Proposals.“If you wish it, Hampton, of course have it; but I think the money that it will cost might very well be given to some missionary fund,” said Miss Matilda.“Er-rum! When I want your advice, Matty, I shall ask it,” said Sir Hampton. “I must keep up my dignity in the county.”“You could do it in no better way, Hampton, than by subscribing to the South Sea Islander Society—‘Sir Hampton Rea, twenty guineas,’ in the county paper, would add more to your dignity than giving a dinner party.”This was at breakfast, and Fin cast malicious glances at her sister, who was blushing, and bending over her plate.“Fanny!—er-rum!” continued Sir Hampton, not seeming to notice his sister, “we’ll say Friday. You will send invitations to— er-rum—let me see!”“Stop a minute, Hampy dear,” cried her ladyship, making a scuffle to get at something. “There—oh! now, how tiresome—that cream jug always gets in the way. Thank you, Fin, my dear; take it up with a spoon—it isn’t hurt.”“Oh, ma dear,” cried Fin, “the cream will taste of hot washerwoman and mangles. You can’t use it now.”“Oh, I’ll drink it, my dear—oh!” she added, in a low voice, “Aunt Matty will think it such waste.”“Are you ready, Fanny?” said Sir Hampton, rolling his head in his stiff cravat.“One moment, Hampy,” said her ladyship, getting her pencil and tablets. “My memory is so bad now, I must put them down.”“Then—er-rum—first we’ll say—”“Oh, one moment, Hampy; this tiresome pencil’s got no point again.”“Take mine, ma dear,” said Fin.“Thank you, my love. Now, pa.”“Er-rum,” said Sir Hampton—“first, then, we’ll have er—er—Sir Felix Landells.”Aunt Matty bowed her head approvingly.“E, double L, S,” said Lady Rea, writing. “Don’t shake me, Fin, there’s a dear.”For Lady Rea had come undone at the back of her dress, and Fin was busy with a pin at her collar.“Er-rum!” continued Sir Hampton. “Next we’ll have Captain Vanleigh.”And he looked hard at Tiny, who bent lower over her plate.“Van, I—tut-tut-tut, how do you spell leigh, e first or i first?” said Lady Rea.“Shall I write them down for you, Fanny?” said Aunt Matty.“No, thank you, Matty,” said Lady Rea, who was getting into a knot. “There, I shall know what that means.”“Er-rum!” said Sir Hampton; “Mr Mervyn.”“La! Hampy,” cried Lady Rea, looking up, “you haven’t said Mr Trevor.”“Mister—er-rum—Mervyn!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, sharply.“Oh, there, my dear, don’t fly at me like that,” cried Lady Rea. “M, e, r, v, i—”“Y, Fanny, y,” said Aunt Matty, with a shudder.“Oh yes, y, of course,” said Lady Rea, good-humouredly; “y, n, Mervyn. Next?”The girls bent their heads—Tiny over her breakfast, Fin smoothing the rather tousled hair of her mother.“Er-rum, I suppose I must ask this—er-rum—Trevor.”“Surely, Hampton,” exclaimed Aunt Matty, “you will not think of inviting that objectionable person.”Fin glanced at her sister, whose face was crimson, and Lady Rea looked pained. “Matty, my dear, I think you are wrong. I...”“Have you got that name down, Lady Rea?” said Sir Hampton.“No, dear; but I soon will have,” said her ladyship, making her pencil scramble over the tablet.“Er-rum!” ejaculated Sir Hampton, rising, puffing himself out, and walking slowly up and down the room; “a man in my position is obliged to make sacrifices, and ask people to whom he objects. In the event of my contesting the county such a man as this—er-rum—this—er-rum—Trevor would be useful I thank you, Matty; you mean, er—mean—rum, well. Put his name down, Fanny.”“I have, my love,” said Lady Rea, beaming at her children.“Hampton, I protest against this outrage,” cried Aunt Matty, “after the marked way in which he has—”“Tiny, come and cut some flowers,” said Fin; and her sister gladly beat a retreat, Fin whispering as they went—“Will he ask the little man?”“Now, Matty,” said Sir Hampton, “have the goodness to proceed; and in future, when you enter upon such subjects, have the kindness to—er-rum—remember that I am not deaf.”“I say, Hampton, after the marked way in which that ‘seafaring person’ has behaved to Valentina, it is most indiscreet to ask him here.”“Oh, Matty,” cried Lady Rea, “I’m sure that young man is as nice as can be.”“If that was what you intended to say, Matilda—er-rum—it would have been most indecent before those children,” said Sir Hampton, pompously.“In—”Aunt Matty could not say it, the word was too outrageous.“I feel bound—er-rum—bound,” said Sir Hampton, with emphasis, “to ask the young man, as a proprietor, even as we might ask a tenant, Fanny.”“Yes, my love.”“Put down that lawyer as well, Mr—er, er—Mr—” he got the name out with great disgust at last, “Pratt,” and carefully wiped his mouth afterwards.“You’ll be sorry for this, Hampton,” said Miss Matilda, shaking with virtuous indignation, so that some frozen dewdrops in her head-dress quivered again, and Pepine, who had been surreptitiously nursed under a canopy of table-cloth, received, in her excitement, such a heavy nip from his mistress’s knees, that he uttered an awful howl.“Er-rum—sorry?”“Yes, sorry. That objectionable person is always hanging about the house like—like—like a vagrant; and those girls never go for a walk without being accosted by him or his companion. If you have any eyes, you ought to see.”“Oh, Matty, pray don’t,” said Lady Rea, appealingly.“Er-rum! Silence, Fanny,” said Sir Hampton. “And as for your remarks, Matilda, they are uncalled for. My children would not, I am sure, encourage the—er-rum—advances of that person; and Lady Rea would be one of the first to crush any—er-rum—thing of the kind.”“Indeed!” said Aunt Matty, spitefully. “That—er-rum—will do,” said Sir Hampton. “Fanny, those will be our guests. See that the dinner is worthy of our position.”He went out like a stout, elderly emperor of florid habit, and, as soon after as was possible, Lady Rea beat a retreat, leaving Aunt Matty taking dog, after her habit, in strokes with one hand, holding a pocket handkerchief cake in the other; “and looking,” Edward the footman, said in the kitchen, after removing the breakfast things, “like a bilious image getting ready for a fit.”Sir Hampton’s study was horticulture that morning; and, after swallowing a page on the manipulation of the roots of espaliers and pyramid trees, he was about to go out and attack Sanders, the gardener, when Edward announced Sir Felix Landells and Captain Vanleigh on business, and they were shown in.“Really—hope not deranging—untimely call,” said Sir Felix.“We will not detain you long, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, with a great show of deference.“Er-rum, gentlemen,” said Sir Hampton, whose face shone with pride, “in these rural—er-rum—districts, when one is—er-rum—far from society and town, sociability and hospitality should, er—”“Go hand in hand—exactly,” said Vanleigh, smiling.“Er-rum, I am very glad to see you, gentlemen,” said Sir Hampton. “Oddly—er-rum—oddly enough, we were discussing a little dinner for Friday. Could you—er-rum—both, both—er—honour us with your company?”And he looked from one to the other.“Well,” said Vanleigh, hesitating, and glancing at Sir Felix, “it depends somewhat on—Would you like to speak out, Landells?”“’Sure you, no. Do it so much better. Pray go on.”And the young man turned crimson.“Not pre-engaged, I hope?” said Sir Hampton.“Well, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, modestly, after a pause, during which he sat with his eyes on the carpet, “this is all so new to me, and you have confused me so with your kind invitation, that my business—our business—comes doubly hard to us to state.”“Er-rum—pray go on,” said Sir Hampton, smiling condescendingly, for all this was sweet to his soul; two scions of aristocratic houses with sense enough to respect his position in life. Captain Vanleigh might have borrowed a hundred pounds on the instant had he liked; but he was playing for higher stakes.“Then, if you won’t speak, Landells, I must,” said Vanleigh, who seemed overcome with confusion. “No doubt there is a proper etiquette to be observed in such cases, but I confess I am too agitated to recall it, and I merely appeal to you, Sir Hampton, as a gentleman and a parent.”Sir Hampton bowed, and uttered a cough that seemed wrapped up in cotton wool, it was so soft.“The fact is, Sir Hampton, we have been here now three weeks—Landells and I—and we have been so charmed, so taken with your sweet daughters, that, in this hurried, confused way—I tell you, in short, we thought it right, as gentlemen, to come first and tell you, to ask you for your permission to visit more frequently, to be more in their society—to, in short, make formal proposals for their hands.”There was another soft cough, and Vanleigh continued—“I hope I am forgiven, Landells, for my awkward way?”“Yes. Pray go on; capital,” said Landells, who was perspiring profusely.“It is only fair to say how we are placed in the world, Sir Hampton. My friend there, Sir Felix, has his eight thousand per annum; and it will increase. For myself, I am but a poor officer of the Guards.”“Er-rum! a gentleman is never poor,” said Sir Hampton, with dignity.“I think I can say no more, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, bowing to the compliment. “You see now my hesitation about the dinner; for, of course, if you refuse to regard our application favourably, to-morrow we should—eh, Landells?”“Back—town—certainly,” said Sir Felix, wiping his face.“Er-rum!” said Sir Hampton, rising, and placing a hand in his breast. “Gentlemen, you take me by surprise, and you ask a great deal in—er-rum—I say you ask a great deal—I, er-rum, I—honoured by your—er-rum—proposals—and—and—er-rum, if I express myself badly, it is a father’s emotion. In short, I—er-rum—gentlemen—I, er-rum, give both my full consent to visit here as often as you wish, and Lady Rea and my daughters shall be acquainted with your proposals. I can, er-rum, say no more now. Let us join the ladies.”Sir Felix, with tears in his eyes, took and wrung the old man’s hand, and, as the friends followed him out, Vanleigh bestowed upon the young baronet a most solemn, but very vulgar, wink.
“If you wish it, Hampton, of course have it; but I think the money that it will cost might very well be given to some missionary fund,” said Miss Matilda.
“Er-rum! When I want your advice, Matty, I shall ask it,” said Sir Hampton. “I must keep up my dignity in the county.”
“You could do it in no better way, Hampton, than by subscribing to the South Sea Islander Society—‘Sir Hampton Rea, twenty guineas,’ in the county paper, would add more to your dignity than giving a dinner party.”
This was at breakfast, and Fin cast malicious glances at her sister, who was blushing, and bending over her plate.
“Fanny!—er-rum!” continued Sir Hampton, not seeming to notice his sister, “we’ll say Friday. You will send invitations to— er-rum—let me see!”
“Stop a minute, Hampy dear,” cried her ladyship, making a scuffle to get at something. “There—oh! now, how tiresome—that cream jug always gets in the way. Thank you, Fin, my dear; take it up with a spoon—it isn’t hurt.”
“Oh, ma dear,” cried Fin, “the cream will taste of hot washerwoman and mangles. You can’t use it now.”
“Oh, I’ll drink it, my dear—oh!” she added, in a low voice, “Aunt Matty will think it such waste.”
“Are you ready, Fanny?” said Sir Hampton, rolling his head in his stiff cravat.
“One moment, Hampy,” said her ladyship, getting her pencil and tablets. “My memory is so bad now, I must put them down.”
“Then—er-rum—first we’ll say—”
“Oh, one moment, Hampy; this tiresome pencil’s got no point again.”
“Take mine, ma dear,” said Fin.
“Thank you, my love. Now, pa.”
“Er-rum,” said Sir Hampton—“first, then, we’ll have er—er—Sir Felix Landells.”
