Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“I must go back to Tiny now,” she said.

“But when shall I see you again?” urged Pratt.

“Perhaps never,” said Fin – “unless you can come about once a week, on a Friday afternoon, here in the square, and tell me some news that will do poor Tiny good.”

“I may come and say good-bye to her, then?” said Pratt, getting hold for a moment of the little half-withdrawn hand.

“Yes, if you like. No – here’s Aunt Matty.”

In fact her herald approached in the shape of Pepine, who no sooner caught sight of the retreating form of Pratt, than he made a dash at him, chasing him ignominiously to the gate, where he stood barking long after his quarry had gone. But Pepine was no gainer in the end, for during the next week Fin never neglected an opportunity of administering to him a furtive thump.

Netta’s Appeal

Richard felt very bitter as he followed Mrs Jenkles across the road. Mingled with pity for the poor girl he was about to visit, there was a sense of resentment; for she seemed to have been the cause of pain and sorrow to one he dearly loved. And yet, how innocent and gentle she was – how unlike any one he had met before! Pity may or may not be akin to love, but certainly it was very strong in Richard’s breast at the present moment.

“If you’ll step in the kitchen just a moment, sir, I’ll see if you can go up,” said Mrs Jenkles, smoothing her apron.

She ushered the visitor into the clean, bright place, where Sam was seated by the fireside, looking very hard at his pipe.

“How do, sir, how do?” he said. “Take a cheer, sir.”

“Thanks, no, Sam, I’ll stand,” said Richard, quietly. “But where’s your pipe?”

“There it hangs, sir,” said Sam, folding his arms and looking at it.

“No tobacco?”

“Plenty, sir,” said Sam; “but I’ve put the pipe out at home, sir: cos why? It sets that poor gal a-coughing, and that spoils it. It’s a wonder, aint it, as doctors can’t do more?”

Further converse was cut short by the entrance of Mrs Jenkles, who beckoned their visitor to come, and he followed her upstairs to the neat little front room, where a pang shot through Richard as he saw the change. Netta was half lying on a couch, propped up by pillows, and beside her, on a table, were the two plants he had sent across, evidently carefully tended, – not a withered leaf to be seen amongst their luxuriant foliage, while she who had made them her care lay there, white, shrunken, and so changed.

There was a bright smile of pleasure flickering about her lips, and a ray of gladness flashing from her eyes, as she held out her hands to him – hands that he caught in his and kissed, as he sank on his knees by her side.

“My poor girl!” he exclaimed, huskily, “is it so bad as this?”

“I’m so glad you are come,” she whispered; and then she lay gazing at him, as if her very soul were passing from her eyes to his. “I’ve longed and prayed so for this. I thought once that it wasn’t to be – that I was never to see you again; but I’m better now.”

“Better – yes; and you’ll soon grow strong and well again.”

“Do you think so?” she said, looking at him wistfully, while an incredulous smile was upon her lips. “But don’t let’s talk of that. Sit down by me, where I can see you – I’ve so much to say.”

He drew a chair to her side, and, as he did so, he saw that they were alone, for Mrs Lane had gone out softly directly he had entered. Then sitting down, the note which he had received fell from his pocket, and lay half beneath the couch.

“You are not angry with me for sending for you?” said the girl, piteously. “Why do you frown?”

“Did I frown?” he said, gently. “It was only a passing thought. There, now, let’s have a quiet, long chat.”

“Yes,” she said, eagerly. “I want to thank you for being so kind to us – for the fruit and flowers, and all you have done for mamma. As for me,” she continued, laying her hand in his, “I shall be so ungrateful.”

“No, no, I cannot believe that.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling, “you have done so much to make me well, and in return I shall die.”

“My dear child, you must not talk like this,” exclaimed Richard, with an involuntary shiver. “You must get well and strong again.”

She shook her head sadly, and then lay gazing up into his eyes.

“Netta,” he said, gently, “you have thought a great deal about me since you have been ill.”

“Yes – oh yes,” she said.

“Looking back, then, do you blame me – do you think I was cruel, and led you on to think I loved you?”

“No,” she said, and her hand closed almost convulsively on his. “I don’t think so now. I have thought it all over, and it was my folly and weakness. I seem to have grown old since then, and to have become so much wiser. That’s all past now; but I want you to tell me, first, that you did not think me forward then, and strange.”

