Volume One—Chapter Twenty Two.Tim Seeks Sympathy.“I don’t know what to make of that child, ma’am,” said Tim, on one of his visits to Duplex Street. “I’m afraid she’s in a bad way, and that we ought to see another doctor;” and as he spoke he gazed vacantly at a guinea-pig on the hearth, a present from Monsieur Canau to one of the children, and brought from Decadia.“Then why not take her to one, Mr Ruggles?” said Mrs Jared, rather tartly, for she strongly disapproved of Tim’s obedience to his better half.“Expense—expense—expense, ma’am,” said Tim. “You see, Mrs Ruggles keeps the purse, and has her own ideas about money. Wonderfully clever woman; but I don’t quite think she sees how bad poor little Pine is.”“Mr Ruggles, I don’t like your wonderfully clever women,” said Mrs Jared; “they are not worth much generally. I like to see a woman clever enough to do her duty to her husband and family; and if she knows that, and does it well, she is quite clever enough to my way of thinking.”“Gently, my dear, gently,” said Jared; for Mrs Pellet was growing rather warm, and—as is peculiar to the female sex—loud; but Jared’s words acted like oil, and his wife’s feathers grew smooth directly.Some time had elapsed since Tim Ruggles had made his appearance in Duplex Street, for the trousers trade had been brisk, and he had been busy enough at home, while messages from the foreman of the shop for which he worked were constantly being borne to Carnaby Street to know “whether Ruggles meant to wear out that last pair of trousers as well as make them;” or, “if he did not mean to make those last two pair, to send them back and let somebody else.” “When, you know,” said Tim, “at my place it was all board; I had my breakfast on the board, my dinner on the board, my tea on the board, my supper on the board, and for two or three nights the only sleep I had was an hour or two when I lay down on the board; and once I dreamed that I was a sewing-machine, and that Mrs Ruggles was turning my handle, when she was only shaking my arm because it was morning, and time for me to be up and at work again.”There was peace in the domestic grove at Duplex Street; the little ones were all in bed; Patty was thinking of Janet and her goldfish, and sometimes of Harry Clayton, as she sewed on buttons and strings where small garments needed them; and Mrs Jared was industriously embroidering a workhouse-window pattern upon one of a basketful of stockings, some of which strongly resembled the Irishman’s knife, for it was a difficult matter to make out any portion of the original hose, so covered were they with Mrs Jared’s darnings.Jared himself was busy with his glue-pot, the constant companion of his leisure evenings. That glue-pot was to Jared Pellet what a pocket-knife is to some people, and a ball of string to others—it was a perfect treasure, and with it he performed feats strongly allied to those of Robin, Houdin, or Wiljalba Frikell, without taking into consideration the money it earned him. Boots and shoes were renovated to a wonderful extent; wall-paper torn down by tiny mischievous fingers was replaced; broken chairs had their limbs set; in fact, Jared looked upon glue as a panacea, even going so far as to pop scraps in his mouth, though it cannot be avowed that he swallowed them, and it may only have been for the purpose of cleaning his fingers. And yet, it was a nasty little pot, being of a vicious character, and given to boiling over and covering Mrs Jared’s hobs and polished black bars with a nasty sticky slime that would not come off; while, when she remonstrated with Jared, being naturally proud of her black-leading, he quietly told her that it was of the nature of glue to stick, and that the little pot ought to have been watched. Just as if it was of any use to watch the treacherous little object; for one moment it would be calm, and the next in a state of violent eruption, hissing, bubbling, and sending forth noxious jets of steam to an extent which made it unapproachable.Tim Ruggles sat very silent after Mrs Jared had spoken, for he entertained a most profound respect for her expressions of opinion; and the upshot of that conversation was, that, in spite of his wife’s opposition, he took little Pine to a doctor—a hint, however, which he dropped at home relative to the possibility of a cessation of certain payments, in the event of what he called “anything happening,” somewhat softened Mrs Ruggles’ opposition. The next time, too, after that conversation that Tim went to Bedford Row to draw the bi-monthly payment, he ventured to suggest that a little medical advice was necessary for the child, when the gentleman who took his receipt said, “Oh!” in a quiet manner, as much as to say, “I quite agree with you; and you think so, do you?”“Her cough tears her poor little chest terrible, sir,” said Tim, respectfully.“Indeed!” said the legal gentleman, who was very pale, smooth, and cool.“Her sleep’s broken a good deal, too, sir,” said Tim, warming to his task.“Ah!” said the legal gentleman, with a quiet, well-bred smile, which no amount of torturing would have turned into a laugh.“It wherrits me to hear her, sir—awful,” said Tim; “and I think if them as belongs to her knowed, they’d—”“Give instructions? eh!” said the legal gentleman. “There, there! she’s in capital hands—couldn’t be in better. Try a little magnesia, or dill water, or squills, or what you like. Good morning, Mr Ruggles. You have the note, I think. This day two months, mind.”“But, sir,” exclaimed Tim, eagerly, “if you was to put it to them.”“Exactly,” said the legal gentleman; “Parker & Tomlin’s abstract on office-table. Coming!” he exclaimed, replying to some imaginary call. “Good morning, Mr Ruggles; this day two months.”Tim found himself the next minute in the entry, holding the money he had received very far down in his pocket with one hand, as if every one in Bedford Row and its vicinity was intent upon garrotting him, and bearing off his cash.“Squills, indeed! magneshy!” muttered Tim, indignantly; “I’d like to give him magneshy—a brute. It’s my opinion as they wouldn’t much mind if something was to happen, and this sorter thing could be dropped;” and he left hold of his money, drew forth that hand and slapped his pocket; but only to thrust back the hand and once more hold tightly to his treasure, for he told himself that some of it should go in comforts for the child, or he’d know the reason why.Tim crossed Holborn, and made his way into a retired street, where he gave vent to a deep sigh, and, as if continuing his interrupted train of thought, he muttered—“I can’t say as I shall only go once, or whether it’ll be twice, or a hundred times, to fetch this; but it’s my opinion something will happen.”The thought of “something” happening seemed to cut Tim to the quick, for as if to force back the rising grief, he crushed his hat down over his eyes, and hurried through the streets to his abode, where he found Mrs Ruggles waiting to take charge of the money.“Of course not,” exclaimed that lady, as soon as Tim, taking advantage of the child having dropped into one of her short slumbers, had related his conversation with the lawyer. “What would they care? Glad of it, as hundreds more would be; but we’ll disappoint them; they’re not going to get off so easy as they expect.”Tim hugged himself in secret as he saw the effect of his words; for after that, for a season, Mrs Ruggles was very particular in seeing that the child took her medicine, and was at the dispensary regularly at the proper hours for receiving advice.But this did not last long; Mrs Ruggles declaring that she thought, after all, there was not much the matter, and returning to her old ways, though even her hard fierce nature shrank from treating so severely as had been her former custom the poor suffering child surely fading away before her eyes.
“I don’t know what to make of that child, ma’am,” said Tim, on one of his visits to Duplex Street. “I’m afraid she’s in a bad way, and that we ought to see another doctor;” and as he spoke he gazed vacantly at a guinea-pig on the hearth, a present from Monsieur Canau to one of the children, and brought from Decadia.
“Then why not take her to one, Mr Ruggles?” said Mrs Jared, rather tartly, for she strongly disapproved of Tim’s obedience to his better half.
“Expense—expense—expense, ma’am,” said Tim. “You see, Mrs Ruggles keeps the purse, and has her own ideas about money. Wonderfully clever woman; but I don’t quite think she sees how bad poor little Pine is.”
“Mr Ruggles, I don’t like your wonderfully clever women,” said Mrs Jared; “they are not worth much generally. I like to see a woman clever enough to do her duty to her husband and family; and if she knows that, and does it well, she is quite clever enough to my way of thinking.”
“Gently, my dear, gently,” said Jared; for Mrs Pellet was growing rather warm, and—as is peculiar to the female sex—loud; but Jared’s words acted like oil, and his wife’s feathers grew smooth directly.
Some time had elapsed since Tim Ruggles had made his appearance in Duplex Street, for the trousers trade had been brisk, and he had been busy enough at home, while messages from the foreman of the shop for which he worked were constantly being borne to Carnaby Street to know “whether Ruggles meant to wear out that last pair of trousers as well as make them;” or, “if he did not mean to make those last two pair, to send them back and let somebody else.” “When, you know,” said Tim, “at my place it was all board; I had my breakfast on the board, my dinner on the board, my tea on the board, my supper on the board, and for two or three nights the only sleep I had was an hour or two when I lay down on the board; and once I dreamed that I was a sewing-machine, and that Mrs Ruggles was turning my handle, when she was only shaking my arm because it was morning, and time for me to be up and at work again.”
There was peace in the domestic grove at Duplex Street; the little ones were all in bed; Patty was thinking of Janet and her goldfish, and sometimes of Harry Clayton, as she sewed on buttons and strings where small garments needed them; and Mrs Jared was industriously embroidering a workhouse-window pattern upon one of a basketful of stockings, some of which strongly resembled the Irishman’s knife, for it was a difficult matter to make out any portion of the original hose, so covered were they with Mrs Jared’s darnings.
Jared himself was busy with his glue-pot, the constant companion of his leisure evenings. That glue-pot was to Jared Pellet what a pocket-knife is to some people, and a ball of string to others—it was a perfect treasure, and with it he performed feats strongly allied to those of Robin, Houdin, or Wiljalba Frikell, without taking into consideration the money it earned him. Boots and shoes were renovated to a wonderful extent; wall-paper torn down by tiny mischievous fingers was replaced; broken chairs had their limbs set; in fact, Jared looked upon glue as a panacea, even going so far as to pop scraps in his mouth, though it cannot be avowed that he swallowed them, and it may only have been for the purpose of cleaning his fingers. And yet, it was a nasty little pot, being of a vicious character, and given to boiling over and covering Mrs Jared’s hobs and polished black bars with a nasty sticky slime that would not come off; while, when she remonstrated with Jared, being naturally proud of her black-leading, he quietly told her that it was of the nature of glue to stick, and that the little pot ought to have been watched. Just as if it was of any use to watch the treacherous little object; for one moment it would be calm, and the next in a state of violent eruption, hissing, bubbling, and sending forth noxious jets of steam to an extent which made it unapproachable.
Tim Ruggles sat very silent after Mrs Jared had spoken, for he entertained a most profound respect for her expressions of opinion; and the upshot of that conversation was, that, in spite of his wife’s opposition, he took little Pine to a doctor—a hint, however, which he dropped at home relative to the possibility of a cessation of certain payments, in the event of what he called “anything happening,” somewhat softened Mrs Ruggles’ opposition. The next time, too, after that conversation that Tim went to Bedford Row to draw the bi-monthly payment, he ventured to suggest that a little medical advice was necessary for the child, when the gentleman who took his receipt said, “Oh!” in a quiet manner, as much as to say, “I quite agree with you; and you think so, do you?”
“Her cough tears her poor little chest terrible, sir,” said Tim, respectfully.
“Indeed!” said the legal gentleman, who was very pale, smooth, and cool.
“Her sleep’s broken a good deal, too, sir,” said Tim, warming to his task.
“Ah!” said the legal gentleman, with a quiet, well-bred smile, which no amount of torturing would have turned into a laugh.
“It wherrits me to hear her, sir—awful,” said Tim; “and I think if them as belongs to her knowed, they’d—”
“Give instructions? eh!” said the legal gentleman. “There, there! she’s in capital hands—couldn’t be in better. Try a little magnesia, or dill water, or squills, or what you like. Good morning, Mr Ruggles. You have the note, I think. This day two months, mind.”
“But, sir,” exclaimed Tim, eagerly, “if you was to put it to them.”
“Exactly,” said the legal gentleman; “Parker & Tomlin’s abstract on office-table. Coming!” he exclaimed, replying to some imaginary call. “Good morning, Mr Ruggles; this day two months.”
Tim found himself the next minute in the entry, holding the money he had received very far down in his pocket with one hand, as if every one in Bedford Row and its vicinity was intent upon garrotting him, and bearing off his cash.