Aunt Matty bowed her head approvingly.
“E, double L, S,” said Lady Rea, writing. “Don’t shake me, Fin, there’s a dear.”
For Lady Rea had come undone at the back of her dress, and Fin was busy with a pin at her collar.
“Er-rum!” continued Sir Hampton. “Next we’ll have Captain Vanleigh.”
And he looked hard at Tiny, who bent lower over her plate.
“Van, I—tut-tut-tut, how do you spell leigh, e first or i first?” said Lady Rea.
“Shall I write them down for you, Fanny?” said Aunt Matty.
“No, thank you, Matty,” said Lady Rea, who was getting into a knot. “There, I shall know what that means.”
“Er-rum!” said Sir Hampton; “Mr Mervyn.”
“La! Hampy,” cried Lady Rea, looking up, “you haven’t said Mr Trevor.”
“Mister—er-rum—Mervyn!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, sharply.
“Oh, there, my dear, don’t fly at me like that,” cried Lady Rea. “M, e, r, v, i—”
“Y, Fanny, y,” said Aunt Matty, with a shudder.
“Oh yes, y, of course,” said Lady Rea, good-humouredly; “y, n, Mervyn. Next?”
The girls bent their heads—Tiny over her breakfast, Fin smoothing the rather tousled hair of her mother.
“Er-rum, I suppose I must ask this—er-rum—Trevor.”
“Surely, Hampton,” exclaimed Aunt Matty, “you will not think of inviting that objectionable person.”
Fin glanced at her sister, whose face was crimson, and Lady Rea looked pained. “Matty, my dear, I think you are wrong. I...”
“Have you got that name down, Lady Rea?” said Sir Hampton.
“No, dear; but I soon will have,” said her ladyship, making her pencil scramble over the tablet.
“Er-rum!” ejaculated Sir Hampton, rising, puffing himself out, and walking slowly up and down the room; “a man in my position is obliged to make sacrifices, and ask people to whom he objects. In the event of my contesting the county such a man as this—er-rum—this—er-rum—Trevor would be useful I thank you, Matty; you mean, er—mean—rum, well. Put his name down, Fanny.”
“I have, my love,” said Lady Rea, beaming at her children.
“Hampton, I protest against this outrage,” cried Aunt Matty, “after the marked way in which he has—”
“Tiny, come and cut some flowers,” said Fin; and her sister gladly beat a retreat, Fin whispering as they went—“Will he ask the little man?”
“Now, Matty,” said Sir Hampton, “have the goodness to proceed; and in future, when you enter upon such subjects, have the kindness to—er-rum—remember that I am not deaf.”
“I say, Hampton, after the marked way in which that ‘seafaring person’ has behaved to Valentina, it is most indiscreet to ask him here.”
“Oh, Matty,” cried Lady Rea, “I’m sure that young man is as nice as can be.”
“If that was what you intended to say, Matilda—er-rum—it would have been most indecent before those children,” said Sir Hampton, pompously.
“In—”
Aunt Matty could not say it, the word was too outrageous.
“I feel bound—er-rum—bound,” said Sir Hampton, with emphasis, “to ask the young man, as a proprietor, even as we might ask a tenant, Fanny.”
“Yes, my love.”
“Put down that lawyer as well, Mr—er, er—Mr—” he got the name out with great disgust at last, “Pratt,” and carefully wiped his mouth afterwards.
“You’ll be sorry for this, Hampton,” said Miss Matilda, shaking with virtuous indignation, so that some frozen dewdrops in her head-dress quivered again, and Pepine, who had been surreptitiously nursed under a canopy of table-cloth, received, in her excitement, such a heavy nip from his mistress’s knees, that he uttered an awful howl.
“Er-rum—sorry?”
“Yes, sorry. That objectionable person is always hanging about the house like—like—like a vagrant; and those girls never go for a walk without being accosted by him or his companion. If you have any eyes, you ought to see.”
“Oh, Matty, pray don’t,” said Lady Rea, appealingly.
“Er-rum! Silence, Fanny,” said Sir Hampton. “And as for your remarks, Matilda, they are uncalled for. My children would not, I am sure, encourage the—er-rum—advances of that person; and Lady Rea would be one of the first to crush any—er-rum—thing of the kind.”
“Indeed!” said Aunt Matty, spitefully. “That—er-rum—will do,” said Sir Hampton. “Fanny, those will be our guests. See that the dinner is worthy of our position.”
He went out like a stout, elderly emperor of florid habit, and, as soon after as was possible, Lady Rea beat a retreat, leaving Aunt Matty taking dog, after her habit, in strokes with one hand, holding a pocket handkerchief cake in the other; “and looking,” Edward the footman, said in the kitchen, after removing the breakfast things, “like a bilious image getting ready for a fit.”
Sir Hampton’s study was horticulture that morning; and, after swallowing a page on the manipulation of the roots of espaliers and pyramid trees, he was about to go out and attack Sanders, the gardener, when Edward announced Sir Felix Landells and Captain Vanleigh on business, and they were shown in.
“Really—hope not deranging—untimely call,” said Sir Felix.
“We will not detain you long, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, with a great show of deference.
“Er-rum, gentlemen,” said Sir Hampton, whose face shone with pride, “in these rural—er-rum—districts, when one is—er-rum—far from society and town, sociability and hospitality should, er—”
“Go hand in hand—exactly,” said Vanleigh, smiling.
“Er-rum, I am very glad to see you, gentlemen,” said Sir Hampton. “Oddly—er-rum—oddly enough, we were discussing a little dinner for Friday. Could you—er-rum—both, both—er—honour us with your company?”
And he looked from one to the other.
“Well,” said Vanleigh, hesitating, and glancing at Sir Felix, “it depends somewhat on—Would you like to speak out, Landells?”
“’Sure you, no. Do it so much better. Pray go on.”
And the young man turned crimson.
“Not pre-engaged, I hope?” said Sir Hampton.
“Well, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, modestly, after a pause, during which he sat with his eyes on the carpet, “this is all so new to me, and you have confused me so with your kind invitation, that my business—our business—comes doubly hard to us to state.”
“Er-rum—pray go on,” said Sir Hampton, smiling condescendingly, for all this was sweet to his soul; two scions of aristocratic houses with sense enough to respect his position in life. Captain Vanleigh might have borrowed a hundred pounds on the instant had he liked; but he was playing for higher stakes.
“Then, if you won’t speak, Landells, I must,” said Vanleigh, who seemed overcome with confusion. “No doubt there is a proper etiquette to be observed in such cases, but I confess I am too agitated to recall it, and I merely appeal to you, Sir Hampton, as a gentleman and a parent.”
Sir Hampton bowed, and uttered a cough that seemed wrapped up in cotton wool, it was so soft.
“The fact is, Sir Hampton, we have been here now three weeks—Landells and I—and we have been so charmed, so taken with your sweet daughters, that, in this hurried, confused way—I tell you, in short, we thought it right, as gentlemen, to come first and tell you, to ask you for your permission to visit more frequently, to be more in their society—to, in short, make formal proposals for their hands.”
There was another soft cough, and Vanleigh continued—
“I hope I am forgiven, Landells, for my awkward way?”
“Yes. Pray go on; capital,” said Landells, who was perspiring profusely.
“It is only fair to say how we are placed in the world, Sir Hampton. My friend there, Sir Felix, has his eight thousand per annum; and it will increase. For myself, I am but a poor officer of the Guards.”
“Er-rum! a gentleman is never poor,” said Sir Hampton, with dignity.
“I think I can say no more, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, bowing to the compliment. “You see now my hesitation about the dinner; for, of course, if you refuse to regard our application favourably, to-morrow we should—eh, Landells?”
“Back—town—certainly,” said Sir Felix, wiping his face.
“Er-rum!” said Sir Hampton, rising, and placing a hand in his breast. “Gentlemen, you take me by surprise, and you ask a great deal in—er-rum—I say you ask a great deal—I, er-rum, I—honoured by your—er-rum—proposals—and—and—er-rum, if I express myself badly, it is a father’s emotion. In short, I—er-rum—gentlemen—I, er-rum, give both my full consent to visit here as often as you wish, and Lady Rea and my daughters shall be acquainted with your proposals. I can, er-rum, say no more now. Let us join the ladies.”
Sir Felix, with tears in his eyes, took and wrung the old man’s hand, and, as the friends followed him out, Vanleigh bestowed upon the young baronet a most solemn, but very vulgar, wink.
