Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“Yes, and so happy,” said the girl, her eyes filling with tears. “I ought not, perhaps, to tell you, though.”

“You may trust me, Netta,” he said, taking her hand.

“I always felt that I could,” she cried, eagerly, as her face flushed more deeply, and her hand trembled in his; for he had again called her Netta, and her heart throbbed with joy, even though he was so grave. “Shall I tell you?”

“Yes – tell me; but are you weary?”

“Oh, no, no,” she said, excitedly. “But I must not mention names. Mamma wishes ours kept secret, for she is very proud. Papa is an officer, and as I remember him first, he was so handsome, even as mamma was beautiful. We used to live in a pretty cottage, just outside town, and papa was so kind. But how it came about I never knew, he gradually grew cold, and hard, and stern, so that I was afraid of him when he came to see us, and he used to be angry to mamma, and then stay away for weeks together, then months, till at last we rarely saw him. The pretty cottage was sold, with everything in it – even my presents; and mamma and I lived in lodgings. And then trouble used to come about money; for poor mamma would be half distracted when none was sent her, and this dreadful neglected state went on, till mamma said she could bear it no more. Then she used to go out and give lessons; but that was terribly precarious work, and soon after she used to work with her needle.”

“And your father?” said Richard.

“Never came,” said Netta – “at least, very rarely. But I ought not to tell you more.”

“Can you not trust me?” he said, with a smile.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” cried the girl, impetuously, and she nestled closer to him. “I can trust you. It was like this: – Papa was a Roman Catholic, and mamma had always brought me up in her own Protestant religion; and by degrees I found out he had made a point of that, and had told mamma that their marriage was void, as it had only been performed according to one church. He used to write and tell her that he was free, and that if she would give up every claim on him, and promise to write to that effect, he would settle a regular income upon her.”

“And your mamma?”

“I heard her say once to herself that it would be disgracing me, and that she would sooner we starved. That is why we have worked so hard, and had to live in such dreadful places,” said the girl, shuddering.

“My poor child!” he said, tenderly. “Yours has been a hard life, and you so delicate.”

“I shall grow strong now,” she said, half shyly; “but why do you call me child?”

She looked up in his face with a smile, half playful, half tender – a look that made him shiver.

“You are not cross with me?” she said, gazing at him piteously.

“Cross? No,” he said, gently.

And he once more took her hand, trying hard to begin that which he had brought her there to tell, but as far off as ever. At the end of a minute, though, she gave him the opportunity, by saying naïvely —

“You have never told me anything about yourself. Mamma wondered what you were – so different to everybody we meet.”

“Let me tell you, Netta,” he said, earnestly. “And promise me this – that we are still to be great friends.”

She looked at him wonderingly.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Why should we not be? You have always been so kind.”

He paused for a moment or two; and then, there in the calm of that shadowy wood, with the sunbeams coming like golden arrows through the leafy boughs, and the distant twitter of some bird for interruption, he told her of his own life and troubles, watching her bright, animated face as she listened eagerly, sometimes laying her hand confidingly upon his arm, till his tale approached the chapters of his love; and now, impassioned in his earnestness, he half forgot the listener at his side, till, in the midst of his declaration of love and trust and fidelity to Valentina Rea, he became aware of a faint sigh, and he had just time to catch the poor girl as she was slipping from the tree trunk to the ground.

“Poor child!” he said, raising her in his arms, gazing in the pale face, and kissing her forehead. “It was a cruel kindness, for Heaven knows I never thought of this.”

He sat holding her for a few moments, as animation came slowly back, till at last her eyes opened, looking wonderingly in his; and then, as recollection returned, she put up her two hands as if in prayer, and said, piteously —

“Take me home – please, take me home.”

“Netta, my child,” cried Richard, sinking at her feet, “recollect your promise – that we were to be friends. I have hurt you – I have wounded you. I call God to witness that I never meant it!”

A sad smile quivered for a moment on her poor white lips, as he kissed her hands again and again; and then, as the full reality of all she had heard came upon her, she uttered a low, heart-breaking wail, and sank upon the ground amidst the ferns and grass, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud.

“My God, what have I done?” exclaimed Richard, hoarsely. “Netta, my child, I tried to be kind to you, and it has all turned to gall and bitterness. For Heaven’s sake, tell me you forgive me – that you do not think me base and cruel. Netta, pray – pray speak to me.”