“Squills, indeed! magneshy!” muttered Tim, indignantly; “I’d like to give him magneshy—a brute. It’s my opinion as they wouldn’t much mind if something was to happen, and this sorter thing could be dropped;” and he left hold of his money, drew forth that hand and slapped his pocket; but only to thrust back the hand and once more hold tightly to his treasure, for he told himself that some of it should go in comforts for the child, or he’d know the reason why.
Tim crossed Holborn, and made his way into a retired street, where he gave vent to a deep sigh, and, as if continuing his interrupted train of thought, he muttered—
“I can’t say as I shall only go once, or whether it’ll be twice, or a hundred times, to fetch this; but it’s my opinion something will happen.”
The thought of “something” happening seemed to cut Tim to the quick, for as if to force back the rising grief, he crushed his hat down over his eyes, and hurried through the streets to his abode, where he found Mrs Ruggles waiting to take charge of the money.
“Of course not,” exclaimed that lady, as soon as Tim, taking advantage of the child having dropped into one of her short slumbers, had related his conversation with the lawyer. “What would they care? Glad of it, as hundreds more would be; but we’ll disappoint them; they’re not going to get off so easy as they expect.”
Tim hugged himself in secret as he saw the effect of his words; for after that, for a season, Mrs Ruggles was very particular in seeing that the child took her medicine, and was at the dispensary regularly at the proper hours for receiving advice.
But this did not last long; Mrs Ruggles declaring that she thought, after all, there was not much the matter, and returning to her old ways, though even her hard fierce nature shrank from treating so severely as had been her former custom the poor suffering child surely fading away before her eyes.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty Three.Harry’s Employ.The letter which Harry Clayton found at his chambers was in answer to an advertisement in theTimes; for, finding himself somewhat straitened for money, and, in his pride, determined not to apply to Richard Pellet, Harry had offered his services to read with some young patrician preparing for college. The result of the ensuing correspondence was, that he became what he termed bear-leader to one Lionel Redgrave, son of a wealthy baronet; the affair being quickly settled, and the old baronet, who had been favourably impressed by Harry’s frank, manly bearing, warmly expressed his confidence that the result would be highly advantageous to his son.Harry knew that his expectations were good; but a growing distaste for the life at Norwood had kept him away more and more, so that, save for occasional visits paid for the sake of seeing his mother, there was very little communication kept up; and, judging from Richard Pellet’s behaviour, it seemed likely that there would be less still in the future. So Harry eagerly made his arrangements, and a short time after, the young men were together in town, where Lionel Redgrave had determined to have chambers for the present, an arrangement in nowise distasteful to Harry Clayton, who passed his days in a state of feverish anxiety at Cambridge, in spite of his determination to read; telling himself that, after all, if he expected to win Patty, he ought not to cease to strive to see her, however unlucky he had hitherto been.He was to meet her soon though, little as he expected it, and in a way that should take him by surprise, so much so, that he returned from his encounter bitter and annoyed.It was evening, and the roar of fashionable Regent Street came incessantly through the entresol window.Harry Clayton was reading, and Lionel Redgrave—a tall, well-made young fellow—was lolling back in his chair, smoking with all his might.Three or four times over the latter impatiently shifted his position, going through the performance of one who is terribly bored; but his fidgeting attracted no attention till, in a bluff loud voice, he exclaimed—“My dear Harry, what a serious old cad you are! Throw away those books.”“My dear Li, what a groomy individual you do make yourself! Throw that cigar away, and let’s have a quiet evening’s reading.”“Likely! I shall just have another cigar, and then we’ll go and see something. Open that window—there’s a good fellow,” and he leaned back in the lounge of their handsomely furnished room.Harry rose, opened the low window, admitting the loud rattle of the traffic, and then returned to his seat, which he drew nearer to his companion.“Look here,” he said; but there was no reply; the young man only lay back with half-closed eyes, lit a fresh cigar, and luxuriously watched the blue rings of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.“Look here, Lionel,” said Harry again, after a pause; this time eliciting for response, the one word—“Bother!”“I really cannot stand this sort of thing any longer,” said Harry, without noticing the other’s coolness. “You know why I am here—you know why your father wished me to be with you; and really I cannot consent to go on, week after week, in this unsatisfactory manner.”“Why not?” said the other, coolly emitting a puff of smoke.“Why not? Because I feel as if I were robbing him. A month gone to-day, and what have we done?”“Done! Seen no end of life, my boy—studied from nature. What more would you have?”“Life!” exclaimed Harry, bitterly; “do you call that wretchedly artificial existence that we have seen by gaslight, life? If I were a moralist, I should call it the well-lighted ante-chamber of the pit; but I won’t preach.”“No, don’t, that’s a good fellow. Daresay you’re quite right, but it’s a very pleasant way of getting down to the pit all the same. But I say, Harry, don’t bother; you’ve been very jolly so far. Let’s go on just the same.”“And your father?”“Bless his old heart! what about him? Sent me a cheque, this morning—extra, you know—and hoped we get on well together. He’s got a first-rate opinion of you. By the way, write and acknowledge the cheque, and say we get on first-rate.”“But, Redgrave, pray be serious.”“So I am,” exclaimed the other, pettishly, as he dashed his cigar out of the window, and suddenly rose to a sitting posture. “Now, look here, Clayton. I like having you with me, ’pon my soul, I do; you act like ballast to me, you do indeed. I’m given to carrying too much sail, and if it was not for you, I should be like my little yacht, theKittiwake, in a squall, and on my beam ends in no time.”Harry tapped the table impatiently with his fingers.“Now, look here, Harry,” continued Lionel; “as to robbery, don’t you be a fool. You’re saving the governor no end by keeping down my expenses; for you know, Harry, I am rather afraid of you, I am indeed; but I want you to stop with me all the same. Don’t speak; it’s my turn to preach now. As to reading, and all that sort of thing, studying, and working up—I can’t read, and I won’t read. I’m not clever, and classics are no use to me, and never will be, with my income. What the deuce do I care about Homer and Virgil, and all the rest of the Greek and Roman humbugs? It’s right enough for a clever fellow like you—all brains. But, ’pon my soul, Harry, if you bother me any more, I’ll swear, and then I’ll bite, so there’s an end of it.”Harry shrugged his shoulders, and then in despair closed the book at his side, gazing the while, with a serio-comic look of chagrin, in the handsome Saxon face of the speaker.“’Taint your fault, Harry; so just hold your tongue and have a cigar, and pitch me over another, for I’m dog tired.”Saying which, he contrived to catch the roll of tobacco leaf, lit a fusee on the sole of his boot, and then threw himself back, but only—as there came a smart rap at the door—to yell out impatiently—“Come in!”The door was opened, and a smart-looking maid brought in a letter, which was evidently for the master of the chambers; but as his hands were locked together behind his reclining head, and the exertion of loosening them seemed to be more than he cared to encounter, Harry took the missive from the girl, and glanced at the superscription.“For you,” he said, as the girl retired.“’Taint from the governor, I can see at this distance,” said Lionel. “Open it and see what’s inside, there’s a good fellow. Tailor’s bill I’ll be bound.”“No,” said Harry, turning the note over uneasily; “it is evidently a lady’s hand.”“Lady’s hand! Gammon! Who’d write to me?”“Lady’s hand—evidently French,” continued Harry, and then he read from the envelope—“To Mr—Mr L.R., 70 Regent Street.”“Why, it’s an answer to the advertisement,” cried Lionel, bursting into a loud laugh. “Read it out, old boy.”Harry seemed as if he were attracted by the delicacy of the handwriting; for, instead of tearing open the missive, he took out a penknife and cut the paper, heedless of Lionel Redgrave’s sneering laugh.“What a model of care you are, Harry,” he exclaimed; “fold your clothes up every night when you go to bed, I’ll swear.”Harry smiled, and then read aloud:—“Honoured Sir,—Seeing your advertisement in to-day’sTimes, I believe I know a gentleman who was followed by a dog answering the description of your bull-tarrier; so I will do myself the honour of waiting upon you this evening, at eight o’clock.—Your obedient servant,“Fancy.”“Your obedient servant,” repeated Lionel.“‘To command’ scratched out,” said Harry.“That’s a rum sort of letter to come in a lady’s hand, and in French style—isn’t it? Is it spelt right?”“Perfectly, and the writing is exquisite.”“Dog-stealing cad safe, and he has got some one to write for him.”“He’ll be here directly, if he keeps his appointment,” said Harry, referring to his watch; “it only wants a few minutes to eight. What shall you do? See Mr Fancy, or hand him over to the police?”“See him, of course! What’s the good of handing him over to the police? Cost me just as much money, and I should not get my dog.”Harry shrugged his shoulders, while Lionel lay back a little farther on his lounge, so that he could hold up and admire the set of his close, groomy-looking, drab trousers.“Not a bad fit, are they, Hal?” he said, after a pause.“Excellent for a stable-helper,” was the sarcastic reply.“H’m! Perhaps so. But they are like the real thing, though, ain’t they? Bilstob’s an out-and-outer for taking up an idea, if you give it him.”“Stably ideas, I suppose,” said Harry.“Yes, if you like,” said Lionel, rather sulkily; and then the young men smoked on in silence, till, forgetting the sneers of his companion, Lionel again spoke.“Wonder whether this chap will turn up, Clayton? Try another advertisement if he don’t. I wouldn’t have lost that dog for twenty pounds.”“And I would give twenty pounds sooner than keep the ugly wretch,” said Harry.“Perhaps so; but then you see you can’t appreciate breed. Don’t be cross, old chap,” he continued, laughing. “You must be bear-leader, and lick me into shape.”Harry shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.“There! turn up the gas a little higher, Harry; and do, for goodness’ sake, give up that confounded French shrug; and, I say, Hal, if this cad does come, leave me to manage him. His won’t be a classic tongue, old fellow, and I know how to deal with these fellows so much better than you. By Jove, though, here he is! Come in!”For there had been another knock at the door, and the maid once more appeared.“Plee, sir, there’s a man down-stairs, as says he have an appointment with you, sir. Is he to come up?”“Yes; send him up, Mary; that is, if he’s fit.”“Fit, sir?” said the girl, looking puzzled.“Yes; clean—decent,” said Lionel, laughing, and the girl withdrew.A minute later, a heavy, halting step was heard upon the stairs, and the visitor, none other than Canau’s landlord from Decadia, was ushered into the room.
The letter which Harry Clayton found at his chambers was in answer to an advertisement in theTimes; for, finding himself somewhat straitened for money, and, in his pride, determined not to apply to Richard Pellet, Harry had offered his services to read with some young patrician preparing for college. The result of the ensuing correspondence was, that he became what he termed bear-leader to one Lionel Redgrave, son of a wealthy baronet; the affair being quickly settled, and the old baronet, who had been favourably impressed by Harry’s frank, manly bearing, warmly expressed his confidence that the result would be highly advantageous to his son.
Harry knew that his expectations were good; but a growing distaste for the life at Norwood had kept him away more and more, so that, save for occasional visits paid for the sake of seeing his mother, there was very little communication kept up; and, judging from Richard Pellet’s behaviour, it seemed likely that there would be less still in the future. So Harry eagerly made his arrangements, and a short time after, the young men were together in town, where Lionel Redgrave had determined to have chambers for the present, an arrangement in nowise distasteful to Harry Clayton, who passed his days in a state of feverish anxiety at Cambridge, in spite of his determination to read; telling himself that, after all, if he expected to win Patty, he ought not to cease to strive to see her, however unlucky he had hitherto been.
He was to meet her soon though, little as he expected it, and in a way that should take him by surprise, so much so, that he returned from his encounter bitter and annoyed.
It was evening, and the roar of fashionable Regent Street came incessantly through the entresol window.
Harry Clayton was reading, and Lionel Redgrave—a tall, well-made young fellow—was lolling back in his chair, smoking with all his might.
Three or four times over the latter impatiently shifted his position, going through the performance of one who is terribly bored; but his fidgeting attracted no attention till, in a bluff loud voice, he exclaimed—
“My dear Harry, what a serious old cad you are! Throw away those books.”
“My dear Li, what a groomy individual you do make yourself! Throw that cigar away, and let’s have a quiet evening’s reading.”
“Likely! I shall just have another cigar, and then we’ll go and see something. Open that window—there’s a good fellow,” and he leaned back in the lounge of their handsomely furnished room.
Harry rose, opened the low window, admitting the loud rattle of the traffic, and then returned to his seat, which he drew nearer to his companion.