An Interview with Barney Sturt.“Couldn’t you make it a four-wheeler, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, one evening, “and take me up and bring us all back together?”“Now, lookye here, old lady,” said Sam, “I don’t want to be hard, nor I don’t want to be soft, but what I says is this here—Where’s it going to end?”“Whatdoyou mean, Sam?” exclaimed Mrs Jenkles.“What I says, my dear—Where’s it going to end? You’ve got over me about the money, and you’ve got over me about the lodgings. You’re allus going to Mrs Lane to tea, as I knows they don’t find; and now you wants me to give up my ’ansom, borrer a four-wheeler, and lose ’bout a pound as I should make in fares; and what I says is—Where’s it going to end?”“Sam, Sam, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, “when did you ever go out with your cab for about a couple of hours and make a pound?”Sam stood rubbing his nose, and there was a droll twinkle in his eye as he replied—“Well, I might make a pound, you know.”“Now don’t talk stuff, Sam, but go to the yard and change your cab, take me up there, and bring us all back comfortable.”“You’re argoing it, you are, missus,” said Sam. “That’s the way—order your kerridge. ‘Sam,’ says you, ‘the kerridge at six.’ ‘Yes, mum,’ says I. ‘Oppery or dinner party?’ ‘Only to make a hevening call, Sam,’ says you. ‘Werry good, mum,’ says I.”“If you want me to go up there by myself, Sam, and fetch them, I’ll go, and we can get back somehow by the ’bus; but I thought you’d like to come up and see that those ladies and your wife weren’t insulted.”“I should jest like to catch anybody at it, that’s all,” said Sam, sharply.“I didn’t mean to say anything, Sam,” continued Mrs Jenkles; “for I thought if we’d got such a man as you with us, no one would dare to interfere.”“Now, look here,” said Sam, “I never did come across such an old snail as you are, missus; I like the allus being at home part of it, but it’s the hiding as I don’t like. Now, look here, I never does nothing without coming and telling you all about it; and as for you, why, you’ve allus got something in the way for me to find out.”“What’s the use of me bothering you with trifles, Sam, when you’ve got plenty of troubles on your mind? I would tell you if it was anything you need know.”“Well, come now, what’s it all mean bout Miss Lane?” said Sam.“Only, dear, that since those people have found that Mrs Lane meant to leave, they’ve turned very strange, and the poor child’s quite frightened and timid like.”“Now, why couldn’t you say so at first,” said Sam, “instead of dodging and hiding, and making a blind man’s buffer of me? That’s it, is it? Mr Barney of the betting ring—‘Ten to one bar one’—means to be nasty, does he? Well, all I’ve got to say is, just let him try it on, that’s all!”“Now, there it is,” said Mrs Jenkles; “that’s just what I want to avoid. Tell you about it, and you want to do the very thing as will upset that poor girl; and oh! Sam, do be careful, she—”Mrs Jenkles added something in a whisper.“I’ll be careful enough,” said Sam; “and look here—how long shall you be?”“I’m ready now, Sam,” said his wife.“Yes, but I’ve got to go down to the yard, and get the keb changed; take me ’bout three-quarters of an hour, it will, and then I’m back.”Sam went off, muttering to himself; the only words audible being—“Jest let him, that’s all!”And within the prescribed time he was driving Mrs Jenkles up to Mrs Lane’s wretched lodgings.Mrs Jenkles passed in, after a word or two with her husband, and saw at a glance Barney of the black chin smoking in his shop, and Mrs Barney looking over his shoulder. She took no notice of them, and went upstairs, to find Mrs Lane looking very pale and much excited, holding Netta’s hand.“And how’s my pretty to-night?” said Mrs Jenkles, after a quick glance had passed between her and the mother.“Quite—quite well,” said the girl, placing both her hands in those of Mrs Jenkles, and holding her face to be kissed; but her unnaturally bright eyes and flushed face contradicted her words, and she kept glancing timidly towards the door.“That’s right, my dear,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Ah! and I see you’ve got the trunk packed, and all ready. I’ve got some flowers for you at home, and everything waiting; so don’t you go looking like that.”“She has been a little frightened today,” said Mrs Lane; “the people downstairs—”“Oh, don’t you mind them,” said Mrs Jenkles. “They don’t like losing good lodgers, now it comes to the point, with all their grumbling. Have you paid your bit of rent?”“Yes,” said Mrs Lane; and she glanced anxiously at her child, whose alarm seemed to increase.“I see,” said Mrs Jenkles, in her most business-like way. “Now, look here, the thing is to get it over quickly. Have you got everything there?” and she pointed to a trunk and carpet-bag.“Yes, everything,” said Mrs Lane.“Then I’ll call up Sam to take them down to the cab.”“No, no—stop!” exclaimed Netta. “Oh! mamma, had we not better stop? That man—what he said this morning!”“There, there, my pretty,” said Mrs Jenkles, “don’t you be alarmed. You leave it to me.”Then going to the window, she signalled to Sam, who was busy tying knots in his shabby whipthong.As Mrs Jenkles turned from the window, the door was thrown open, and Mrs Sturt, looking very aggressive, entered the room, closely followed by her lord, smoking his black pipe of strong, rank tobacco.Netta shrank timidly back into her seat, catching at her mothers hand, while the result of the tobacco-smoke was to set her coughing painfully.“Now if you please,” said Mrs Sturt, “I want to know what this means?”And she pointed to the trunk and the other manifest signs of departure.“I told you a week ago, Mrs Sturt, that we intended to leave,” said Mrs Lane, speaking with a forced calmness, as she pressed her child’s hand encouragingly.“And so you think a week’s notice is enough after the way as we’ve been troubled to get our bit of rent?” said Mrs Sturt, raising her voice. “Are we to be left with our place empty, after harbouring a pack of lodgers with no more gratitude than—than—than nothing?” continued the woman, at a loss for a simile.“I have nothing to do with that,” said Mrs Lane, with dignity. “Mrs Sturt, I have rigidly kept to the arrangement I made with you, and you have no right to expect more.”“Oh, haven’t I?” said the woman. “Do you hear that, Barney? I’ll just let ’em see!”Barney growled, and showed his teeth.“Lookye here,” he said, hoarsely; “you aint agoing to leave here, so now then. And you, missus,” tinning to Mrs Jenkles, “you’re gallus clever, you are; but you may let your lodgings to some one else.”Netta’s clutch of her mother’s hand grew convulsive, and her face wore so horrified an expression that Mrs Jenkles did not reply to the challenge directed at her, but stepped to the poor girl’s side.“Don’t you be frightened, my dear,” she whispered; and then to herself—“Why don’t Sam come?”“Mr Sturt,” said Mrs Lane, firmly in voice, though she trembled as she spoke to the fellow, “you have no right to try and force us to stay if we wish to leave.”“Oh! aint I,” said Barney. “I’ll let you see about that. Here, give us that,” he said, turning to snatch a paper from his wife’s hand. “Let alone what he telled me too, about yer—”“He! Who?” exclaimed Mrs Lane, excitedly.Netta started from her chair.“Never you mind,” said Barney, showing his great teeth in a grin. “You think I don’t know all about yer, now, don’t yer? But you’re precious mistaken!”“But tell me, man, has any one—”“There, there, it’s all right, Mrs Lane—you’ve got to stop here, that’s what you’ve got to do. What have you got to say to that, for another thing?”As Barney spoke, he thrust the paper down before Mrs Lane, and went on smoking furiously.“What’s this? I don’t owe you anything,” said Mrs Lane, whose courage seemed failing.“Don’t owe us anything, indeed!” said Mrs Sturt, in her vinegary voice; “why, there’s seven pun’ ten, and seven for grosheries!”“Oh! this is cruel as it’s scandalous and false!” cried Mrs Lane, in reply to Mrs Jenkles’s look. “I do not owe a shilling.”“Which you do—there!” cried Mrs Sturt; “and not a thing goes off these premishes till it’s paid.”“And they don’t go off, nor them nayther, when it is paid,” said Barney, grinning offensively. “So now, Mrs What’s-yer-name, you’d better be off!”Mrs Jenkles had been very quiet, but her face had been growing red and fiery during all this, and she gave a sigh of relief as she patted Netta on the shoulder; for at that moment Sam came slowly into the room, closed the door, and bowed and smiled to Mrs Lane and her daughter.“Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles; and then she stopped almost aghast at her husband’s proceedings, for with a sharp flourish of the hand, he knocked Barney’s pipe from his mouth, the stem breaking close to his teeth, and he looking perfectly astonished at the cabman’s daring.“What are yer smoking like that for, here? Can’t yer see it makes the young lady cough?”“I’ll—” exclaimed Barney, rushing at Sam menacingly; and Netta uttered a shriek.“Don’t you mind him, Miss,” said Sam, laughing, “it’s only his fun. It’s a little playful way he’s got with him, that’s all. Which is the boxes?”“That trunk, and the carpet-bag, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles; and Sam advanced to them.“Hadn’t we better give up?” said Mrs Lane, pitifully; and she glanced at Netta who trembled violently.“I should think not, indeed,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Don’t you be afraid—they daren’t stop you.”“But we just dare,” said Mrs Sturt, furiously. “Not a thing goes off till my bill’s paid.”“And they don’t go off when it is! now then,” said Barney.“Don’t let him touch those things,” said Mrs Sturt.“Sam, you take that trunk down directly,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Now, my dear; come along.”“All right,” said Sam, and he advanced to the trunk; but Barney pushed himself forward, and sat down upon the box; while, as Mrs Jenkles placed her arm round Netta, and led her towards the door, Mrs Sturt jerked herself to it, and placed her back against the panels.“You’re a nice ’un, you are, Barney Sturt, Esquire, of the suburban races,” said Sam, good-temperedly; “but it aint no good, so get up, and let’s go quietly.”Barney growled out an oath, and showed his teeth, as Mrs Lane came up to Sam, and laid her hand on his shoulder.“Thank you much,” she said, with a shudder; “but I give up: we cannot go.”“Believe you can’t,” said Barney, grinning. “D’yer hear that, cabby?”“Yes, I hear,” said Sam, gruffly; “and if it weren’t that I don’t want to make a row afore the ladies, I’d have you off that trunk afore you knew where you was. And as to leaving the box alone, my missus said I was to take it down to the keb. Is it to go, old lady?”“Yes, certainly,” said Mrs Jenkles, with flashing eyes.“Now, Barney, d’yer hear?” said Sam.“Who do you call Barney? You don’t know me,” said he.“Oh no,” said Sam; “I don’t know you. I didn’t give yer a lift in my ’ansom, and drive yer away down at ’Ampton, when the mob had torn yer clothes into rags for welching, and they was going to pitch yer in the Thames, eh?”Barney scowled, and shuffled about on his seat.“Now, then,” said Sam; “are you going to get up?”“No,” said Barney.“Mrs Jenkles, pray end this scene!” exclaimed Mrs Lane, pitifully—“for her sake,” she added in a whisper.“I’ll end it, mum,” said Sam.And he gave a sharp whistle, with the result that the door was opened so violently that Mrs Sturt was jerked forward against Sam, the cause being a policeman, who now stood in the entry, with the further effect that Barney leaped off the trunk, and stood looking aghast.Mrs Jenkles gave a sigh of relief, and a gratified look at her husband.“Here’s the case, policeman,” said Sam. “Ladies here wants to leave these lodgings: they’ve given notice and paid their rent; but the missus here brings out a bill for things as the lady says she’s never had, and wants to stop their boxes. It’s county court, aint it? They can’t stop the clothes?”“Nobody wants to stop no boxes,” said Barney, uneasily. “Only it was precious shabby on ’em going like this.”“Then you don’t want to stop the boxes, eh?” said Sam.Mrs Sturt gave her husband a sharp dig with her elbow.“Be quiet, can’t you!” he snarled; and then to Sam, “’course I don’t.”“Then ketch hold o’ t’other end,” said Sam, placing the bag on the trunk.And like a lamb Barney helped to bear his late lodger’s impedimenta downstairs, and then to place them on the cab, as Mrs Jenkles led Netta half fainting from the room.Five minutes after, Sam had banged-to the rattling door, shutting in the little party, climbed to his box, and settled himself in his place, with a good-humoured nod to the policeman, who stood beating his gloves together, while Barney stood at the side of his wife.“Here’s the price of a pint for you, Barney,” said Sam, throwing him a couple of pence—money which Barney instantly secured; and then, vowing vengeance against the donor, he slunk off in the opposite direction; but only to double round by a back street, and track the cab like a dog, till he saw it set down its inmates at the humble little home of Mrs Jenkles.
“Couldn’t you make it a four-wheeler, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, one evening, “and take me up and bring us all back together?”
“Now, lookye here, old lady,” said Sam, “I don’t want to be hard, nor I don’t want to be soft, but what I says is this here—Where’s it going to end?”
“Whatdoyou mean, Sam?” exclaimed Mrs Jenkles.
“What I says, my dear—Where’s it going to end? You’ve got over me about the money, and you’ve got over me about the lodgings. You’re allus going to Mrs Lane to tea, as I knows they don’t find; and now you wants me to give up my ’ansom, borrer a four-wheeler, and lose ’bout a pound as I should make in fares; and what I says is—Where’s it going to end?”
“Sam, Sam, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, “when did you ever go out with your cab for about a couple of hours and make a pound?”
Sam stood rubbing his nose, and there was a droll twinkle in his eye as he replied—
“Well, I might make a pound, you know.”
“Now don’t talk stuff, Sam, but go to the yard and change your cab, take me up there, and bring us all back comfortable.”
“You’re argoing it, you are, missus,” said Sam. “That’s the way—order your kerridge. ‘Sam,’ says you, ‘the kerridge at six.’ ‘Yes, mum,’ says I. ‘Oppery or dinner party?’ ‘Only to make a hevening call, Sam,’ says you. ‘Werry good, mum,’ says I.”
“If you want me to go up there by myself, Sam, and fetch them, I’ll go, and we can get back somehow by the ’bus; but I thought you’d like to come up and see that those ladies and your wife weren’t insulted.”
“I should jest like to catch anybody at it, that’s all,” said Sam, sharply.
“I didn’t mean to say anything, Sam,” continued Mrs Jenkles; “for I thought if we’d got such a man as you with us, no one would dare to interfere.”
“Now, look here,” said Sam, “I never did come across such an old snail as you are, missus; I like the allus being at home part of it, but it’s the hiding as I don’t like. Now, look here, I never does nothing without coming and telling you all about it; and as for you, why, you’ve allus got something in the way for me to find out.”