She dropped her hands in her lap, and raised her blank white face to his.

“You believe me?” he cried, hoarsely.

“Yes, yes,” she said, piteously. “It was my fault. I thought – I thought – ”

“Hush, my poor darling!” he whispered, “I know what you would say. I should have known better.”

“No,” she said, sweetly, and her trembling voice was so piteous that the tears rose to the strong man’s eyes. “It was I who should have known better, Richard – I, who have only a few short months to stay on earth.”

“Netta!” he cried, and his voice was wild and strange.

“Yes, it is true,” she said, simply – “it is quite true; but you came like sunshine to my poor dark life, and I could not help it – I thought you loved me.”

“And I do, my child, dearly, as I would a sister!” he exclaimed, passionately, as he raised her up, and kissed her forehead. “Netta, I would have given my right hand sooner than have caused you pain.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” she said, softly, extricating herself from his arms; “I should have known better. Take me home – take me home!”

She caught at his arm after trying to walk alone, and looked pitifully in his face.

“You see,” she whispered, “it was a dream – a dream; but so bright, and now – ”

She reeled, and would have fallen but for the strong arm flung round her; and Richard held her for a few moments till she recovered.

“Richard,” she whispered, sadly, “forgive me if I was unmaidenly and bold; but it seemed so short a time that I should be here, that I could not act as others do. But take me home – take me home.”

She seemed half fainting, and raised he handkerchief to her lips, to take it down stained with blood. Then, shuddering slightly, she turned her face to his, smile faintly, and laid one little thin hand upon his breast, before hanging almost inanimate upon his arm.

Richard uttered a groan as he raised her in his arms, and bore her rapidly into the lane, where, at the distance of a hundred yards, stood the cab, with Batty grazing comfortably, and Sam Jenkles dozing on his box.

“Taken ill – quick!” gasped Richard, as he lifted his burden into the vehicle. “Quick – London – the first doctor’s.”

The Use of Money

That evening Frank Pratt was busily preparing himself for a City dinner, when Richard rushed panting into the room, haggard, his face covered with perspiration, and a look of despair in his eyes that frightened his friend.

“Why, Dick, old man,” he cried, catching his hands, “what is it?”

“Money, Frank – give me money – ten – twenty – fifty pounds; doctors – doctors. I’ve killed her – killed her!” he groaned.

Pratt asked no questions, but unlocking a desk, he took out and placed five crisp bank notes in his friend’s hand.

“I knew you would,” panted Richard. “God bless you, Frank! Best doctor – consumption?”

“Morley, Cavendish Square,” said Pratt, with sharp brevity.

Then waving his hand, Richard dashed from the room; while Pratt quietly sat down, half-dressed, to think it out, which meant to light his pipe.

Meanwhile his friend had rushed down, taken Sam Jenkles’s cab, which was waiting, and, as he was being driven through the streets, went over the incidents of his return – how they had called on a suburban surgeon, who had administered a styptic, and ordered them to go back very gently – how Mrs Lane had met him with a look of reproachful agony in her eyes, as he lifted out the half insensible girl, and bore her upstairs; and then, as he turned to go, after laying poor Netta on the bed, she had held out her hands to him, taking his in hers, and kissing them – so unmanning him that he had sunk upon his knees by her side, and hid his face.

He could hardly recall the rest – only that he had had to go to four doctors before he could find one ready to come to the shabby street; and when at last he had been brought to the poor girl’s bedside, he had recommended the hospital.

It was this that had sent the young man to Frank Pratt’s for money, the value of which he now thoroughly realised for the first time in his life.

The old white-haired physician came with him at once – Ratty, the horse, never once causing trouble; and Netta gave the messenger a grateful smile, as she saw the mission upon which he had been. Then, with his mind in a whirl, Richard waited to see the physician, taking him over into his own rooms, that his questions might be unheard.

“But she will recover?” said Richard, eagerly.

The old physician shook his head.

“It is but a matter of time,” he said, gravely. “I can do nothing. Quiet, change, nutritious food, are the best doctors for a case like hers. A southern climate might benefit her a little; but it would be cruelty to send her away from home, and might do more harm than good. The poor girl is in a deep decline.”

