New Lodgings.Richard was pretty decided in his ways. Hotel living would not suit him now; and soon after breakfast he took his little valise, earned a look of contempt from the hotel porter by saying that he did not require a cab, and set off to walk from Paddington to Frank’s chambers in the Temple; where he arrived tired and hot, to climb the dreary-looking stone stairs, and read on the door the legend written upon a wafered-up paper, “Back in five minutes.”With all the patience of a man accustomed to watch, Richard up-ended his portmanteau, and sat and waited hour after hour. Then he went out, and obtained some lunch, returning to find the paper untouched.Sitting down this time with a newspaper to while away the time, he tried to read, but not a word fixed itself upon his mind; and he sat once more thinking, till at last, weary and low-spirited, he walked out into the Strand, the portmanteau feeling very heavy, but his determination strong as ever.“Keb, sir—keb, sir,” said a voice at his elbow; for he was passing the stand in Saint Clement’s Churchyard.“No, my man—no.”“Better take—why, I’m blest!”The remark was so emphatic that Richard looked the speaker in the face.“Don’t you remember me, sir—axdent, sir—op’site your club, sir—me as knocked the lady down, sir?”“Oh yes,” said Richard, “I remember you now. Not hurt, was she?”“On’y shook, sir. But jump in, sir. Let me drive yer, sir. Here, I’ll take the portmanter.”“No, no,” said Richard, “I don’t want to ride, I—there, confound it, man, what are you about?”“No, ’fence, sir—I on’y wanted to drive a gent as was so kind as you was. Odd, aint it, sir? That there lady lives along o’ me, at my house, now—lodges, you know—’partments to let, furnished.”“Apartments!” cried Richard, eagerly; “do you know of any apartments?”“Plenty out Jermyn Street way, sir.”“No, no; I mean cheap lodgings.”“What, for a gent like you, sir?” said Sam Jenkles.“No, no—I’m no gentleman,” said Richard, bitterly; “only a poor man. I want cheap rooms.”“Really, sir?” said Sam, rubbing his nose viciously.“Yes, really, my man. Can you tell me of any?”“You jump in, sir, and I’ll run you up home in no time.”“But I—”“My missus knows everybody ’bout us as has rooms to let—quiet lodgings, you know, sir; six bob a week style—cheap.”“No, no; give me your address, and I’ll walk.”“No you don’t, sir, along o’ that portmanter. Now, I do wonder at a gent like you being so obstinit.”Richard still hesitated; but it was an opportunity not to be lost, and, before he had time to thoroughly make up his mind, Sam had hoisted the portmanteau on the roof, afterwards holding open the flap of the cab.“It’s all right, sir; jump in, sir. Ratty wants a run, and you can’t carry that there portmanter.”“A bad beginning,” muttered Richard.Then he stepped into the cab, and the apron was banged to, Sam hopped on to his perch, and away they rattled along the Strand into Fleet Street, and up Chancery Lane.“He’s a-going it to-day, sir, aint he?” said a voice; and Richard turned sharply round, to see Sam Jenkles’s happy-looking face grinning through the trap. “He’s as fresh as a daisy.”The little trapdoor was rattled down again, for other vehicles were coming, and Sam’s hands were needed at the reins, the more especially that Ratty began to display the strangeness of his disposition by laying down his ears, whisking his tail, and trying hard to turn the cab round and round, clay-mill fashion. But this was got over, the rest of the journey performed in peace, and Sam drew up shortly at the door of his little home, the two front windows of which had been turned into gardens, as far as the sills were concerned, with miniature green palings, gate and all, the whole sheltering a fine flourishing display of geraniums and fuchsias, reflected in window-panes as clean as hands could make them.“Why, this would do capitally,” said Richard, taken by the aspect of the place.“Dessay it would, sir,” said Sam, grinning; “but our rooms is let. But come in, sir, and see the missus—she’ll pick you out somewheres nice and clean. But, hallo! what’s up?”Richard had seen that which brought the exclamation from Sam’s lips, and stepped forward to help.For, about a dozen yards down the quiet little street, Mrs Lane was supporting Netta, the pair returning evidently from a walk, and the latter being overcome.“Thank you—a little faint—went too far,” said Mrs Lane, as Richard ran up to where she was sustaining her daughter. “Netta, darling, only a few yards farther. Try, dear.”“She has fainted,” said Richard. “Here, let me carry her.”Before Mrs Lane could speak, Richard had taken the light figure in his arms, and, guided by the frightened mother, bore it to Sam’s door.“That’s right, sir, in there,” said Sam, eagerly—“fust door on the left’s the parly. Poor gal!”This last was in an undertone, as the young man easily bore his burden in—finding, though, that a pair of large dark eyes had unclosed, and were gazing timidly in his, while a deep blush overspread cheek and forehead.“There,” said Richard, laying her lightly down upon the couch, and helping to arrange the pillows with all a woman’s tenderness. “You look weak and ill, my dear, and—and—I beg pardon,” he said, hesitating, as he met Mrs Lane’s gaze, “I think we have met before.”Mrs Lane turned white, and shrank away.“Of course,” said Richard, smiling. “My friend here, who drove me up, told me you lodged with him.”Mrs Lane did not speak, only bowed her head over Netta.“If I can do anything, pray ask me,” said Richard, backing to the door, and nearly overturning bustling Mrs Jenkles, who came hurrying in with—“Oh, my dear, you’ve been overdoing it—I beg your pardon, sir.”“My fault, I think,” said Richard.And with another glance at the great dark eyes following him, he backed into the passage—this time upon Sam, who had carried in the portmanteau.“If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” said Sam—“our back room here’s on’y a kitchen; but we lets our parlour, as you see. There,” he said, leading the way, “that’s my cheer, sir; and the wife ’ll come and talk to you dreckly, I dessay. I must go back on to the rank.”“One moment,” said Richard.“There, sir, I don’t want paying for a bit of a job like this,” said Sam. “Oh, well, if you will pay, I shall put that down to the lodgers’ nex’ ride.”“They are your lodgers, then?”“Yes, sir; and it all come out of that old Ratty when I knocked Mrs Lane over.”“But the young lady?”“Thanky, sir, for calling her so; that’s just what she is.”“Is she an invalid?”“Feard so, sir,” said Sam, in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t like her looks at all. But I can’t stop, sir; the missus ’ll be here, and I hope she’ll know of a place as suits.”The next moment, Sam Jenkles was gone, and Richard sat looking round at the bright candlesticks and saucepan-lids, hardly able to realise the fact that but a day or two before he was the master of Penreife, for what had taken place seemed to be back years ago.His musings were interrupted by the entry of Mrs Jenkles, who stood curtseying and smoothing her apron.“Is she better?” said Richard, anxiously.“Yes, sir, she’s quite well again now,” said Mrs Jenkles. “She’s weak, sir—rather delicate health; and Sam—that is my husband—said you wanted apartments, sir.”“And that you would be able to find me some,” said Richard, smiling.“I don’t think we’ve anything good enough about here, sir, for a gentleman like you.”“For a poor man like me, you mean. Now look here, Mrs—Mrs—”“Jenkles, sir.”“Mrs Jenkles. I can afford to pay six or seven shillings a-week, that is all.”“Then there’s Mrs Fiddison, sir, nearly opposite. Very clean and respectable. Bedroom and sitting-room, where a young gentleman left only about a week ago. He played a long brass thing, sir, at one of the theatres, and used to practise it at home; and that’s why he left.”“That will do, I daresay,” exclaimed Richard, who, in the first blush of his determination, was stern as an ascetic, and would have said Yes to the lodgings if Mrs Jenkles had proposed a couple of neatly furnished cellars.The result was that the cabman’s wife went over with him to Mrs Fiddison’s, and introduced him to that lady, who was dressed in sombre black, held a widow’s cap in her hand, and was evidently determined to keep up the supply, for there were at least six arranged about the little parlour into which she led the way.
Richard was pretty decided in his ways. Hotel living would not suit him now; and soon after breakfast he took his little valise, earned a look of contempt from the hotel porter by saying that he did not require a cab, and set off to walk from Paddington to Frank’s chambers in the Temple; where he arrived tired and hot, to climb the dreary-looking stone stairs, and read on the door the legend written upon a wafered-up paper, “Back in five minutes.”
With all the patience of a man accustomed to watch, Richard up-ended his portmanteau, and sat and waited hour after hour. Then he went out, and obtained some lunch, returning to find the paper untouched.
Sitting down this time with a newspaper to while away the time, he tried to read, but not a word fixed itself upon his mind; and he sat once more thinking, till at last, weary and low-spirited, he walked out into the Strand, the portmanteau feeling very heavy, but his determination strong as ever.
“Keb, sir—keb, sir,” said a voice at his elbow; for he was passing the stand in Saint Clement’s Churchyard.
“No, my man—no.”
“Better take—why, I’m blest!”
The remark was so emphatic that Richard looked the speaker in the face.
“Don’t you remember me, sir—axdent, sir—op’site your club, sir—me as knocked the lady down, sir?”
“Oh yes,” said Richard, “I remember you now. Not hurt, was she?”
“On’y shook, sir. But jump in, sir. Let me drive yer, sir. Here, I’ll take the portmanter.”
“No, no,” said Richard, “I don’t want to ride, I—there, confound it, man, what are you about?”
“No, ’fence, sir—I on’y wanted to drive a gent as was so kind as you was. Odd, aint it, sir? That there lady lives along o’ me, at my house, now—lodges, you know—’partments to let, furnished.”
“Apartments!” cried Richard, eagerly; “do you know of any apartments?”
“Plenty out Jermyn Street way, sir.”
“No, no; I mean cheap lodgings.”
“What, for a gent like you, sir?” said Sam Jenkles.
“No, no—I’m no gentleman,” said Richard, bitterly; “only a poor man. I want cheap rooms.”
“Really, sir?” said Sam, rubbing his nose viciously.
“Yes, really, my man. Can you tell me of any?”
“You jump in, sir, and I’ll run you up home in no time.”
“But I—”
“My missus knows everybody ’bout us as has rooms to let—quiet lodgings, you know, sir; six bob a week style—cheap.”
“No, no; give me your address, and I’ll walk.”
“No you don’t, sir, along o’ that portmanter. Now, I do wonder at a gent like you being so obstinit.”
Richard still hesitated; but it was an opportunity not to be lost, and, before he had time to thoroughly make up his mind, Sam had hoisted the portmanteau on the roof, afterwards holding open the flap of the cab.
“It’s all right, sir; jump in, sir. Ratty wants a run, and you can’t carry that there portmanter.”
“A bad beginning,” muttered Richard.
Then he stepped into the cab, and the apron was banged to, Sam hopped on to his perch, and away they rattled along the Strand into Fleet Street, and up Chancery Lane.
“He’s a-going it to-day, sir, aint he?” said a voice; and Richard turned sharply round, to see Sam Jenkles’s happy-looking face grinning through the trap. “He’s as fresh as a daisy.”
The little trapdoor was rattled down again, for other vehicles were coming, and Sam’s hands were needed at the reins, the more especially that Ratty began to display the strangeness of his disposition by laying down his ears, whisking his tail, and trying hard to turn the cab round and round, clay-mill fashion. But this was got over, the rest of the journey performed in peace, and Sam drew up shortly at the door of his little home, the two front windows of which had been turned into gardens, as far as the sills were concerned, with miniature green palings, gate and all, the whole sheltering a fine flourishing display of geraniums and fuchsias, reflected in window-panes as clean as hands could make them.
“Why, this would do capitally,” said Richard, taken by the aspect of the place.
“Dessay it would, sir,” said Sam, grinning; “but our rooms is let. But come in, sir, and see the missus—she’ll pick you out somewheres nice and clean. But, hallo! what’s up?”