“What’s the use of me bothering you with trifles, Sam, when you’ve got plenty of troubles on your mind? I would tell you if it was anything you need know.”
“Well, come now, what’s it all mean bout Miss Lane?” said Sam.
“Only, dear, that since those people have found that Mrs Lane meant to leave, they’ve turned very strange, and the poor child’s quite frightened and timid like.”
“Now, why couldn’t you say so at first,” said Sam, “instead of dodging and hiding, and making a blind man’s buffer of me? That’s it, is it? Mr Barney of the betting ring—‘Ten to one bar one’—means to be nasty, does he? Well, all I’ve got to say is, just let him try it on, that’s all!”
“Now, there it is,” said Mrs Jenkles; “that’s just what I want to avoid. Tell you about it, and you want to do the very thing as will upset that poor girl; and oh! Sam, do be careful, she—”
Mrs Jenkles added something in a whisper.
“I’ll be careful enough,” said Sam; “and look here—how long shall you be?”
“I’m ready now, Sam,” said his wife.
“Yes, but I’ve got to go down to the yard, and get the keb changed; take me ’bout three-quarters of an hour, it will, and then I’m back.”
Sam went off, muttering to himself; the only words audible being—
“Jest let him, that’s all!”
And within the prescribed time he was driving Mrs Jenkles up to Mrs Lane’s wretched lodgings.
Mrs Jenkles passed in, after a word or two with her husband, and saw at a glance Barney of the black chin smoking in his shop, and Mrs Barney looking over his shoulder. She took no notice of them, and went upstairs, to find Mrs Lane looking very pale and much excited, holding Netta’s hand.
“And how’s my pretty to-night?” said Mrs Jenkles, after a quick glance had passed between her and the mother.
“Quite—quite well,” said the girl, placing both her hands in those of Mrs Jenkles, and holding her face to be kissed; but her unnaturally bright eyes and flushed face contradicted her words, and she kept glancing timidly towards the door.
“That’s right, my dear,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Ah! and I see you’ve got the trunk packed, and all ready. I’ve got some flowers for you at home, and everything waiting; so don’t you go looking like that.”
“She has been a little frightened today,” said Mrs Lane; “the people downstairs—”
“Oh, don’t you mind them,” said Mrs Jenkles. “They don’t like losing good lodgers, now it comes to the point, with all their grumbling. Have you paid your bit of rent?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Lane; and she glanced anxiously at her child, whose alarm seemed to increase.
“I see,” said Mrs Jenkles, in her most business-like way. “Now, look here, the thing is to get it over quickly. Have you got everything there?” and she pointed to a trunk and carpet-bag.
“Yes, everything,” said Mrs Lane.
“Then I’ll call up Sam to take them down to the cab.”
“No, no—stop!” exclaimed Netta. “Oh! mamma, had we not better stop? That man—what he said this morning!”
“There, there, my pretty,” said Mrs Jenkles, “don’t you be alarmed. You leave it to me.”
Then going to the window, she signalled to Sam, who was busy tying knots in his shabby whipthong.
As Mrs Jenkles turned from the window, the door was thrown open, and Mrs Sturt, looking very aggressive, entered the room, closely followed by her lord, smoking his black pipe of strong, rank tobacco.
Netta shrank timidly back into her seat, catching at her mothers hand, while the result of the tobacco-smoke was to set her coughing painfully.
“Now if you please,” said Mrs Sturt, “I want to know what this means?”
And she pointed to the trunk and the other manifest signs of departure.
“I told you a week ago, Mrs Sturt, that we intended to leave,” said Mrs Lane, speaking with a forced calmness, as she pressed her child’s hand encouragingly.
“And so you think a week’s notice is enough after the way as we’ve been troubled to get our bit of rent?” said Mrs Sturt, raising her voice. “Are we to be left with our place empty, after harbouring a pack of lodgers with no more gratitude than—than—than nothing?” continued the woman, at a loss for a simile.
“I have nothing to do with that,” said Mrs Lane, with dignity. “Mrs Sturt, I have rigidly kept to the arrangement I made with you, and you have no right to expect more.”
“Oh, haven’t I?” said the woman. “Do you hear that, Barney? I’ll just let ’em see!”
Barney growled, and showed his teeth.
“Lookye here,” he said, hoarsely; “you aint agoing to leave here, so now then. And you, missus,” tinning to Mrs Jenkles, “you’re gallus clever, you are; but you may let your lodgings to some one else.”
Netta’s clutch of her mother’s hand grew convulsive, and her face wore so horrified an expression that Mrs Jenkles did not reply to the challenge directed at her, but stepped to the poor girl’s side.
“Don’t you be frightened, my dear,” she whispered; and then to herself—“Why don’t Sam come?”
“Mr Sturt,” said Mrs Lane, firmly in voice, though she trembled as she spoke to the fellow, “you have no right to try and force us to stay if we wish to leave.”
“Oh! aint I,” said Barney. “I’ll let you see about that. Here, give us that,” he said, turning to snatch a paper from his wife’s hand. “Let alone what he telled me too, about yer—”
“He! Who?” exclaimed Mrs Lane, excitedly.
Netta started from her chair.
“Never you mind,” said Barney, showing his great teeth in a grin. “You think I don’t know all about yer, now, don’t yer? But you’re precious mistaken!”
“But tell me, man, has any one—”
“There, there, it’s all right, Mrs Lane—you’ve got to stop here, that’s what you’ve got to do. What have you got to say to that, for another thing?”
As Barney spoke, he thrust the paper down before Mrs Lane, and went on smoking furiously.
“What’s this? I don’t owe you anything,” said Mrs Lane, whose courage seemed failing.
“Don’t owe us anything, indeed!” said Mrs Sturt, in her vinegary voice; “why, there’s seven pun’ ten, and seven for grosheries!”
“Oh! this is cruel as it’s scandalous and false!” cried Mrs Lane, in reply to Mrs Jenkles’s look. “I do not owe a shilling.”
“Which you do—there!” cried Mrs Sturt; “and not a thing goes off these premishes till it’s paid.”
“And they don’t go off, nor them nayther, when it is paid,” said Barney, grinning offensively. “So now, Mrs What’s-yer-name, you’d better be off!”
Mrs Jenkles had been very quiet, but her face had been growing red and fiery during all this, and she gave a sigh of relief as she patted Netta on the shoulder; for at that moment Sam came slowly into the room, closed the door, and bowed and smiled to Mrs Lane and her daughter.
“Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles; and then she stopped almost aghast at her husband’s proceedings, for with a sharp flourish of the hand, he knocked Barney’s pipe from his mouth, the stem breaking close to his teeth, and he looking perfectly astonished at the cabman’s daring.
“What are yer smoking like that for, here? Can’t yer see it makes the young lady cough?”
“I’ll—” exclaimed Barney, rushing at Sam menacingly; and Netta uttered a shriek.
“Don’t you mind him, Miss,” said Sam, laughing, “it’s only his fun. It’s a little playful way he’s got with him, that’s all. Which is the boxes?”
“That trunk, and the carpet-bag, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles; and Sam advanced to them.
“Hadn’t we better give up?” said Mrs Lane, pitifully; and she glanced at Netta who trembled violently.
“I should think not, indeed,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Don’t you be afraid—they daren’t stop you.”
“But we just dare,” said Mrs Sturt, furiously. “Not a thing goes off till my bill’s paid.”
“And they don’t go off when it is! now then,” said Barney.
“Don’t let him touch those things,” said Mrs Sturt.
“Sam, you take that trunk down directly,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Now, my dear; come along.”
“All right,” said Sam, and he advanced to the trunk; but Barney pushed himself forward, and sat down upon the box; while, as Mrs Jenkles placed her arm round Netta, and led her towards the door, Mrs Sturt jerked herself to it, and placed her back against the panels.
“You’re a nice ’un, you are, Barney Sturt, Esquire, of the suburban races,” said Sam, good-temperedly; “but it aint no good, so get up, and let’s go quietly.”
Barney growled out an oath, and showed his teeth, as Mrs Lane came up to Sam, and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you much,” she said, with a shudder; “but I give up: we cannot go.”
“Believe you can’t,” said Barney, grinning. “D’yer hear that, cabby?”
“Yes, I hear,” said Sam, gruffly; “and if it weren’t that I don’t want to make a row afore the ladies, I’d have you off that trunk afore you knew where you was. And as to leaving the box alone, my missus said I was to take it down to the keb. Is it to go, old lady?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Mrs Jenkles, with flashing eyes.
“Now, Barney, d’yer hear?” said Sam.
“Who do you call Barney? You don’t know me,” said he.
“Oh no,” said Sam; “I don’t know you. I didn’t give yer a lift in my ’ansom, and drive yer away down at ’Ampton, when the mob had torn yer clothes into rags for welching, and they was going to pitch yer in the Thames, eh?”
Barney scowled, and shuffled about on his seat.
“Now, then,” said Sam; “are you going to get up?”
“No,” said Barney.
“Mrs Jenkles, pray end this scene!” exclaimed Mrs Lane, pitifully—“for her sake,” she added in a whisper.
“I’ll end it, mum,” said Sam.
And he gave a sharp whistle, with the result that the door was opened so violently that Mrs Sturt was jerked forward against Sam, the cause being a policeman, who now stood in the entry, with the further effect that Barney leaped off the trunk, and stood looking aghast.
Mrs Jenkles gave a sigh of relief, and a gratified look at her husband.
“Here’s the case, policeman,” said Sam. “Ladies here wants to leave these lodgings: they’ve given notice and paid their rent; but the missus here brings out a bill for things as the lady says she’s never had, and wants to stop their boxes. It’s county court, aint it? They can’t stop the clothes?”
“Nobody wants to stop no boxes,” said Barney, uneasily. “Only it was precious shabby on ’em going like this.”
“Then you don’t want to stop the boxes, eh?” said Sam.
Mrs Sturt gave her husband a sharp dig with her elbow.
“Be quiet, can’t you!” he snarled; and then to Sam, “’course I don’t.”
“Then ketch hold o’ t’other end,” said Sam, placing the bag on the trunk.
And like a lamb Barney helped to bear his late lodger’s impedimenta downstairs, and then to place them on the cab, as Mrs Jenkles led Netta half fainting from the room.
Five minutes after, Sam had banged-to the rattling door, shutting in the little party, climbed to his box, and settled himself in his place, with a good-humoured nod to the policeman, who stood beating his gloves together, while Barney stood at the side of his wife.
“Here’s the price of a pint for you, Barney,” said Sam, throwing him a couple of pence—money which Barney instantly secured; and then, vowing vengeance against the donor, he slunk off in the opposite direction; but only to double round by a back street, and track the cab like a dog, till he saw it set down its inmates at the humble little home of Mrs Jenkles.