Richard was alone. What an end to the pleasant day he had projected! – one which should do his poor little neighbour good, and wherein at the same time he could quietly tell her of his position, and so stop at once any nascent idea she might have that he was seeking to win her love. How could he know, he asked himself, that matters had gone so far – that the poor child really cared for him – for him, who had not a disloyal thought to Valentina Rea; who, like the poor sufferer, lay that night wakeful, and with a weary, gnawing pain at her heart – in the one case mingled of hopeless misery, in the other tinged with bitterness, and a feeling new to her – anger against the author of her pain.

Thus the days glided by, with Netta lying dangerously ill, too weak to be moved. Richard was over a dozen times a day, asking after her health, and he had insisted upon Mrs Lane taking money for the necessities of the case. Then came a day when a fly stopped at the door; and Richard from his window, expecting to see a fresh doctor, saw a quiet-looking man step out, enter, stay a quarter of an hour, and then return; and when, an hour later, he went over himself, it was to find Mrs Lane deeply agitated, and with traces of tears upon her face; but she made no confidant of him.

At last, while he was sitting writing one day, there came a letter for him, with Frank Pratt for bearer. It had come to his chambers by post, he said, enclosed in another, asking him to forward it.

Frank went away as soon as he had delivered it, seeming troubled; and on Richard opening the note, he found these words: —

“I think it right to tell you what you have done, though no one knows that I have written. I did trust you, Richard Trevor; for I thought you a true, good man, who would be as faithful to my dear sister as she would have been to you. If any one had told me you would give her up directly for somebody else, I could have struck him. But I’ll tell you what you’ve done, for you ought to know it for your punishment: you’ve broken the heart of the dearest, sweetest sister that ever lived, and I hate you with all mine.

“Fin Rea.

“P.S. – Tiny’s very ill, almost seriously, and all through you.”

He had hardly read the note a second time, when Mrs Fiddison came in dolefully, to say that Mrs Jenkles wanted to speak to him; and upon that lady being admitted, it was to say, with a curtsey —

“If you please, sir, Mrs Lane says Miss Netta has been begging for you to be sent for, if you’d come.”

Richard rose to follow the messenger, who said, softly —

“You must be very quiet, sir, for she’s greatly changed.”

In the Square Called Russell

There’s plenty of room in Russell Square for a walk, without the promenaders being seen by those without, either in the houses or on the pavement.

Russell Square had grown very attractive to Frank Pratt of late, and he used to smoke cigars there at all sorts of hours. He had been seen by the milk there at 6:15, railway time; Z 17 had glanced suspiciously at him at one a.m.; while the crossing-sweeper said she “knowed that there little stumpy gent by heart.”

It was one afternoon about three, though, that Pratt was sauntering along one side of the square, when he saw Vanleigh and Sir Felix go slowly up to Sir Hampton’s house; and a pang shot through the little fellow, as envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness took possession of his heart.

“Lucky beggars!” he groaned.

He felt better, though, the next minute, for the servant who answered the door had evidently said “Not at home!” card-cases had been withdrawn, and then the visitors had languidly descended the steps and continued their way.

“Lucky beggars!” said Pratt again. “Heigho! what a donkey I am to wander about here. Poor Dick, though, it’s to do him a good turn.”

He crossed the road to the railings of the garden, and as he walked there he cast a very languishing look up at the great, grim house, almost fancying he heard “Er-rum!” proceed from an open window; and if he had not said his presence there was on account of his friend, any looker-on would have vowed it was in his own interests.

He walked slowly on, thinking about Cornwall, and another visit he had projected there; of Fin Rea; about Richard and his disappointments; about his pretty neighbour; and lastly of a case he had in hand, when a little toy dog rushed amongst the shrubs inside the railings, and began snapping and barking at him with all the virulence of an old acquaintance.

“Get out, you little wretch!” thought Pratt, and then he fancied he recognised the dog.

“Why, it’s Pepine!” he mentally exclaimed.

And if any doubt remained it was solved by a voice crying —

“Naughty Pepine, come here directly!”

Then through the trees he caught a glimpse of a lavender dress gracefully draping an iron seat.

It was not the dog that made Frank Pratt flee with rapid strides, till a thought made him check his steps.

“Suppose some one else was walking there!”

