Certainly, Mr Tankardew was not a pattern of cleanliness,either in his house or his person. Someone had said of himsarcastically, “that there was nothing clean in his housebut his towels;” and there was a great deal of truthin the remark. He seemed to dwell in an element of cobwebs; theatmosphere in which he lived, rather than breathed, wasapparently a mixture of fog and dust. Everything he had on wasfaded—everything that he had about him was faded—theonly dew that seemed to visit the jaded-looking shrubs in theapproach to his dwelling was mildew. Dilapidation anddinginess went hand-in-hand everywhere: the railings round thehouse were dilapidated—some had lost there points, otherscame to an abrupt conclusion a few inches above the stone-workfrom which they sprang; the steps were dilapidated—one ofthem rocked as you set your foot upon it, and the others slopedinwards so as to hold treacherous puddles in wet weather toentrap unwary visitors; the entrance hall was dilapidated; ifever there had been a pattern to the paper, it had now retiredout of sight and given place to irregular stains, which lookedsomething like a vast map of a desolate country, all moors andswamps; the doors were dilapidated, fitting so badly, that whenthe front door opened a sympathetic clatter of all the lesserones rang through the house; the floors were dilapidated, andafforded ample convenience for easy egress and ingress to theflourishing colonies of rats and mice which had establishedthemselves on the premises; and above all, Mr Tankardew himselfwas dilapidated in his dress, and in his whole appearance andhabits—his very voice was dilapidated, and his wordsslipshod and slovenly.
And yet Mr Tankardew was a man of education and a gentleman,and you knew it before you had been five minutes in his company.He was the owner of the house he lived in, on the outskirts ofthe small town of Hopeworth, and also of considerable property inthe neighbourhood. Amongst other possessions, he was the landlordof two houses of some pretensions, a little out in the country,which were prettily situated in the midst of shrubberies andorchards. In one of these houses lived a Mr Rothwell, a gentlemanof independent means; in the other a Mrs Franklin, the widow ofan officer, with her daughter Mary, now about fifteen years ofage.
Mr Tankardew had settled in his present residence some tenyears since. Why he bought it nobody knew, nor was likelyto know; all that people were sure of was that he hadbought it, and pretty cheap too, for it was not a house likely toattract any one who appreciated comfort or liveliness; moreover,current report said that it was haunted. Still, it was for sale,and it passed somehow or other into Mr Tankardew’s hands,and Mr Tankardew’s hands and whole person passed intoit; and here he was now with his one old servant, MollyGilders, a shade more dingy and dilapidated than himself. Severalpersons put questions to Molly about her master, but found it avery discouraging business, so they gave up the attempt ashopeless, and it remained an unexplained mystery why Mr Tankardewcame to Hopeworth, and where he came from. As for questioning theold gentleman himself, no one had the hardihood to undertake it;and indeed he gave them little opportunity, as he very rarelyshowed his face out of his own door; so rumour had to say what itpleased, and among other things, rumour said that the olddressing-gown in which he was ordinarily seen was never off duty,either day or night.
Mr Tankardew employed no agent, but collected his own rents;which he required to be paid to