Frank Pratt’s Cross-Examination, and Après.Captain Vanleigh had declared solemnly that Penreife was “the deucedest dullest place” he ever saw in his life; and Sir Felix said it was “’nough to kill ’fler;” but, all the same, there was no talk to Trevor of moving; they lounged about the house chatting to each other, and consumed their host’s cigars to a wonderful extent; they ate his dinners and drank his wine; and Vanleigh generally contrived to go to bed a few guineas richer every night from the whist table.Pratt protested against the play, but Trevor laughed at him.“My dear boy,” he said, “why not let such matters take their course? Van is my guest; surely I should be a bad host if I did not let him win a little spare cash. Have you anything else to grumble about?”“Heaps,” said Pratt, trying to put his little legs on a chair in front of the garden seat where he and his friend were having a morning cigar; but they were too short, and he gave up the attempt.“Go on, then,” said Trevor, lazily, “have your grumble out.”“Hadn’t I better go back to town?” said Pratt, sharply.“Why, are you not comfortable?”“Yes—no—yes—no. I’m precious uncomfortable. I see too much,” said Pratt.“Well, let’s hear what you see that makes you so uncomfortable,” said Trevor, carelessly.“Dick, old boy,” said Pratt, “you won’t be offended with me for what I say?”“Not I,” was the answer.“What are you thinking about?” said Pratt, watching the other’s face.“I was only thinking about you, and wondering why, if you don’t like what you see, you can’t close your eyes.”“That’s what you are doing, Dick!” said Pratt, eagerly.“My dear Frank, have you discovered powder barrels beneath the house—is there a new plot?”“Don’t be so foolish, Dick. Why don’t you let those two fellows go?”“Because they are my guests, and stay as long as they like.”“And are doing their very best to undermine your happiness.”“Nonsense, man.”“Dick, old fellow, answer me honestly. Don’t you care a great deal for that little girl up at Tolcarne?”There was a few moments’ pause, during which the colour came into Trevor’s cheek.“Honestly, I do,” he said at last. “Well, and what of that?”“Well, Dick, are you blind? Van’s making all the play that he can, and father and aunt favour him. He’s there nearly every day. He’s there now.”Trevor gave a start, and turned round to face his friend, his lips twitching and fingers working; but he burst out laughing the next moment.“Anything else, Franky?”“Laugh away,” said Pratt, who looked nettled—“only give me credit for my warning when you find I am right.”“That I will,” said Trevor. “Now then, go on! What’s the next plot against my peace of mind?”“Suppose I ask you a question or two!”“All right—go on!”“Have you noticed anything wrong with Humphrey?”“Been precious sulky lately.”“Sulky! The fellow’s looked daggers at you, and has barely answered you civilly.”“Well, he has been queer, certainly.”“Why is it?” said Pratt.“Bilious—out of order—how should I know?”“The poor fellow’s in love!”“Poor Strephon,” said Trevor, idly.“And he sees a powerful rival in the path,” continued Pratt.“The deuce he does!” said Trevor, laughing. “Is that Van, too? But hang it, Frank!” he cried, starting up, “seriously, I won’t stand any nonsense of that kind. If Van’s been making love to that little lass, I’ll put a stop to it. Why, now I think of it, I did see him looking at her!”“No!” said Pratt, quietly. “It isn’t Van—he’s too busy at Tolcarne!”“Silence, croaker!” cried, Trevor, laughing in a constrained fashion. “But, come—who is the powerful rival?”“Dick, old fellow, I’m one of those, and no humbug, who have a habit of trying to ferret out other people’s motives.”“Don’t preach, Franky. Is it Flick? because if it is, the girl’s laughing at him.”“No,” said Pratt; “it isn’t Flick.”“Then who the deuce is it?”“You!”Trevor burst into a hearty laugh.“Why, Frank!” he exclaimed, “if ever there was a mare’s-nesting old humbug, it’s you. Why, whatever put that in your head?”Pratt sat looking at him in silence for a few moments.“Dick,” he said, “if ever there was a deliciously unsuspicious, trusting fellow, you are he.”“Never mind about that,” said Trevor. “I want to get this silly notion out of your head.”“And I want to get it into yours.”“Well, we’ll both try,” said Trevor. “You begin: I’ll settle you after.”“To begin, then,” said Pratt. “You’ve several times met that girl in the lane yonder.”“Yes; now you mention it—I have.”“About the time when you’ve been going up to Tolcarne?”“Yes; and it was evident that she was there to meet Humphrey. Why, I laughed and joked the pretty little lass about it.”“Yes; and did you ever meet Humphrey afterwards?”“Bravo! my little cross-examining barrister. Yes I did—two or three times. I’m not sworn, mind,” added Trevor, laughing.“True men don’t need swearing,” said Pratt.“Thanks for the compliment. Well?”“How did Humphrey look?”“Well—yes—now you mention it—to be sure! He looked black as thunder. Oh, but, Franky, I’ll soon clear that up. I wouldn’t hurt the poor lad’s feelings for the world.”“Wait a bit,” said Pratt. “What, more mystery? Well, go on.”“Did it ever strike you as strange that you should encounter a pretty, well-spoken little girl like that in your walks?”“No; I told you I thought she was out to see Humphrey.”“Or that you should meet her in the passages at home here, to bring you letters, or messages from Mrs Lloyd?”“Well, now you mention it, yes: it has struck me as odd once or twice.”“Never struck you that the girl came of her own accord?”“Never, and I’m sure she never did. She rather avoided me than not; so come, Master Counsellor, you’re out there.”“Did it never strike you that she was sent?”Trevor did not answer, but sat gazing in his friend’s face for a few moments, as if he were trying to catch his drift, and then in a flash he seemed to read all the other meant; for his brow grew cloudy, and he sat down hastily, then got up, and took a few strides up and down before reseating himself.“Well,” said Pratt, “can you see it?”“I see what you mean, Franky; but I can’t quite think it. The old woman would never have the impudence to plan such a thing.”“Dick, old fellow, it’s as plain as the day. She’s made up her mind that her little niece shall be mistress of Penreife, and she is playing her cards accordingly.”“Then I’m afraid, if that is her game, she’ll lose the trick.”“Dick, old fellow,” said Pratt, “you’re not annoyed?”“But I am—deucedly annoyed—not with you, Franky; but don’t say any more now, I mean to think it over.”“Being a friend to an unsuspicious man is about the most unpleasant post on the face of the earth,” said Pratt, moralising, as he saw his friend stride away. “Everybody hates you for enlightening him, and even he cannot forgive you for waking him from his pleasant dreams. Now where has he gone?—oh, to bully that plotting old woman. Well, I’ve done right, I think; and now I’ll have my stroll.”Frank Pratt started off to do what he called “a bit of melancholy Jaques,” in the pleasant woodland lanes; and was not long in finding an agreeable perch, where he seated himself, lit his big pipe, and began communing with himself till the pipe was smoked out; and then he sat on and thought without it, till a coming light footstep took his attention.“Now I make a solemn affidavit,” he said, “that I did not come here to play the spy upon anybody’s actions. If they choose to come and act under my very nose, why, I must see the play. Who’s this?”“This” proved to be little Polly, who walked quickly by him, glancing suspiciously round as she continued her walk.“Scene the first!” said Pratt; “enter village maiden with flowers. To her village lover,” he continued as a heavy step was heard. “No, by Jove! it’s Dick.”He was right, for Trevor came along at a swinging pace, and apparently in a few moments he would overtake the girl.“If I didn’t believe Dick Trevor to be as open as the day, how suspicious that would look!” thought Pratt.Trevor passed on without seeing him, and then there was a pause. The sun’s rays darted through the overhanging boughs; birds flitted and sang their little love songs overhead; and in a half-dreamy way Pratt sat thinking upon his perch till voices and coming footsteps once more aroused him.“It’s them!” he said to himself. “I’ll go.”He made as if to descend, but it struck him that he should be seen if he moved, and he sat still watching—to see at the end of a few moments Tiny Rea coming along the footpath, evidently looking agitated as she walked on in advance.“She’s never seen Dick and her together!” Pratt said, mentally; and he felt as if he could have run and spoken to the girl; but that which next met his eyes made him utter a low, deep sigh, and he looked as if made of the mossy stone upon which he sat, as Fin Rea followed her sister, hanging on Mr Mervyns arm, and gazing eagerly in his face, while he evidently told her something which was of interest.They passed slowly by, as if in no hurry to overtake Tiny; and Pratt watched them till quite out of sight, when he got down in a heavy, stunned fashion, to go slowly farther and farther into the wood, where he threw himself down amongst the ferns, and buried his face in his hands, as he groaned—“More than old enough to be her father!”
Captain Vanleigh had declared solemnly that Penreife was “the deucedest dullest place” he ever saw in his life; and Sir Felix said it was “’nough to kill ’fler;” but, all the same, there was no talk to Trevor of moving; they lounged about the house chatting to each other, and consumed their host’s cigars to a wonderful extent; they ate his dinners and drank his wine; and Vanleigh generally contrived to go to bed a few guineas richer every night from the whist table.
Pratt protested against the play, but Trevor laughed at him.
“My dear boy,” he said, “why not let such matters take their course? Van is my guest; surely I should be a bad host if I did not let him win a little spare cash. Have you anything else to grumble about?”
“Heaps,” said Pratt, trying to put his little legs on a chair in front of the garden seat where he and his friend were having a morning cigar; but they were too short, and he gave up the attempt.
“Go on, then,” said Trevor, lazily, “have your grumble out.”
“Hadn’t I better go back to town?” said Pratt, sharply.
“Why, are you not comfortable?”
“Yes—no—yes—no. I’m precious uncomfortable. I see too much,” said Pratt.
“Well, let’s hear what you see that makes you so uncomfortable,” said Trevor, carelessly.
“Dick, old boy,” said Pratt, “you won’t be offended with me for what I say?”
“Not I,” was the answer.
“What are you thinking about?” said Pratt, watching the other’s face.
“I was only thinking about you, and wondering why, if you don’t like what you see, you can’t close your eyes.”
“That’s what you are doing, Dick!” said Pratt, eagerly.
“My dear Frank, have you discovered powder barrels beneath the house—is there a new plot?”
“Don’t be so foolish, Dick. Why don’t you let those two fellows go?”
“Because they are my guests, and stay as long as they like.”
“And are doing their very best to undermine your happiness.”
“Nonsense, man.”
“Dick, old fellow, answer me honestly. Don’t you care a great deal for that little girl up at Tolcarne?”
There was a few moments’ pause, during which the colour came into Trevor’s cheek.
“Honestly, I do,” he said at last. “Well, and what of that?”
“Well, Dick, are you blind? Van’s making all the play that he can, and father and aunt favour him. He’s there nearly every day. He’s there now.”
Trevor gave a start, and turned round to face his friend, his lips twitching and fingers working; but he burst out laughing the next moment.
“Anything else, Franky?”
“Laugh away,” said Pratt, who looked nettled—“only give me credit for my warning when you find I am right.”
“That I will,” said Trevor. “Now then, go on! What’s the next plot against my peace of mind?”
“Suppose I ask you a question or two!”
“All right—go on!”
“Have you noticed anything wrong with Humphrey?”
“Been precious sulky lately.”
“Sulky! The fellow’s looked daggers at you, and has barely answered you civilly.”
“Well, he has been queer, certainly.”
“Why is it?” said Pratt.
“Bilious—out of order—how should I know?”
“The poor fellow’s in love!”
“Poor Strephon,” said Trevor, idly.
“And he sees a powerful rival in the path,” continued Pratt.
“The deuce he does!” said Trevor, laughing. “Is that Van, too? But hang it, Frank!” he cried, starting up, “seriously, I won’t stand any nonsense of that kind. If Van’s been making love to that little lass, I’ll put a stop to it. Why, now I think of it, I did see him looking at her!”
“No!” said Pratt, quietly. “It isn’t Van—he’s too busy at Tolcarne!”
“Silence, croaker!” cried, Trevor, laughing in a constrained fashion. “But, come—who is the powerful rival?”
“Dick, old fellow, I’m one of those, and no humbug, who have a habit of trying to ferret out other people’s motives.”
“Don’t preach, Franky. Is it Flick? because if it is, the girl’s laughing at him.”
“No,” said Pratt; “it isn’t Flick.”
“Then who the deuce is it?”
“You!”