“My child,” said Richard, “I have felt that the blame has been on my side, and it has caused me many a pang.”

“But it is all past now,” said Netta, eagerly. “I know – I can see plainly enough. You knew better how ill I was than I did, and pitied and were very sorry for me; and it seemed so sweet to me that – that I could not help watching for you – feeling glad when you came. But that’s all past now, and you said we could be friends.”

“Indeed, yes,” he said, gazing into the great, brilliant eyes; but in a sad, dreamy way, for he could read but too plainly the coming end.

“And you forgive me – quite forgive me?” she murmured.

“My poor child, I have nothing to forgive,” he said, leaning over and kissing her forehead.

“Thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes; and she lay silent for a few moments. Then, brightening, she said, “Now tell me again about her.”

He remained silent, and she repeated her request – almost impatiently.

“Tell me her name.”

He looked at her wonderingly for a few moments, before he answered, softly —

“Valentina.”

“Valentina,” said Netta, smiling. “Yes, a pretty name – Valentina. I shall love it as I love her.”

“You love her?”

“Yes, though I have never seen her. Did you not tell me that she loved you? You think me strange,” she continued, smiling in his face, “but I am not. Why, if you could have loved me, I could not have stayed, and you would have been unhappy. It is for the best, and I shall know that you are content.”

“Netta,” said Richard, hoarsely, “you must not talk like this.”

“Why not?” she said, wonderingly. “All the trouble seems past to me. Now I know you feel for me – I believe you like me. Everybody seems kind to me now, and that foolish little dream has quite passed away. Come, tell me about her. I should like to know her. Would she come to see me – if she knew that I was dying?”

“Yes, I feel sure she would, if she knew all,” said Richard, sadly. “She is everything that is gentle and good, and would have loved you dearly, Netta. You may meet yet.”

“I should like to see her,” said the girl, enthusiastically, “that I might tell her how noble and good you are. There, you see how I make an idol of my brother Richard.”

He started, and looked hard at her.

“Yes,” she said, “brother Richard – you were behaving like a dear brother to me, only I could not understand. I never had a brother, but you will be one to me still. You will not stay away, Richard, even if I love you, for it is a chastened love now – one that I need not feel ashamed to own. You’ll not stay away, but come and sit with me, and read to me, as you did before?”

He shook his head sadly.

“Yes – yes, you will come,” she cried, putting her hands together. “I shall have something to live for then – a little longer – and we can sit and talk of her – of Valentina. If you stay away – I – I – shall – die.”

It was no fiction of the lips, and Richard knew it, as her voice grew weaker, and she seemed to droop. The mark was upon her face, telling that she was one of those soon to fall. Her pitiful appeal went to his heart; and raising her in his arms, he pillowed her head upon his shoulder, and kissed her quivering, pallid lips, as in a voice broken with emotion he muttered in the familiar old scriptural words —

“God do so to me, and more also, my poor stricken lamb, if I do not try and smooth your poor, thorny path.”

Once, and once only, did her poor, thin lips respond to his caress. Then, her transparent, white hand was passed lightly over his forehead; her eyes closed, and with a faint sigh of content, she lay quite still, her fluttering breath telling, at the end of a few minutes, that she had, thoroughly exhausted, fallen asleep.

Waiting for News

The weeks went on, and glided into months. Frank Pratt had been as punctual as the clock in his visits to Russell Square, but his love matters made no progress. Unless he had something to communicate affecting Tiny, Fin would hardly stay a minute. Then, too, at times, there were checks caused by the presence of Aunt Matty, when Pratt would return to his chambers disconsolate, and yet happy at having had a glimpse of the darling of his heart.

Once, when he had entered strongly into his affairs, and spoke of trying to renew his acquaintance in a straightforward way with the family —

“Because I should not be ashamed to meet Sir Hampton now,” he said.

Fin responded coolly —

“I’m afraid I hate you very much, Mr Pratt.”

“Hate me! Why?” he exclaimed.

“Because you’re so unfeeling.”

“Unfeeling?”

“You think so much of yourself, and your silly love nonsense, when poor Tiny is persecuted and tortured by that hateful Vanleigh, who only wants her money. I believe he’d ill-treat her before they’d been married a month. He looks like a wife-beater.”

“But they never persecute you,” said Pratt.

“Don’t they? Why, only this morning pa told me that he should expect me to receive Sir Felix Landells; while ma cried, and Aunt Matty nodded her head approvingly.”