“Look here,” he said; but there was no reply; the young man only lay back with half-closed eyes, lit a fresh cigar, and luxuriously watched the blue rings of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.
“Look here, Lionel,” said Harry again, after a pause; this time eliciting for response, the one word—
“Bother!”
“I really cannot stand this sort of thing any longer,” said Harry, without noticing the other’s coolness. “You know why I am here—you know why your father wished me to be with you; and really I cannot consent to go on, week after week, in this unsatisfactory manner.”
“Why not?” said the other, coolly emitting a puff of smoke.
“Why not? Because I feel as if I were robbing him. A month gone to-day, and what have we done?”
“Done! Seen no end of life, my boy—studied from nature. What more would you have?”
“Life!” exclaimed Harry, bitterly; “do you call that wretchedly artificial existence that we have seen by gaslight, life? If I were a moralist, I should call it the well-lighted ante-chamber of the pit; but I won’t preach.”
“No, don’t, that’s a good fellow. Daresay you’re quite right, but it’s a very pleasant way of getting down to the pit all the same. But I say, Harry, don’t bother; you’ve been very jolly so far. Let’s go on just the same.”
“And your father?”
“Bless his old heart! what about him? Sent me a cheque, this morning—extra, you know—and hoped we get on well together. He’s got a first-rate opinion of you. By the way, write and acknowledge the cheque, and say we get on first-rate.”
“But, Redgrave, pray be serious.”
“So I am,” exclaimed the other, pettishly, as he dashed his cigar out of the window, and suddenly rose to a sitting posture. “Now, look here, Clayton. I like having you with me, ’pon my soul, I do; you act like ballast to me, you do indeed. I’m given to carrying too much sail, and if it was not for you, I should be like my little yacht, theKittiwake, in a squall, and on my beam ends in no time.”
Harry tapped the table impatiently with his fingers.
“Now, look here, Harry,” continued Lionel; “as to robbery, don’t you be a fool. You’re saving the governor no end by keeping down my expenses; for you know, Harry, I am rather afraid of you, I am indeed; but I want you to stop with me all the same. Don’t speak; it’s my turn to preach now. As to reading, and all that sort of thing, studying, and working up—I can’t read, and I won’t read. I’m not clever, and classics are no use to me, and never will be, with my income. What the deuce do I care about Homer and Virgil, and all the rest of the Greek and Roman humbugs? It’s right enough for a clever fellow like you—all brains. But, ’pon my soul, Harry, if you bother me any more, I’ll swear, and then I’ll bite, so there’s an end of it.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders, and then in despair closed the book at his side, gazing the while, with a serio-comic look of chagrin, in the handsome Saxon face of the speaker.
“’Taint your fault, Harry; so just hold your tongue and have a cigar, and pitch me over another, for I’m dog tired.”
Saying which, he contrived to catch the roll of tobacco leaf, lit a fusee on the sole of his boot, and then threw himself back, but only—as there came a smart rap at the door—to yell out impatiently—
“Come in!”
The door was opened, and a smart-looking maid brought in a letter, which was evidently for the master of the chambers; but as his hands were locked together behind his reclining head, and the exertion of loosening them seemed to be more than he cared to encounter, Harry took the missive from the girl, and glanced at the superscription.
“For you,” he said, as the girl retired.
“’Taint from the governor, I can see at this distance,” said Lionel. “Open it and see what’s inside, there’s a good fellow. Tailor’s bill I’ll be bound.”
“No,” said Harry, turning the note over uneasily; “it is evidently a lady’s hand.”
“Lady’s hand! Gammon! Who’d write to me?”
“Lady’s hand—evidently French,” continued Harry, and then he read from the envelope—
“To Mr—Mr L.R., 70 Regent Street.”
“Why, it’s an answer to the advertisement,” cried Lionel, bursting into a loud laugh. “Read it out, old boy.”
Harry seemed as if he were attracted by the delicacy of the handwriting; for, instead of tearing open the missive, he took out a penknife and cut the paper, heedless of Lionel Redgrave’s sneering laugh.
“What a model of care you are, Harry,” he exclaimed; “fold your clothes up every night when you go to bed, I’ll swear.”
Harry smiled, and then read aloud:—
“Honoured Sir,—Seeing your advertisement in to-day’sTimes, I believe I know a gentleman who was followed by a dog answering the description of your bull-tarrier; so I will do myself the honour of waiting upon you this evening, at eight o’clock.—Your obedient servant,“Fancy.”
“Honoured Sir,—Seeing your advertisement in to-day’sTimes, I believe I know a gentleman who was followed by a dog answering the description of your bull-tarrier; so I will do myself the honour of waiting upon you this evening, at eight o’clock.—Your obedient servant,
“Fancy.”
“Your obedient servant,” repeated Lionel.
“‘To command’ scratched out,” said Harry.
“That’s a rum sort of letter to come in a lady’s hand, and in French style—isn’t it? Is it spelt right?”
“Perfectly, and the writing is exquisite.”
“Dog-stealing cad safe, and he has got some one to write for him.”
“He’ll be here directly, if he keeps his appointment,” said Harry, referring to his watch; “it only wants a few minutes to eight. What shall you do? See Mr Fancy, or hand him over to the police?”
“See him, of course! What’s the good of handing him over to the police? Cost me just as much money, and I should not get my dog.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders, while Lionel lay back a little farther on his lounge, so that he could hold up and admire the set of his close, groomy-looking, drab trousers.
“Not a bad fit, are they, Hal?” he said, after a pause.
“Excellent for a stable-helper,” was the sarcastic reply.
“H’m! Perhaps so. But they are like the real thing, though, ain’t they? Bilstob’s an out-and-outer for taking up an idea, if you give it him.”
“Stably ideas, I suppose,” said Harry.
“Yes, if you like,” said Lionel, rather sulkily; and then the young men smoked on in silence, till, forgetting the sneers of his companion, Lionel again spoke.
“Wonder whether this chap will turn up, Clayton? Try another advertisement if he don’t. I wouldn’t have lost that dog for twenty pounds.”
“And I would give twenty pounds sooner than keep the ugly wretch,” said Harry.
“Perhaps so; but then you see you can’t appreciate breed. Don’t be cross, old chap,” he continued, laughing. “You must be bear-leader, and lick me into shape.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
“There! turn up the gas a little higher, Harry; and do, for goodness’ sake, give up that confounded French shrug; and, I say, Hal, if this cad does come, leave me to manage him. His won’t be a classic tongue, old fellow, and I know how to deal with these fellows so much better than you. By Jove, though, here he is! Come in!”
For there had been another knock at the door, and the maid once more appeared.
“Plee, sir, there’s a man down-stairs, as says he have an appointment with you, sir. Is he to come up?”
“Yes; send him up, Mary; that is, if he’s fit.”
“Fit, sir?” said the girl, looking puzzled.
“Yes; clean—decent,” said Lionel, laughing, and the girl withdrew.
A minute later, a heavy, halting step was heard upon the stairs, and the visitor, none other than Canau’s landlord from Decadia, was ushered into the room.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty Four.“D. Wragg, Nat’ralist.”“Sarvant, gentlemen,” said the new-comer, who must now be fully introduced. He made four steps forward into the room, each step being accomplished by the planting of a heavy boot with a club-sole, some six inches thick, a couple of feet forward, when, with a bow and a jerk, the other leg was brought to the front, and the man stood upright, took another step, bowed, and again jerked himself into the perpendicular—each effort of locomotion being accompanied by an automaton flourish of one arm, similar to that of a farming man sowing turnips broadcast.He was a wiry-looking little fellow, with sharp ferrety eyes, and short bristly hair standing up at the sides of his head, giving him the look of a fierce Scotch terrier—the resemblance being heightened by an occasional twitch of the facial muscles, which might have been taken for displays of annoyance at the workings of troublous insects beyond the reach of teeth or paws.“Sarvant, gentlemen,” he said; “and if so be as it ain’t a liberty—”He paused in his utterance, jerked himself back to the door, opened it, peered out as if seeking a rat—if not smelling one—closed the door again, jerked himself back, and laid one finger beside his very small nose, saying—“I’ll make all snug afore I begin.”This was evidently in completion of his sentence; and then, while in a half-amused, half-contemptuous manner, Lionel Redgrave watched his actions, the man leaned his body first on one side, then on the other, as if, with ultra caution, he were endeavouring to peer behind the two occupants of the room; peeping beneath the table; and finishing the performance by tip-toeing, and straining his neck to look here and there in the most mysterious way imaginable.“Confound you! why don’t you look up the chimney while you are about it?” cried Lionel, at last. “What the deuce does the fellow mean?”“It’s all right, gentlemen,” said the man, taking a handkerchief out of his hat, wiping his face, and then placing the very tall head-covering upon the floor, while out of a shabby old dress-coat pocket he dragged a copy of a newspaper.“Which of you gents is L.R.?” he continued, when, after much jerking and fumbling, he had contrived to open and refold the paper to his taste, and with one extremely dirty finger to fix, as it were, the advertisement.“Never you mind about that,” said Lionel, gruffly. “Have you brought the dog?”“Brought the dorg, gentlemen? Now, is it likely?” was the answer, in tones of remonstrance. “Not likely! How could I bring the dorg when I hadn’t got it? It was only through seeing that ad. in the paper, that I says, says I, ‘Why that there’s just like the dorg as I see Mr Barkles with’—a dorg as he said follered him ’ome lars night’s a week.”Lionel growled, and the visitor jerked himself a step forward.“So I says to our Janet, I says, ‘Jest drop a line,’ I says, ‘to that pore gent as has lost his dorg,’ I says; ‘and I’ll see if I can’t be the ’appy mejum of gettin’ on it back for him.’”“Look here, my man,” said Harry, regardless of his pupil’s frowns; “bring the dog back, and my friend will pay the offered reward.”“Bring the dorg back here, sir! Well no, that ain’t likely. How do I know what might happen? Don’t you make no mistake about me, sir. I’m a respectable tradesman, and that’s my card, ‘D. Wragg, Nat’ralist, Dealer in Br’ish and Furren Birds, and setrer, 12 Brownjohn Street, Decadia.’”As he spoke he held out a dirty, glazed, worn-edged card to the last speaker, who motioned to him to place it upon the table, which was done with a great deal of jerking and twitching, Mr D. Wragg pushing the piece of pasteboard well into view, and then, apparently not satisfied, standing it up on edge against a book before continuing—“I’m good for what you like, gents, from a dorg down to a pegging finch. Do you want a ’arf dozen o’ rats to try a terrier? send to me. Is it a good blackish ferret? I’m ready for you. It were only last week I had a badger. I’ve squirrels as’ll crack nuts, fit to give to any lady in the land. Do you want a few score o’ blue rocks for ’Ornsey or Battersea? I’ve got ’em;—’arf a ’undred o’ sparrers—a hedge ’og—a toy tarrier—or a poll-parrot as wouldn’t say swear to save its life, and I’m your man. That’s my card, ‘D. Wragg, Nat’ralist, Dealer in Br’ish and Furren Birds, and setrer, 12 Brownjohn Street, Decadia.’ And what’s more, make it a tenner, and I’ll undertake to say as I’ll wurk the gent as your dorg follered, so as you can come on to my place to-morrer, put down the stiff, and bring your dorg ’ome again.”Mr D. Wragg, the “nat’ralist’s,” countenance had been a study as he delivered himself of this harangue, jerking, twitching, and showing his teeth, as if he were constantly about to make at an obtrusive fly settled upon his nose, but never achieving thereto. But now, stooping, he took his handkerchief from the hat upon the floor, put the newspaper in its place, and then indulged in a good wipe, as his sharp ferrety eyes gazed inquiringly from face to face.“Now, look here, you, sir,” said Lionel, roughly; “I offered a fiver for the dog, because that’s what he’s worth. I believe him to have been stolen; but never mind about that. I’ll give five pounds to have him back, and there’s an end of it. If you like to earn the money, bring the dog back; if not—cut!”