Trevor burst into a hearty laugh.
“Why, Frank!” he exclaimed, “if ever there was a mare’s-nesting old humbug, it’s you. Why, whatever put that in your head?”
Pratt sat looking at him in silence for a few moments.
“Dick,” he said, “if ever there was a deliciously unsuspicious, trusting fellow, you are he.”
“Never mind about that,” said Trevor. “I want to get this silly notion out of your head.”
“And I want to get it into yours.”
“Well, we’ll both try,” said Trevor. “You begin: I’ll settle you after.”
“To begin, then,” said Pratt. “You’ve several times met that girl in the lane yonder.”
“Yes; now you mention it—I have.”
“About the time when you’ve been going up to Tolcarne?”
“Yes; and it was evident that she was there to meet Humphrey. Why, I laughed and joked the pretty little lass about it.”
“Yes; and did you ever meet Humphrey afterwards?”
“Bravo! my little cross-examining barrister. Yes I did—two or three times. I’m not sworn, mind,” added Trevor, laughing.
“True men don’t need swearing,” said Pratt.
“Thanks for the compliment. Well?”
“How did Humphrey look?”
“Well—yes—now you mention it—to be sure! He looked black as thunder. Oh, but, Franky, I’ll soon clear that up. I wouldn’t hurt the poor lad’s feelings for the world.”
“Wait a bit,” said Pratt. “What, more mystery? Well, go on.”
“Did it ever strike you as strange that you should encounter a pretty, well-spoken little girl like that in your walks?”
“No; I told you I thought she was out to see Humphrey.”
“Or that you should meet her in the passages at home here, to bring you letters, or messages from Mrs Lloyd?”
“Well, now you mention it, yes: it has struck me as odd once or twice.”
“Never struck you that the girl came of her own accord?”
“Never, and I’m sure she never did. She rather avoided me than not; so come, Master Counsellor, you’re out there.”
“Did it never strike you that she was sent?”
Trevor did not answer, but sat gazing in his friend’s face for a few moments, as if he were trying to catch his drift, and then in a flash he seemed to read all the other meant; for his brow grew cloudy, and he sat down hastily, then got up, and took a few strides up and down before reseating himself.
“Well,” said Pratt, “can you see it?”
“I see what you mean, Franky; but I can’t quite think it. The old woman would never have the impudence to plan such a thing.”
“Dick, old fellow, it’s as plain as the day. She’s made up her mind that her little niece shall be mistress of Penreife, and she is playing her cards accordingly.”
“Then I’m afraid, if that is her game, she’ll lose the trick.”
“Dick, old fellow,” said Pratt, “you’re not annoyed?”
“But I am—deucedly annoyed—not with you, Franky; but don’t say any more now, I mean to think it over.”
“Being a friend to an unsuspicious man is about the most unpleasant post on the face of the earth,” said Pratt, moralising, as he saw his friend stride away. “Everybody hates you for enlightening him, and even he cannot forgive you for waking him from his pleasant dreams. Now where has he gone?—oh, to bully that plotting old woman. Well, I’ve done right, I think; and now I’ll have my stroll.”
Frank Pratt started off to do what he called “a bit of melancholy Jaques,” in the pleasant woodland lanes; and was not long in finding an agreeable perch, where he seated himself, lit his big pipe, and began communing with himself till the pipe was smoked out; and then he sat on and thought without it, till a coming light footstep took his attention.
“Now I make a solemn affidavit,” he said, “that I did not come here to play the spy upon anybody’s actions. If they choose to come and act under my very nose, why, I must see the play. Who’s this?”
“This” proved to be little Polly, who walked quickly by him, glancing suspiciously round as she continued her walk.
“Scene the first!” said Pratt; “enter village maiden with flowers. To her village lover,” he continued as a heavy step was heard. “No, by Jove! it’s Dick.”
He was right, for Trevor came along at a swinging pace, and apparently in a few moments he would overtake the girl.
“If I didn’t believe Dick Trevor to be as open as the day, how suspicious that would look!” thought Pratt.
Trevor passed on without seeing him, and then there was a pause. The sun’s rays darted through the overhanging boughs; birds flitted and sang their little love songs overhead; and in a half-dreamy way Pratt sat thinking upon his perch till voices and coming footsteps once more aroused him.
“It’s them!” he said to himself. “I’ll go.”
He made as if to descend, but it struck him that he should be seen if he moved, and he sat still watching—to see at the end of a few moments Tiny Rea coming along the footpath, evidently looking agitated as she walked on in advance.
“She’s never seen Dick and her together!” Pratt said, mentally; and he felt as if he could have run and spoken to the girl; but that which next met his eyes made him utter a low, deep sigh, and he looked as if made of the mossy stone upon which he sat, as Fin Rea followed her sister, hanging on Mr Mervyns arm, and gazing eagerly in his face, while he evidently told her something which was of interest.
They passed slowly by, as if in no hurry to overtake Tiny; and Pratt watched them till quite out of sight, when he got down in a heavy, stunned fashion, to go slowly farther and farther into the wood, where he threw himself down amongst the ferns, and buried his face in his hands, as he groaned—
“More than old enough to be her father!”
Misunderstanding.Meanwhile Trevor had gone along the lane, evidently meaning to make a call at Tolcarne. He was walking with his head bent down, thinking very deeply over what Pratt had said, when he stopped short with a start; for there, just in front, and gazing at him in a startled way, was little Polly.He nodded to her and passed on; but ere he had gone a dozen yards, he turned sharp round and retraced his steps, calling to the girl to stop.“I’ll get to the bottom of it at once,” he said. “Here, Polly.”The little girl turned, and stood trembling before him, her face like fire, but her eyes full of tears.“Did you call me, sir?” she faltered.“Yes, my little maid, I want a few words with you.”“Oh, sir, please—pray don’t speak to me!” faltered the girl, bursting into tears.“Why, you silly child, what are you afraid of?” cried Trevor, catching her by the wrist. “Look here, tell me this, and don’t be afraid.”“No—no, sir,” faltered the girl.“Tell me now, honestly—there, there, stop that crying, for goodness’ sake! Any one would think I was an ogre. I hate to see a woman crying.”“Please, sir, I am trying,” sobbed the girl.“Now, then, I want to know this—you have often met me here—do you come to meet Humphrey?”“No, sir.”“Then why the deuce—there—there, I don’t mean that—tell me why you do come?”“Aunt sends me to walk here, sir; but please don’t say I told you, or she will be so angry.”“Then you don’t want to come and walk here?”“Oh no, sir! I would much rather not,” exclaimed the girl, eagerly.“Your aunt sends you, then?” said Trevor, looking at her searchingly, while she gazed up in his eyes like a dove before a hawk.“Ye-yes, sir!”“Do you know why?”The girl’s face grew fiery red now, even to the roots of her hair, and as she looked appealingly at him, he flung her hand angrily from him.“There, go back,” he exclaimed. “I’m not cross with you, but—there, go home.”The girl sprang away, evidently frightened to death, and weeping bitterly, to pass these people—she could not tell whom—as she held down her head; but Trevor saw, and he knew that they saw him, and must have witnessed part of the interview; for the party consisted of Tiny Rea, her sister, and Mr Mervyn.“Was ever anything so provoking?” muttered Trevor, as they bowed and passed, taking a turning that led in another direction. “Oh! this is unbearable.”For a moment he stood irresolute, hesitating as to whether he should hurry after them; but he was, to use his own words, too much taken aback, and ended by following a narrow pathway into the woods, down which he had not gone half a dozen yards before he became aware that there had been another spectator to his interview with Polly, and that no less a person than Humphrey.“What the devil are you doing there, sir?” roared Trevor, who was half beside himself with a rage which grew hotter as the bluff young Cornishman stood leaning on his gun, and said, sturdily—“Watching you, sir.”“Watching me?”“Yes, sir. I did not mean to, but I was obliged when I saw what I did.”“Then you saw me talking to that girl?”“Yes, sir, I did; and you had no right to do so.”“How dare you speak to me like that, sir?” roared Trevor; and thoroughly roused now, he caught the young keeper by the throat, and for a few moments the ferns were trampled under foot as they wrestled together, till the veins stood up in knots in Humphrey’s white forehead, as his hat fell off, and, grinding his teeth together, he put out his strength, and, with all the skill of a Cornish wrestler, threw Trevor heavily on his back.“You would have it,” said the keeper, hoarsely. “You made me forget my place; so don’t blame me for it. Have I hurt you, sir?”The rage had departed as quickly as it came, and the young man went down on one knee by Trevor, who was half-stunned, but recovered himself quickly, and got up.“No. I’m not much hurt,” he said, hoarsely.“You made me do it, sir,” said Humphrey, pitifully. “You shouldn’t have laid hands on me, sir—it made me mad.”“Made you mad!” said Trevor, angrily. “This is a pretty way to serve your master.”“You’re no master of mine, sir, from now,” cried Humphrey. “I can’t stand to serve you no more. I’d have stuck to you, sir, through thick and thin, if you’d been a gentleman to me, but—”“Do you dare to say I’ve not been a gentleman to you, you scoundrel?” cried Trevor, menacingly, as he clenched his fists.“Now, don’t ’ee, sir,” cried Humphrey, appealingly. “I don’t want to hurt you, and if you drive me to it I shall do you a mischief.”“You thick-headed, jealous dolt!” cried Trevor, restraining himself with difficulty. “How can you be such an ass?”“I don’t blame you, sir,” cried Humphrey, “not so much as that silly old woman who has set it all going.”“Then it is all true?” cried Trevor, angrily. “Humphrey,” he said, “you’re as great a fool as that mother of yours; and—there, I’ll speak out, though you don’t deserve it: as to little Polly, you great dolt, I never said a tender word to her in my life.”“Why, I saw you with her hand in yours, not ten minutes ago,” cried Humphrey, indignantly.“I’ve been calling you fool and dolt, Humphrey,” said Trevor, cooling down, “when I’ve been both to let my passion get the better of me, as it has. There’s a wretched mistake over this altogether; and more mischief done,” he continued, bitterly, “than you can imagine. You think, then, that Mrs Lloyd has that idea in her head?”“Think, sir!” cried the keeper, hotly, “I know it. Hasn’t she forbidden me to speak to the poor girl? Hasn’t she half-broken her heart?”“Humphrey,” said Trevor, “you had good reason for feeling angry, but not with me.”Humphrey looked at him searchingly.“You doubt me?” said Trevor.“Will you say it again, sir?” cried the young man, pitifully—“will you swear it?”“I give you my word of honour as a gentleman, Humphrey, that I have never given the girl a thought; and that this afternoon, when I spoke to her, it was to ask her if she came there to meet you; and she owned her aunt had sent her.”“Master Dick—Master Dick!” cried the young man in a choking voice, “will you forgive me, sir? If I had known that, sir, I’d sooner have cut my right hand off than have done what I did.”“It was all a mistake, Humphrey. There—that will do.”“But I said, sir, you were no master of mine—Master Dick—Mr Trevor, sir. We were boys together here—at the old place—don’t send me away!”“There, go now; that will do. Yes, it’s all right, Humphrey. I’m not angry. Send you away? No, certainly not; only go now, and don’t make a scene,” said Trevor, incoherently, his eyes the while turned in another direction; for he had heard footsteps, and at the turn of the lane he could see through the trees that Mr Mervyn was coming, with his two companions.Trevor hurried off through the wood, so as to gain the path a hundred yards in advance, and then he sauntered along so as to meet them.“If I can get a few words with her I can explain,” he said; and then they were close at hand.“Ah, Mr Trevor!” cried Mervyn, gaily, for he seemed elated, and he held out his hand.Before Trevor could take it, Fin had looked straight before her and marched on, her little lips pinched together, and her arm tight in that of her sister; while Tiny met Trevor’s gaze in one short, sad look—piteous, reproachful, and heartbroken—before she hurried away.