“And – and what did you say?” cried Pratt.

“I gave Pepine a vicious kick, and walked out of the room. And now, sir, if you please, how about all your fine promises? What have you done all these months? Have you got that wicked wretch Trevor back his property? Come, speak!”

“No,” said Pratt, “I went down on Tuesday to see how things were, and Master Humphrey seems settling down comfortably enough. Quite the country squire.”

“Serve Richard Trevor right,” said Fin. “And now, about that girl? Does he go to see her still?”

Pratt was silent.

“How dare you stand there like that, Frank, and not answer me?” cried Fin.

“Call me Frank again, darling, and I’ll say anything you wish.”

“I won’t,” said Fin. “You shall tell me without.”

“I don’t like telling tales about poor Dick,” said Pratt.

“If you care for me, sir, it’s your duty to tell me the honest truth about everything. Am I less than Richard Trevor?”

Bodily, of course, she was; but as she meant in his regards, he said she was all the world to him.

“Now, then,” said Fin, “does he go to see that girl now?”

“Yes,” said Pratt; “but I’m sure it’s all in innocence. The poor girl is in a dying state. I went to see her with him once, and a sweeter creature you never saw.”

“Then she has captivated you, too?” cried Fin, viciously.

“Oh, come – I say!” exclaimed Pratt. “Fin, that goes right to my heart.”

“And now about Vanleigh. You’ve boasted over and over again that you could produce something which would put a stop to his pretensions – where is it?”

“You are so hard on a poor fellow,” said Pratt. “I am trying my best, and I feel quite sure that he has no right to pretend to the hand of your sister; but then, you know, before one makes such a charge, there must be good personal and documentary evidence.”

“Well,” exclaimed Pin, “and where is it?”

“I haven’t got it yet,” said Pratt; “but I have tried very, very hard. I shall succeed, though, yet, I know.”

“And while you are succeeding, poor Tiny is to be sacrificed?”

“Oh no; not so bad as that. I don’t despair of seeing Dick back at Penreife, and your dear sister its mistress.”

“Then I do,” cried Pin, bitterly; “for she’s drifting into a state of melancholy, and will let them persuade her to do what they wish. She thinks Richard has given her up, and deceived her; and soon she won’t care whether she lives or dies.”

“But, Fin – ” said Pratt.

“Miss Rea, if you please, Mr Pratt,” said the girl, formally.

“Don’t be hard on me,” he pleaded. “I’m trying my best, and if I can only get some one to speak, I shall have the whole thing at my finger’s ends.”

“Then the sooner you do the better,” said Fin, sharply. “Good-bye.”

“One moment, dear,” whispered Pratt.

“Well, what is it?” said Fin.

“Give me one kind look, you beautiful little darling,” whispered Pratt.

Fin made a grimace, and then, as if in spite of herself, her bright eyes beamed on him for a moment ere she withdrew them.

“And now tell me this,” whispered Pratt; “if they say any more to you about Landells, or if he speaks to you, you’ll – you’ll – you’ll – ”

“There, good-bye!” cried Fin. “How can you be such a goose? I haven’t patience with you – good-bye.”

There was a look accompanying that good-bye that sent a thrill through Frank Pratt, and he went back to his musty briefs as light as if treading on air.

On reaching his chambers, though, it was to find Barnard, the solicitor, waiting for him.

“Well, what news?” was Pratt’s greeting.

“Nothing more,” was the reply. “I’ve sent, and I’ve been myself. That this Vanleigh has compromised himself in some way, so that his marriage is impossible, I feel convinced; but a solution of the matter can only come from one pair of lips.”

“Well?”

“And they remain obstinately silent.”

A Visit

And the months glided on. Winter came, and in its turn gave place to the promise of spring; that came, though, with its harsh eastern blasts that threatened to extinguish the frail lamp of life still burning opposite Richard’s rooms.

He had responded to Pin’s letter soon after its receipt, but he had heard no more. His attempts at obtaining an engagement had proved failures still; and so he had accepted his fate, and spent his time reading hard, his sole pleasures being a visit across the road, or a dinner with Frank Pratt.

Of the acts of the Rea family he knew little, save that they had wintered in Cornwall, from which a letter came occasionally from Humphrey or Mr Mervyn, both sent to the care of Frank Pratt, Esq.; and in his, Humphrey had twice over expressed a wish to divide the property with his old companion.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t do so,” Pratt had said. “It’s Quixotic not to accept his offer.”