“Now, just a minute, gentlemen. See here now;” and resting his elbow upon his hip, the visitor stretched out one open palm, and patted it softly with the other; but instead of looking at any one, his restless eyes wandered from the sporting prints to the ballet-dancers upon the wall, and from them again to the cigar-boxes, pipes, and other evidences of the owner’s tastes. “Now look here, gents; don’t you make no mistake. I’m a respectable tradesman, and if it rested with me—there’s your dorg. I don’t want no rewards for doing what’s right. I get my reward in making a good customer. But, don’t you see, it’s a gent as has got the dorg. It follered him, and he’s took a fancy to it. He’s a reg’lar customer of mine, and he says to me, he says—‘I wouldn’t part with that dorg,’ he says, ‘for ten pound, I wouldn’t. He polished off ten rats in two minutes this very morning,’ he says.”“That’s the dog and no mistake,” cried Lionel, excitedly.“Toe be sure it is, gents,” said D. Wragg, with his eyes twinkling; “and that there gent as has got him, sir, is a man as I never knowed to break his word. I says to him, though, I says—‘Suppose,’ I says, ‘as the real owner of him was to turn up; you’d let him go then?’ I says. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘if he were a real gent, ’praps I might; but sech a noble beast as that ere didn’t ought to be in anybody’s hands.’”Lionel looked, half-amused, half inquiringly, at Harry, who, however, only turned over the leaves of a book and avoided his gaze.“What do you say to it all, Hal?” said Lionel at last.“Ring the bell and send for a policeman,” was the laconic reply.“Was that there meant for me, sir?” said D. Wragg, with a snap which must have dislodged the fly had it been present, and giving himself a doggy twist that plainly indicated a tormenting flea. “Well, gents, if it’s coming to that, I’m off. There’s my card—that’s me—D. Wragg, Nat’ralist. But don’t you make no mistake; I aint a running away because of the police, which is a body of men as I despises, and well they knows it, too. I aint got your dorg—’taint likely; and you may search my place if you like with all the police in London; and if you can get your dorg back, why all I can say is, as you’ll be luckier than most gents is; so goodnight to you.”D. Wragg jerked himself down, picked up his hat, and was about to put it on; but he dropped it the next moment, for with a bound Lionel leaped from his chair, and before Harry Clayton had recovered from his astonishment, D. Wragg was seized by the throat and being forcibly shaken, as the young man hissed between his teeth—“You scoundrel! What have you done with my dog?”Harry Clayton leaped up in his turn, and, partly by force, partly by entreaty, made Lionel quit his hold upon the trembling man, who once more picked up his hat and endeavoured to plant it in its proper place; but, what with his shaking hands, and the roughly folded paper inside, the attempt proved a failure.The danger being removed, the confidence of D. Wragg began to return, and with an amount of jerking and twisting that was almost frightful in the way it threatened dislocation of sundry members, even if it did not break the man’s back, he took the paper from his hat, and contrived to stuff it into one of the tight coat-pockets; then the head-piece was thrust on defiantly, and its owner began to jerk himself towards the door, shaking his fist the while.“Here! confound you, stop!” roared Lionel, who was hot and excited. “Name your time and I’ll come and fetch the brute. I know that it is a stealing case. I can see that, though you think I’m a flat; but I’m not going to put myself to trouble, so I tell you at once.”“Don’t you make no mistake,” cried D. Wragg, defiantly; “and don’t you call things by no hard names. I didn’t steal your dorg. I’m a respectable tradesman, I am; and if you want a score—”“Confound you! what time?” roared Lionel, angrily, as he once more started to his feet.“Any time before one, gents—any time in the morning; but don’t you make no mistake about me. And look here, gents, I know that there party well as has got your dorg—leastwise,” he added, with a wink, “if it is the same dorg—and he’s one of them suspicious sorter parties, that, if so be as he thought as there’d be any gammon—”“Gammon! what do you mean?” cried Lionel, for the man paused.“Dodges, gents, dodges; such as suspecting on him of having stolen the dorg, and getting of his name dirty. Why, if there was any of that sorter thing, that there dorg would never be seen again; and as to bringing the police, either uniform or plain clothes, it’s my belief as he’d smell ’m a mile away, sure as my name’s D. Wragg, nat’ralist; so don’t you make no—”“There, there! we’ve had enough of that,” growled Lionel; and apparently bearing no malice for his rough treatment, now that there was a prospect of the reward being paid, the little man jerked himself to the door, turned, winked solemnly at Harry, and the next moment he was gone.“What do you think of that, Harry?” said Lionel, as the heavy step was heard descending the stairs.“Shall I tell you? You will not be offended?”“Offended! Not I. Say what you like.”“Better not,” said Harry, bluntly; “for my thoughts run upon self-government, and the way in which some part with their money.”Lionel did not seem to understand the allusion, for he only whistled softly as he set light to another cigar; while Harry raised his book, but not to read, for he began to think of the letter received that night, and to compare it with the appearance of D. Wragg, ending by dismissing the matter from his thoughts, with the remark, beneath his breath, that it was very strange, and a hope that it was not a trap.“Perhaps I can act as friend, as well as tutor,” he said to himself, with a smile; and then his thoughts roved off to Patty Pellet.
“Sarvant, gentlemen,” said the new-comer, who must now be fully introduced. He made four steps forward into the room, each step being accomplished by the planting of a heavy boot with a club-sole, some six inches thick, a couple of feet forward, when, with a bow and a jerk, the other leg was brought to the front, and the man stood upright, took another step, bowed, and again jerked himself into the perpendicular—each effort of locomotion being accompanied by an automaton flourish of one arm, similar to that of a farming man sowing turnips broadcast.
He was a wiry-looking little fellow, with sharp ferrety eyes, and short bristly hair standing up at the sides of his head, giving him the look of a fierce Scotch terrier—the resemblance being heightened by an occasional twitch of the facial muscles, which might have been taken for displays of annoyance at the workings of troublous insects beyond the reach of teeth or paws.
“Sarvant, gentlemen,” he said; “and if so be as it ain’t a liberty—”
He paused in his utterance, jerked himself back to the door, opened it, peered out as if seeking a rat—if not smelling one—closed the door again, jerked himself back, and laid one finger beside his very small nose, saying—
“I’ll make all snug afore I begin.”
This was evidently in completion of his sentence; and then, while in a half-amused, half-contemptuous manner, Lionel Redgrave watched his actions, the man leaned his body first on one side, then on the other, as if, with ultra caution, he were endeavouring to peer behind the two occupants of the room; peeping beneath the table; and finishing the performance by tip-toeing, and straining his neck to look here and there in the most mysterious way imaginable.
“Confound you! why don’t you look up the chimney while you are about it?” cried Lionel, at last. “What the deuce does the fellow mean?”
“It’s all right, gentlemen,” said the man, taking a handkerchief out of his hat, wiping his face, and then placing the very tall head-covering upon the floor, while out of a shabby old dress-coat pocket he dragged a copy of a newspaper.
“Which of you gents is L.R.?” he continued, when, after much jerking and fumbling, he had contrived to open and refold the paper to his taste, and with one extremely dirty finger to fix, as it were, the advertisement.
“Never you mind about that,” said Lionel, gruffly. “Have you brought the dog?”
“Brought the dorg, gentlemen? Now, is it likely?” was the answer, in tones of remonstrance. “Not likely! How could I bring the dorg when I hadn’t got it? It was only through seeing that ad. in the paper, that I says, says I, ‘Why that there’s just like the dorg as I see Mr Barkles with’—a dorg as he said follered him ’ome lars night’s a week.”
Lionel growled, and the visitor jerked himself a step forward.
“So I says to our Janet, I says, ‘Jest drop a line,’ I says, ‘to that pore gent as has lost his dorg,’ I says; ‘and I’ll see if I can’t be the ’appy mejum of gettin’ on it back for him.’”
“Look here, my man,” said Harry, regardless of his pupil’s frowns; “bring the dog back, and my friend will pay the offered reward.”
“Bring the dorg back here, sir! Well no, that ain’t likely. How do I know what might happen? Don’t you make no mistake about me, sir. I’m a respectable tradesman, and that’s my card, ‘D. Wragg, Nat’ralist, Dealer in Br’ish and Furren Birds, and setrer, 12 Brownjohn Street, Decadia.’”
As he spoke he held out a dirty, glazed, worn-edged card to the last speaker, who motioned to him to place it upon the table, which was done with a great deal of jerking and twitching, Mr D. Wragg pushing the piece of pasteboard well into view, and then, apparently not satisfied, standing it up on edge against a book before continuing—
“I’m good for what you like, gents, from a dorg down to a pegging finch. Do you want a ’arf dozen o’ rats to try a terrier? send to me. Is it a good blackish ferret? I’m ready for you. It were only last week I had a badger. I’ve squirrels as’ll crack nuts, fit to give to any lady in the land. Do you want a few score o’ blue rocks for ’Ornsey or Battersea? I’ve got ’em;—’arf a ’undred o’ sparrers—a hedge ’og—a toy tarrier—or a poll-parrot as wouldn’t say swear to save its life, and I’m your man. That’s my card, ‘D. Wragg, Nat’ralist, Dealer in Br’ish and Furren Birds, and setrer, 12 Brownjohn Street, Decadia.’ And what’s more, make it a tenner, and I’ll undertake to say as I’ll wurk the gent as your dorg follered, so as you can come on to my place to-morrer, put down the stiff, and bring your dorg ’ome again.”
Mr D. Wragg, the “nat’ralist’s,” countenance had been a study as he delivered himself of this harangue, jerking, twitching, and showing his teeth, as if he were constantly about to make at an obtrusive fly settled upon his nose, but never achieving thereto. But now, stooping, he took his handkerchief from the hat upon the floor, put the newspaper in its place, and then indulged in a good wipe, as his sharp ferrety eyes gazed inquiringly from face to face.
“Now, look here, you, sir,” said Lionel, roughly; “I offered a fiver for the dog, because that’s what he’s worth. I believe him to have been stolen; but never mind about that. I’ll give five pounds to have him back, and there’s an end of it. If you like to earn the money, bring the dog back; if not—cut!”
“Now, just a minute, gentlemen. See here now;” and resting his elbow upon his hip, the visitor stretched out one open palm, and patted it softly with the other; but instead of looking at any one, his restless eyes wandered from the sporting prints to the ballet-dancers upon the wall, and from them again to the cigar-boxes, pipes, and other evidences of the owner’s tastes. “Now look here, gents; don’t you make no mistake. I’m a respectable tradesman, and if it rested with me—there’s your dorg. I don’t want no rewards for doing what’s right. I get my reward in making a good customer. But, don’t you see, it’s a gent as has got the dorg. It follered him, and he’s took a fancy to it. He’s a reg’lar customer of mine, and he says to me, he says—‘I wouldn’t part with that dorg,’ he says, ‘for ten pound, I wouldn’t. He polished off ten rats in two minutes this very morning,’ he says.”
“That’s the dog and no mistake,” cried Lionel, excitedly.
“Toe be sure it is, gents,” said D. Wragg, with his eyes twinkling; “and that there gent as has got him, sir, is a man as I never knowed to break his word. I says to him, though, I says—‘Suppose,’ I says, ‘as the real owner of him was to turn up; you’d let him go then?’ I says. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘if he were a real gent, ’praps I might; but sech a noble beast as that ere didn’t ought to be in anybody’s hands.’”
Lionel looked, half-amused, half inquiringly, at Harry, who, however, only turned over the leaves of a book and avoided his gaze.
“What do you say to it all, Hal?” said Lionel at last.
“Ring the bell and send for a policeman,” was the laconic reply.
“Was that there meant for me, sir?” said D. Wragg, with a snap which must have dislodged the fly had it been present, and giving himself a doggy twist that plainly indicated a tormenting flea. “Well, gents, if it’s coming to that, I’m off. There’s my card—that’s me—D. Wragg, Nat’ralist. But don’t you make no mistake; I aint a running away because of the police, which is a body of men as I despises, and well they knows it, too. I aint got your dorg—’taint likely; and you may search my place if you like with all the police in London; and if you can get your dorg back, why all I can say is, as you’ll be luckier than most gents is; so goodnight to you.”
D. Wragg jerked himself down, picked up his hat, and was about to put it on; but he dropped it the next moment, for with a bound Lionel leaped from his chair, and before Harry Clayton had recovered from his astonishment, D. Wragg was seized by the throat and being forcibly shaken, as the young man hissed between his teeth—
“You scoundrel! What have you done with my dog?”
