Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“Now, why couldn’t you say so at first,” said Sam, “instead of dodging and hiding, and making a blind man’s buffer of me? That’s it, is it? Mr Barney of the betting ring – ‘Ten to one bar one’ – means to be nasty, does he? Well, all I’ve got to say is, just let him try it on, that’s all!”

“Now, there it is,” said Mrs Jenkles; “that’s just what I want to avoid. Tell you about it, and you want to do the very thing as will upset that poor girl; and oh! Sam, do be careful, she – ”

Mrs Jenkles added something in a whisper.

“I’ll be careful enough,” said Sam; “and look here – how long shall you be?”

“I’m ready now, Sam,” said his wife.

“Yes, but I’ve got to go down to the yard, and get the keb changed; take me ’bout three-quarters of an hour, it will, and then I’m back.”

Sam went off, muttering to himself; the only words audible being —

“Jest let him, that’s all!”

And within the prescribed time he was driving Mrs Jenkles up to Mrs Lane’s wretched lodgings.

Mrs Jenkles passed in, after a word or two with her husband, and saw at a glance Barney of the black chin smoking in his shop, and Mrs Barney looking over his shoulder. She took no notice of them, and went upstairs, to find Mrs Lane looking very pale and much excited, holding Netta’s hand.

“And how’s my pretty to-night?” said Mrs Jenkles, after a quick glance had passed between her and the mother.

“Quite – quite well,” said the girl, placing both her hands in those of Mrs Jenkles, and holding her face to be kissed; but her unnaturally bright eyes and flushed face contradicted her words, and she kept glancing timidly towards the door.

“That’s right, my dear,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Ah! and I see you’ve got the trunk packed, and all ready. I’ve got some flowers for you at home, and everything waiting; so don’t you go looking like that.”

“She has been a little frightened today,” said Mrs Lane; “the people downstairs – ”

“Oh, don’t you mind them,” said Mrs Jenkles. “They don’t like losing good lodgers, now it comes to the point, with all their grumbling. Have you paid your bit of rent?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Lane; and she glanced anxiously at her child, whose alarm seemed to increase.

“I see,” said Mrs Jenkles, in her most business-like way. “Now, look here, the thing is to get it over quickly. Have you got everything there?” and she pointed to a trunk and carpet-bag.

“Yes, everything,” said Mrs Lane.

“Then I’ll call up Sam to take them down to the cab.”

“No, no – stop!” exclaimed Netta. “Oh! mamma, had we not better stop? That man – what he said this morning!”

“There, there, my pretty,” said Mrs Jenkles, “don’t you be alarmed. You leave it to me.”

Then going to the window, she signalled to Sam, who was busy tying knots in his shabby whipthong.

As Mrs Jenkles turned from the window, the door was thrown open, and Mrs Sturt, looking very aggressive, entered the room, closely followed by her lord, smoking his black pipe of strong, rank tobacco.

Netta shrank timidly back into her seat, catching at her mothers hand, while the result of the tobacco-smoke was to set her coughing painfully.

“Now if you please,” said Mrs Sturt, “I want to know what this means?”

And she pointed to the trunk and the other manifest signs of departure.

“I told you a week ago, Mrs Sturt, that we intended to leave,” said Mrs Lane, speaking with a forced calmness, as she pressed her child’s hand encouragingly.

“And so you think a week’s notice is enough after the way as we’ve been troubled to get our bit of rent?” said Mrs Sturt, raising her voice. “Are we to be left with our place empty, after harbouring a pack of lodgers with no more gratitude than – than – than nothing?” continued the woman, at a loss for a simile.

“I have nothing to do with that,” said Mrs Lane, with dignity. “Mrs Sturt, I have rigidly kept to the arrangement I made with you, and you have no right to expect more.”

“Oh, haven’t I?” said the woman. “Do you hear that, Barney? I’ll just let ’em see!”

Barney growled, and showed his teeth.

“Lookye here,” he said, hoarsely; “you aint agoing to leave here, so now then. And you, missus,” tinning to Mrs Jenkles, “you’re gallus clever, you are; but you may let your lodgings to some one else.”

Netta’s clutch of her mother’s hand grew convulsive, and her face wore so horrified an expression that Mrs Jenkles did not reply to the challenge directed at her, but stepped to the poor girl’s side.

“Don’t you be frightened, my dear,” she whispered; and then to herself – “Why don’t Sam come?”

“Mr Sturt,” said Mrs Lane, firmly in voice, though she trembled as she spoke to the fellow, “you have no right to try and force us to stay if we wish to leave.”