Richard had seen that which brought the exclamation from Sam’s lips, and stepped forward to help.
For, about a dozen yards down the quiet little street, Mrs Lane was supporting Netta, the pair returning evidently from a walk, and the latter being overcome.
“Thank you—a little faint—went too far,” said Mrs Lane, as Richard ran up to where she was sustaining her daughter. “Netta, darling, only a few yards farther. Try, dear.”
“She has fainted,” said Richard. “Here, let me carry her.”
Before Mrs Lane could speak, Richard had taken the light figure in his arms, and, guided by the frightened mother, bore it to Sam’s door.
“That’s right, sir, in there,” said Sam, eagerly—“fust door on the left’s the parly. Poor gal!”
This last was in an undertone, as the young man easily bore his burden in—finding, though, that a pair of large dark eyes had unclosed, and were gazing timidly in his, while a deep blush overspread cheek and forehead.
“There,” said Richard, laying her lightly down upon the couch, and helping to arrange the pillows with all a woman’s tenderness. “You look weak and ill, my dear, and—and—I beg pardon,” he said, hesitating, as he met Mrs Lane’s gaze, “I think we have met before.”
Mrs Lane turned white, and shrank away.
“Of course,” said Richard, smiling. “My friend here, who drove me up, told me you lodged with him.”
Mrs Lane did not speak, only bowed her head over Netta.
“If I can do anything, pray ask me,” said Richard, backing to the door, and nearly overturning bustling Mrs Jenkles, who came hurrying in with—
“Oh, my dear, you’ve been overdoing it—I beg your pardon, sir.”
“My fault, I think,” said Richard.
And with another glance at the great dark eyes following him, he backed into the passage—this time upon Sam, who had carried in the portmanteau.
“If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” said Sam—“our back room here’s on’y a kitchen; but we lets our parlour, as you see. There,” he said, leading the way, “that’s my cheer, sir; and the wife ’ll come and talk to you dreckly, I dessay. I must go back on to the rank.”
“One moment,” said Richard.
“There, sir, I don’t want paying for a bit of a job like this,” said Sam. “Oh, well, if you will pay, I shall put that down to the lodgers’ nex’ ride.”
“They are your lodgers, then?”
“Yes, sir; and it all come out of that old Ratty when I knocked Mrs Lane over.”
“But the young lady?”
“Thanky, sir, for calling her so; that’s just what she is.”
“Is she an invalid?”
“Feard so, sir,” said Sam, in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t like her looks at all. But I can’t stop, sir; the missus ’ll be here, and I hope she’ll know of a place as suits.”
The next moment, Sam Jenkles was gone, and Richard sat looking round at the bright candlesticks and saucepan-lids, hardly able to realise the fact that but a day or two before he was the master of Penreife, for what had taken place seemed to be back years ago.
His musings were interrupted by the entry of Mrs Jenkles, who stood curtseying and smoothing her apron.
“Is she better?” said Richard, anxiously.
“Yes, sir, she’s quite well again now,” said Mrs Jenkles. “She’s weak, sir—rather delicate health; and Sam—that is my husband—said you wanted apartments, sir.”
“And that you would be able to find me some,” said Richard, smiling.
“I don’t think we’ve anything good enough about here, sir, for a gentleman like you.”
“For a poor man like me, you mean. Now look here, Mrs—Mrs—”
“Jenkles, sir.”
“Mrs Jenkles. I can afford to pay six or seven shillings a-week, that is all.”
“Then there’s Mrs Fiddison, sir, nearly opposite. Very clean and respectable. Bedroom and sitting-room, where a young gentleman left only about a week ago. He played a long brass thing, sir, at one of the theatres, and used to practise it at home; and that’s why he left.”
“That will do, I daresay,” exclaimed Richard, who, in the first blush of his determination, was stern as an ascetic, and would have said Yes to the lodgings if Mrs Jenkles had proposed a couple of neatly furnished cellars.
The result was that the cabman’s wife went over with him to Mrs Fiddison’s, and introduced him to that lady, who was dressed in sombre black, held a widow’s cap in her hand, and was evidently determined to keep up the supply, for there were at least six arranged about the little parlour into which she led the way.
Not Musical.Mrs Fiddison was a tall, thin lady, who was supposed to be a widow from her display of caps; but the fact was that she had no right to the matronly prefix, she being a blighted flower—a faded rosebud, on whom the sun of love had never shone; and the consequence was that her head drooped upon its stalk, hung over weakly on one shoulder, while a dewdrop-like tear stood in one eye; and, like carbonic acid gas concealed in soda-water, she always had an indefinite number of sighs waiting to escape from her lips.She smiled sadly at Richard, and waved him to a chair, to have taken which would have caused the immolation of a widow’s cap—which, however, Mrs Fiddison rescued, and perched awry upon her head, to be out of the way.“This gentleman wants apartments, Mrs F.,” said Mrs Jenkles.“Mine are to let,” said Mrs Fiddison, sadly; “but does the gentleman play anything brass?”Richard stared, and then remembered about the last lodger.“Oh, dear, no,” he said, smiling.“Because I don’t think I could bear it again, let alone the neighbours’ lodgers,” said Mrs Fiddison. “I might put up with strings, or wood, but I could not manage brass.”“I do not play any instrument,” said Richard, looking at the lady in a troubled way, as her head drooped over the cap she was making, and she gazed at it like a weeping widow on a funeral card.“So many orchestral gentlemen live about here,” said Mrs Fiddison. “You can hear the double bass quite plain at Cheadley’s, next door but one; but Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice.”“Indeed,” said Richard, glancing at Mrs Jenkles, who stood smoothing her apron.“Yes,” said Mrs Fiddison, holding out the white crape starched grief before him, so that he might see the effect of her handiwork. “The last new pattern, sir.”Richard stared at Mrs Jenkles, and that lady came to his assistance.“Mrs F. makes weeds for a wholesale house, sir.”“They ought to be called flowers of grief, Mrs Jenkles,” said the lady. “A nice quiet, genteel business, sir; and if you don’t object to the smell of the crape, you’d not know there was anything going on in the house.”“Oh, I’m sure I shouldn’t mind,” said Richard.“Prr-oooomp!” went something which sounded like young thunder coming up in the cellar.“That’s the double bass at Cheadley’s, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison; “and, as I was a-saying, you’ll find the rooms very quiet, for Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice. Mrs Waggly said she was sure it was that made her have the bile so bad; and I shouldn’t wonder if it was.”“And the terms,” said Richard.“You are sure you don’t play anything brass, sir?” said Mrs Fiddison, looking at him with her head all on one side, as if to say, “Now, don’t deceive a weak woman!”“Indeed, I am not musical at all,” said Richard, smiling.“Because it isn’t pleasant, sir, for a landlady who wishes to make things comfortable,” continued Mrs Fiddison, smiling at the cap—which she had now put on her left fist—as if it were a face.“It can’t be, of course.” said Richard, getting impatient.“Mr Took, my last lodger, sir, played the rumboon; and sometimes of a morning, when he was doing his octaves, it used to quite make my brain buzz.”“I think the rooms would suit me,” said Richard, glancing round.“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, wiping one eye with a scrap of crape. “You can see the marks all over the wall now.”“Marks—wall?” said Richard.“Ah, you don’t understand the rumboon, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, pointing with a pair of scissors to various little dents and scratches on the wall, as she still held up the widow’s cap. “Those places are what he used to make when he shot the thing out to get his low notes—doing his octaves, sir.”“Indeed,” said Richard, recalling the action of the trombone player in the marine band on board his last ship.“Perhaps you’d like to see the bedroom, sir?”“Would you mind seeing that for me, Mrs Jenkles?” said Richard.“It’s plain, sir, but everything at Mrs Fiddison’s here is as clean as hands can make it,” said Mrs Jenkles, glancing from one to the other.“Then it will do,” said Richard. “And the terms?”“Seven shillings my last lodger paid me, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, drooping more and more, and evidently now much impressed by one of Richard’s boots. “I did hope to get seven and six for them now, as there’s a new table-cover.”Richard glanced at the new cotton check on the table.“Then I’ll pay you seven and sixpence,” he said.“The last being full of holes he made when smoking,” said Mrs Fiddison.“Then that’s settled,” said Richard. “Mrs—Mrs—”“Jenkles, sir,” said the cabman’s wife, smiling.“Mrs Jenkles, I’m much obliged to you for your trouble,” he said.“And so am I,” said Mrs Fiddison, removing a tear once more with a scrap of crape. “My dear,” she continued, fixing a band to the cap, and holding it out—“isn’t that sweet!”Mrs Jenkles nodded.“I think the gentleman wants the rooms at once,” she said, glancing at Richard.“Yes, that I do,” he replied. “I’ll fetch my portmanteau over directly.”“Oh, dear!” ejaculated Mrs Fiddison—“so soon.”And with some show of haste, she took a widow’s cap off a painted plaster Milton on the chimneypiece, another from Shakespeare, and revealed, by the removal of a third, the celebrated Highland laddie, in blue and red porcelain, taking leave of a green Highland lass, with a china sheep sticking to one of her unstockinged legs.Half an hour after, Richard was sitting by the open window, looking across the street at where a thin, white hand was busy watering the fuchsias and geraniums in the window, and from time to time he caught a glimpse of Netta’s sweet, sad face.Then he drew back, for two men came along the street. The first, black-browed and evil-eyed, he recollected as the fellow with whom he had had the encounter on the race day, and this man paused for a moment as he reached Sam Jenkles’s door, turned sharply round, pointed at it, and then went on; the second, nodding shortly as he came up, raised his hand, and knocked, standing glancing sharply up and down the street, while Richard mentally exclaimed—“What does he want here?” Then the door opened, there was a short parley with Mrs Jenkles, and the man entered, leaving Richard puzzled and wondering, as he said, half aloud—“What could these men be doing here?”
Mrs Fiddison was a tall, thin lady, who was supposed to be a widow from her display of caps; but the fact was that she had no right to the matronly prefix, she being a blighted flower—a faded rosebud, on whom the sun of love had never shone; and the consequence was that her head drooped upon its stalk, hung over weakly on one shoulder, while a dewdrop-like tear stood in one eye; and, like carbonic acid gas concealed in soda-water, she always had an indefinite number of sighs waiting to escape from her lips.
She smiled sadly at Richard, and waved him to a chair, to have taken which would have caused the immolation of a widow’s cap—which, however, Mrs Fiddison rescued, and perched awry upon her head, to be out of the way.
“This gentleman wants apartments, Mrs F.,” said Mrs Jenkles.
“Mine are to let,” said Mrs Fiddison, sadly; “but does the gentleman play anything brass?”
Richard stared, and then remembered about the last lodger.
“Oh, dear, no,” he said, smiling.
“Because I don’t think I could bear it again, let alone the neighbours’ lodgers,” said Mrs Fiddison. “I might put up with strings, or wood, but I could not manage brass.”
“I do not play any instrument,” said Richard, looking at the lady in a troubled way, as her head drooped over the cap she was making, and she gazed at it like a weeping widow on a funeral card.
“So many orchestral gentlemen live about here,” said Mrs Fiddison. “You can hear the double bass quite plain at Cheadley’s, next door but one; but Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice.”
“Indeed,” said Richard, glancing at Mrs Jenkles, who stood smoothing her apron.
“Yes,” said Mrs Fiddison, holding out the white crape starched grief before him, so that he might see the effect of her handiwork. “The last new pattern, sir.”
Richard stared at Mrs Jenkles, and that lady came to his assistance.
“Mrs F. makes weeds for a wholesale house, sir.”
“They ought to be called flowers of grief, Mrs Jenkles,” said the lady. “A nice quiet, genteel business, sir; and if you don’t object to the smell of the crape, you’d not know there was anything going on in the house.”
“Oh, I’m sure I shouldn’t mind,” said Richard.