Harry Clayton leaped up in his turn, and, partly by force, partly by entreaty, made Lionel quit his hold upon the trembling man, who once more picked up his hat and endeavoured to plant it in its proper place; but, what with his shaking hands, and the roughly folded paper inside, the attempt proved a failure.
The danger being removed, the confidence of D. Wragg began to return, and with an amount of jerking and twisting that was almost frightful in the way it threatened dislocation of sundry members, even if it did not break the man’s back, he took the paper from his hat, and contrived to stuff it into one of the tight coat-pockets; then the head-piece was thrust on defiantly, and its owner began to jerk himself towards the door, shaking his fist the while.
“Here! confound you, stop!” roared Lionel, who was hot and excited. “Name your time and I’ll come and fetch the brute. I know that it is a stealing case. I can see that, though you think I’m a flat; but I’m not going to put myself to trouble, so I tell you at once.”
“Don’t you make no mistake,” cried D. Wragg, defiantly; “and don’t you call things by no hard names. I didn’t steal your dorg. I’m a respectable tradesman, I am; and if you want a score—”
“Confound you! what time?” roared Lionel, angrily, as he once more started to his feet.
“Any time before one, gents—any time in the morning; but don’t you make no mistake about me. And look here, gents, I know that there party well as has got your dorg—leastwise,” he added, with a wink, “if it is the same dorg—and he’s one of them suspicious sorter parties, that, if so be as he thought as there’d be any gammon—”
“Gammon! what do you mean?” cried Lionel, for the man paused.
“Dodges, gents, dodges; such as suspecting on him of having stolen the dorg, and getting of his name dirty. Why, if there was any of that sorter thing, that there dorg would never be seen again; and as to bringing the police, either uniform or plain clothes, it’s my belief as he’d smell ’m a mile away, sure as my name’s D. Wragg, nat’ralist; so don’t you make no—”
“There, there! we’ve had enough of that,” growled Lionel; and apparently bearing no malice for his rough treatment, now that there was a prospect of the reward being paid, the little man jerked himself to the door, turned, winked solemnly at Harry, and the next moment he was gone.
“What do you think of that, Harry?” said Lionel, as the heavy step was heard descending the stairs.
“Shall I tell you? You will not be offended?”
“Offended! Not I. Say what you like.”
“Better not,” said Harry, bluntly; “for my thoughts run upon self-government, and the way in which some part with their money.”
Lionel did not seem to understand the allusion, for he only whistled softly as he set light to another cigar; while Harry raised his book, but not to read, for he began to think of the letter received that night, and to compare it with the appearance of D. Wragg, ending by dismissing the matter from his thoughts, with the remark, beneath his breath, that it was very strange, and a hope that it was not a trap.
“Perhaps I can act as friend, as well as tutor,” he said to himself, with a smile; and then his thoughts roved off to Patty Pellet.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty Five.An Encounter.“Brownjohn Street? First to the left, and secun’ to the right. Better button up your pockets,” said a policeman, setting his neck in his shining stock, and looking hard at the inquirers of the way, who nodded thanks, and then strode leisurely on, the younger making loud remarks to his companion concerning the appearance of those whom he termed “the natives,” and returning in a cool insolent way the unfriendly looks of divers slouching gentlemen engaged in shoulder-polishing the street corners, or hanging about doorsteps to converse with slatternly girls.Not observing that they were followed by the policeman, the inquirers took the “first to the left, and secun’ to the right.” And then referring to a card which he took from his pocket, the younger man stopped short in front of D. Wragg’s, looked eagerly at the dogs, and afterwards with his companion entered the shop.“By jove, Harry, where are we?” exclaimed the first, aloud. “Look at that! who would not be a dove?” Then, fixing his glass in one eye, he stared rudely at Patty Pellet, who, taken by surprise, stood motionless for a few moments, with scarlet face, upon a low pair of steps, the dove she had been feeding still resting upon her hand and pecking softly at her lips.“Allow me!” exclaimed Lionel, advancing as if to assist the astonished girl to descend; but the next instant she had bounded down, to stand with brightened eye at bay in one corner of the shop, her gaze being now directed at Harry, the recognition being mutual, though the latter was so completely taken aback that no word passed his lips.The next moment Harry had taken all in at a glance—the shop, the trade, Patty evidently quite at home there. His heart beat fast; and in spite of himself, as he thought of his companion, he felt, “What shall I do if she claims acquaintanceship?”He felt ashamed of himself for harbouring the thought; but Patty made no sign, and the short silence was broken by Lionel.“Prudish; eh?” he said, coolly, and he took a step forward.“Recollect yourself,” whispered Harry, sternly, and he laid his hand heavily upon the young man’s shoulder.“Oh! all right,” was the rejoinder, and Lionel laughed, while Harry, still struggling with his feelings, wondered what was to come next. He called himself coward and cur one moment, and the next he rejoiced that Patty totally ignored their former meeting; while, immediately after, strange thoughts assailed him, and he felt a bitter sting as he realised the fact that the bright little flower who had proved so attractive to him at Norwood, should have its habitation amidst such squalor and surroundings of evil. He was a coward, and he knew it, as he mentally exclaimed, “I can’t know her here before him!”These thoughts passed like a flash; but Harry was not alone, for swift fancies passed through Patty Pellet’s mind, each one leaving a bitter sting, as she felt that what the old people had said was right—there was too much difference between their stations, and that Harry Clayton was ashamed to know her before his friends.“And I am ashamed to know him as well,” she concluded, defiantly, as Harry in a suppressed voice, exclaimed, “I did not expect—”Then he stopped and recovered himself, trying hard to arrange his ideas, his mind wandering from the Norwood drawing-room to Duplex Street, and from there to the strange place they were in.“Had Lionel noticed the half recognition?” he asked himself, as fresh sordid ideas sprung up. “If he had, how could the present post be retained with comfort to himself? and he could not afford very well to throw it up. He would be lowered in the young fellow’s eyes directly—it was terribly unfortunate.” Love was getting, for the moment, his wings terribly bruised in the encounter.Then he stepped forward himself, and said, calmly, as if addressing a stranger—“I think this is Mr D. Wragg’s place of business, is it not?”The words had hardly left his lips before he was burning with rage and bitterness. What I had he been seeking her for months, and now that they had met, was he ashamed to know her before Lionel Redgrave, because he was a patrician, and the poor girl was here, when, scores of times, he had thought of her as his heart’s queen? But why was she here? What did it all mean?These thoughts passed like lightning through his brain; but before Patty could answer, a response came from the back room.“All right, sir, all right, I’m D. Wragg—that’s my name,” and the owner thereof began to jerk himself forward, while, with a slight bow, Patty glanced from one to the other, and then disappeared.“Is this the Decadia, Harry?” said Lionel meaningly, “or are we at court? But what the devil’s that fellow staring at?” he exclaimed, as he turned his glass fiercely upon a lowering face glaring in at the door, as, with his hands in his pockets, an ill-looking ruffian stood watching the two strangers.“It’s all right, gents, it’s all right,” exclaimed D. Wragg; “that’s only Jack Scruby, and he’s nobody. It’s all right, gents!” and he jerked his arm here and there. “There’s rats, gents, aint they? There’s dorgs, aint they! What do you say to as nice a toy tarrier as was ever give to a lady?”“Who’s the young lady who was here just now?” said Lionel, coolly.D. Wragg’s face changed slightly, as looking sharply up into his visitor’s face, he said, bluntly—“Oh, never mind her; she’s a visitor—girl up-stairs. We was talking about dorgs, wasn’t us?”Lionel was checked for the moment; but seeing Harry’s eye fixed keenly upon him, he said, roughly—“There, there! I want no toy tarriers. Where’s Luff?”“It’s all right, sir; don’t you make no mistake. When I says as I’ll get a gent his dorg, I mean it; and—there now!” he exclaimed, with a voice of the most intense disgust. “I did think as I was dealing with gents as would keep their word. I calls that shabby. But just as you like, though; I’m ready.”“What do you mean?” said Harry Clayton; for the little man had thrust his hands into his pockets, and leant back against a parrot’s cage, whose occupant immediately buried its beak amongst the wiry hair that ornamented D. Wragg’s scalp.“What do I mean? Why! didn’t I give you both a hint about the suspiciousness of the gent as had the dorg? Didn’t I tell you what might be the consequences? Didn’t I tell you as they was a body of men as I despises? And yet you both has the meanness to go and bring one along with you. That ere aint the way to get dorgs back as is lost. Don’t you make no mistake, gents. You may depend upon it as the party as that dorg follered home has gone right chock away in disgust long enough ago.”“Police!” exclaimed Lionel. “Why, the man’s mad!”“Looks like it, don’t it,” said D. Wragg, coolly. “Only don’t you make no mistake. I’ve had dealings in dorgs afore now, gents; and I don’t think, as you’ll find, I aint fledged.”The young men turned as the speaker pointed towards the door, and gave quite a start as, in place of the heavy features just before the occupants of the door-frame, they saw peering in the impassive inquiring countenance of a policeman.But the next moment the constable had sauntered on, muttering first the word “rats,” and after walking a few steps, “or pigeons.”Harry directly recognised in him the constable who had directed them, and turning to the dealer, he said, quietly—“My friend here is a gentleman, Mr Wragg. He gave you to understand distinctly last night that he should not employ the police.”“Then what was that there Bobby a looking in for, then?” said the dealer, in an injured tone.“On my honour I don’t know, unless it was from simple curiosity,” replied Harry. “We asked him to direct us in a street a short distance away.”“Honour bright?” said D. Wragg.“I gave you my word,” said Harry, with ill-concealed contempt; and there was something so straightforward in the young man’s countenance, that it immediately carried with it conviction, for the dealer brightened up, and directly thrust out a hand in token of amity.Smiling the while, Harry Clayton took it, Lionel looking on with an amused expression.“I beg your pardon, sir—I beg your pardon. Don’t you make no mistake. I aint a mean, contemptible cageful of suspicion, I aint. I beg your pardon. That there’s a hand as never did nothing wuss yet than help to get a gent back his dorg, so as to oblige a regular customer. Plenty of gents trust me, and comes to me when they’ve had their dorgs foller other people; and I acks as mejum and commissioner, and does my best for both parties.”“’Pon my soul, this grows highly amusing,” said Lionel, laughing. “Why, Harry, I’m right; we must have come to court. May I ask if the young lady of the house will again be visible, so as to go through the same performance?”Harry looked annoyed, and D. Wragg gave Lionel a sharp, searching sidelong glance, which the other missed.“Let’s settle the business at once, gents,” said D. Wragg. “Let me see, sir,” he continued, jerking himself round the counter. “I’ll trouble you for two fivers.”“But where’s the dog?” said Lionel.“Don’t you make no mistake, sir. You hand over the money, and you shall have him in five minutes.”Lionel hesitated for a moment, and then drew a couple of crisp notes from his pocket-book, and handed them to the dealer.“I suppose you will give me a receipt?” said Lionel.“Never put pen to paper in my life, gents, and never means to,” was the reply. “It’s been the ruin of thousands. But you shall have a receipt for buying a dog, if you like. Here,” he said, stumping to the inner door, and speaking to somebody within; “you won’t mind coming to write out a receipt for ten pound for me, will you? If you won’t, I must call Janet down. That’s right, my dear; come and do it while I go and see if that there party’s brought the dorg.”To Harry Clayton’s great annoyance, Patty came slowly and timidly from the inner room, her face flushed and her eyes wandering from one to the other.She quickly took pen and paper from a drawer and began to write, while D. Wragg jerked himself out of the door.“Why, Harry,” said Lionel, staring hard at the fair little writer the while, “depend upon it that old chap has cut with the money, and we shall never see him again. But never mind; he has left us a jolly little hostage, and we can take her instead.”Harry Clayton bit his lips, for his fingers itched to seize Lionel by the collar, and shake him till he could not speak; but he felt that he could do nothing now but suffer for his want of frankness, as he saw the pretty little head bent down over the paper.“What a charming handwriting!” continued Lionel, in the bantering tones, for he had seen Harry’s annoyance. “What well-shaped letters! By the way, my dear, what boarding-school were you at?”Patty’s crimson face was raised to his for an instant, but her eye fell beneath his bold stare, and she went on writing with trembling hand.“I shall place that receipt amongst my treasures,” said Lionel, “and—”“Have the goodness to recollect where you are,” said Harry, angrily. “Your banter is out of place and offensive.”Lionel stared, laughed, and elevated his eyebrows, as, without bestowing upon him another glance, Patty took the slip of paper she had written, and handed it to Harry, meeting his eyes for the moment fully as she said in a low voice, “Thank you!” and then she passed out of the shop.
