Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

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.

In the Woods

The captain would have been more elate if he had been able to follow the fortunes of Sam Jenkles’s cab; for having received his instructions, Sam bowled along by Euston Square in the direction of the Hampstead Road, till he had to go at a foot’s pace on account of some alteration to the roadway, the result being that for a few moments the cab was abreast of a barouche containing four ladies, one of whom started, and said, in a quick whisper —

“Oh, look, Tiny, that’s the church with the figures I told you about.”

But Fin Rea was too late, her sister was leaning over the side of the carriage, gazing intently at Sam Jenkles’s cab, and the dark-haired girl, with the wondrous colour and look of animation, looking so lovingly in her companion’s face; and as the carriage swept on, unseen by the occupants of the cab, poor Tiny sank back, not fainting, but with a pitiful sigh and a look of stony despair that made Fin clasp her hands, as she set her little white teeth together, and muttered —

“The wretch!”

Lady Rea saw nothing of this; but Aunt Matty, who was beside her, did, and a look of quiet triumph came into her withered features. But nothing was said, and as for the cab, it rolled on and on quickly, till it came to the tree-shadowed hill beneath Lady Coutts’ park, and then, after a long walk up to the top of Highgate Hill, on and on again, till London was far behind, the soft green meads and the sheltered lanes reached; and while Sam pulled up at a roadside public-house, amongst half a dozen fragrant, high-laden hay carts, Richard led off his charge, with sinking heart, over a stile, and away midst waving cornfields, bright with poppy and bugloss; and by hedges wreathed with great white convolvuli, and the twining, tendrilled bryonies, or wild clematis.

Richard was grave, and his heart sank as he saw the joyous air of the young girl by his side, felt the light touch of her little hand, and when he met her eyes read in them so much gentle, trusting love, that he felt as if he had been a scoundrel to her, and that he was about to blight her life.

He was not a vain man, and he had used no arts to gain the sympathy that it was easy to read in the sweet face beside him but he could not help telling himself that it was but too plain; and he groaned in his heart as he thought of that which he had determined to say.

“Hark, listen!” cried the girl, as a lark rose from the corn close by. “Isn’t it beautiful? How different to those poor caged things in our street. Look, too, at the green there – four, five, twenty different tints upon those trees. Oh, you are losing half the beauties of those banks! Look at them, scarlet with poppies! There, too, the crimson valerian. How beautiful the foxgloves are! Why, there’s a white one. Who’d ever think that London could be so near!”

She stopped, panting, and held her hand to her side.

“You are tired?” he said, anxiously.

“Oh no,” she said, darting a grateful look in return for his sympathy – “it is nothing. I feel as if I should like to set off and run, but I think sometimes I am not so strong as I used to be. Mamma says I have outgrown my strength; but it is my cough.”

She said these last words plaintively, and there was a sad, pinched look in her face as she gazed up at him; but it lit up again directly as she met his eager, earnest eyes fixed upon her, and her trembling little hand stole farther through his arm.

“That’s right,” he said, patting it – “lean on me. I’m big and strong.”

“May I?” she said, softly.

“To be sure,” he answered.

“It’s very kind of you,” she whispered, “and I like it. I go out so little, and yet I long to; and if I don’t stay here long, I shall have seen so little of the world.”

“Netta, my child,” he exclaimed, “what are you saying?”

The girl’s other hand was laid upon his arm, as they stood beneath a shady tree, and she looked up at him in a dreamy way.

“I think sometimes,” she said, slowly, “that I shall not be here long. It’s my cough, I suppose. It’s so pleasant to feel, though, that people – some one cares for me; only it makes me feel that I shall not want to go.”

“Come, come, this is nonsense,” he said, cheerily. “Why, you’re not an invalid.”

“I should be, I think, if we were rich,” she said, sadly. “But let’s go on along by that high sand bank, where the flowers are growing; and here is a wood all deep shades of green.”

“But you will be tired?”

“No, no; you said I might rest on you. I should not be weak if I could live out here, and dear mamma were not compelled to work. Poor mamma!”

They walked on in silence, and she leaned more heavily upon his arm. Twice their eyes met, and as Netta’s fell before those of her companion it was not until they had told the sweet, pure love of her young heart. They were no fiery, rapturous glances – no looks of passionate ecstasy; but the soft, beaming maiden love of an innocent, trusting girl, whose young heart was opening, like a flower, to offer its fragrant sweets to the man who had first spoken gentle words to her – words that had seemed to her, who had not had girlhood’s joys, like the words of love. And that young heart had opened under the influence, like the scented rosebud in the sun; but there was a fatal canker there, and as the flower bloomed, the withering was at hand.

“Let us stop here,” cried Netta, drinking in the beauty of the scene; “it is like being young again, when we were so happy – when mamma watched for papa’s coming, and there seemed no trouble in life. Oh, it has been a cruel time!”

She shuddered, and clung to the arm which supported her.

“This is very wrong of me,” she said, looking up, and smiling the next moment. “I ought not to talk of the past like that.”

“Shall we sit down here?” he said, pointing to a fallen tree trunk.

Then, with the low hum of the insects round them, they entered the edge of the wood.

He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments, and twice her eyes were raised to his with so appealing and tender a look that he felt unmanned. He had brought her there to tell her something, and her love disarmed him; so that he snatched at a chance to put off that which he wished to say.

“You were telling me of the happy past,” he said. “Your were well off once?”