screen was placed at the entrance of the corridor, so as to hide it from the view of persons passing on the stairs. The snoring she heard on the other side of the screen encouraged her to