“Brownjohn Street? First to the left, and secun’ to the right. Better button up your pockets,” said a policeman, setting his neck in his shining stock, and looking hard at the inquirers of the way, who nodded thanks, and then strode leisurely on, the younger making loud remarks to his companion concerning the appearance of those whom he termed “the natives,” and returning in a cool insolent way the unfriendly looks of divers slouching gentlemen engaged in shoulder-polishing the street corners, or hanging about doorsteps to converse with slatternly girls.
Not observing that they were followed by the policeman, the inquirers took the “first to the left, and secun’ to the right.” And then referring to a card which he took from his pocket, the younger man stopped short in front of D. Wragg’s, looked eagerly at the dogs, and afterwards with his companion entered the shop.
“By jove, Harry, where are we?” exclaimed the first, aloud. “Look at that! who would not be a dove?” Then, fixing his glass in one eye, he stared rudely at Patty Pellet, who, taken by surprise, stood motionless for a few moments, with scarlet face, upon a low pair of steps, the dove she had been feeding still resting upon her hand and pecking softly at her lips.
“Allow me!” exclaimed Lionel, advancing as if to assist the astonished girl to descend; but the next instant she had bounded down, to stand with brightened eye at bay in one corner of the shop, her gaze being now directed at Harry, the recognition being mutual, though the latter was so completely taken aback that no word passed his lips.
The next moment Harry had taken all in at a glance—the shop, the trade, Patty evidently quite at home there. His heart beat fast; and in spite of himself, as he thought of his companion, he felt, “What shall I do if she claims acquaintanceship?”
He felt ashamed of himself for harbouring the thought; but Patty made no sign, and the short silence was broken by Lionel.
“Prudish; eh?” he said, coolly, and he took a step forward.
“Recollect yourself,” whispered Harry, sternly, and he laid his hand heavily upon the young man’s shoulder.
“Oh! all right,” was the rejoinder, and Lionel laughed, while Harry, still struggling with his feelings, wondered what was to come next. He called himself coward and cur one moment, and the next he rejoiced that Patty totally ignored their former meeting; while, immediately after, strange thoughts assailed him, and he felt a bitter sting as he realised the fact that the bright little flower who had proved so attractive to him at Norwood, should have its habitation amidst such squalor and surroundings of evil. He was a coward, and he knew it, as he mentally exclaimed, “I can’t know her here before him!”
These thoughts passed like a flash; but Harry was not alone, for swift fancies passed through Patty Pellet’s mind, each one leaving a bitter sting, as she felt that what the old people had said was right—there was too much difference between their stations, and that Harry Clayton was ashamed to know her before his friends.
“And I am ashamed to know him as well,” she concluded, defiantly, as Harry in a suppressed voice, exclaimed, “I did not expect—”
Then he stopped and recovered himself, trying hard to arrange his ideas, his mind wandering from the Norwood drawing-room to Duplex Street, and from there to the strange place they were in.
“Had Lionel noticed the half recognition?” he asked himself, as fresh sordid ideas sprung up. “If he had, how could the present post be retained with comfort to himself? and he could not afford very well to throw it up. He would be lowered in the young fellow’s eyes directly—it was terribly unfortunate.” Love was getting, for the moment, his wings terribly bruised in the encounter.
Then he stepped forward himself, and said, calmly, as if addressing a stranger—“I think this is Mr D. Wragg’s place of business, is it not?”
The words had hardly left his lips before he was burning with rage and bitterness. What I had he been seeking her for months, and now that they had met, was he ashamed to know her before Lionel Redgrave, because he was a patrician, and the poor girl was here, when, scores of times, he had thought of her as his heart’s queen? But why was she here? What did it all mean?
These thoughts passed like lightning through his brain; but before Patty could answer, a response came from the back room.
“All right, sir, all right, I’m D. Wragg—that’s my name,” and the owner thereof began to jerk himself forward, while, with a slight bow, Patty glanced from one to the other, and then disappeared.
“Is this the Decadia, Harry?” said Lionel meaningly, “or are we at court? But what the devil’s that fellow staring at?” he exclaimed, as he turned his glass fiercely upon a lowering face glaring in at the door, as, with his hands in his pockets, an ill-looking ruffian stood watching the two strangers.
“It’s all right, gents, it’s all right,” exclaimed D. Wragg; “that’s only Jack Scruby, and he’s nobody. It’s all right, gents!” and he jerked his arm here and there. “There’s rats, gents, aint they? There’s dorgs, aint they! What do you say to as nice a toy tarrier as was ever give to a lady?”
“Who’s the young lady who was here just now?” said Lionel, coolly.
D. Wragg’s face changed slightly, as looking sharply up into his visitor’s face, he said, bluntly—
“Oh, never mind her; she’s a visitor—girl up-stairs. We was talking about dorgs, wasn’t us?”
Lionel was checked for the moment; but seeing Harry’s eye fixed keenly upon him, he said, roughly—
“There, there! I want no toy tarriers. Where’s Luff?”
“It’s all right, sir; don’t you make no mistake. When I says as I’ll get a gent his dorg, I mean it; and—there now!” he exclaimed, with a voice of the most intense disgust. “I did think as I was dealing with gents as would keep their word. I calls that shabby. But just as you like, though; I’m ready.”
“What do you mean?” said Harry Clayton; for the little man had thrust his hands into his pockets, and leant back against a parrot’s cage, whose occupant immediately buried its beak amongst the wiry hair that ornamented D. Wragg’s scalp.
“What do I mean? Why! didn’t I give you both a hint about the suspiciousness of the gent as had the dorg? Didn’t I tell you what might be the consequences? Didn’t I tell you as they was a body of men as I despises? And yet you both has the meanness to go and bring one along with you. That ere aint the way to get dorgs back as is lost. Don’t you make no mistake, gents. You may depend upon it as the party as that dorg follered home has gone right chock away in disgust long enough ago.”
“Police!” exclaimed Lionel. “Why, the man’s mad!”
“Looks like it, don’t it,” said D. Wragg, coolly. “Only don’t you make no mistake. I’ve had dealings in dorgs afore now, gents; and I don’t think, as you’ll find, I aint fledged.”
The young men turned as the speaker pointed towards the door, and gave quite a start as, in place of the heavy features just before the occupants of the door-frame, they saw peering in the impassive inquiring countenance of a policeman.
But the next moment the constable had sauntered on, muttering first the word “rats,” and after walking a few steps, “or pigeons.”
Harry directly recognised in him the constable who had directed them, and turning to the dealer, he said, quietly—
“My friend here is a gentleman, Mr Wragg. He gave you to understand distinctly last night that he should not employ the police.”
“Then what was that there Bobby a looking in for, then?” said the dealer, in an injured tone.
“On my honour I don’t know, unless it was from simple curiosity,” replied Harry. “We asked him to direct us in a street a short distance away.”
“Honour bright?” said D. Wragg.
“I gave you my word,” said Harry, with ill-concealed contempt; and there was something so straightforward in the young man’s countenance, that it immediately carried with it conviction, for the dealer brightened up, and directly thrust out a hand in token of amity.
Smiling the while, Harry Clayton took it, Lionel looking on with an amused expression.
“I beg your pardon, sir—I beg your pardon. Don’t you make no mistake. I aint a mean, contemptible cageful of suspicion, I aint. I beg your pardon. That there’s a hand as never did nothing wuss yet than help to get a gent back his dorg, so as to oblige a regular customer. Plenty of gents trust me, and comes to me when they’ve had their dorgs foller other people; and I acks as mejum and commissioner, and does my best for both parties.”
“’Pon my soul, this grows highly amusing,” said Lionel, laughing. “Why, Harry, I’m right; we must have come to court. May I ask if the young lady of the house will again be visible, so as to go through the same performance?”
Harry looked annoyed, and D. Wragg gave Lionel a sharp, searching sidelong glance, which the other missed.
“Let’s settle the business at once, gents,” said D. Wragg. “Let me see, sir,” he continued, jerking himself round the counter. “I’ll trouble you for two fivers.”
“But where’s the dog?” said Lionel.
“Don’t you make no mistake, sir. You hand over the money, and you shall have him in five minutes.”
Lionel hesitated for a moment, and then drew a couple of crisp notes from his pocket-book, and handed them to the dealer.
“I suppose you will give me a receipt?” said Lionel.
“Never put pen to paper in my life, gents, and never means to,” was the reply. “It’s been the ruin of thousands. But you shall have a receipt for buying a dog, if you like. Here,” he said, stumping to the inner door, and speaking to somebody within; “you won’t mind coming to write out a receipt for ten pound for me, will you? If you won’t, I must call Janet down. That’s right, my dear; come and do it while I go and see if that there party’s brought the dorg.”
To Harry Clayton’s great annoyance, Patty came slowly and timidly from the inner room, her face flushed and her eyes wandering from one to the other.
She quickly took pen and paper from a drawer and began to write, while D. Wragg jerked himself out of the door.
“Why, Harry,” said Lionel, staring hard at the fair little writer the while, “depend upon it that old chap has cut with the money, and we shall never see him again. But never mind; he has left us a jolly little hostage, and we can take her instead.”
Harry Clayton bit his lips, for his fingers itched to seize Lionel by the collar, and shake him till he could not speak; but he felt that he could do nothing now but suffer for his want of frankness, as he saw the pretty little head bent down over the paper.
“What a charming handwriting!” continued Lionel, in the bantering tones, for he had seen Harry’s annoyance. “What well-shaped letters! By the way, my dear, what boarding-school were you at?”
Patty’s crimson face was raised to his for an instant, but her eye fell beneath his bold stare, and she went on writing with trembling hand.
“I shall place that receipt amongst my treasures,” said Lionel, “and—”
“Have the goodness to recollect where you are,” said Harry, angrily. “Your banter is out of place and offensive.”