Meanwhile Trevor had gone along the lane, evidently meaning to make a call at Tolcarne. He was walking with his head bent down, thinking very deeply over what Pratt had said, when he stopped short with a start; for there, just in front, and gazing at him in a startled way, was little Polly.
He nodded to her and passed on; but ere he had gone a dozen yards, he turned sharp round and retraced his steps, calling to the girl to stop.
“I’ll get to the bottom of it at once,” he said. “Here, Polly.”
The little girl turned, and stood trembling before him, her face like fire, but her eyes full of tears.
“Did you call me, sir?” she faltered.
“Yes, my little maid, I want a few words with you.”
“Oh, sir, please—pray don’t speak to me!” faltered the girl, bursting into tears.
“Why, you silly child, what are you afraid of?” cried Trevor, catching her by the wrist. “Look here, tell me this, and don’t be afraid.”
“No—no, sir,” faltered the girl.
“Tell me now, honestly—there, there, stop that crying, for goodness’ sake! Any one would think I was an ogre. I hate to see a woman crying.”
“Please, sir, I am trying,” sobbed the girl.
“Now, then, I want to know this—you have often met me here—do you come to meet Humphrey?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why the deuce—there—there, I don’t mean that—tell me why you do come?”
“Aunt sends me to walk here, sir; but please don’t say I told you, or she will be so angry.”
“Then you don’t want to come and walk here?”
“Oh no, sir! I would much rather not,” exclaimed the girl, eagerly.
“Your aunt sends you, then?” said Trevor, looking at her searchingly, while she gazed up in his eyes like a dove before a hawk.
“Ye-yes, sir!”
“Do you know why?”
The girl’s face grew fiery red now, even to the roots of her hair, and as she looked appealingly at him, he flung her hand angrily from him.
“There, go back,” he exclaimed. “I’m not cross with you, but—there, go home.”
The girl sprang away, evidently frightened to death, and weeping bitterly, to pass these people—she could not tell whom—as she held down her head; but Trevor saw, and he knew that they saw him, and must have witnessed part of the interview; for the party consisted of Tiny Rea, her sister, and Mr Mervyn.
“Was ever anything so provoking?” muttered Trevor, as they bowed and passed, taking a turning that led in another direction. “Oh! this is unbearable.”
For a moment he stood irresolute, hesitating as to whether he should hurry after them; but he was, to use his own words, too much taken aback, and ended by following a narrow pathway into the woods, down which he had not gone half a dozen yards before he became aware that there had been another spectator to his interview with Polly, and that no less a person than Humphrey.
“What the devil are you doing there, sir?” roared Trevor, who was half beside himself with a rage which grew hotter as the bluff young Cornishman stood leaning on his gun, and said, sturdily—
“Watching you, sir.”
“Watching me?”
“Yes, sir. I did not mean to, but I was obliged when I saw what I did.”
“Then you saw me talking to that girl?”
“Yes, sir, I did; and you had no right to do so.”
“How dare you speak to me like that, sir?” roared Trevor; and thoroughly roused now, he caught the young keeper by the throat, and for a few moments the ferns were trampled under foot as they wrestled together, till the veins stood up in knots in Humphrey’s white forehead, as his hat fell off, and, grinding his teeth together, he put out his strength, and, with all the skill of a Cornish wrestler, threw Trevor heavily on his back.
“You would have it,” said the keeper, hoarsely. “You made me forget my place; so don’t blame me for it. Have I hurt you, sir?”
The rage had departed as quickly as it came, and the young man went down on one knee by Trevor, who was half-stunned, but recovered himself quickly, and got up.
“No. I’m not much hurt,” he said, hoarsely.
“You made me do it, sir,” said Humphrey, pitifully. “You shouldn’t have laid hands on me, sir—it made me mad.”
“Made you mad!” said Trevor, angrily. “This is a pretty way to serve your master.”
“You’re no master of mine, sir, from now,” cried Humphrey. “I can’t stand to serve you no more. I’d have stuck to you, sir, through thick and thin, if you’d been a gentleman to me, but—”
“Do you dare to say I’ve not been a gentleman to you, you scoundrel?” cried Trevor, menacingly, as he clenched his fists.
“Now, don’t ’ee, sir,” cried Humphrey, appealingly. “I don’t want to hurt you, and if you drive me to it I shall do you a mischief.”
“You thick-headed, jealous dolt!” cried Trevor, restraining himself with difficulty. “How can you be such an ass?”
“I don’t blame you, sir,” cried Humphrey, “not so much as that silly old woman who has set it all going.”
“Then it is all true?” cried Trevor, angrily. “Humphrey,” he said, “you’re as great a fool as that mother of yours; and—there, I’ll speak out, though you don’t deserve it: as to little Polly, you great dolt, I never said a tender word to her in my life.”
“Why, I saw you with her hand in yours, not ten minutes ago,” cried Humphrey, indignantly.
“I’ve been calling you fool and dolt, Humphrey,” said Trevor, cooling down, “when I’ve been both to let my passion get the better of me, as it has. There’s a wretched mistake over this altogether; and more mischief done,” he continued, bitterly, “than you can imagine. You think, then, that Mrs Lloyd has that idea in her head?”
“Think, sir!” cried the keeper, hotly, “I know it. Hasn’t she forbidden me to speak to the poor girl? Hasn’t she half-broken her heart?”
“Humphrey,” said Trevor, “you had good reason for feeling angry, but not with me.”
Humphrey looked at him searchingly.
“You doubt me?” said Trevor.
“Will you say it again, sir?” cried the young man, pitifully—“will you swear it?”
“I give you my word of honour as a gentleman, Humphrey, that I have never given the girl a thought; and that this afternoon, when I spoke to her, it was to ask her if she came there to meet you; and she owned her aunt had sent her.”
“Master Dick—Master Dick!” cried the young man in a choking voice, “will you forgive me, sir? If I had known that, sir, I’d sooner have cut my right hand off than have done what I did.”
“It was all a mistake, Humphrey. There—that will do.”
“But I said, sir, you were no master of mine—Master Dick—Mr Trevor, sir. We were boys together here—at the old place—don’t send me away!”
“There, go now; that will do. Yes, it’s all right, Humphrey. I’m not angry. Send you away? No, certainly not; only go now, and don’t make a scene,” said Trevor, incoherently, his eyes the while turned in another direction; for he had heard footsteps, and at the turn of the lane he could see through the trees that Mr Mervyn was coming, with his two companions.
Trevor hurried off through the wood, so as to gain the path a hundred yards in advance, and then he sauntered along so as to meet them.
“If I can get a few words with her I can explain,” he said; and then they were close at hand.
“Ah, Mr Trevor!” cried Mervyn, gaily, for he seemed elated, and he held out his hand.
Before Trevor could take it, Fin had looked straight before her and marched on, her little lips pinched together, and her arm tight in that of her sister; while Tiny met Trevor’s gaze in one short, sad look—piteous, reproachful, and heartbroken—before she hurried away.
Invitations.Trevor returned home in no very enviable frame of mind. The look Tiny Rea had given him troubled him more than he could express, and he felt ready to rail at Fortune for the tricks she had played him. Old Lloyd came, smiling and deferential, into the room with some letters, which his master snatched up and threw on the table.“In which room are Captain Vanleigh and Sir Felix?”“I think they’re gone up to Tolcarne, sir,” said the butler.Worse and worse: they were evidently liked there, too, and that was the reason why they prolonged their stay without a word of leaving.“Is there anything I can get for you, sir?” said the butler.“No,” said Trevor, sharply.And he walked out of the room, to encounter Mrs Lloyd, who was ready to smile and give him a curtsey; but he passed her with such an expression of anger that the blood flushed into her face, and she stood looking after him as, with his letters crumpled in his hand, he walked out into the grounds, to think over what he should next do.“I’ll send them both away,” he thought. “That old woman’s insolence is intolerable. It’s plain enough. Pratt’s right. Where is the little humbug? Out of the way just when I want him. I’ll give that old woman such a setting down one of these days—but I have not time now.”He sat very still for a time, thinking of what he should do—Tiny’s soft eyes haunting him the while, with their sad reproachful look.He had seen very little of her, but, sailor-like, his heart had gone with a bound to her who had won it; and he was even now accusing himself of being dilatory in his love.“Yes,” he said, “I do love her, and very dearly. I’ll see her, tell her frankly all, take her into my counsel, and she will believe me. I’m sure she will, and forgive me too. Humph! Forgive me for doing nothing. But I must talk to the old gentleman—propose in due form, ask his permission to visit his daughter, and the rest of it. Heigho! what a lot of formality there is in this life! I think I may cope with her, though. She looked so gently reproachful I could wait; but no, I mustn’t do that. I’ll call this afternoon and suffer the griffin. But those two fellows, why should they go up this morning? Evident that they did not see the ladies, for they were out. No wonder Van takes to making calls, seeing how I’ve neglected him and Flick. I wish Pratt were here. Where did he go?”“Thy slave obeys,” said Pratt, who had approached unobserved upon the soft turf! “Should you have liked Van to hear what you said just now?”“No. Was I talking aloud?” said Trevor.“You were, and very fast,” was the reply.“But what’s the matter, Franky? What’s the letter?”And he pointed to an open missive in his friend’s hand.“It’s about that I’ve come to you,” said Pratt. “Read.”Trevor took the note, glanced over it, and found it was an invitation to Mr Frank Pratt to dine at Tolcarne on the following Friday. This brought Trevor’s thoughts back to the letters Lloyd had given him, and he hastily took them from his pocket, to find a similar invitation to the one Pratt had had placed in his hand.“That’s lucky,” he said, brightening.“Lucky—why?” said Pratt.“Because I want to go. But why are you looking so doleful?”“Natural aspect, Dick. I only came to tell you I should not go.”“Not go! Why?”“Because I am going back to town.”“Are you upset, Franky? Is anything wrong? I’ve been rude, I suppose, and said something that put you out this morning.”“No—oh no!”“But I’m sure that must have been it. But really, old fellow, I was much obliged. Franky, you were quite right—it is as you say; so if I said anything when I was hipped, forgive me.”“Dick, old fellow,” cried Pratt, grasping the extended hand, “don’t talk of forgiveness to me. I have been here too long; this idle life don’t suit me, and I’ve got to work.”“Work, then, and help me through my troubles. I can’t spare you.”“Dick, old fellow, I feel that I must go. Don’t ask me why.”“No, I won’t ask you why,” said Trevor, eyeing him curiously; “but, to oblige me, stay over this Friday, and go with me to the dinner.”Pratt hesitated a moment.“Well, I will,” he said; and the conversation ended.During the intervening days Trevor was too much excited to say anything to Mrs Lloyd. He called at Tolcarne twice, but the ladies were out. He tried every walk in the neighbourhood, but without avail; and at last, blaming himself bitterly for his neglect of his guests, and thinking that the opportunity he sought must come on the Friday, he determined to try and make up for the past by attending to Vanleigh and Landells.“I’ll talk to Lady Rea about it—that’s; how I’ll manage,” he said. “She’s a good, motherly soul, and will set me right, I’m sure. I know—tell her I want advice and counsel; ask her to help me counteract Mrs Lloyd’s designs.”Trevor laughed over what he considered the depth of his plans, and after dinner that night was in excellent spirits, losing thirty guineas to Vanleigh in a cheery way that made Pratt shudder for his recklessness, and bite his lips with annoyance at the cool manner in which the money was swept up.