“Oh! aint I,” said Barney. “I’ll let you see about that. Here, give us that,” he said, turning to snatch a paper from his wife’s hand. “Let alone what he telled me too, about yer – ”

“He! Who?” exclaimed Mrs Lane, excitedly.

Netta started from her chair.

“Never you mind,” said Barney, showing his great teeth in a grin. “You think I don’t know all about yer, now, don’t yer? But you’re precious mistaken!”

“But tell me, man, has any one – ”

“There, there, it’s all right, Mrs Lane – you’ve got to stop here, that’s what you’ve got to do. What have you got to say to that, for another thing?”

As Barney spoke, he thrust the paper down before Mrs Lane, and went on smoking furiously.

“What’s this? I don’t owe you anything,” said Mrs Lane, whose courage seemed failing.

“Don’t owe us anything, indeed!” said Mrs Sturt, in her vinegary voice; “why, there’s seven pun’ ten, and seven for grosheries!”

“Oh! this is cruel as it’s scandalous and false!” cried Mrs Lane, in reply to Mrs Jenkles’s look. “I do not owe a shilling.”

“Which you do – there!” cried Mrs Sturt; “and not a thing goes off these premishes till it’s paid.”

“And they don’t go off, nor them nayther, when it is paid,” said Barney, grinning offensively. “So now, Mrs What’s-yer-name, you’d better be off!”

Mrs Jenkles had been very quiet, but her face had been growing red and fiery during all this, and she gave a sigh of relief as she patted Netta on the shoulder; for at that moment Sam came slowly into the room, closed the door, and bowed and smiled to Mrs Lane and her daughter.

“Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles; and then she stopped almost aghast at her husband’s proceedings, for with a sharp flourish of the hand, he knocked Barney’s pipe from his mouth, the stem breaking close to his teeth, and he looking perfectly astonished at the cabman’s daring.

“What are yer smoking like that for, here? Can’t yer see it makes the young lady cough?”

“I’ll – ” exclaimed Barney, rushing at Sam menacingly; and Netta uttered a shriek.

“Don’t you mind him, Miss,” said Sam, laughing, “it’s only his fun. It’s a little playful way he’s got with him, that’s all. Which is the boxes?”

“That trunk, and the carpet-bag, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles; and Sam advanced to them.

“Hadn’t we better give up?” said Mrs Lane, pitifully; and she glanced at Netta who trembled violently.

“I should think not, indeed,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Don’t you be afraid – they daren’t stop you.”

“But we just dare,” said Mrs Sturt, furiously. “Not a thing goes off till my bill’s paid.”

“And they don’t go off when it is! now then,” said Barney.

“Don’t let him touch those things,” said Mrs Sturt.

“Sam, you take that trunk down directly,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Now, my dear; come along.”

“All right,” said Sam, and he advanced to the trunk; but Barney pushed himself forward, and sat down upon the box; while, as Mrs Jenkles placed her arm round Netta, and led her towards the door, Mrs Sturt jerked herself to it, and placed her back against the panels.

“You’re a nice ’un, you are, Barney Sturt, Esquire, of the suburban races,” said Sam, good-temperedly; “but it aint no good, so get up, and let’s go quietly.”

Barney growled out an oath, and showed his teeth, as Mrs Lane came up to Sam, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you much,” she said, with a shudder; “but I give up: we cannot go.”

“Believe you can’t,” said Barney, grinning. “D’yer hear that, cabby?”

“Yes, I hear,” said Sam, gruffly; “and if it weren’t that I don’t want to make a row afore the ladies, I’d have you off that trunk afore you knew where you was. And as to leaving the box alone, my missus said I was to take it down to the keb. Is it to go, old lady?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Mrs Jenkles, with flashing eyes.

“Now, Barney, d’yer hear?” said Sam.

“Who do you call Barney? You don’t know me,” said he.

“Oh no,” said Sam; “I don’t know you. I didn’t give yer a lift in my ’ansom, and drive yer away down at ’Ampton, when the mob had torn yer clothes into rags for welching, and they was going to pitch yer in the Thames, eh?”

Barney scowled, and shuffled about on his seat.

“Now, then,” said Sam; “are you going to get up?”

“No,” said Barney.

“Mrs Jenkles, pray end this scene!” exclaimed Mrs Lane, pitifully – “for her sake,” she added in a whisper.

“I’ll end it, mum,” said Sam.

And he gave a sharp whistle, with the result that the door was opened so violently that Mrs Sturt was jerked forward against Sam, the cause being a policeman, who now stood in the entry, with the further effect that Barney leaped off the trunk, and stood looking aghast.