“Aut Caesar, aut nullus,” was Richard’s reply. “No, Franky, I’m too proud. I could never go to Cornwall again but as master. Those days are gone.”

“But, Dick, old man!”

“My dear Franky,” said Richard, dropping something of the misanthropical bitterness that had come over him of late, “I am quite content as I am – content to wait; some of these days a chance will turn up. I’ll abide my time.”

“He’s gone back to her,” said Pratt, shaking his head. “Poor old Dick! – some people would misjudge him cruelly. Well, time will show.”

Pratt was quite right, Richard had gone back to Netta; for it promised to be a fine afternoon, and on such days it had grown to be his custom to devote the few shillings he could spare from his scanty income to the payment of Sam Jenkles.

It was so this day. Sam was at the door by two, with the old horse brushed up, and every worn buckle shining. Then Richard would go upstairs, to find Netta with a bright spot in each cheek, and an eager welcome in her eye. She had gained ground during the autumn, but in the winter it had all been lost; and now the time had come when Richard raised her in his arms, and had to carry her – grown so light – down to the cab, wherein he tenderly placed her, and took her for one of the drives of which she was never weary.

It seemed a strange taste, but her desire was always for the same spot – the little wood where the fallen tree was lying. Here, on sunny days, she would sit for an hour, while he read to her; and then the quiet, slow journey was taken back, when the little ceremony had to be gone through in reverse, there was a grateful pressure of the hand, and Richard took his leave.

Twenty or thirty times was this little excursion made, and always with a foreboding on Richard’s part that it was to be the last. But still she lingered, brightening with the balmy April weather that came by fits, and then fading again under the chilling blasts.

By some means Netta had informed herself of the return of the Rea family to town for the season, and she prepared to execute a little plan that had been long deferred. She had possessed herself of the note sent by Fin – the note which Richard had let fall. Probably Mrs Jenkles was the bearer of her messages, and had obtained the information she required. Suffice it that Tiny Rea, now somewhat recovered, but still pale and dejected, received one morning a note, which she read, and then placed in her mother’s hands.

It was as follows: —

“I have heard so often of your beauty, goodness, and your many acts of kindness, that I have been tempted to ask you to come once and see me before I pass away. I would say pray come, but I think your gentle heart will listen to my simple appeal. Come to me, and say good-bye.

“Netta Lane.”

Here followed the address.

“It’s some poor creature in great distress, my dear, who has heard of us. We’ll go this afternoon, and take her something.”

“Would you go, mamma?” faltered Tiny, whose heart told her whom the letter was from.

“Certainly, my dear. I shouldn’t rest to-night if I’d left such an appeal as that unanswered, let alone enjoy our At Home; though there isn’t much enjoyment to be got out of those affairs, with everybody drinking tea on the stairs, and ten times as many people as we’ve room for.”

“Then you would go, mamma?”

“Certainly, darling. It’s an awkward time for her to send, but we’ll go; and oh, my darling, pray, pray try and look bright. You make me wretched.”

“I do – I will try, mamma!” exclaimed Tiny, suppressing a sob. “But tell me, is Captain Vanleigh going to be here to-night?”

“I – I was obliged to send him an invitation, my darling,” said Lady Rea, pitifully. “Your papa stood at my side while I wrote it. If – if – he – Mr Trevor had stood firm to you, they should have cut me in pieces before I’d have done it; but as it is, what can I do?”

Tiny made no reply; and directly after luncheon the carriage came round, and, being left at the corner of the narrow street, Lady Rea and her daughter made their way on foot to the house of Mrs Jenkles.

Mrs Lane met them, and said it was her daughter’s wish to see Miss Rea alone, if she would condescend to go up and see her; and a minute after, with a mist floating before her eyes, and a singing in her ears, Tiny stood near Netta’s couch, as the poor girl lay, with clasped fingers, gazing up at the graceful, fashionably-dressed girl.

Tiny maintained a haughty silence for a few minutes. This was the girl for whom she had been forsaken. She felt sure of it. How could it be otherwise? But the letter said that she was dying. Fin had told her of Pratt’s assurances; and, as the mist cleared away, so melted the hauteur, for she could not look upon the soft, sweet face before her with anger; and if he loved her, should not she do the same? The two girls gazed in each other’s eyes for a few moments, and then, with a smile, Netta held out one hand.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I have wanted to see you for months, and I was afraid I should not live long enough. Do you know why?”