“Prr-oooomp!” went something which sounded like young thunder coming up in the cellar.
“That’s the double bass at Cheadley’s, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison; “and, as I was a-saying, you’ll find the rooms very quiet, for Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice. Mrs Waggly said she was sure it was that made her have the bile so bad; and I shouldn’t wonder if it was.”
“And the terms,” said Richard.
“You are sure you don’t play anything brass, sir?” said Mrs Fiddison, looking at him with her head all on one side, as if to say, “Now, don’t deceive a weak woman!”
“Indeed, I am not musical at all,” said Richard, smiling.
“Because it isn’t pleasant, sir, for a landlady who wishes to make things comfortable,” continued Mrs Fiddison, smiling at the cap—which she had now put on her left fist—as if it were a face.
“It can’t be, of course.” said Richard, getting impatient.
“Mr Took, my last lodger, sir, played the rumboon; and sometimes of a morning, when he was doing his octaves, it used to quite make my brain buzz.”
“I think the rooms would suit me,” said Richard, glancing round.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, wiping one eye with a scrap of crape. “You can see the marks all over the wall now.”
“Marks—wall?” said Richard.
“Ah, you don’t understand the rumboon, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, pointing with a pair of scissors to various little dents and scratches on the wall, as she still held up the widow’s cap. “Those places are what he used to make when he shot the thing out to get his low notes—doing his octaves, sir.”
“Indeed,” said Richard, recalling the action of the trombone player in the marine band on board his last ship.
“Perhaps you’d like to see the bedroom, sir?”
“Would you mind seeing that for me, Mrs Jenkles?” said Richard.
“It’s plain, sir, but everything at Mrs Fiddison’s here is as clean as hands can make it,” said Mrs Jenkles, glancing from one to the other.
“Then it will do,” said Richard. “And the terms?”
“Seven shillings my last lodger paid me, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, drooping more and more, and evidently now much impressed by one of Richard’s boots. “I did hope to get seven and six for them now, as there’s a new table-cover.”
Richard glanced at the new cotton check on the table.
“Then I’ll pay you seven and sixpence,” he said.
“The last being full of holes he made when smoking,” said Mrs Fiddison.
“Then that’s settled,” said Richard. “Mrs—Mrs—”
“Jenkles, sir,” said the cabman’s wife, smiling.
“Mrs Jenkles, I’m much obliged to you for your trouble,” he said.
“And so am I,” said Mrs Fiddison, removing a tear once more with a scrap of crape. “My dear,” she continued, fixing a band to the cap, and holding it out—“isn’t that sweet!”
Mrs Jenkles nodded.
“I think the gentleman wants the rooms at once,” she said, glancing at Richard.
“Yes, that I do,” he replied. “I’ll fetch my portmanteau over directly.”
“Oh, dear!” ejaculated Mrs Fiddison—“so soon.”
And with some show of haste, she took a widow’s cap off a painted plaster Milton on the chimneypiece, another from Shakespeare, and revealed, by the removal of a third, the celebrated Highland laddie, in blue and red porcelain, taking leave of a green Highland lass, with a china sheep sticking to one of her unstockinged legs.
Half an hour after, Richard was sitting by the open window, looking across the street at where a thin, white hand was busy watering the fuchsias and geraniums in the window, and from time to time he caught a glimpse of Netta’s sweet, sad face.
Then he drew back, for two men came along the street. The first, black-browed and evil-eyed, he recollected as the fellow with whom he had had the encounter on the race day, and this man paused for a moment as he reached Sam Jenkles’s door, turned sharply round, pointed at it, and then went on; the second, nodding shortly as he came up, raised his hand, and knocked, standing glancing sharply up and down the street, while Richard mentally exclaimed—“What does he want here?” Then the door opened, there was a short parley with Mrs Jenkles, and the man entered, leaving Richard puzzled and wondering, as he said, half aloud—
“What could these men be doing here?”
Between Friends.A fortnight passed away.It was a difficult matter to do—to make up his mind as to the future; but after a struggle, Richard arrived at something like the course he would pursue. He must live, and he felt that he had a right to his pay as an officer; so that would suffice for his modest wants.Then, as to the old people. He wrote a quiet, calm letter to the old butler, saying that some time in the future he would come down and see them, or else ask them to join him. That he would do his duty by them, and see that they did not come to want; but at present the wound was too raw, and he felt that it would be better for all parties that they should not meet.Another letter he despatched to Mr Mervyn, asking him once more to be a friend and guide to Humphrey; and, above all, to use his influence to prevent injury befalling Stephen and Martha Lloyd.His next letter was a harder one to write, for it was to Valentina Rea. It was a struggle, but he did it; for the man was now fully roused in spirit, and he told himself that if ever he was called upon to act as a man of honour it was now. He told her, then, that he never loved her more dearly than now; that he should always remember her words in the letter he treasured up, but that he felt it would be like blighting her young life to hold her to her promise. If, in the future, he could claim her, he would; but he knew that father—soon, perhaps, mother—would be against it, for he could at present see no hope in his future career.But all the same, he signed himself hers till death; sent his dear love to “little Fin;” and then, having posted his letters, he felt better, and went to seek out Frank Pratt.“He won’t turn out a fine weather friend, of that I’m sure,” he said, as he went up, the staircase in the Temple, to be seized by both hands as soon as he entered, and have to submit to a couple of minutes’ shaking.“Why, Dick, old man, this does one good!” exclaimed Pratt. “Now, then, a steak and stout, or a chop and Bass, two pipes, and a grand debauch at night, eh?”“What debauch?” said Richard, smiling.“Front row of the pit, my boy. Absolute freedom; comfort of the stalls without having to dress. Nobody waiting to seize your ‘overcoat, sir.’ Good view of the stage; and, when the curtain’s down, time and opportunity to pity the curled darlings of society, who stand, in melancholy row, with their backs to the orchestra, fiddling their crush hats, and staring up at the audience through eyeglasses that blind.”“And meet Flick and Vanleigh.”“Who cares?” said Pratt, forcing his friend into a well-worn easy chair, and taking away hat and stick. “Isn’t that a lovely chair, Dick? I’ve worked that chair into that shape—moulded it, sir, into the form of my figure, and worn off all its awkward corners. Pipe?—there you are. ’Bacco?—there you are. Whisky?—there you are. And there’s a light. Have a dressing-gown and slippers?”“No, no—thanks,” said Dick, laughing.But his face twitched as, after filling and trying to light a pipe, he laid it hastily down, wrung Pratt’s hand, and then started up and walked to the window, to stand gazing out at the dirty walls before him.Before he had been there a moment, a friendly hand was laid upon his shoulder and Pratt got hold of his hand, standing behind him without a word, till he turned again and walked back to his seat.“Don’t mind me, Franky, I’m very sore yet.”“I know, I know,” said Pratt, feelingly. “It’s hard—cursed hard! I’d say damned hard, only as a straightforward man I object to swearing. But where’s your bag, portmanteau, luggage?”“Oh, that’s all right,” said Richard, lighting his pipe, and smoking.“What do you mean by all right? Where shall I send for them?”“Send for them?”“Send for them—yes. You’ve come to stay?”“Yes, for an hour or two.”“Dick,” cried Pratt, bringing his fist down upon the table with a bang, “if you are such a sneak as to go and stay anywhere else, I’ll cut you.”“My dear Frank, don’t be foolish, I’ve taken lodgings.”“Then give them up.”“Nonsense, man! But listen to me. You don’t blame me for giving up?”“I don’t know, Dick—I don’t know,” said Pratt. “I’ve lain in bed ruminating again and again; and one time I say it’s noble and manly, and the next time I call you a fool.”Richard laughed.“You see, old fellow, I’m a lawyer. I’ve been educating myself with cases, and the consequence is that I think cases. Here, then, I say, is a man in possession of a great estate; somebody tells him what may be a cock-and-bull tale—like a melodrama at the Vic, or a story in penny numbers—about a mysterious changeling and the rest of it, and he throws up at once.”“Yes,” said Richard.“Speaking still as a man fed upon cases I say, then, give me proofs—papers, documents, something I can tie up with red tape, make abstracts of, or set a solicitor to prepare a brief from. I’m afraid you’ve done wrong, Dick, I am indeed.”“No, you are not, Franky,” said Richard, quietly. “Now speak as a man who has not been getting up cases—speak as the lad who was always ready to share his tips at school. No, no, Franky; the more I think of it, the more I feel convinced that I have behaved—as I cannot be a gentleman—like a man of honour.”“Gentleman—cannot be a gentleman!” said Pratt, puffing out his cheeks, and threatening his friend with one finger, as if he were in the witness-box. “What do you mean, sir? Now, be careful. Do you call Vanleigh a gentleman?”“Oh yes,” said Richard, smiling.“Then I don’t,” said Pratt, sharply. “I saw the fellow yesterday, and he cut me dead.”“Indeed?”“Yes, and no wonder. He was talking to a black-looking ruffian who bothers me.”“Bothers you?”“Yes, I know I’ve seen him before, and I can’t make out where.”“Was it at the steeplechase?” said Richard, quietly.“You’ve hit it, Dick,” cried Pratt. “That’s the man. Why weren’t you called to the bar? But I say, why did you name him? You know something—you’ve seen them together.”“I have.”“Um!” said Pratt, looking hard at his friend. “Then what does it mean?”“Can’t say,” said Richard, quietly—“only that it don’t concern us.”“I don’t know that,” said Pratt; “it may, and strongly. But tell me this, how long have you been in town?”“A fortnight.”“A fortnight, and not been here!”“I have been three times,” said Richard, “and you were always out.”“How provoking! But you might have written. The fact is, Dick, I’m busy. All that work that was held back from me for so long is coming now. I was a bit lucky with my first case.”Which was a fact, for he had carried it through in triumph, and solicitors were sending in briefs.“I have been busy, too—making up my mind what to do.”“Then look here, Dick, old fellow. I’m getting a banking account—do you hear? a banking account—and if you don’t come to me whenever you want funds, we are friends no more.”“Franky,” said Richard, huskily, “I knew you were a friend, or I should not have come to your chambers for the fourth time. But what did you mean about Vanleigh’s affairs concerning us?”“Well, only that they may. You know they are in town, of course?”“Why, yes; I met Van the other day. Flick is sure to be near him.”“Yes, as long as Flicky has any money to spare—afterwards Van will be out. But I mean them.”“Whom?” said Richard, starting. “Our Tolcarne friends—Russell Square, you know,” said Pratt, reddening slightly.“No,” said Richard, hoarsely, “I did not know it.”“Yes, they have been up a week.”“How did you know it?”“Well,” said Pratt, reddening a little more, “I—that is—well, there, I walked past the house, and saw them at the window.”“You’ve watched it, then, Franky?” said Richard, quietly.“Well, yes, if you like to call it so; and I’ve seen Van and Flick go there twice. How did they know that you had—well, come to grief?”Richard shook his head.“I’ll tell you. Depend upon it, that amiable spinster aunt, who loved you like poison, sent them word, and also of their return to town.”“Possibly,” said Richard, in the same low, husky voice.“Dick, old fellow, I don’t think you’ve done quite right in giving up all,” said Pratt. “You had some one else to think of besides yourself.”“For Heaven’s sake, don’t talk to me now,” said Richard, hoarsely. “The task is getting harder than I thought; but if that fellow dares—Oh, it’s absurd!”He stood for a few moments with his fists clenched, and the thoughts of Vanleigh’s dark, handsome face, and his visit to the little Pentonville street, seemed to run in a confused way through his brain, till he forced them aside, and, with assumed composure, filled his glass, and tossed it off at a draught.He was proceeding to repeat it, when Pratt laid a hand upon his arm.“Don’t do that, old fellow,” he said, quietly. “If there’s work to be done, it’s the cool head that does it; drink’s only the spur, and the spurred beast soonest flags. Let you and me talk it over. Two heads are better than one, and that one only Van’s. Dick, old fellow, what are you going to do?”