Mrs Jenkles gave a sigh of relief, and a gratified look at her husband.

“Here’s the case, policeman,” said Sam. “Ladies here wants to leave these lodgings: they’ve given notice and paid their rent; but the missus here brings out a bill for things as the lady says she’s never had, and wants to stop their boxes. It’s county court, aint it? They can’t stop the clothes?”

“Nobody wants to stop no boxes,” said Barney, uneasily. “Only it was precious shabby on ’em going like this.”

“Then you don’t want to stop the boxes, eh?” said Sam.

Mrs Sturt gave her husband a sharp dig with her elbow.

“Be quiet, can’t you!” he snarled; and then to Sam, “’course I don’t.”

“Then ketch hold o’ t’other end,” said Sam, placing the bag on the trunk.

And like a lamb Barney helped to bear his late lodger’s impedimenta downstairs, and then to place them on the cab, as Mrs Jenkles led Netta half fainting from the room.

Five minutes after, Sam had banged-to the rattling door, shutting in the little party, climbed to his box, and settled himself in his place, with a good-humoured nod to the policeman, who stood beating his gloves together, while Barney stood at the side of his wife.

“Here’s the price of a pint for you, Barney,” said Sam, throwing him a couple of pence – money which Barney instantly secured; and then, vowing vengeance against the donor, he slunk off in the opposite direction; but only to double round by a back street, and track the cab like a dog, till he saw it set down its inmates at the humble little home of Mrs Jenkles.

Frank Pratt’s Cross-Examination, and Après

Captain Vanleigh had declared solemnly that Penreife was “the deucedest dullest place” he ever saw in his life; and Sir Felix said it was “’nough to kill ’fler;” but, all the same, there was no talk to Trevor of moving; they lounged about the house chatting to each other, and consumed their host’s cigars to a wonderful extent; they ate his dinners and drank his wine; and Vanleigh generally contrived to go to bed a few guineas richer every night from the whist table.

Pratt protested against the play, but Trevor laughed at him.

“My dear boy,” he said, “why not let such matters take their course? Van is my guest; surely I should be a bad host if I did not let him win a little spare cash. Have you anything else to grumble about?”

“Heaps,” said Pratt, trying to put his little legs on a chair in front of the garden seat where he and his friend were having a morning cigar; but they were too short, and he gave up the attempt.

“Go on, then,” said Trevor, lazily, “have your grumble out.”

“Hadn’t I better go back to town?” said Pratt, sharply.

“Why, are you not comfortable?”

“Yes – no – yes – no. I’m precious uncomfortable. I see too much,” said Pratt.

“Well, let’s hear what you see that makes you so uncomfortable,” said Trevor, carelessly.

“Dick, old boy,” said Pratt, “you won’t be offended with me for what I say?”

“Not I,” was the answer.

“What are you thinking about?” said Pratt, watching the other’s face.

“I was only thinking about you, and wondering why, if you don’t like what you see, you can’t close your eyes.”

“That’s what you are doing, Dick!” said Pratt, eagerly.

“My dear Frank, have you discovered powder barrels beneath the house – is there a new plot?”

“Don’t be so foolish, Dick. Why don’t you let those two fellows go?”

“Because they are my guests, and stay as long as they like.”

“And are doing their very best to undermine your happiness.”

“Nonsense, man.”

“Dick, old fellow, answer me honestly. Don’t you care a great deal for that little girl up at Tolcarne?”

There was a few moments’ pause, during which the colour came into Trevor’s cheek.

“Honestly, I do,” he said at last. “Well, and what of that?”

“Well, Dick, are you blind? Van’s making all the play that he can, and father and aunt favour him. He’s there nearly every day. He’s there now.”

Trevor gave a start, and turned round to face his friend, his lips twitching and fingers working; but he burst out laughing the next moment.

“Anything else, Franky?”

“Laugh away,” said Pratt, who looked nettled – “only give me credit for my warning when you find I am right.”

“That I will,” said Trevor. “Now then, go on! What’s the next plot against my peace of mind?”

“Suppose I ask you a question or two!”

“All right – go on!”

“Have you noticed anything wrong with Humphrey?”

“Been precious sulky lately.”

“Sulky! The fellow’s looked daggers at you, and has barely answered you civilly.”

“Well, he has been queer, certainly.”

“Why is it?” said Pratt.

“Bilious – out of order – how should I know?”

“The poor fellow’s in love!”

“Poor Strephon,” said Trevor, idly.

“And he sees a powerful rival in the path,” continued Pratt.