“No – I cannot tell,” said Tiny, in a choking voice; for she, too, could see for herself the truth of what had been said.

“I wanted to see the beautiful girl that he loves – her of whom he has so often talked – and to tell you that you have misjudged him, if you think as your sister thinks in the letter she sent.”

“Letter?” exclaimed Tiny.

“Yes, this,” said the girl, producing one from her bosom. “Oh, Miss Rea, how can you slight his noble love? If you only knew! You both misjudge him. Look at me, dear. I am here now; perhaps to-morrow, or the next day, I shall be gone. But I do not think I could have died without seeing you face to face, and telling you that he has been true, and noble, and faithful to you. You might not have believed me if I had been different; but now, ready to go away, you know mine are true words, when I tell you Richard Lloyd has been to me as a brother.”

“Oh, I believe, I believe!” sobbed Tiny, sinking on her knees beside the couch. “But it is too late – too late!”

“No, no,” whispered Netta, “it is not too late. Make him happy. Send to him to come to you. He is too proud and poor to come himself. But I know his story: how he lost all through being so honourable and good. Tiny – you see I know your name; why, he has described you to me so often that I should have known you– send for him, and bless him. You could not love such a one as he too well.”

“Too late!” sobbed Tiny. “It is too late.”

She started up, and turned as if to go; but only to push her hair back from her forehead, lean over Netta’s couch and kiss her, as a pair of thin, weak arms closed round her neck. Then, tearing herself away, she hurried from the house with Lady Rea, who vainly questioned her as to the cause of her agitation.

“I asked the woman, who is very ladylike, my dear, but she said her daughter would explain; so I waited till you came down; and now,” said the little ruffled dame, “you do nothing but cry.”

“Don’t ask me now, mamma, dear,” sobbed Tiny, covering her face with her hands. “Another time I’ll tell you all.”

“Very well, my darling,” said Lady Rea, resignedly. “But, pray, try now and look brighter. Papa will be terribly put out if he finds you so; for he said you told him yesterday you would do as he wished about Captain Vanleigh, and Aunt Matty has been quite affectionate to me ever since.”

“Mamma, dear, do you think it will make you happier?”

“I don’t know, my dear,” said Lady Rea. “I blame myself sometimes for not being more determined; but I’m obliged to own that Captain Vanleigh has been very patient, and he must care for you.”

Tiny shuddered again, and her sobs became so violent that Lady Rea drew up the carriage window, for a few minutes being quite alarmed. At length, though, the poor girl grew calm, and seemed to make an effort over herself as they neared home, just as Fin crossed the road from the square garden, looking as innocent as if she had not had half an hour’s talk with Frank Pratt.

At Home

“And what do you mean to do, Tiny?” said Fin, as she stood by her sister’s side, dressed for the evening. “Papa told me about it, and nearly boxed my ears because I said it was a shame; and he ended by saying if I did not follow your example, and listen to Sir Felix, he would keep me on bread and water; and then I laughed out loud, and he left the room in a fury. How could you be so weak?”

“I don’t know,” faltered Tiny, “only that I was very miserable. Constant dropping will wear a stone.”

“Then the stone must be very soft. Withdraw your promise,” cried Fin. “Do as I do. I’ll be as obedient a child as I can, but I will not be married against my will.”

“Please, Miss, somebody’s downstairs already,” said their maid, entering the room. “And Edward says Sir Hampton’s in a towering passion because there was no one but him in the drawing-room.”

“Isn’t mamma there?” cried Fin.

“No, Miss, her ladyship was dressed, and going down; but her primrose satin came undone – give way at the hooks and eyes – and she had to go back to change it.”

“Tell Edward to say we’ll be down in a moment,” said Fin.

Hurrying the girl out of the room, she turned to Tiny, who stood looking pale and stunned.

“It wasn’t true, Fin!” she said, pitifully, as her face began to work. “He wasn’t deceitful. I saw her to-day.”

“Saw whom?” exclaimed Fin, in wonder.

“That poor girl. She sent for me – she is dying; and oh, Fin, darling, I feel as if my heart would break!”

She sank sobbing on her sister’s shoulder, sadly disarranging poor Fin’s dress; but that was forgotten as, with eager haste, the little maiden tried hard to soothe and comfort her.