A fortnight passed away.
It was a difficult matter to do—to make up his mind as to the future; but after a struggle, Richard arrived at something like the course he would pursue. He must live, and he felt that he had a right to his pay as an officer; so that would suffice for his modest wants.
Then, as to the old people. He wrote a quiet, calm letter to the old butler, saying that some time in the future he would come down and see them, or else ask them to join him. That he would do his duty by them, and see that they did not come to want; but at present the wound was too raw, and he felt that it would be better for all parties that they should not meet.
Another letter he despatched to Mr Mervyn, asking him once more to be a friend and guide to Humphrey; and, above all, to use his influence to prevent injury befalling Stephen and Martha Lloyd.
His next letter was a harder one to write, for it was to Valentina Rea. It was a struggle, but he did it; for the man was now fully roused in spirit, and he told himself that if ever he was called upon to act as a man of honour it was now. He told her, then, that he never loved her more dearly than now; that he should always remember her words in the letter he treasured up, but that he felt it would be like blighting her young life to hold her to her promise. If, in the future, he could claim her, he would; but he knew that father—soon, perhaps, mother—would be against it, for he could at present see no hope in his future career.
But all the same, he signed himself hers till death; sent his dear love to “little Fin;” and then, having posted his letters, he felt better, and went to seek out Frank Pratt.
“He won’t turn out a fine weather friend, of that I’m sure,” he said, as he went up, the staircase in the Temple, to be seized by both hands as soon as he entered, and have to submit to a couple of minutes’ shaking.
“Why, Dick, old man, this does one good!” exclaimed Pratt. “Now, then, a steak and stout, or a chop and Bass, two pipes, and a grand debauch at night, eh?”
“What debauch?” said Richard, smiling.
“Front row of the pit, my boy. Absolute freedom; comfort of the stalls without having to dress. Nobody waiting to seize your ‘overcoat, sir.’ Good view of the stage; and, when the curtain’s down, time and opportunity to pity the curled darlings of society, who stand, in melancholy row, with their backs to the orchestra, fiddling their crush hats, and staring up at the audience through eyeglasses that blind.”
“And meet Flick and Vanleigh.”
“Who cares?” said Pratt, forcing his friend into a well-worn easy chair, and taking away hat and stick. “Isn’t that a lovely chair, Dick? I’ve worked that chair into that shape—moulded it, sir, into the form of my figure, and worn off all its awkward corners. Pipe?—there you are. ’Bacco?—there you are. Whisky?—there you are. And there’s a light. Have a dressing-gown and slippers?”
“No, no—thanks,” said Dick, laughing.
But his face twitched as, after filling and trying to light a pipe, he laid it hastily down, wrung Pratt’s hand, and then started up and walked to the window, to stand gazing out at the dirty walls before him.
Before he had been there a moment, a friendly hand was laid upon his shoulder and Pratt got hold of his hand, standing behind him without a word, till he turned again and walked back to his seat.
“Don’t mind me, Franky, I’m very sore yet.”
“I know, I know,” said Pratt, feelingly. “It’s hard—cursed hard! I’d say damned hard, only as a straightforward man I object to swearing. But where’s your bag, portmanteau, luggage?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Richard, lighting his pipe, and smoking.
“What do you mean by all right? Where shall I send for them?”
“Send for them?”
“Send for them—yes. You’ve come to stay?”
“Yes, for an hour or two.”
“Dick,” cried Pratt, bringing his fist down upon the table with a bang, “if you are such a sneak as to go and stay anywhere else, I’ll cut you.”
“My dear Frank, don’t be foolish, I’ve taken lodgings.”
“Then give them up.”
“Nonsense, man! But listen to me. You don’t blame me for giving up?”
“I don’t know, Dick—I don’t know,” said Pratt. “I’ve lain in bed ruminating again and again; and one time I say it’s noble and manly, and the next time I call you a fool.”
Richard laughed.
“You see, old fellow, I’m a lawyer. I’ve been educating myself with cases, and the consequence is that I think cases. Here, then, I say, is a man in possession of a great estate; somebody tells him what may be a cock-and-bull tale—like a melodrama at the Vic, or a story in penny numbers—about a mysterious changeling and the rest of it, and he throws up at once.”
“Yes,” said Richard.
“Speaking still as a man fed upon cases I say, then, give me proofs—papers, documents, something I can tie up with red tape, make abstracts of, or set a solicitor to prepare a brief from. I’m afraid you’ve done wrong, Dick, I am indeed.”
“No, you are not, Franky,” said Richard, quietly. “Now speak as a man who has not been getting up cases—speak as the lad who was always ready to share his tips at school. No, no, Franky; the more I think of it, the more I feel convinced that I have behaved—as I cannot be a gentleman—like a man of honour.”
“Gentleman—cannot be a gentleman!” said Pratt, puffing out his cheeks, and threatening his friend with one finger, as if he were in the witness-box. “What do you mean, sir? Now, be careful. Do you call Vanleigh a gentleman?”
“Oh yes,” said Richard, smiling.
“Then I don’t,” said Pratt, sharply. “I saw the fellow yesterday, and he cut me dead.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, and no wonder. He was talking to a black-looking ruffian who bothers me.”
“Bothers you?”
“Yes, I know I’ve seen him before, and I can’t make out where.”
“Was it at the steeplechase?” said Richard, quietly.
“You’ve hit it, Dick,” cried Pratt. “That’s the man. Why weren’t you called to the bar? But I say, why did you name him? You know something—you’ve seen them together.”
“I have.”
“Um!” said Pratt, looking hard at his friend. “Then what does it mean?”
“Can’t say,” said Richard, quietly—“only that it don’t concern us.”
“I don’t know that,” said Pratt; “it may, and strongly. But tell me this, how long have you been in town?”
“A fortnight.”
“A fortnight, and not been here!”
“I have been three times,” said Richard, “and you were always out.”
“How provoking! But you might have written. The fact is, Dick, I’m busy. All that work that was held back from me for so long is coming now. I was a bit lucky with my first case.”
Which was a fact, for he had carried it through in triumph, and solicitors were sending in briefs.
“I have been busy, too—making up my mind what to do.”
“Then look here, Dick, old fellow. I’m getting a banking account—do you hear? a banking account—and if you don’t come to me whenever you want funds, we are friends no more.”
“Franky,” said Richard, huskily, “I knew you were a friend, or I should not have come to your chambers for the fourth time. But what did you mean about Vanleigh’s affairs concerning us?”
“Well, only that they may. You know they are in town, of course?”
“Why, yes; I met Van the other day. Flick is sure to be near him.”
“Yes, as long as Flicky has any money to spare—afterwards Van will be out. But I mean them.”
“Whom?” said Richard, starting. “Our Tolcarne friends—Russell Square, you know,” said Pratt, reddening slightly.
“No,” said Richard, hoarsely, “I did not know it.”
“Yes, they have been up a week.”
“How did you know it?”
“Well,” said Pratt, reddening a little more, “I—that is—well, there, I walked past the house, and saw them at the window.”
“You’ve watched it, then, Franky?” said Richard, quietly.
“Well, yes, if you like to call it so; and I’ve seen Van and Flick go there twice. How did they know that you had—well, come to grief?”
Richard shook his head.
“I’ll tell you. Depend upon it, that amiable spinster aunt, who loved you like poison, sent them word, and also of their return to town.”
“Possibly,” said Richard, in the same low, husky voice.
“Dick, old fellow, I don’t think you’ve done quite right in giving up all,” said Pratt. “You had some one else to think of besides yourself.”
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t talk to me now,” said Richard, hoarsely. “The task is getting harder than I thought; but if that fellow dares—Oh, it’s absurd!”
He stood for a few moments with his fists clenched, and the thoughts of Vanleigh’s dark, handsome face, and his visit to the little Pentonville street, seemed to run in a confused way through his brain, till he forced them aside, and, with assumed composure, filled his glass, and tossed it off at a draught.
He was proceeding to repeat it, when Pratt laid a hand upon his arm.
“Don’t do that, old fellow,” he said, quietly. “If there’s work to be done, it’s the cool head that does it; drink’s only the spur, and the spurred beast soonest flags. Let you and me talk it over. Two heads are better than one, and that one only Van’s. Dick, old fellow, what are you going to do?”