“The deuce he does!” said Trevor, laughing. “Is that Van, too? But hang it, Frank!” he cried, starting up, “seriously, I won’t stand any nonsense of that kind. If Van’s been making love to that little lass, I’ll put a stop to it. Why, now I think of it, I did see him looking at her!”

“No!” said Pratt, quietly. “It isn’t Van – he’s too busy at Tolcarne!”

“Silence, croaker!” cried, Trevor, laughing in a constrained fashion. “But, come – who is the powerful rival?”

“Dick, old fellow, I’m one of those, and no humbug, who have a habit of trying to ferret out other people’s motives.”

“Don’t preach, Franky. Is it Flick? because if it is, the girl’s laughing at him.”

“No,” said Pratt; “it isn’t Flick.”

“Then who the deuce is it?”

“You!”

Trevor burst into a hearty laugh.

“Why, Frank!” he exclaimed, “if ever there was a mare’s-nesting old humbug, it’s you. Why, whatever put that in your head?”

Pratt sat looking at him in silence for a few moments.

“Dick,” he said, “if ever there was a deliciously unsuspicious, trusting fellow, you are he.”

“Never mind about that,” said Trevor. “I want to get this silly notion out of your head.”

“And I want to get it into yours.”

“Well, we’ll both try,” said Trevor. “You begin: I’ll settle you after.”

“To begin, then,” said Pratt. “You’ve several times met that girl in the lane yonder.”

“Yes; now you mention it – I have.”

“About the time when you’ve been going up to Tolcarne?”

“Yes; and it was evident that she was there to meet Humphrey. Why, I laughed and joked the pretty little lass about it.”

“Yes; and did you ever meet Humphrey afterwards?”

“Bravo! my little cross-examining barrister. Yes I did – two or three times. I’m not sworn, mind,” added Trevor, laughing.

“True men don’t need swearing,” said Pratt.

“Thanks for the compliment. Well?”

“How did Humphrey look?”

“Well – yes – now you mention it – to be sure! He looked black as thunder. Oh, but, Franky, I’ll soon clear that up. I wouldn’t hurt the poor lad’s feelings for the world.”

“Wait a bit,” said Pratt. “What, more mystery? Well, go on.”

“Did it ever strike you as strange that you should encounter a pretty, well-spoken little girl like that in your walks?”

“No; I told you I thought she was out to see Humphrey.”

“Or that you should meet her in the passages at home here, to bring you letters, or messages from Mrs Lloyd?”

“Well, now you mention it, yes: it has struck me as odd once or twice.”

“Never struck you that the girl came of her own accord?”

“Never, and I’m sure she never did. She rather avoided me than not; so come, Master Counsellor, you’re out there.”

“Did it never strike you that she was sent?”

Trevor did not answer, but sat gazing in his friend’s face for a few moments, as if he were trying to catch his drift, and then in a flash he seemed to read all the other meant; for his brow grew cloudy, and he sat down hastily, then got up, and took a few strides up and down before reseating himself.

“Well,” said Pratt, “can you see it?”

“I see what you mean, Franky; but I can’t quite think it. The old woman would never have the impudence to plan such a thing.”

“Dick, old fellow, it’s as plain as the day. She’s made up her mind that her little niece shall be mistress of Penreife, and she is playing her cards accordingly.”

“Then I’m afraid, if that is her game, she’ll lose the trick.”

“Dick, old fellow,” said Pratt, “you’re not annoyed?”

“But I am – deucedly annoyed – not with you, Franky; but don’t say any more now, I mean to think it over.”

“Being a friend to an unsuspicious man is about the most unpleasant post on the face of the earth,” said Pratt, moralising, as he saw his friend stride away. “Everybody hates you for enlightening him, and even he cannot forgive you for waking him from his pleasant dreams. Now where has he gone? – oh, to bully that plotting old woman. Well, I’ve done right, I think; and now I’ll have my stroll.”

Frank Pratt started off to do what he called “a bit of melancholy Jaques,” in the pleasant woodland lanes; and was not long in finding an agreeable perch, where he seated himself, lit his big pipe, and began communing with himself till the pipe was smoked out; and then he sat on and thought without it, till a coming light footstep took his attention.

“Now I make a solemn affidavit,” he said, “that I did not come here to play the spy upon anybody’s actions. If they choose to come and act under my very nose, why, I must see the play. Who’s this?”

“This” proved to be little Polly, who walked quickly by him, glancing suspiciously round as she continued her walk.

“Scene the first!” said Pratt; “enter village maiden with flowers. To her village lover,” he continued as a heavy step was heard. “No, by Jove! it’s Dick.”

He was right, for Trevor came along at a swinging pace, and apparently in a few moments he would overtake the girl.