Lionel stared, laughed, and elevated his eyebrows, as, without bestowing upon him another glance, Patty took the slip of paper she had written, and handed it to Harry, meeting his eyes for the moment fully as she said in a low voice, “Thank you!” and then she passed out of the shop.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty Six.Good Advice.“Your receipt, Lionel,” said Harry, quietly, as he passed the paper to his companion.“Thanks! yes. A saucy little prude! she knows how to play her cards. We’ve got the receipt, and he’s got the ten pounds; but I don’t mean to go without value for my cash, if I take one of those scrub-tailed old cockatoos, and—Ah! what, Luffy, old boy—what, Luffy! Down there, down there, good dog! What! you know your old master, then? There! down, down!”“There, gents, that’s about it, aint it,” said D. Wragg, stumping in after the dog, and stooping to unfasten the collar round his neck, as the delighted animal bounded upon its master, licking his hand, pawing him, and displaying his unbounded canine pleasure at the meeting, to the great endangering of D. Wragg’s stock-in-trade.“And now, is there anything more as I can do for you, eh?” said D. Wragg, rubbing his hands, and jigging about as if freshly wound up. “A few rats for the dorg? A couple o’ score sparrers for a shot? Send ’em anywheres! Don’t you make no mistake. You won’t get better supplied in the place. Not to-day, gents? Well, another time perhaps.”“Yes; I’ll give you another look in,” said Lionel, gazing hard the while at Harry.“Werry good, sir! werry good!” said D. Wragg, rubbing his hands and jerking himself as if another set of springs had just been brought into use. “I hope as you will. Gents often do come to me again when they’ve been once. Let me give you another card. Here, Janet, bring me another card for the gents. Oh! she aint there. Would you mind giving me a card off the chimally-piece, my dear, for these gents?”Lionel, who had reached the door, returned; and Patty, now quite composed, brought out a card, and avoiding the young man’s outstretched hand, she passed it to D. Wragg.“Give it to the gentlemen, my dear; don’t be ashamed. There’s nothing to mind. Don’t you make no mistake, gents; she’s young and a bit shy.”Patty did not look up as the card was taken from her hand; and though Harry tried hard to meet her eyes once more, so as to ask forgiveness for the slight he had offered to her, she turned back into the room, and the young men passed out of the shop.“That’s a good dorg, gents, a good dorg!” whispered D. Wragg, from behind his hand, as he followed them to the door. “You’d better keep a sharp eye on him. I’ve got my bit of commission out of this job; but honour bright, gents. As gents, I don’t want to see you here again arter the bull-tarrier—not just yet, you know—not just yet. Good-day, gents. Don’t you make no mistake; you know, about me. Good-day!”“Bye-bye! old chap,” said Lionel, lightly, as they strolled on. “Wish we’d bought a chain and collar, Harry; I shouldn’t like to lose old Luff again, in this abominable maze. Let’s go back!”“No, no; there is no need!” exclaimed Harry, hastily. And then flushing slightly at the eagerness he had displayed, he continued firmly—“If you’ll take my advice, Lionel, you will go there no more.”“Perhaps not, Reverend Harry Clayton,—perhaps not,” laughed the young man, eyeing his companion sideways. “But don’t you make no mistake,” he continued, mimicking the voice and action of the man they had just left; “I may want a toy tarrier for a present, or a few rats, or a score or two of sparrers, or—eh, Harry?—to see the lady go through the dove performance. Don’t you make no mistake, friend Harry, for it’s quite within the range of probability that I may go there often.”“Perhaps once too often!” exclaimed Harry, impetuously, for he could not control the passion within him. As Lionel spoke, each word seemed to be freighted with bitterness, armed with a sting and a sense of misery such as he had never before felt, and which seemed to crush down his spirit. Visions of Patty smiling welcome upon Lionel floated before him, filling him with a new feeling of rage; and it was all he could do to hide it from his companion, who began to whistle, and then said lightly—“Perhaps so—perhaps so! As you say, I may go there once too often; but that’s my business, Master Harry, and nothing to do with reading classics. What a cad!” he exclaimed, as he returned the fierce look bestowed upon him by a heavy-browed young fellow in a sleeved waistcoat; nodded familiarly to the policeman; and then, making a point of coolly and insolently returning every loiterer’s stare, he passed on out of the region of the Decadian, thinking all the same, though, of Patty.
“Your receipt, Lionel,” said Harry, quietly, as he passed the paper to his companion.
“Thanks! yes. A saucy little prude! she knows how to play her cards. We’ve got the receipt, and he’s got the ten pounds; but I don’t mean to go without value for my cash, if I take one of those scrub-tailed old cockatoos, and—Ah! what, Luffy, old boy—what, Luffy! Down there, down there, good dog! What! you know your old master, then? There! down, down!”
“There, gents, that’s about it, aint it,” said D. Wragg, stumping in after the dog, and stooping to unfasten the collar round his neck, as the delighted animal bounded upon its master, licking his hand, pawing him, and displaying his unbounded canine pleasure at the meeting, to the great endangering of D. Wragg’s stock-in-trade.
“And now, is there anything more as I can do for you, eh?” said D. Wragg, rubbing his hands, and jigging about as if freshly wound up. “A few rats for the dorg? A couple o’ score sparrers for a shot? Send ’em anywheres! Don’t you make no mistake. You won’t get better supplied in the place. Not to-day, gents? Well, another time perhaps.”
“Yes; I’ll give you another look in,” said Lionel, gazing hard the while at Harry.
“Werry good, sir! werry good!” said D. Wragg, rubbing his hands and jerking himself as if another set of springs had just been brought into use. “I hope as you will. Gents often do come to me again when they’ve been once. Let me give you another card. Here, Janet, bring me another card for the gents. Oh! she aint there. Would you mind giving me a card off the chimally-piece, my dear, for these gents?”
Lionel, who had reached the door, returned; and Patty, now quite composed, brought out a card, and avoiding the young man’s outstretched hand, she passed it to D. Wragg.
“Give it to the gentlemen, my dear; don’t be ashamed. There’s nothing to mind. Don’t you make no mistake, gents; she’s young and a bit shy.”
Patty did not look up as the card was taken from her hand; and though Harry tried hard to meet her eyes once more, so as to ask forgiveness for the slight he had offered to her, she turned back into the room, and the young men passed out of the shop.
“That’s a good dorg, gents, a good dorg!” whispered D. Wragg, from behind his hand, as he followed them to the door. “You’d better keep a sharp eye on him. I’ve got my bit of commission out of this job; but honour bright, gents. As gents, I don’t want to see you here again arter the bull-tarrier—not just yet, you know—not just yet. Good-day, gents. Don’t you make no mistake; you know, about me. Good-day!”
“Bye-bye! old chap,” said Lionel, lightly, as they strolled on. “Wish we’d bought a chain and collar, Harry; I shouldn’t like to lose old Luff again, in this abominable maze. Let’s go back!”
“No, no; there is no need!” exclaimed Harry, hastily. And then flushing slightly at the eagerness he had displayed, he continued firmly—“If you’ll take my advice, Lionel, you will go there no more.”
“Perhaps not, Reverend Harry Clayton,—perhaps not,” laughed the young man, eyeing his companion sideways. “But don’t you make no mistake,” he continued, mimicking the voice and action of the man they had just left; “I may want a toy tarrier for a present, or a few rats, or a score or two of sparrers, or—eh, Harry?—to see the lady go through the dove performance. Don’t you make no mistake, friend Harry, for it’s quite within the range of probability that I may go there often.”
“Perhaps once too often!” exclaimed Harry, impetuously, for he could not control the passion within him. As Lionel spoke, each word seemed to be freighted with bitterness, armed with a sting and a sense of misery such as he had never before felt, and which seemed to crush down his spirit. Visions of Patty smiling welcome upon Lionel floated before him, filling him with a new feeling of rage; and it was all he could do to hide it from his companion, who began to whistle, and then said lightly—
“Perhaps so—perhaps so! As you say, I may go there once too often; but that’s my business, Master Harry, and nothing to do with reading classics. What a cad!” he exclaimed, as he returned the fierce look bestowed upon him by a heavy-browed young fellow in a sleeved waistcoat; nodded familiarly to the policeman; and then, making a point of coolly and insolently returning every loiterer’s stare, he passed on out of the region of the Decadian, thinking all the same, though, of Patty.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty Seven.An Alarm.Mrs Winks was bound under contract to spend the next day at Duplex Street; but she made known just now her presence in the Dials, being busy enough in the lower regions of D. Wragg’s; for the smoke and steam of her copper altar, erected to the goddess of cleanliness, rose through the house, to be condensed in a dewy clamminess upon handrail and paint. It was the incense that rose thickly to the nostrils when she stuck in a wooden probe to fish up boiling garments for purification’s sake.The inhabitants of D. Wragg’s dwelling took but little notice of Mrs Winks’ washing-days, inasmuch as they were inured to them by their frequency. D. Wragg, though, must be excepted; for when some bird would sneeze and evince a dislike to the odorous moist vapour, he called to mind the deaths of three valuable cochins by croup—a catarrh-like distemper which, with or without truth, he laid to the charge of Mrs Winks’ washing.So that good lady busied herself over what she called her own and Monsieur Canau’s “toots,”—meaning thereby divers calico undergarments—till her playbill curl-papers grew soft in the steam. Mrs Winks was interrupted but once, when, aroused by the plunging in of the copper-stick and an extra cloud from the sacrifice, D. Wragg stamped with his heavy boot upon the shop-floor, and shouted an inquiry as to how long Mrs Winks would be before she was done, and whether she knew that there was company in the house?To this query the stout lady returned the very vague response of “Hours!”For D. Wragg was now shop-minding, and, as he called it, busy—that is to say, he was going over his stock, stirring up sluggish birds with a loose perch, administering pills composed of rue and butter to sickly bantams, which sat in a heap with feathers erect, and refusing to be smoothed down.Here and there he would pin a newspaper before the cage of a newly-captured finch, fighting hard to escape by breaking its prison bars, beating its soft round bosom bare of feathers against the cruel wires, but with a fair prospect before it of finding relief for its restless spirit, if not for its body, and flight—where?Then there were the “tarriers” to look after, some of which justified their name by not finding customers.Here D. Wragg seemed quite at home, looking, as he stooped and tightened a chain or shortened a string, much like one of the breed Darwinised, and in a state of transition.D. Wragg’s ministrations were needed, for since the shop had been left by Janet to his care, there had been sundry vicious commotions amongst the dogs. One slight skirmish had ended in a spaniel having an ear made more fringe-like in character. Then the restless little animals had executed agavotteupon their hind-legs, maybe a waltz, ending in a general tangle, and an Old Bailey performance, caused by the twisting together of string and chain into a Gordian knot, which puzzled D. Wragg into using a knife for sword in its solution—the dogs the while lying panting, with protruding eyes, and a general aspect of being at the last gasp.At last, though, the canine fancy were reduced to order, so far as was possible; for chained-up dogs are always moved by a restless spirit to reach something a few inches beyond their nose—canine examples, indeed, of human discontent; and if small and restless of breed, hang themselves upon an average about twelve timesper diem—possibly without suicidal intent, though, from their miserable state, one cannot avoid suspicion.D. Wragg had growled almost as much as his dogs in reducing them to order; but he turned at last to go over other portions of his stock, pinching protruded rats’ tails to make them lively; thrusting a hand down the stocking nailed over the hole in the top of the sparrow-cage, and taking out one panting black-cravatted cock-bird from amongst his scores of fellows, to find it naked of breast, with its heavy eyes half-closed, dying fast, and so escaping the sportive shot of the skilled marksman in some sweepstake—“so many birds each, shot from the trap.”D. Wragg did not approve of waste, so taking the half-dead bird to one corner, he opened the cage, wherein, fixed and glaring with its yellow eye, sat a kestrel, which sluggishly dropped from its perch, and, with a good deal of unnecessary beating of its pointed wings, seized the hapless chirrupper in one quartette of yellow claws, returned to its seat, and then and there proceeded to strip the sparrow, sending a cloud of light downy feathers into the cage of its neighbour, a staring barn-owl, which had opened its eyes for a few minutes, but only to blink a while before subsiding into what appeared to be a ball of feathers. A pair of bullfinches were then roused, by a finger drawn rapidly across the cage bars—the effect being decidedly startling, while the next object upon which the dealer’s eye fell was a disreputable-looking, ragged-coated, grey parrot, busily engaged in picking off its feathers, as if, out of spite for its imprisonment, it wished to render itself as unsightly and unsaleable as possible.“You’re a beauty, you are!” growled D. Wragg, poking at it viciously with the perch; but, nothing daunted, the bird seized the end of the assailing weapon with its strong hooked beak, and held on fiercely, screaming a loud defiance the while.With a dexterous jerk, the stick was withdrawn—a strategical movement evidently taken by the bird as a token of defeat; for it stood upon one leg, derisively danced its head up and down, and then loudly cried out—“Quack—quack—quack!” an accomplishment learned of a couple of London-white Aylesbury ducks, located in a small green dog-kennel, whose door was formed of an old half-worn fire-guard.Apparently satisfied, D. Wragg withdrew to a corner which he specially affected, and turned his back to door and window while he drew forth his dirty pocket-book and carefully examined the two crisp bank-notes, replaced them, and buttoned them up in his breastpocket, as he muttered, softly—“More yet, my lad, more yet! I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you turned out a mint to some on us afore we’ve done with you. And why not?” he muttered again, as he glanced uneasily over his shoulder. “What’s the good o’ money to such as him. If he likes to come on the chance of seeing her here, ’taint my doing, is it? I wish she was here always, I do.”D. Wragg frowned as he proceeded to refresh himself with another pipe, and a renewed spelling over of his paper. Then he cocked his head on one side, magpie fashion, and listened, for a light step was heard, and the closing of a door, and the next minute, without waiting for her friend to descend, Patty was up-stairs, where Janet was watching her goldfish.The latter turned as soon as she saw Patty, and seeming to read trouble in her face, she wound her arm round the little waist and drew her close.“I came down to the shop,” said Janet; “but you were writing something for him, so I took advantage of it and came back. But don’t do it, Patty; I don’t like you to go in there.”Patty did not answer, but stood looking, dreamy and thoughtful.“Are you keeping something from me?” said Janet, pettishly.“No—no—no,” said Patty, starting, and smiling once more; “I was only dull without you. Now, let’s talk. Some one came this morning—two some ones—they were there when you saw me writing—they spoke to me, and—and—and—”Patty’s face reddened, and then grew worn and troubled as she spoke.“I did not like it,” she continued; “and—and—there! what stuff I am talking! We shall have no French to-day. Let’s go down, and when Monsieur comes in, get him to paint a partridge’s beak and legs, and I’ll help you to do it. There! pray, come down.”Janet had her arm still round Patty’s waist, and for a few moments she stood gazing up at her in a strange thoughtful way. She did not speak, though; but keeping close to her visitor, walked with her to the door, muttering softly, “Patty has secrets—Patty has secrets; and I guess what it means.”Hand-in-hand they began to descend the stairs, but only for Patty to turn back and lead the deformed girl into the room.“What is it? what ails you?” said Janet, gazing wonderingly at her. “Are you ill? Do you feel faint?”“No—no; it is nothing; I—I thought—I thought I had seen one of them before.”“One of them!”“Yes, one of the customers; but it was nothing—nothing,” she said, sadly; “I must have dreamed it. Janet, do you believe in fancying things?”“Fancying things! What are you talking about?”“In feeling that things are to take place—in being as if something whispered to you that there was to be trouble by and by, and misery, and heartaches—that the hawk was coming to seize a miserable little weak pigeon, and tear, and tear it till its poor heart was bleeding.”“No; stuff!” ejaculated Janet.“I feel so,” said Patty, slowly, “and sometimes I believe it. O Janet! if one could be rich and nice, and live where people would not be ashamed to see you, and—Ah! I’d give anything—anything to be rich and a lady. But there,” she cried, impetuously, “do come down.”“Riddles—talking in riddles; like people speak in their sleep,” said Janet, as she wreathed her long arm round Patty. “Perhaps you ought not to come and see me here, for it is horrible; but I am used to it, and I could not live without you now. They don’t like you to come?”“No,” said Patty; “but they think it would be unkind for me to stay away. They like you, and my father is fond of Monsieur Canau, and loves the musical evenings. You ought to come and live near us.”“In fashionable Clerkenwell, eh?” said Janet, laughing. “No; he will not leave here—we are used to it, and we are poor, Patty,” she added, with a sigh.“Lean on me,” said Patty, lightly; “and don’t let’s be miserable;” and they now began to descend the stairs; but only to be met by D. Wragg stumping and jerking up to meet them.As the dealer came up, he gazed earnestly for a moment at Patty, and there was a hesitating air about him; but he seemed to chase it away, as, with an effort, he exclaimed—“Here don’t you make no—Here, Miss Pellet, my dear, you’re wanted.”“Wanted!” said Patty, instinctively shrinking back, while Janet’s dark fierce eyes gazed from one to the other.“Yes; wanted—in the shop,” said D. Wragg. “You don’t mind coming, do you? Don’t stop her, Janet; it may mean money, you know.”“But who—who wants me?” faltered Patty, one of whose hands tightly pressed the long restraining bony fingers of Janet—“who wants me?”“It’s one o’ them swells as come about the dorg!”