Lady Rea’s State of Mind.Frank Pratt was quite right, the Rea family were in town; and thanks to Aunt Matilda, who had sent to Captain Vanleigh a notification of all that had taken place, that gentleman and his companion had resumed their visits; and had, in the course of a few days, become quite at home.Lady Rea had felt disposed to rebel at first, but Vanleigh completely disarmed the little lady by his frank behaviour.“You see, Lady Rea,” he said to her one day, in private, “I cannot help feeling that you look upon me rather as an intruder.”“Really, Captain Van—”“Pray hear me out, dear Lady Rea,” he said, in protestation. “You prefer poor Trevor as your son-in-law—I must call him Trevor still.”“He was as good and gentlemanly a—”“He was, Lady Rea—he was indeed,” said Vanleigh, warmly, “and no one lamented his fall more than I did.”“It was very, very sad,” said Lady Rea.“And you must own, dear Lady Rea that as soon as I heard of the attachment between Trevor—I must still call him Trevor, you see—and your daughter, I immediately withdrew all pretensions.”“Yes, you did do that,” said Lady Rea.“Exactly,” said Vanleigh. “Well, then, now the coast is once more clear, and the engagement at an end—”“But it isn’t,” said Lady Rea.“Excuse me, my dear Lady Rea—I have Sir Hampton’s assurance that it is so. He tells me that Trevor—poor old Trevor—resigned his pretensions in the most gentlemanly way.”“Yes, he did,” said Lady Rea; “and it was very foolish of him, too.”“Doubtless,” said Vanleigh, with a smile; “but still, under the circumstances, how could he have done otherwise? Ah, Lady Rea, it was a very sad blow to his friends.”“It’s very kind of you to say so, Captain Vanleigh,” said Lady Rea.“Don’t say that,” replied Vanleigh. “But now, Lady Rea, let me try and set myself in a better position with you. Of course you must know that I love Miss Rea?”“Well, yes—I suppose so,” said the little lady.“Then let us be friends,” said Vanleigh. “I am coming merely as a visitor—a friend of the family; and what I have to ask of you is this, that I may be treated with consideration.”“Oh, of course, Captain Vanleigh.”“If in the future Miss Rea can bring herself to look upon my pretensions with favour, I shall be the happiest man alive. If she cannot—well, I will be patient, and blame no one.”“He was very nice, my dear,” said Lady Rea to her daughter. “No one could have been more so; but I told him I didn’t think there was any hope.”“Of course there isn’t, ma, dear,” said Fin; “and it’s very indecent of him to come as he does, and so soon after Richard’s misfortune; but I know how it all was—Aunt Matty did it.”“Aunt Matty did it, my dear?”“Yes, ma. Wrote to Captain Vanleigh at his club, and told him all about how pa said poor Richard was not to be mentioned in the house, and how we were all brought up to town for change.”“I don’t think Aunt Matty would do anything so foolish, my dear,” said mamma.“Then how came they to call as soon as we had been up two days?” said Fin. “Aunt Matty would do anything she thought was for our welfare, even if it was to poison us.”“Oh, Fin, my dear!”“Well, I can’t help it, ma, dear; she is so tiresome. Aunt Matty is so good; I’m glad I’m not, for it does make you so miserable and uncharitable. Oh, ma, darling, what a dreadfully wicked little woman you must be!”“Oh, my dear!”“I’m sure Aunt Matty thinks you are. I often see her looking painfully righteous at you when you are reading the newspaper or a story, while she is studying ‘Falling Leaves from the Tree of Life,’ or ‘The Daily Dredge.’”“My dear Fin, don’t talk so,” said Lady Rea. “Aunt Matty means all for the best.”“Yes, ma, dear,” said Fin, with a sigh, “that’s it. If she only meant things for the second best, I wouldn’t care, for then one might perhaps be comfortable.”“But, my dear, don’t talk so,” said Lady Rea; “and I think you are misjudging Aunt Matty about her sending to Captain Vanleigh.”“Oh no, ma, dear,” cried Fin. “It’s quite right. That dreadful noodle, Sir Felix, let it all out to me just now in the dining-room, while the Captain was upstairs with you.”“Has he been speaking to you, then?” said Lady Rea, eagerly.“Yes, ma,” said Fin, coolly; but there was a pretty rosy flush in her little cheek.“What did he say, dear?”“He-haw, he-haw, he-haw-w-w-w!” said Fin, seriously.“Fin!”“Well, it sounded like it, ma,” said Fin, “for I never did meet such a donkey.”“But, my dear Fin—”“Well, I know, ma,” exclaimed Fin, “it’s rude of me; but I’m naturally rude. I’ve got what Aunt Matty would call the mark of the beast on me, and it makes me wicked.”“Tut, tut, tut! Fin, my dear,” said Lady Rea, drawing her child to her, till Fin lay with her head resting against her, but with her face averted. “Now, come, tell me all about it. I don’t like you to have secrets from me.”“Well, ma, he met me, and begged for five minutes’ interview.”“Well, my dear?”“Well, ma, I told him it was of no use, for I knew what he was going to say.”“Oh, Fin, my dear child, I’m afraid they neglected your etiquette very much at school.”“No, they didn’t, ma,” said Fin, with her eyes twinkling—“they were always sowing me with it; but I was stony ground, as Aunt Matty would say, and it never took root. Oh, ma, if you had only seen what a donkey he looked!—and he smelt all over the room, just like one of Rimmel’s young men. Then,” continued Fin, speaking fast and excitedly, “he went on talking stuff—said he’d lay his title and fortune at my feet; that he’d give the world to win my heart, and I told him I hadn’t got one; said he should wait patiently, and kept on talk, talk, talk—all stuff that he had evidently been learning up for the occasion; and I’d have given anything to have been able to pull his ears and rumple his hair, only he might have thought it rude.”“Oh yes, my dear,” said mamma, innocently.“And at last I said I didn’t think I should ever accept any one, for I hated men; and then he sighed, and looked at me side-wise, and wanted to take my hand; and I ran out of the room, and that’s all.”“But, Fin, my dear—”“Oh, I know, ma, it was horribly rude; but I hate him. Pf! I can smell him now.”Lady Rea sighed.“And now, I suppose,” said Fin, “we are to be pestered—poor Tiny and your humble servant; they’ll follow us to church, get sittings where they can watch us, and carry on a regular siege. I wish them joy of it!”Lady Rea only sighed, and stroked the glossy head, till Fin suddenly jumped up, and ran out of the room; but only to come back at the end of a minute, and stand nodding her head.“Well, my dear, what is it?” said Lady Rea.“You’ll have to put your foot down, mamma,” said Fin, sharply.Lady Rea glanced at her little member, which, in its delicate kid boot, looked too gentle to crush a fly; and she sighed.“A nice state of affairs!” said Fin.“There’s Tiny, up in her bedroom crying herself into a decline, and Aunt Matty in the study with papa conspiring against our happiness, because it’s for our good. Now, mark my words, mamma—there’ll be a regular plot laid to marry Tiny to that odious Bluebeard of a Captain, and if you don’t stop it I shall.”Lady Rea sat, with wrinkled brow, looking puzzled at the little decisive figure before her; and then, as Fin went out with a whisk of all her light skirts, she sat for a few moments thinking, and then went up to her elder daughter’s room.
Frank Pratt was quite right, the Rea family were in town; and thanks to Aunt Matilda, who had sent to Captain Vanleigh a notification of all that had taken place, that gentleman and his companion had resumed their visits; and had, in the course of a few days, become quite at home.
Lady Rea had felt disposed to rebel at first, but Vanleigh completely disarmed the little lady by his frank behaviour.
“You see, Lady Rea,” he said to her one day, in private, “I cannot help feeling that you look upon me rather as an intruder.”
“Really, Captain Van—”
“Pray hear me out, dear Lady Rea,” he said, in protestation. “You prefer poor Trevor as your son-in-law—I must call him Trevor still.”
“He was as good and gentlemanly a—”
“He was, Lady Rea—he was indeed,” said Vanleigh, warmly, “and no one lamented his fall more than I did.”
“It was very, very sad,” said Lady Rea.
“And you must own, dear Lady Rea that as soon as I heard of the attachment between Trevor—I must still call him Trevor, you see—and your daughter, I immediately withdrew all pretensions.”
“Yes, you did do that,” said Lady Rea.
“Exactly,” said Vanleigh. “Well, then, now the coast is once more clear, and the engagement at an end—”
“But it isn’t,” said Lady Rea.
“Excuse me, my dear Lady Rea—I have Sir Hampton’s assurance that it is so. He tells me that Trevor—poor old Trevor—resigned his pretensions in the most gentlemanly way.”
“Yes, he did,” said Lady Rea; “and it was very foolish of him, too.”
“Doubtless,” said Vanleigh, with a smile; “but still, under the circumstances, how could he have done otherwise? Ah, Lady Rea, it was a very sad blow to his friends.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so, Captain Vanleigh,” said Lady Rea.
“Don’t say that,” replied Vanleigh. “But now, Lady Rea, let me try and set myself in a better position with you. Of course you must know that I love Miss Rea?”
“Well, yes—I suppose so,” said the little lady.
“Then let us be friends,” said Vanleigh. “I am coming merely as a visitor—a friend of the family; and what I have to ask of you is this, that I may be treated with consideration.”
“Oh, of course, Captain Vanleigh.”
“If in the future Miss Rea can bring herself to look upon my pretensions with favour, I shall be the happiest man alive. If she cannot—well, I will be patient, and blame no one.”
“He was very nice, my dear,” said Lady Rea to her daughter. “No one could have been more so; but I told him I didn’t think there was any hope.”
“Of course there isn’t, ma, dear,” said Fin; “and it’s very indecent of him to come as he does, and so soon after Richard’s misfortune; but I know how it all was—Aunt Matty did it.”
“Aunt Matty did it, my dear?”
“Yes, ma. Wrote to Captain Vanleigh at his club, and told him all about how pa said poor Richard was not to be mentioned in the house, and how we were all brought up to town for change.”
“I don’t think Aunt Matty would do anything so foolish, my dear,” said mamma.
“Then how came they to call as soon as we had been up two days?” said Fin. “Aunt Matty would do anything she thought was for our welfare, even if it was to poison us.”
“Oh, Fin, my dear!”
“Well, I can’t help it, ma, dear; she is so tiresome. Aunt Matty is so good; I’m glad I’m not, for it does make you so miserable and uncharitable. Oh, ma, darling, what a dreadfully wicked little woman you must be!”
“Oh, my dear!”
“I’m sure Aunt Matty thinks you are. I often see her looking painfully righteous at you when you are reading the newspaper or a story, while she is studying ‘Falling Leaves from the Tree of Life,’ or ‘The Daily Dredge.’”
“My dear Fin, don’t talk so,” said Lady Rea. “Aunt Matty means all for the best.”
“Yes, ma, dear,” said Fin, with a sigh, “that’s it. If she only meant things for the second best, I wouldn’t care, for then one might perhaps be comfortable.”
“But, my dear, don’t talk so,” said Lady Rea; “and I think you are misjudging Aunt Matty about her sending to Captain Vanleigh.”
“Oh no, ma, dear,” cried Fin. “It’s quite right. That dreadful noodle, Sir Felix, let it all out to me just now in the dining-room, while the Captain was upstairs with you.”
“Has he been speaking to you, then?” said Lady Rea, eagerly.
“Yes, ma,” said Fin, coolly; but there was a pretty rosy flush in her little cheek.
“What did he say, dear?”
“He-haw, he-haw, he-haw-w-w-w!” said Fin, seriously.
“Fin!”
“Well, it sounded like it, ma,” said Fin, “for I never did meet such a donkey.”
“But, my dear Fin—”
“Well, I know, ma,” exclaimed Fin, “it’s rude of me; but I’m naturally rude. I’ve got what Aunt Matty would call the mark of the beast on me, and it makes me wicked.”
“Tut, tut, tut! Fin, my dear,” said Lady Rea, drawing her child to her, till Fin lay with her head resting against her, but with her face averted. “Now, come, tell me all about it. I don’t like you to have secrets from me.”
“Well, ma, he met me, and begged for five minutes’ interview.”
“Well, my dear?”
“Well, ma, I told him it was of no use, for I knew what he was going to say.”
“Oh, Fin, my dear child, I’m afraid they neglected your etiquette very much at school.”
“No, they didn’t, ma,” said Fin, with her eyes twinkling—“they were always sowing me with it; but I was stony ground, as Aunt Matty would say, and it never took root. Oh, ma, if you had only seen what a donkey he looked!—and he smelt all over the room, just like one of Rimmel’s young men. Then,” continued Fin, speaking fast and excitedly, “he went on talking stuff—said he’d lay his title and fortune at my feet; that he’d give the world to win my heart, and I told him I hadn’t got one; said he should wait patiently, and kept on talk, talk, talk—all stuff that he had evidently been learning up for the occasion; and I’d have given anything to have been able to pull his ears and rumple his hair, only he might have thought it rude.”
“Oh yes, my dear,” said mamma, innocently.
“And at last I said I didn’t think I should ever accept any one, for I hated men; and then he sighed, and looked at me side-wise, and wanted to take my hand; and I ran out of the room, and that’s all.”
“But, Fin, my dear—”
“Oh, I know, ma, it was horribly rude; but I hate him. Pf! I can smell him now.”
Lady Rea sighed.
“And now, I suppose,” said Fin, “we are to be pestered—poor Tiny and your humble servant; they’ll follow us to church, get sittings where they can watch us, and carry on a regular siege. I wish them joy of it!”
Lady Rea only sighed, and stroked the glossy head, till Fin suddenly jumped up, and ran out of the room; but only to come back at the end of a minute, and stand nodding her head.
“Well, my dear, what is it?” said Lady Rea.
“You’ll have to put your foot down, mamma,” said Fin, sharply.
Lady Rea glanced at her little member, which, in its delicate kid boot, looked too gentle to crush a fly; and she sighed.
“A nice state of affairs!” said Fin.
“There’s Tiny, up in her bedroom crying herself into a decline, and Aunt Matty in the study with papa conspiring against our happiness, because it’s for our good. Now, mark my words, mamma—there’ll be a regular plot laid to marry Tiny to that odious Bluebeard of a Captain, and if you don’t stop it I shall.”
Lady Rea sat, with wrinkled brow, looking puzzled at the little decisive figure before her; and then, as Fin went out with a whisk of all her light skirts, she sat for a few moments thinking, and then went up to her elder daughter’s room.