“If I didn’t believe Dick Trevor to be as open as the day, how suspicious that would look!” thought Pratt.

Trevor passed on without seeing him, and then there was a pause. The sun’s rays darted through the overhanging boughs; birds flitted and sang their little love songs overhead; and in a half-dreamy way Pratt sat thinking upon his perch till voices and coming footsteps once more aroused him.

“It’s them!” he said to himself. “I’ll go.”

He made as if to descend, but it struck him that he should be seen if he moved, and he sat still watching – to see at the end of a few moments Tiny Rea coming along the footpath, evidently looking agitated as she walked on in advance.

“She’s never seen Dick and her together!” Pratt said, mentally; and he felt as if he could have run and spoken to the girl; but that which next met his eyes made him utter a low, deep sigh, and he looked as if made of the mossy stone upon which he sat, as Fin Rea followed her sister, hanging on Mr Mervyns arm, and gazing eagerly in his face, while he evidently told her something which was of interest.

They passed slowly by, as if in no hurry to overtake Tiny; and Pratt watched them till quite out of sight, when he got down in a heavy, stunned fashion, to go slowly farther and farther into the wood, where he threw himself down amongst the ferns, and buried his face in his hands, as he groaned —

“More than old enough to be her father!”

Misunderstanding

Meanwhile Trevor had gone along the lane, evidently meaning to make a call at Tolcarne. He was walking with his head bent down, thinking very deeply over what Pratt had said, when he stopped short with a start; for there, just in front, and gazing at him in a startled way, was little Polly.

He nodded to her and passed on; but ere he had gone a dozen yards, he turned sharp round and retraced his steps, calling to the girl to stop.

“I’ll get to the bottom of it at once,” he said. “Here, Polly.”

The little girl turned, and stood trembling before him, her face like fire, but her eyes full of tears.

“Did you call me, sir?” she faltered.

“Yes, my little maid, I want a few words with you.”

“Oh, sir, please – pray don’t speak to me!” faltered the girl, bursting into tears.

“Why, you silly child, what are you afraid of?” cried Trevor, catching her by the wrist. “Look here, tell me this, and don’t be afraid.”

“No – no, sir,” faltered the girl.

“Tell me now, honestly – there, there, stop that crying, for goodness’ sake! Any one would think I was an ogre. I hate to see a woman crying.”

“Please, sir, I am trying,” sobbed the girl.

“Now, then, I want to know this – you have often met me here – do you come to meet Humphrey?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why the deuce – there – there, I don’t mean that – tell me why you do come?”

“Aunt sends me to walk here, sir; but please don’t say I told you, or she will be so angry.”

“Then you don’t want to come and walk here?”

“Oh no, sir! I would much rather not,” exclaimed the girl, eagerly.

“Your aunt sends you, then?” said Trevor, looking at her searchingly, while she gazed up in his eyes like a dove before a hawk.

“Ye-yes, sir!”

“Do you know why?”

The girl’s face grew fiery red now, even to the roots of her hair, and as she looked appealingly at him, he flung her hand angrily from him.

“There, go back,” he exclaimed. “I’m not cross with you, but – there, go home.”

The girl sprang away, evidently frightened to death, and weeping bitterly, to pass these people – she could not tell whom – as she held down her head; but Trevor saw, and he knew that they saw him, and must have witnessed part of the interview; for the party consisted of Tiny Rea, her sister, and Mr Mervyn.

“Was ever anything so provoking?” muttered Trevor, as they bowed and passed, taking a turning that led in another direction. “Oh! this is unbearable.”

For a moment he stood irresolute, hesitating as to whether he should hurry after them; but he was, to use his own words, too much taken aback, and ended by following a narrow pathway into the woods, down which he had not gone half a dozen yards before he became aware that there had been another spectator to his interview with Polly, and that no less a person than Humphrey.

“What the devil are you doing there, sir?” roared Trevor, who was half beside himself with a rage which grew hotter as the bluff young Cornishman stood leaning on his gun, and said, sturdily —

“Watching you, sir.”

“Watching me?”

“Yes, sir. I did not mean to, but I was obliged when I saw what I did.”

“Then you saw me talking to that girl?”

“Yes, sir, I did; and you had no right to do so.”

“How dare you speak to me like that, sir?” roared Trevor; and thoroughly roused now, he caught the young keeper by the throat, and for a few moments the ferns were trampled under foot as they wrestled together, till the veins stood up in knots in Humphrey’s white forehead, as his hat fell off, and, grinding his teeth together, he put out his strength, and, with all the skill of a Cornish wrestler, threw Trevor heavily on his back.