In the hope that it might be possible, Pratt went slowly on, taking advantage of every break in the trees to peer anxiously through the railings, seeing, however, nothing but nursemaids in charge of naughty children, whom it was necessary to correct by screwing their arms at the sockets – a beneficial practice, no doubt, but whose good was not apparent at the time. There was a perambulator being propelled by a nursemaid reading the Family Herald, while the two children it contained were fast asleep – one hanging forward, sustained by a strap, and looking like a fat Punch in a state of congestion; the other leaning over the side, and having a red place ground in its ear by the perambulator wheel. Farther on there were more children, playing alone at throwing dirt, their protectress being engaged in a flirtation with a butcher in blue with a round, bullet head, whose well-oiled hair shone in the afternoon sun.

Pratt walked on, getting hopeless as he progressed, for soon he would come within range of Pepine, and perhaps be discovered when – What was that?

A sharp, short little cough that could be no other than Fin’s; and there, through the trees, were she and her sister, Tiny resting on Fin’s arm, and walking very slowly.

There was an opening in the shrubs farther on; and hurrying to this, though it was dangerously near Pepine and Aunt Matty, Pratt waited the coming of the sisters.

Alas, for human hopes! – they had turned back, and he had to hurry after them for some distance before he could find an opening sufficiently clear to display his figure, when he hazarded a cough; and on Fin looking sharply round, he followed it up with a “How d’ye do, Miss Rea?”

“It’s Mr Pratt!” he heard Fin whisper. And then came back a quiet response.

“Do you always walk like this – within prison bars?” said Pratt, walking on parallel with them.

“It can’t be prison when one holds the keys, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, sharply.

“You’ll let me shake hands?” he said, after a pause. “I never see you now.”

“How can you?” said Fin, sharply, “when you never call.”

“What was the use of my calling, when your servant could only speak me one speech?” said Pratt.

“And pray, what was that?” said Fin, with her nose in the air. “Not at home.”

Fin gave her foot a little stamp on the gravel, and whispered to her sister. By this time they had reached the gate, just as a nursemaid unlocked it to pass through with her charge.

“Thanks,” said Pratt, quietly. And, walking in, he was the next moment with Fin and her sister; the former looking defiant, and half drawing back her hand, the latter so pale and ill that, forgetting Fin, Pratt took both her hands affectionately, as, with a husky voice, he exclaimed —

“My dear Miss Rea, I didn’t know you had been so ill.”

Tiny answered with a gentle smile; and Fin, who had been setting up all the thorns about her, ready to tear and lacerate this intruder, now looked quite humid of eye, and shook hands warmly.

“I – I didn’t know you’d be so glad to see me,” said Pratt, flushing with pleasure.

“I didn’t say I was,” said Fin, archly.

“You looked so,” it was on Pratt’s lips to say; but he checked it, and they strolled on – away from Aunt Matty, after Fin had mischievously proposed that Pratt should go and see her – till Tiny complained of fatigue and sat down.

Here was an opportunity not to be lost; and, after a little solicitation, Fin consented to leave her sister and walk on, conditionally that they kept in sight.

Pratt, on the strength of his prosperity, had determined to sound his little companion; but before they had gone a dozen yards, he found that his own affairs were to be of no account.

“What’s become of that wretch of a friend of yours?” said Fin, sharply.

“Do you mean Sir Felix Landells?” said Pratt, borrowing a shaft from her own quiver.

“No, I don’t,” said Fin, flushing scarlet, “nor any such silly donkey, I mean – ”

Pratt would have gone down on his knees in the gravel, only there was a nursemaid close by, and a big, fat child was sucking its thumb, and staring at them; but he burst out, in a husky voice —

“Oh, Miss Rea – Finetta – pray, pray say that again.”

“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” said Fin, sharply, and becoming more red – “why should I?”

“Because it makes me so happy,” said Pratt. “I thought it was to be he.”

“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Fin. “A nice feeling of respect you must have for me, to couple me with that scented dandy.”

“Finetta, don’t be hard upon me,” gasped Pratt – “I can’t talk now. If I had you in a witness-box I could go ahead, but I feel now as if I were going to lose my case.”

“What stuff are you talking?” said Fin, whose breast was panting.

“I was trying to tell you that I loved you with my whole heart,” said Pratt, earnestly; “even as I learned to love you down in Cornwall, when I was such a poor, miserable beggar that I wouldn’t have told you for the world.”

“And now you’re in Jumbles versus Hankey, and the great cotton case.”