“By the way,” said Trevor, as they sat smoking, “what do you say to a sail to-morrow?—the yacht’s in trim now, and the weather delightful.”“Thanks—no,” said Vanleigh. “I don’t think we can go, eh, Landells?”“Jove!—no; drive, you know, with the old gentleman.”Trevor looked inquiringly from one to the other.“Fact is,” said Vanleigh, coolly, “Sir Hampton Rea has asked us to join him in a little picnic excursion to the north coast—drive over, you know, to-morrow. Yes, Thursday,” he said, looking at his little note-book—one which usually did duty for betting purposes—“Yes, Thursday, and Friday we all dine there, of course.”“Yes, of course,” said Trevor, in a quiet, constrained way, which made Sir Felix, who had already felt rather hot and confused, colour like a girl.“Mustn’t mind our running away from you so much, Trevor,” continued Vanleigh, with a smile, which the former felt carried a sneer, and an allusion to his own playing of the absentee. “Fact is, the old gentleman seems to be rather taken with Flick here.”“’Sure you, no,” said Sir Felix, excitedly; “it’s the other way, Trevor. Makes no end of Van, showing him over grounds, asking ’vice, you know, and that sort of thing.”“I am glad you find the place so much more agreeable than you expected,” said Trevor, gravely.“Never s’ jolly in m’ life, Trevor,” said Sir Felix, excitedly, and speaking nervously and fast. “Fine old fellow, S’ Hampton. Fitting up b’liard-room. ’L have game after come back.”“Take another cigar,” said Trevor, and his voice was very deep, as he seemed now to be exerting himself all that he could to make up for his past neglect to those whom he had invited down as his friends. “Vanleigh, you are taking nothing.”“I’m doing admirably, dear boy,” said the captain, in the most affectionate of tones; and then to himself—“What does that little cad mean by watching me as he does?”He smiled pleasantly, though, all the while, and when, to pass the time away, and conceal his trouble, Trevor once more proposed cards, the captain condescended to take “that little cad” as his partner, and between them they won fifty pounds of Trevor and Sir Felix—the latter throwing the cards petulantly down, and vowing he would play no more.“Good night, dear boy,” said Vanleigh, rising and yawning a few minutes after smilingly taking his winnings. “It’s past one, and we shall be having our respected friend, Mrs Lloyd, to send us to bed.”A sharp retort was on Trevor’s lip, but he checked it, and with a courtesy that was grave in spite of his efforts, wished him good night, saying—“There is no fear of that; Mrs Lloyd and I understand each other pretty well now.”“Ya-as, exactly,” said Vanleigh; and he went out whistling softly.“Good night, Trevor,” said Sir Felix, in turn. “’Fraid we’re doocid bad comp’ny. Too bad, I’m sure, going ’way as we do.”“Good night, Flick,” said Trevor, smiling; and then, as the door closed, he turned to find Pratt leaning against the chimneypiece, counting over his winnings. “Well, my lad!” continued Trevor, trying to be gay.“Twenty-five pounds, Dick,” said Pratt, laying the money on the table. “I shan’t take that.”“Nonsense, man,” said Trevor; “keep it till Van wins it back. But what’s the matter? Have you found another of your mare’s-nests?”“I was thinking, Dick,” said Pratt, gravely, “that you must be very sorry you asked any of us here.”Trevor’s lips parted to speak; but without a word he wrung his friend’s hand, took his candle, and hastily left the room.
Trevor returned home in no very enviable frame of mind. The look Tiny Rea had given him troubled him more than he could express, and he felt ready to rail at Fortune for the tricks she had played him. Old Lloyd came, smiling and deferential, into the room with some letters, which his master snatched up and threw on the table.
“In which room are Captain Vanleigh and Sir Felix?”
“I think they’re gone up to Tolcarne, sir,” said the butler.
Worse and worse: they were evidently liked there, too, and that was the reason why they prolonged their stay without a word of leaving.
“Is there anything I can get for you, sir?” said the butler.
“No,” said Trevor, sharply.
And he walked out of the room, to encounter Mrs Lloyd, who was ready to smile and give him a curtsey; but he passed her with such an expression of anger that the blood flushed into her face, and she stood looking after him as, with his letters crumpled in his hand, he walked out into the grounds, to think over what he should next do.
“I’ll send them both away,” he thought. “That old woman’s insolence is intolerable. It’s plain enough. Pratt’s right. Where is the little humbug? Out of the way just when I want him. I’ll give that old woman such a setting down one of these days—but I have not time now.”
He sat very still for a time, thinking of what he should do—Tiny’s soft eyes haunting him the while, with their sad reproachful look.
He had seen very little of her, but, sailor-like, his heart had gone with a bound to her who had won it; and he was even now accusing himself of being dilatory in his love.
“Yes,” he said, “I do love her, and very dearly. I’ll see her, tell her frankly all, take her into my counsel, and she will believe me. I’m sure she will, and forgive me too. Humph! Forgive me for doing nothing. But I must talk to the old gentleman—propose in due form, ask his permission to visit his daughter, and the rest of it. Heigho! what a lot of formality there is in this life! I think I may cope with her, though. She looked so gently reproachful I could wait; but no, I mustn’t do that. I’ll call this afternoon and suffer the griffin. But those two fellows, why should they go up this morning? Evident that they did not see the ladies, for they were out. No wonder Van takes to making calls, seeing how I’ve neglected him and Flick. I wish Pratt were here. Where did he go?”
“Thy slave obeys,” said Pratt, who had approached unobserved upon the soft turf! “Should you have liked Van to hear what you said just now?”
“No. Was I talking aloud?” said Trevor.
“You were, and very fast,” was the reply.
“But what’s the matter, Franky? What’s the letter?”
And he pointed to an open missive in his friend’s hand.
“It’s about that I’ve come to you,” said Pratt. “Read.”
Trevor took the note, glanced over it, and found it was an invitation to Mr Frank Pratt to dine at Tolcarne on the following Friday. This brought Trevor’s thoughts back to the letters Lloyd had given him, and he hastily took them from his pocket, to find a similar invitation to the one Pratt had had placed in his hand.
“That’s lucky,” he said, brightening.
“Lucky—why?” said Pratt.
“Because I want to go. But why are you looking so doleful?”
“Natural aspect, Dick. I only came to tell you I should not go.”
“Not go! Why?”
“Because I am going back to town.”
“Are you upset, Franky? Is anything wrong? I’ve been rude, I suppose, and said something that put you out this morning.”
“No—oh no!”
“But I’m sure that must have been it. But really, old fellow, I was much obliged. Franky, you were quite right—it is as you say; so if I said anything when I was hipped, forgive me.”
“Dick, old fellow,” cried Pratt, grasping the extended hand, “don’t talk of forgiveness to me. I have been here too long; this idle life don’t suit me, and I’ve got to work.”
“Work, then, and help me through my troubles. I can’t spare you.”
“Dick, old fellow, I feel that I must go. Don’t ask me why.”
“No, I won’t ask you why,” said Trevor, eyeing him curiously; “but, to oblige me, stay over this Friday, and go with me to the dinner.”
Pratt hesitated a moment.
“Well, I will,” he said; and the conversation ended.
During the intervening days Trevor was too much excited to say anything to Mrs Lloyd. He called at Tolcarne twice, but the ladies were out. He tried every walk in the neighbourhood, but without avail; and at last, blaming himself bitterly for his neglect of his guests, and thinking that the opportunity he sought must come on the Friday, he determined to try and make up for the past by attending to Vanleigh and Landells.
“I’ll talk to Lady Rea about it—that’s; how I’ll manage,” he said. “She’s a good, motherly soul, and will set me right, I’m sure. I know—tell her I want advice and counsel; ask her to help me counteract Mrs Lloyd’s designs.”
Trevor laughed over what he considered the depth of his plans, and after dinner that night was in excellent spirits, losing thirty guineas to Vanleigh in a cheery way that made Pratt shudder for his recklessness, and bite his lips with annoyance at the cool manner in which the money was swept up.
“By the way,” said Trevor, as they sat smoking, “what do you say to a sail to-morrow?—the yacht’s in trim now, and the weather delightful.”
“Thanks—no,” said Vanleigh. “I don’t think we can go, eh, Landells?”
“Jove!—no; drive, you know, with the old gentleman.”
Trevor looked inquiringly from one to the other.
“Fact is,” said Vanleigh, coolly, “Sir Hampton Rea has asked us to join him in a little picnic excursion to the north coast—drive over, you know, to-morrow. Yes, Thursday,” he said, looking at his little note-book—one which usually did duty for betting purposes—“Yes, Thursday, and Friday we all dine there, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” said Trevor, in a quiet, constrained way, which made Sir Felix, who had already felt rather hot and confused, colour like a girl.
“Mustn’t mind our running away from you so much, Trevor,” continued Vanleigh, with a smile, which the former felt carried a sneer, and an allusion to his own playing of the absentee. “Fact is, the old gentleman seems to be rather taken with Flick here.”
“’Sure you, no,” said Sir Felix, excitedly; “it’s the other way, Trevor. Makes no end of Van, showing him over grounds, asking ’vice, you know, and that sort of thing.”
“I am glad you find the place so much more agreeable than you expected,” said Trevor, gravely.
“Never s’ jolly in m’ life, Trevor,” said Sir Felix, excitedly, and speaking nervously and fast. “Fine old fellow, S’ Hampton. Fitting up b’liard-room. ’L have game after come back.”
“Take another cigar,” said Trevor, and his voice was very deep, as he seemed now to be exerting himself all that he could to make up for his past neglect to those whom he had invited down as his friends. “Vanleigh, you are taking nothing.”
“I’m doing admirably, dear boy,” said the captain, in the most affectionate of tones; and then to himself—“What does that little cad mean by watching me as he does?”
He smiled pleasantly, though, all the while, and when, to pass the time away, and conceal his trouble, Trevor once more proposed cards, the captain condescended to take “that little cad” as his partner, and between them they won fifty pounds of Trevor and Sir Felix—the latter throwing the cards petulantly down, and vowing he would play no more.
“Good night, dear boy,” said Vanleigh, rising and yawning a few minutes after smilingly taking his winnings. “It’s past one, and we shall be having our respected friend, Mrs Lloyd, to send us to bed.”
A sharp retort was on Trevor’s lip, but he checked it, and with a courtesy that was grave in spite of his efforts, wished him good night, saying—
“There is no fear of that; Mrs Lloyd and I understand each other pretty well now.”
“Ya-as, exactly,” said Vanleigh; and he went out whistling softly.
“Good night, Trevor,” said Sir Felix, in turn. “’Fraid we’re doocid bad comp’ny. Too bad, I’m sure, going ’way as we do.”
“Good night, Flick,” said Trevor, smiling; and then, as the door closed, he turned to find Pratt leaning against the chimneypiece, counting over his winnings. “Well, my lad!” continued Trevor, trying to be gay.
“Twenty-five pounds, Dick,” said Pratt, laying the money on the table. “I shan’t take that.”
“Nonsense, man,” said Trevor; “keep it till Van wins it back. But what’s the matter? Have you found another of your mare’s-nests?”
“I was thinking, Dick,” said Pratt, gravely, “that you must be very sorry you asked any of us here.”
Trevor’s lips parted to speak; but without a word he wrung his friend’s hand, took his candle, and hastily left the room.