Frank a Visitor.Richard felt very sanguine of success during the first weeks of his stay in London. He was young, ardent, active, and a good sailor. Some employment would be easily obtained, he thought, in the merchant service; and he only stipulated mentally for one thing—no matter how low was his beginning, he must have something to look forward to in the future—he must be able to rise. But as the days glided into weeks, and the weeks into months, he was obliged to own that it was not so easy to find an opening as he had expected, and night after night he returned to his solitary lodgings weary and disheartened.Mrs Fiddison sighed, and said he was very nice—so quiet; her place did not seem the same. And certainly the young fellow was very quiet, spending a great deal of his time in writing and thinking; and more than once he caught himself watching the opposite window, and wondering what connexion there could be between Vanleigh and his neighbours.This watching led to his meeting the soft dark eyes of Netta, as she busied herself at times over her flowers, watering them carefully, removing dead leaves and blossoms, and evidently tending them with the love of one who longs for the sweet breath of the country.Then came a smile and a bow, and Netta shrank away from the window, and Richard did not see her for a week.Then she was there again, showing herself timidly, and as their eyes met the how was given, and returned this time before the poor girl shrank away; and as days passed on this little intercourse grew regular, till it was a matter of course for Richard to look out at a certain hour for his pretty neighbour, and she would be there.This went on till she would grow bold enough to sit there close to the flowers, her sad face just seen behind the little group of leaves and blossoms; and, glad of the companionship, Richard got in the habit of drawing his table to the open window, and read or wrote there, to look up occasionally and exchange a smile.“I don’t see why I shouldn’t know more of them,” he said to himself, one morning; and the next time a donkey-drawn barrow laden with Covent Garden sweets passed, Richard bought a couple of pots of lush-blossomed geraniums, delivered them to Mrs Jenkles, and sent them to Miss Lane, with his hope that she was in better health.Mrs Jenkles took the pots gladly, but shook her head at the donor.“Is she so ill?” said Richard, anxiously.“I’m afraid so, sir,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Her cough is so bad.”As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful endorsement of the woman’s words.Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by his little neighbour, “Poor girl!” said Richard.A very strange feeling of depression came over him as his thoughts went from her to one he loved; and he sighed as he sat making comparisons between them.An hour after, Mrs Fiddison came in, with her head on one side, a widow’s cap in one hand, a crape bow in the other, and a note in her mouth, which gave her a good deal the look of a mourning spaniel, set to fetch and carry.Mrs Fiddison did not speak, only dropped the note on the table, gave Richard a very meaning look, and left the roam.“What does the woman mean?” he said, as he took up the note. “And what’s this?”“This” was a simple little note from Netta Lane, written in a ladylike hand, and well worded, thanking him for the flowers, and telling him that “mamma” was very grateful to him for the attention.A week after, and Richard had called upon them; and again before a week had elapsed, he was visiting regularly, and sitting reading to mother and daughter as they plied their needles.Then came walks, and an occasional ride into the country, and soon afterwards Frank Pratt called upon his old friend, to find him leading Netta quietly into the Jenkles’s house, and Pratt stood whistling for a moment before knocking at Mrs Fiddison’s door, and asking leave to wait till his friend came across.Mrs Fiddison had a widow’s cap cocked very rakishly over one ear, and she further disarranged it to rub the ear as she examined the visitor, before feeling satisfied that he had no designs on any of the property in the place, and admitting him to Richard’s sanctum.At the end of half an hour Richard came over.“Ah, Franky!” he exclaimed, “this is a pleasure.”“Is it?” said Pratt.“Is it?—of course it is; but what are you staring at?”“You. Seems a nice girl over the way.”“Poor darling!—yes,” said Richard, earnestly.“Got as far as that, has it?” said Pratt, quietly.“I don’t understand you,” said Richard, staring hard.“Suppose not,” said Pratt, bitterly. “Way of the world; though I didn’t expect to see it in you.”“‘Rede me this riddle,’ as Carlyle says,” exclaimed Richard. “What do you mean, man?”“Only that it’s as well to be off with the old love before you begin with the new.”“Why, Franky, what a donkey you are!” said Richard, laughing. “You don’t think that I—that they—that—that—well, that I am paying attentions to that young lady—Miss Lane?”“Well, it looks like it,” said Pratt, grimly.“Why, my dear boy, nothing has ever been farther from my thoughts,” said Richard. “It’s absurd.”“Does the young lady think so too?”Richard started.“Well, really—I never looked at it in that light. But, oh, it’s ridiculous. Only a few neighbourly attentions; and, besides, the poor girl’s in a most precarious state of health.”“Hum!” said Pratt. “Well, don’t make the girl think you mean anything. Who are they?”“I asked no questions, of course—how could I? They are quite ladies, though, in a most impecunious state.”“Hum!” said Frank, thoughtfully, and he rose from his chair to make himself comfortable after his way; that is to say, he placed his feet in the seat, and sat on the back—treatment at which Mrs Fiddison’s modest furniture groaned. “Old lady object to this?”Frank tapped the case of his big pipe, as he drew it from his pocket in company with a vile-scented tobacco pouch.“Oh no, I’m licenced,” said Richard, dreamily; for his thoughts were upon his friend’s words, and he felt as if he had unwittingly been doing a great wrong.“I’m going to take this up, Dick,” said Pratt, after smoking a few minutes in silence.“Take what up?” said Richard, starting.“This affair of yours, and these people.”“I don’t understand you.”“Perhaps not,” said Pratt, shortly. “But look here, Dick, you’re not going to break faith with some one.”“Break faith, Frank!” exclaimed Richard, angrily. “There is no engagement now. The poor girl is free till I have made such a fortune”—he smiled bitterly—“as will enable me once more to propose. There, there, don’t say another word, Franky, old man, it cuts—deeper than you think. I wouldn’t say this much to another man living. But as for that poor child over the way, I have never had a thought towards her beyond pity.”“Which is near akin to love,” muttered Frank. Then aloud—“All right, Dick. I could not help noticing it; but be careful. Little girls’ hearts are made of tender stuff—some of them,” he said, speaking ruefully—“when they are touched by fine, tall, good-looking fellows.”“Pish!” ejaculated Richard. “Change the subject.”“Going to,” said Pratt, filling his pipe afresh, and smoking once more furiously. “Better open that window, these pokey rooms so soon get full. That’s right. Now, then, for a change. Look here, old fellow, you know I’m going ahead now, actually refusing briefs. Do you hear, you unbelieving-looking dog?—refusing briefs, and only taking the best cases.”“Bravo!” said Richard, trying to smile cheerily.“I’m getting warm, Dick—making money. Q.C. some day, my boy—perhaps. But seriously, Dick, old fellow, I am going ahead at a rate that surprises no one more than yours truly. When I’d have given my ears for a good case, and would have studied it night and day, the beggars wouldn’t have given me one to save my life, even if I’d have done it for nothing. Now, when I’m so pressed that it’s hard work to get them up, they come and beg me to take briefs. This very morning, one came from a big firm of solicitors at ten o’clock, marked fifty guineas, and I refused it. At one o’clock, hang me if they didn’t come back with it, marked a hundred, and a fellow with it, hat in hand, ready, if I’d refused again, to offer me more.”“Frank,” cried Richard, jumping up, and shaking his friend warmly by the hand, “no one is more delighted than I am.”“Mind what you’re up to,” said Pratt, who had nearly been tilted off his perch by his friend’s energy. “But I say, it don’t seem like it.”“Why?”“Because you won’t share in it. Now, look here, Dick, old fellow, you must want money, and it’s too bad that you won’t take it.”“I don’t want it, Frank—I don’t, indeed,” cried Richard, hastily. “Living as I do, I have enough and to spare. I tell you, I like the change.”“Gammon,” said Pratt, shortly. “It’s very well to talk about liking to be poor, and no one knows what poverty is better than I; but I like money as well as most men. I used to eat chaff, Dick; but I like corn, and wine, and oil, and honey better. Now, look here, Dick, once for all—if you want money, and don’t come to me for it, you are no true friend.”“Franky,” said Richard, turning away his face, “if ever I want money, I’ll come to you and ask for it. As matters are, I have always a few shillings to spare.”As he spoke, he got up hastily, lit a pipe, and began to smoke; while Mrs Fiddison in the next room, heaved a sigh, took off her shoes, and went on tiptoe through the little house, opening every door and window, after carefully covering up all her widows’ caps.“There is one thing about noise,” she said to herself, “it don’t make the millinery smell.”“I knocked off a few days ago,” said Frank, from out of a cloud.“You are working too hard,” said Richard, anxiously.“’Bliged to,” said Pratt. “Took a change—ran down to Cornwall.”Richard started slightly, and smoked hard.“Thought I’d have a look at the old place, Dick—see how matters were going on.”Silence on the part of Richard, and Pratt breathed more freely; for he had expected to be stopped.“First man I ran against was that Mervyn, along with the chap who was upset in the cab accident in Pall Mall, and gave you his card—a Mr John Barnard, solicitor, in Furnival’s Inn—cousin or something of Mervyn’s—knew me by sight, and somehow we got to be very sociable. Don’t much like Mervyn, though. Good sort of fellow all the same—charitable, and so on.”Richard smoked his pipe in silence longing to hear more of his old home, though every word respecting it came like a stab.“Heard all about Penreife,” continued Pratt, talking in a careless, matter-of-fact way. “Our friend Humphrey is being courted, it seems, by everybody. Half the county been to call upon him, and congratulate him on his rise. I expected to find the fellow off his head when I saw him; but he was just the same—begged me to condescend to come and stay with him, which of course I didn’t, and as good as told me he was horribly bored, and anything but happy.”There was a pause here, filled up by smoking.“The old people are still there, and they say the new owner’s very kind to them; but our little friend Polly’s away at a good school, where she is to stay till the wedding. Humphrey wants to see you.”Richard winced.“Asked me to try and bring about a meeting, and sent all sorts of kind messages.”Richard remained silent.“Says he feels like as if he had deprived you of your birthright; and as for the people about, they say, Dick,”—Pratt paused for a few moments to light his pipe afresh—“they say, Dick, that you acted like a fool.”Richard faced round quietly, and looked straight at his friend.“Do you think, Frank, that I acted like a fool?”Pratt smoked for a moment or two, then he turned one of his fingers into a tobacco stopper, and lastly removed his pipe.“Well, speaking as counsel, whose opinion is that you ought to have waited, and left the matter to the law to sift, I say yes.”“But speaking as my old friend, Frank Pratt,” said Richard, “and as an honest man?”“Well, we won’t discuss that,” said Frank, hopping off his perch. “Good-bye, old chap.”He shook hands hastily, and left the house, glancing up once at Sam Jenkles’s upper window, and then, without appearing to notice him, taking a side glance at Barney of the black muzzle, who was making a meal off a scrap of hay, with his shoulders lending polish to a public-house board at the corner.“There’s some little game being played up here,” said Frank to himself. “I’ll have a talk to Barnard.”
Richard felt very sanguine of success during the first weeks of his stay in London. He was young, ardent, active, and a good sailor. Some employment would be easily obtained, he thought, in the merchant service; and he only stipulated mentally for one thing—no matter how low was his beginning, he must have something to look forward to in the future—he must be able to rise. But as the days glided into weeks, and the weeks into months, he was obliged to own that it was not so easy to find an opening as he had expected, and night after night he returned to his solitary lodgings weary and disheartened.
Mrs Fiddison sighed, and said he was very nice—so quiet; her place did not seem the same. And certainly the young fellow was very quiet, spending a great deal of his time in writing and thinking; and more than once he caught himself watching the opposite window, and wondering what connexion there could be between Vanleigh and his neighbours.
This watching led to his meeting the soft dark eyes of Netta, as she busied herself at times over her flowers, watering them carefully, removing dead leaves and blossoms, and evidently tending them with the love of one who longs for the sweet breath of the country.
Then came a smile and a bow, and Netta shrank away from the window, and Richard did not see her for a week.
Then she was there again, showing herself timidly, and as their eyes met the how was given, and returned this time before the poor girl shrank away; and as days passed on this little intercourse grew regular, till it was a matter of course for Richard to look out at a certain hour for his pretty neighbour, and she would be there.
This went on till she would grow bold enough to sit there close to the flowers, her sad face just seen behind the little group of leaves and blossoms; and, glad of the companionship, Richard got in the habit of drawing his table to the open window, and read or wrote there, to look up occasionally and exchange a smile.
