Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“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?”

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 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.