Mrs Winks was bound under contract to spend the next day at Duplex Street; but she made known just now her presence in the Dials, being busy enough in the lower regions of D. Wragg’s; for the smoke and steam of her copper altar, erected to the goddess of cleanliness, rose through the house, to be condensed in a dewy clamminess upon handrail and paint. It was the incense that rose thickly to the nostrils when she stuck in a wooden probe to fish up boiling garments for purification’s sake.
The inhabitants of D. Wragg’s dwelling took but little notice of Mrs Winks’ washing-days, inasmuch as they were inured to them by their frequency. D. Wragg, though, must be excepted; for when some bird would sneeze and evince a dislike to the odorous moist vapour, he called to mind the deaths of three valuable cochins by croup—a catarrh-like distemper which, with or without truth, he laid to the charge of Mrs Winks’ washing.
So that good lady busied herself over what she called her own and Monsieur Canau’s “toots,”—meaning thereby divers calico undergarments—till her playbill curl-papers grew soft in the steam. Mrs Winks was interrupted but once, when, aroused by the plunging in of the copper-stick and an extra cloud from the sacrifice, D. Wragg stamped with his heavy boot upon the shop-floor, and shouted an inquiry as to how long Mrs Winks would be before she was done, and whether she knew that there was company in the house?
To this query the stout lady returned the very vague response of “Hours!”
For D. Wragg was now shop-minding, and, as he called it, busy—that is to say, he was going over his stock, stirring up sluggish birds with a loose perch, administering pills composed of rue and butter to sickly bantams, which sat in a heap with feathers erect, and refusing to be smoothed down.
Here and there he would pin a newspaper before the cage of a newly-captured finch, fighting hard to escape by breaking its prison bars, beating its soft round bosom bare of feathers against the cruel wires, but with a fair prospect before it of finding relief for its restless spirit, if not for its body, and flight—where?
Then there were the “tarriers” to look after, some of which justified their name by not finding customers.
Here D. Wragg seemed quite at home, looking, as he stooped and tightened a chain or shortened a string, much like one of the breed Darwinised, and in a state of transition.
D. Wragg’s ministrations were needed, for since the shop had been left by Janet to his care, there had been sundry vicious commotions amongst the dogs. One slight skirmish had ended in a spaniel having an ear made more fringe-like in character. Then the restless little animals had executed agavotteupon their hind-legs, maybe a waltz, ending in a general tangle, and an Old Bailey performance, caused by the twisting together of string and chain into a Gordian knot, which puzzled D. Wragg into using a knife for sword in its solution—the dogs the while lying panting, with protruding eyes, and a general aspect of being at the last gasp.
At last, though, the canine fancy were reduced to order, so far as was possible; for chained-up dogs are always moved by a restless spirit to reach something a few inches beyond their nose—canine examples, indeed, of human discontent; and if small and restless of breed, hang themselves upon an average about twelve timesper diem—possibly without suicidal intent, though, from their miserable state, one cannot avoid suspicion.
D. Wragg had growled almost as much as his dogs in reducing them to order; but he turned at last to go over other portions of his stock, pinching protruded rats’ tails to make them lively; thrusting a hand down the stocking nailed over the hole in the top of the sparrow-cage, and taking out one panting black-cravatted cock-bird from amongst his scores of fellows, to find it naked of breast, with its heavy eyes half-closed, dying fast, and so escaping the sportive shot of the skilled marksman in some sweepstake—“so many birds each, shot from the trap.”
D. Wragg did not approve of waste, so taking the half-dead bird to one corner, he opened the cage, wherein, fixed and glaring with its yellow eye, sat a kestrel, which sluggishly dropped from its perch, and, with a good deal of unnecessary beating of its pointed wings, seized the hapless chirrupper in one quartette of yellow claws, returned to its seat, and then and there proceeded to strip the sparrow, sending a cloud of light downy feathers into the cage of its neighbour, a staring barn-owl, which had opened its eyes for a few minutes, but only to blink a while before subsiding into what appeared to be a ball of feathers. A pair of bullfinches were then roused, by a finger drawn rapidly across the cage bars—the effect being decidedly startling, while the next object upon which the dealer’s eye fell was a disreputable-looking, ragged-coated, grey parrot, busily engaged in picking off its feathers, as if, out of spite for its imprisonment, it wished to render itself as unsightly and unsaleable as possible.
“You’re a beauty, you are!” growled D. Wragg, poking at it viciously with the perch; but, nothing daunted, the bird seized the end of the assailing weapon with its strong hooked beak, and held on fiercely, screaming a loud defiance the while.
With a dexterous jerk, the stick was withdrawn—a strategical movement evidently taken by the bird as a token of defeat; for it stood upon one leg, derisively danced its head up and down, and then loudly cried out—“Quack—quack—quack!” an accomplishment learned of a couple of London-white Aylesbury ducks, located in a small green dog-kennel, whose door was formed of an old half-worn fire-guard.
Apparently satisfied, D. Wragg withdrew to a corner which he specially affected, and turned his back to door and window while he drew forth his dirty pocket-book and carefully examined the two crisp bank-notes, replaced them, and buttoned them up in his breastpocket, as he muttered, softly—
“More yet, my lad, more yet! I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you turned out a mint to some on us afore we’ve done with you. And why not?” he muttered again, as he glanced uneasily over his shoulder. “What’s the good o’ money to such as him. If he likes to come on the chance of seeing her here, ’taint my doing, is it? I wish she was here always, I do.”
D. Wragg frowned as he proceeded to refresh himself with another pipe, and a renewed spelling over of his paper. Then he cocked his head on one side, magpie fashion, and listened, for a light step was heard, and the closing of a door, and the next minute, without waiting for her friend to descend, Patty was up-stairs, where Janet was watching her goldfish.
The latter turned as soon as she saw Patty, and seeming to read trouble in her face, she wound her arm round the little waist and drew her close.
“I came down to the shop,” said Janet; “but you were writing something for him, so I took advantage of it and came back. But don’t do it, Patty; I don’t like you to go in there.”
Patty did not answer, but stood looking, dreamy and thoughtful.
“Are you keeping something from me?” said Janet, pettishly.
“No—no—no,” said Patty, starting, and smiling once more; “I was only dull without you. Now, let’s talk. Some one came this morning—two some ones—they were there when you saw me writing—they spoke to me, and—and—and—”
Patty’s face reddened, and then grew worn and troubled as she spoke.
“I did not like it,” she continued; “and—and—there! what stuff I am talking! We shall have no French to-day. Let’s go down, and when Monsieur comes in, get him to paint a partridge’s beak and legs, and I’ll help you to do it. There! pray, come down.”
Janet had her arm still round Patty’s waist, and for a few moments she stood gazing up at her in a strange thoughtful way. She did not speak, though; but keeping close to her visitor, walked with her to the door, muttering softly, “Patty has secrets—Patty has secrets; and I guess what it means.”
Hand-in-hand they began to descend the stairs, but only for Patty to turn back and lead the deformed girl into the room.
“What is it? what ails you?” said Janet, gazing wonderingly at her. “Are you ill? Do you feel faint?”
“No—no; it is nothing; I—I thought—I thought I had seen one of them before.”
“One of them!”
“Yes, one of the customers; but it was nothing—nothing,” she said, sadly; “I must have dreamed it. Janet, do you believe in fancying things?”
“Fancying things! What are you talking about?”
“In feeling that things are to take place—in being as if something whispered to you that there was to be trouble by and by, and misery, and heartaches—that the hawk was coming to seize a miserable little weak pigeon, and tear, and tear it till its poor heart was bleeding.”
“No; stuff!” ejaculated Janet.
“I feel so,” said Patty, slowly, “and sometimes I believe it. O Janet! if one could be rich and nice, and live where people would not be ashamed to see you, and—Ah! I’d give anything—anything to be rich and a lady. But there,” she cried, impetuously, “do come down.”
“Riddles—talking in riddles; like people speak in their sleep,” said Janet, as she wreathed her long arm round Patty. “Perhaps you ought not to come and see me here, for it is horrible; but I am used to it, and I could not live without you now. They don’t like you to come?”
“No,” said Patty; “but they think it would be unkind for me to stay away. They like you, and my father is fond of Monsieur Canau, and loves the musical evenings. You ought to come and live near us.”
“In fashionable Clerkenwell, eh?” said Janet, laughing. “No; he will not leave here—we are used to it, and we are poor, Patty,” she added, with a sigh.
“Lean on me,” said Patty, lightly; “and don’t let’s be miserable;” and they now began to descend the stairs; but only to be met by D. Wragg stumping and jerking up to meet them.
As the dealer came up, he gazed earnestly for a moment at Patty, and there was a hesitating air about him; but he seemed to chase it away, as, with an effort, he exclaimed—
“Here don’t you make no—Here, Miss Pellet, my dear, you’re wanted.”
“Wanted!” said Patty, instinctively shrinking back, while Janet’s dark fierce eyes gazed from one to the other.
“Yes; wanted—in the shop,” said D. Wragg. “You don’t mind coming, do you? Don’t stop her, Janet; it may mean money, you know.”
“But who—who wants me?” faltered Patty, one of whose hands tightly pressed the long restraining bony fingers of Janet—“who wants me?”
“It’s one o’ them swells as come about the dorg!”