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t know more of them,” he said to himself, one morning; and the next time a donkey-drawn barrow laden with Covent Garden sweets passed, Richard bought a couple of pots of lush-blossomed geraniums, delivered them to Mrs Jenkles, and sent them to Miss Lane, with his hope that she was in better health.
Mrs Jenkles took the pots gladly, but shook her head at the donor.
“Is she so ill?” said Richard, anxiously.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Her cough is so bad.”
As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful endorsement of the woman’s words.
Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by his little neighbour, “Poor girl!” said Richard.
A very strange feeling of depression came over him as his thoughts went from her to one he loved; and he sighed as he sat making comparisons between them.
An hour after, Mrs Fiddison came in, with her head on one side, a widow’s cap in one hand, a crape bow in the other, and a note in her mouth, which gave her a good deal the look of a mourning spaniel, set to fetch and carry.
Mrs Fiddison did not speak, only dropped the note on the table, gave Richard a very meaning look, and left the roam.
“What does the woman mean?” he said, as he took up the note. “And what’s this?”
“This” was a simple little note from Netta Lane, written in a ladylike hand, and well worded, thanking him for the flowers, and telling him that “mamma” was very grateful to him for the attention.
A week after, and Richard had called upon them; and again before a week had elapsed, he was visiting regularly, and sitting reading to mother and daughter as they plied their needles.
Then came walks, and an occasional ride into the country, and soon afterwards Frank Pratt called upon his old friend, to find him leading Netta quietly into the Jenkles’s house, and Pratt stood whistling for a moment before knocking at Mrs Fiddison’s door, and asking leave to wait till his friend came across.
Mrs Fiddison had a widow’s cap cocked very rakishly over one ear, and she further disarranged it to rub the ear as she examined the visitor, before feeling satisfied that he had no designs on any of the property in the place, and admitting him to Richard’s sanctum.
At the end of half an hour Richard came over.
“Ah, Franky!” he exclaimed, “this is a pleasure.”
“Is it?” said Pratt.
“Is it?—of course it is; but what are you staring at?”
“You. Seems a nice girl over the way.”
“Poor darling!—yes,” said Richard, earnestly.
“Got as far as that, has it?” said Pratt, quietly.
“I don’t understand you,” said Richard, staring hard.
“Suppose not,” said Pratt, bitterly. “Way of the world; though I didn’t expect to see it in you.”
“‘Rede me this riddle,’ as Carlyle says,” exclaimed Richard. “What do you mean, man?”
“Only that it’s as well to be off with the old love before you begin with the new.”
“Why, Franky, what a donkey you are!” said Richard, laughing. “You don’t think that I—that they—that—that—well, that I am paying attentions to that young lady—Miss Lane?”
“Well, it looks like it,” said Pratt, grimly.
“Why, my dear boy, nothing has ever been farther from my thoughts,” said Richard. “It’s absurd.”
“Does the young lady think so too?”
Richard started.
“Well, really—I never looked at it in that light. But, oh, it’s ridiculous. Only a few neighbourly attentions; and, besides, the poor girl’s in a most precarious state of health.”
“Hum!” said Pratt. “Well, don’t make the girl think you mean anything. Who are they?”
“I asked no questions, of course—how could I? They are quite ladies, though, in a most impecunious state.”
“Hum!” said Frank, thoughtfully, and he rose from his chair to make himself comfortable after his way; that is to say, he placed his feet in the seat, and sat on the back—treatment at which Mrs Fiddison’s modest furniture groaned. “Old lady object to this?”
Frank tapped the case of his big pipe, as he drew it from his pocket in company with a vile-scented tobacco pouch.
“Oh no, I’m licenced,” said Richard, dreamily; for his thoughts were upon his friend’s words, and he felt as if he had unwittingly been doing a great wrong.
“I’m going to take this up, Dick,” said Pratt, after smoking a few minutes in silence.
“Take what up?” said Richard, starting.
“This affair of yours, and these people.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Perhaps not,” said Pratt, shortly. “But look here, Dick, you’re not going to break faith with some one.”
“Break faith, Frank!” exclaimed Richard, angrily. “There is no engagement now. The poor girl is free till I have made such a fortune”—he smiled bitterly—“as will enable me once more to propose. There, there, don’t say another word, Franky, old man, it cuts—deeper than you think. I wouldn’t say this much to another man living. But as for that poor child over the way, I have never had a thought towards her beyond pity.”
“Which is near akin to love,” muttered Frank. Then aloud—“All right, Dick. I could not help noticing it; but be careful. Little girls’ hearts are made of tender stuff—some of them,” he said, speaking ruefully—“when they are touched by fine, tall, good-looking fellows.”
“Pish!” ejaculated Richard. “Change the subject.”
“Going to,” said Pratt, filling his pipe afresh, and smoking once more furiously. “Better open that window, these pokey rooms so soon get full. That’s right. Now, then, for a change. Look here, old fellow, you know I’m going ahead now, actually refusing briefs. Do you hear, you unbelieving-looking dog?—refusing briefs, and only taking the best cases.”
“Bravo!” said Richard, trying to smile cheerily.
“I’m getting warm, Dick—making money. Q.C. some day, my boy—perhaps. But seriously, Dick, old fellow, I am going ahead at a rate that surprises no one more than yours truly. When I’d have given my ears for a good case, and would have studied it night and day, the beggars wouldn’t have given me one to save my life, even if I’d have done it for nothing. Now, when I’m so pressed that it’s hard work to get them up, they come and beg me to take briefs. This very morning, one came from a big firm of solicitors at ten o’clock, marked fifty guineas, and I refused it. At one o’clock, hang me if they didn’t come back with it, marked a hundred, and a fellow with it, hat in hand, ready, if I’d refused again, to offer me more.”
“Frank,” cried Richard, jumping up, and shaking his friend warmly by the hand, “no one is more delighted than I am.”
“Mind what you’re up to,” said Pratt, who had nearly been tilted off his perch by his friend’s energy. “But I say, it don’t seem like it.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t share in it. Now, look here, Dick, old fellow, you must want money, and it’s too bad that you won’t take it.”
“I don’t want it, Frank—I don’t, indeed,” cried Richard, hastily. “Living as I do, I have enough and to spare. I tell you, I like the change.”
“Gammon,” said Pratt, shortly. “It’s very well to talk about liking to be poor, and no one knows what poverty is better than I; but I like money as well as most men. I used to eat chaff, Dick; but I like corn, and wine, and oil, and honey better. Now, look here, Dick, once for all—if you want money, and don’t come to me for it, you are no true friend.”
“Franky,” said Richard, turning away his face, “if ever I want money, I’ll come to you and ask for it. As matters are, I have always a few shillings to spare.”
As he spoke, he got up hastily, lit a pipe, and began to smoke; while Mrs Fiddison in the next room, heaved a sigh, took off her shoes, and went on tiptoe through the little house, opening every door and window, after carefully covering up all her widows’ caps.
“There is one thing about noise,” she said to herself, “it don’t make the millinery smell.”
“I knocked off a few days ago,” said Frank, from out of a cloud.
“You are working too hard,” said Richard, anxiously.
“’Bliged to,” said Pratt. “Took a change—ran down to Cornwall.”
Richard started slightly, and smoked hard.
“Thought I’d have a look at the old place, Dick—see how matters were going on.”
Silence on the part of Richard, and Pratt breathed more freely; for he had expected to be stopped.
“First man I ran against was that Mervyn, along with the chap who was upset in the cab accident in Pall Mall, and gave you his card—a Mr John Barnard, solicitor, in Furnival’s Inn—cousin or something of Mervyn’s—knew me by sight, and somehow we got to be very sociable. Don’t much like Mervyn, though. Good sort of fellow all the same—charitable, and so on.”
Richard smoked his pipe in silence longing to hear more of his old home, though every word respecting it came like a stab.
“Heard all about Penreife,” continued Pratt, talking in a careless, matter-of-fact way. “Our friend Humphrey is being courted, it seems, by everybody. Half the county been to call upon him, and congratulate him on his rise. I expected to find the fellow off his head when I saw him; but he was just the same—begged me to condescend to come and stay with him, which of course I didn’t, and as good as told me he was horribly bored, and anything but happy.”
There was a pause here, filled up by smoking.
“The old people are still there, and they say the new owner’s very kind to them; but our little friend Polly’s away at a good school, where she is to stay till the wedding. Humphrey wants to see you.”
Richard winced.
“Asked me to try and bring about a meeting, and sent all sorts of kind messages.”
Richard remained silent.
“Says he feels like as if he had deprived you of your birthright; and as for the people about, they say, Dick,”—Pratt paused for a few moments to light his pipe afresh—“they say, Dick, that you acted like a fool.”
Richard faced round quietly, and looked straight at his friend.
“Do you think, Frank, that I acted like a fool?”
Pratt smoked for a moment or two, then he turned one of his fingers into a tobacco stopper, and lastly removed his pipe.
“Well, speaking as counsel, whose opinion is that you ought to have waited, and left the matter to the law to sift, I say yes.”
“But speaking as my old friend, Frank Pratt,” said Richard, “and as an honest man?”
“Well, we won’t discuss that,” said Frank, hopping off his perch. “Good-bye, old chap.”
He shook hands hastily, and left the house, glancing up once at Sam Jenkles’s upper window, and then, without appearing to notice him, taking a side glance at Barney of the black muzzle, who was making a meal off a scrap of hay, with his shoulders lending polish to a public-house board at the corner.
“There’s some little game being played up here,” said Frank to himself. “I’ll have a talk to Barnard.”