“Why, how did you know?” cried Pratt.

“I always read the law reports in the Times” said Fin, demurely.

Pratt choked; he felt blind; then the railings seemed to be dancing with the trees, and the little children to be transformed into cherubs, attended by angels, with triumphant perambulating cars. He felt as if he wanted to do something frantic; and it was a minute before he came to himself, and could see that the tears were running down Fin’s cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Finetta – Fin – may I call you Fin? – dearest Fin, say I may.”

“No, no, no,” jerked out Fin, hysterically – “you mustn’t do anything of the kind. Pa wouldn’t approve, and Aunt Matty hates you, and – and – and I’m nearly sure I do.”

“Go on hating me like this, then,” cried Pratt, rapturously. “Oh, darling, you’ve made me so happy!”

“I haven’t,” protested Fin, “and I can’t, and I won’t. How can I, when poor darling Tiny has been so treated by that odious wretch?”

“What – Vanleigh?”

“No, you know what I mean; but he’s an odious wretch, too. It’s abominable. Mr Trevor ought to be hung.”

“Why?” said Pratt.

“Why?” echoed Fin. “Hasn’t he jilted my poor darling, and behaved cruelly to her, after winning her heart, just as all men do?”

“No,” said Pratt, stoutly.

“What!” cried Fin, “didn’t I see him out with her himself, and hasn’t somebody been at our house dropping hints about it – unwillingly, of course – and made pa delighted, and Aunt Matty malicious? while poor mamma has done nothing but cry, because she liked and believed in your nice friend. As to poor Tiny, she was dangerously ill for a time.”

“I don’t care,” said Pratt, vehemently; and he arranged an imaginary wig, and waved some non-existent papers in the air. “Matters may be against my client – I mean Dick; but I’ll stake my life on his honour. I say Richard Trevor – Lloyd, as he calls himself now – is a true man of honour. Look how he gave up the estate! See how he yielded his pretensions to Miss Rea’s hand! And do you dare to tell me that this is a man who would stoop to a flirtation, or worse, when he owns to being cut up by the loss he has sustained? I say it’s impossible, and that the person who would dare to charge my cli – friend, Richard Trevor, alias Lloyd, with such duplicity is – ”

“What?” said Fin, sharply. That one little word went through Frank Pratt. He cooled on the instant, the flush of excitement passed away, and, in a crestfallen manner, he groaned —

“That’s just like me. What a fool I am! Now you’ll be cross with me.”

“No, I shan’t,” said Fin, demurely. “I like it. It’s nice of you to stand up for your friend. I like a man to be a trump.”

Fin’s face was like scarlet as soon as she made this admission; and to qualify it, she hurriedly exclaimed —

“You may like him if you please; but till I see him cleared I shall hate him bitterly; and – and – and – I don’t know how he ought to be punished. He’ll be punished enough, though, by losing my sweet sister. Why didn’t you like her, instead of some one else?” she said, archly.

“Don’t ask me,” said Pratt. “I’m so happy, I shall do something foolish.”

“You haven’t anything to be happy about,” said Fin; “for I’m going to devote myself to Tiny, and if they force her into this hateful marriage, I mean to be a nun.”

“What marriage?” said Pratt.

“Why, with that Bluebeard of a captain.”

“And are they pushing that on?”

“Yes,” said Fin, “and it’s abominable. It will kill her.”

“No, it won’t!” said Pratt, coolly.

“Then you’re a wretch!” said Fin, with flashing eyes. “I say it will.”

“And I say it won’t,” said Pratt; “because it must never come off.”

Fin stared at him.

“I’ll see to that,” said Pratt, confidently. “I have a friend busy about Master Captain Vanleigh. But, oh!” he exclaimed, as the recollection of one Barnard, solicitor, brought up a gentleman of the name of Mervyn – “but, oh! I say, tell me this, Fin – Mr Mervyn – you know – there wasn’t ever – anything – eh?”

“Oh, you goose!” cried Fin, stamping her foot. “Mr Mervyn – dear Mr Mervyn, of all people in the world! – who used to treat us like as if we were his little girls. Oh, Mr Pratt, I did think you had some sense in your head.”

“Oh no,” said Pratt, solemnly; “never – not a morsel.”

Then they looked at one another, and laughed; but only for Fin to turn preternaturally serious.