A Proposal.Frank Pratt had no sooner gone than Richard began to stride hastily up and down the little room, to the great endangering of Mrs Fiddison’s furniture. As he neared the window he glanced across, to see Netta sitting there at work, and a faint smile and blush greeted him.“Poor girl,” he muttered. “But, no, it’s nonsense. She can’t think it. Absurd! She’s so young—so ill. There, it’s childish, and I should be a vain fool if I thought so.”He stood thinking for a few moments, and as he paused there was the rattle of wheels in the street, and Sam Jenkles drove his hansom to the door and stopped, gave the horse in charge of a boy, and went in.The next minute Richard had crossed too, for a plan had been formed on the instant.Mrs Jenkles met him at the door, and at his wish led him to where Sam was seated at a table, hurriedly discussing a hot meal.“Drops in, sir, if ever I drives a fare in this direction, and the missus generally has a snack for me. Eh, sir? Oh no, sir. All right, I’ll wait,” he said, in answer to a question or two.And then Richard ascended the stairs, knocked and entered, to find that mother and daughter had just risen from their needlework, Mrs Lane to look grave, Netta with a bright look in her eyes, and too vivid a red in either cheek.“Ah, you busy people,” he said, cheerily, “what an example you do set me! How’s our little friend to-day?”The bright look of joy in Netta’s face faded slightly as she heard their visitor speak of her as he would of some child, but there was a happy, contented aspect once more as she placed her hand in his, and felt his frank pressure.“Mrs Lane,” said Richard, speaking gaily, “I’m like the little boy in the story—I’m idle, and want some one to come and play with me, but I hope for better luck than he.”Mother and daughter looked at him wonderingly.“I’ve come to tell you,” he said, “that the sun shines brightly overhead; there’s a deep blue sky, and silvery clouds floating across it; and six or seven miles out northward there are sweet-scented wild flowers, waving green trees, all delicious shade; the music of song-birds, the hum of insects, and views that will gladden your hearts after seeing nothing but smoke and chimneypots. I am Nature’s ambassador, and I am here to say ‘Come.’”As he spoke the work fell from Netta’s hands, her eyes dilated, and a look of intense glad longing shone from her soft, oval face, while she hung upon her mother’s lips, till, hearing her words, the tears gathered in her eyes, and she bent her head to conceal them.Mrs Lane’s words were very few; they were grateful, but they told of work to be done by a certain time, and she said it was impossible.“But it would do you both good. Miss Netta there wants a change badly,” said Richard; “and you haven’t heard half my plan. Jenkles has his cab at the door, and I propose a drive right out into the country, and when we get back you will ask me to tea. It will be a squeeze, but you will forgive that.”Poor Mrs Lane’s face looked drawn in its pitiful aspect. She felt that such a trip would be like so much new life to her child, but she could not go, and she shook her head.“It may not be etiquette, perhaps,” said Richard, quietly, “but I shall ask you to waive that, and let me take Netta here. You know it will do her good, and she will have Mr Jenkles, as well as your humble servant, to take care of her.”Mrs Lane looked him searchingly in the face, which was as open as the day, and then, glancing at Netta, she saw her parted lips and look of intense longing. The refusal that had been imminent passed away, and laying her hand upon the young man’s arm, she said, softly—“I will trust you.”There was something almost painful in the look of joy in Netta’s face as, with trembling eagerness, she threw her arms round her mother, and then, with the excitement of a child, hurried away to put on hat and mantle.“I shall be back directly,” she exclaimed.Richard’s heart gave one heavy painful throb as he turned for an instant at the door.Mrs Lane laid her hand upon his arm as soon as they were alone, and once more looked searchingly into his face.“I ought not to do this,” she said, pitifully. “You’re almost a stranger; but it is giving her what she has so little of—pleasure; more, it is like giving her life. You know—you see how ill she is?”“Poor child, yes,” said Richard.“Child!”“Yes,” said Richard, gravely. “I have always looked upon her as a child—or, at least, as a young, innocent girl. Mrs Lane, I tell you frankly, for I think I can read your feelings—every look, every attention of mine towards that poor girl has been the result of pity. If you could read me, I think you would never suspect me of trifling.”“I am ready to trust you,” she said. “You will not be late. The night air would be dangerous for her—hush!”“I’m ready!” exclaimed Netta, joyfully.As she appeared framed in the doorway of the inner room, her dark hair cast back, eyes sparkling, and the flush as of health upon her cheeks, and lips parted to show her pure white teeth, Richard’s heart gave another painful throb, and he thought of Frank Pratt’s words, for it was no child that stood before him, but a very beautiful woman.“You’ll be back before dark, my darling?” said Mrs Lane, tenderly.“Oh yes,” cried Netta, excitedly. “Mr Lloyd will take such care of me; but—”The joy faded out of her countenance, and she clung to her mother, looking from her to the work.“What is it, my dear?” said Mrs Lane, stroking her soft dark hair.“It’s cruel to go and leave you here at work,” sobbed the girl.“What! when you are going to get strength, and coming back more ready to help me?” said Mrs Lane, cheerfully. “There, go along! Take care of her, Mr Lloyd.”Richard had been to the head of the stairs, and spoken to Sam, who was already on his box; and as the young man offered his arm, Netta took it, with the warm, soft blush returning, and she stole a look of timid love at the tall, handsome man who was to be her protector.The next minute she was in the cab, Richard had taken his place at her side, and Sam essayed to start as the good-bye nods were given.“Lor!” said Mrs Jenkles, her woman’s instinct coming to the fore, “what a lovely pair they do make!”At the same moment, on the opposite side of the way, a lady with a widow’s cap cocked back on her head, gazed from behind a curtain, wiped her eyes on a piece of crape, and said, with a sigh—“And him the handsomest and quietest lodger I ever had!”Meanwhile, in answer to every appeal from Sam Jenkles, Ratty was laying his ears back, wagging his tail, and biting at nothing.“Don’t you be skeared, Miss,” said Sam, through the little roof-trap, “it’s on’y his fun. Get on with yer, Ratty—I’m blowed if I aint ashamed on yer. Jest ketch hold of his head, and lead him arf a dozen yards, will yer, mate?” he continued, addressing a man, after they had struggled to the end of the street. “Thanky.”For the leading had the desired effect, and Ratty went off at a trot to Pentonville Hill.“Blest if I don’t believe that was Barney,” said Sam to himself, looking back, and he was quite right, for that gentleman it was; and as soon as the cab was out of sight he had taken a puppy out of one pocket of his velveteen coat, looked at it, put it back, and then slouched off to where he could take an omnibus, on whose roof he rode to Piccadilly, where he descended, made his way into Jermyn Street, and then stopping at a private house, rang softly, took the puppy out of his pocket, a dirty card from another, and waited till the door was answered.“Tell the captain as I’ve brought the dawg,” he said to the servant, who left him standing outside; but returned soon after, to usher him into the presence of Captain Vanleigh, who smiled and rubbed his hands softly, as he wished Tiny Rea could have been witness of that which had been brought to him as news.
Frank Pratt had no sooner gone than Richard began to stride hastily up and down the little room, to the great endangering of Mrs Fiddison’s furniture. As he neared the window he glanced across, to see Netta sitting there at work, and a faint smile and blush greeted him.
“Poor girl,” he muttered. “But, no, it’s nonsense. She can’t think it. Absurd! She’s so young—so ill. There, it’s childish, and I should be a vain fool if I thought so.”
He stood thinking for a few moments, and as he paused there was the rattle of wheels in the street, and Sam Jenkles drove his hansom to the door and stopped, gave the horse in charge of a boy, and went in.
The next minute Richard had crossed too, for a plan had been formed on the instant.
Mrs Jenkles met him at the door, and at his wish led him to where Sam was seated at a table, hurriedly discussing a hot meal.
“Drops in, sir, if ever I drives a fare in this direction, and the missus generally has a snack for me. Eh, sir? Oh no, sir. All right, I’ll wait,” he said, in answer to a question or two.
And then Richard ascended the stairs, knocked and entered, to find that mother and daughter had just risen from their needlework, Mrs Lane to look grave, Netta with a bright look in her eyes, and too vivid a red in either cheek.
“Ah, you busy people,” he said, cheerily, “what an example you do set me! How’s our little friend to-day?”
The bright look of joy in Netta’s face faded slightly as she heard their visitor speak of her as he would of some child, but there was a happy, contented aspect once more as she placed her hand in his, and felt his frank pressure.
“Mrs Lane,” said Richard, speaking gaily, “I’m like the little boy in the story—I’m idle, and want some one to come and play with me, but I hope for better luck than he.”
Mother and daughter looked at him wonderingly.
“I’ve come to tell you,” he said, “that the sun shines brightly overhead; there’s a deep blue sky, and silvery clouds floating across it; and six or seven miles out northward there are sweet-scented wild flowers, waving green trees, all delicious shade; the music of song-birds, the hum of insects, and views that will gladden your hearts after seeing nothing but smoke and chimneypots. I am Nature’s ambassador, and I am here to say ‘Come.’”
As he spoke the work fell from Netta’s hands, her eyes dilated, and a look of intense glad longing shone from her soft, oval face, while she hung upon her mother’s lips, till, hearing her words, the tears gathered in her eyes, and she bent her head to conceal them.
Mrs Lane’s words were very few; they were grateful, but they told of work to be done by a certain time, and she said it was impossible.
“But it would do you both good. Miss Netta there wants a change badly,” said Richard; “and you haven’t heard half my plan. Jenkles has his cab at the door, and I propose a drive right out into the country, and when we get back you will ask me to tea. It will be a squeeze, but you will forgive that.”
Poor Mrs Lane’s face looked drawn in its pitiful aspect. She felt that such a trip would be like so much new life to her child, but she could not go, and she shook her head.
“It may not be etiquette, perhaps,” said Richard, quietly, “but I shall ask you to waive that, and let me take Netta here. You know it will do her good, and she will have Mr Jenkles, as well as your humble servant, to take care of her.”
Mrs Lane looked him searchingly in the face, which was as open as the day, and then, glancing at Netta, she saw her parted lips and look of intense longing. The refusal that had been imminent passed away, and laying her hand upon the young man’s arm, she said, softly—
“I will trust you.”
There was something almost painful in the look of joy in Netta’s face as, with trembling eagerness, she threw her arms round her mother, and then, with the excitement of a child, hurried away to put on hat and mantle.
“I shall be back directly,” she exclaimed.
Richard’s heart gave one heavy painful throb as he turned for an instant at the door.
Mrs Lane laid her hand upon his arm as soon as they were alone, and once more looked searchingly into his face.
“I ought not to do this,” she said, pitifully. “You’re almost a stranger; but it is giving her what she has so little of—pleasure; more, it is like giving her life. You know—you see how ill she is?”
“Poor child, yes,” said Richard.
“Child!”
“Yes,” said Richard, gravely. “I have always looked upon her as a child—or, at least, as a young, innocent girl. Mrs Lane, I tell you frankly, for I think I can read your feelings—every look, every attention of mine towards that poor girl has been the result of pity. If you could read me, I think you would never suspect me of trifling.”
“I am ready to trust you,” she said. “You will not be late. The night air would be dangerous for her—hush!”
“I’m ready!” exclaimed Netta, joyfully.
As she appeared framed in the doorway of the inner room, her dark hair cast back, eyes sparkling, and the flush as of health upon her cheeks, and lips parted to show her pure white teeth, Richard’s heart gave another painful throb, and he thought of Frank Pratt’s words, for it was no child that stood before him, but a very beautiful woman.
“You’ll be back before dark, my darling?” said Mrs Lane, tenderly.
“Oh yes,” cried Netta, excitedly. “Mr Lloyd will take such care of me; but—”
The joy faded out of her countenance, and she clung to her mother, looking from her to the work.
“What is it, my dear?” said Mrs Lane, stroking her soft dark hair.
“It’s cruel to go and leave you here at work,” sobbed the girl.
“What! when you are going to get strength, and coming back more ready to help me?” said Mrs Lane, cheerfully. “There, go along! Take care of her, Mr Lloyd.”
Richard had been to the head of the stairs, and spoken to Sam, who was already on his box; and as the young man offered his arm, Netta took it, with the warm, soft blush returning, and she stole a look of timid love at the tall, handsome man who was to be her protector.
The next minute she was in the cab, Richard had taken his place at her side, and Sam essayed to start as the good-bye nods were given.
“Lor!” said Mrs Jenkles, her woman’s instinct coming to the fore, “what a lovely pair they do make!”
At the same moment, on the opposite side of the way, a lady with a widow’s cap cocked back on her head, gazed from behind a curtain, wiped her eyes on a piece of crape, and said, with a sigh—
“And him the handsomest and quietest lodger I ever had!”
Meanwhile, in answer to every appeal from Sam Jenkles, Ratty was laying his ears back, wagging his tail, and biting at nothing.
“Don’t you be skeared, Miss,” said Sam, through the little roof-trap, “it’s on’y his fun. Get on with yer, Ratty—I’m blowed if I aint ashamed on yer. Jest ketch hold of his head, and lead him arf a dozen yards, will yer, mate?” he continued, addressing a man, after they had struggled to the end of the street. “Thanky.”
For the leading had the desired effect, and Ratty went off at a trot to Pentonville Hill.
“Blest if I don’t believe that was Barney,” said Sam to himself, looking back, and he was quite right, for that gentleman it was; and as soon as the cab was out of sight he had taken a puppy out of one pocket of his velveteen coat, looked at it, put it back, and then slouched off to where he could take an omnibus, on whose roof he rode to Piccadilly, where he descended, made his way into Jermyn Street, and then stopping at a private house, rang softly, took the puppy out of his pocket, a dirty card from another, and waited till the door was answered.
“Tell the captain as I’ve brought the dawg,” he said to the servant, who left him standing outside; but returned soon after, to usher him into the presence of Captain Vanleigh, who smiled and rubbed his hands softly, as he wished Tiny Rea could have been witness of that which had been brought to him as news.