Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“If ma won’t fight for you, Tiny, I will,” she cried, impetuously. “I declare its too bad. I don’t half know what you are talking about; but Frank – I mean Mr Pratt, always sticks up for his friend. Ugh! I wish I’d been near when that wicked Mrs Lloyd changed the babies, I’d have knocked her head off.”

At this moment there was a knock at the bedroom door.

“Coming – coming – coming – coming!” said Fin, in a crescendo,

Then running to the door, she opened it once more to the maid.

“Please, Miss – ”

“Bother – bother – bother!” cried Fin. “Don’t you see Miss Rea’s poorly? Go and say we’ll be down soon.”

“But, please, Miss, Sir Hampton sent Edward for me, and jumped on me horrid. He said it was my fault you weren’t dressed, and your dear ma looks quite frightened with the people coming.”

“Go and say we’ll come down as soon as my sister’s better – there!”

She half pushed the girl from the room, and then turned to Tiny.

“Now, look here, Tiny – you’re very fond of that wicked Richard Trevor, bad as he’s behaved to you.”

Tiny gave her a pitiful look.

“Then I say, once for all, it would be a piece of horrible wickedness for you to let papa frighten you into this engagement. Now, tell me directly how it was. You ought to have told me before. If you had been a good, wise sister, you would.”

“Oh, Tin, I could not tell you!” said Tiny, plaintively. “You had just come in from the square, and looked so happy about – ”

“I didn’t – I wasn’t – I hate him; and I won’t listen to him any more till you are happy,” burst out Fin.

Tiny smiled.

“Papa sent for me into his study, and took my hand, and sat down by me. He was so gentle and kind. He said he wanted to see us both settled in a position which should give us the entrée into good society; for he said that, after all, he knew well enough people did not care for him, as he’d been a tradesman.”

Fin gave her head a jerk.

“He told me he had given way about – about – ”

“Yes, yes – go on – I know,” said Tin.

“And that if he had not lost his position he should never have opposed the match; but as that was all over, he begged me to consent to receive Captain Vanleigh’s attentions. And, oh, Fin, he knew about the attentions to that poor girl, and told me of it.”

“Then some spiteful spy must have told him that,” cried Fin. “Oh, Aunt Matty.”

“He talked to me for an hour, Fin, so kindly all the time – said it would be for the best, and that it would make him happy and me too, he was sure; and at last I gave way. For oh, Fin, darling, I had no hope yesterday – nothing, I felt, to live for; and I thought that if I could make him satisfied, and dear ma happy, that was all I need care to do.”

“Then you were a wicked, weak little coward,” said Fin, “I’d have died sooner than given way. There, here they are again for us; and now I suppose we are to meet those people to-night.”

“Yes; papa said he should write to Captain Vanleigh.”

“And Sir Felix, of course. Madame, your humble servant – Finetta, Lady Landells. There, we’re coming down now. Miss Rea is better,” she said, in answer to a knock at the door.

Tiny turned to the glass, and smoothed her hair, while Fin went and stood behind her, holding her waist.

“What are you going to do?” she said, sharply.

Tiny shook her head.

“Masterly inactivity – that’s the thing,” cried Fin. “Do nothing; let things drift, same as I do. It can’t go on, I’m sure it can’t. There, let’s go down, for poor dear mamma’s sake, and I’ll be buffer all the evening. Whenever Bluebeard comes near you, I’ll get between, and we’ll have a long talk to-morrow.”

The two girls went down, to find many of the visitors arrived; and the news of Tiny’s indisposition having spread, she was surrounded directly with kind inquirers. But she hardly heard a word that was said to her, for her timid eyes were wandering round the room, to see if the object of her dread had arrived; and then, noticing his absence, she sank back in a fauteuil with a sigh of relief.

Fin mounted guard by her side, and snubbed the down off the wings of several butterflies who came fluttering about them, her little lips tightening into a thin smile as Sir Felix and Vanleigh were announced.

Directly they had freed themselves from their host and hostess, they made their way to the corner of the great drawing-room, now ablaze with gas and candles, where the sisters were together; and, in spite of Fin’s diplomacy, she found Vanleigh too much for her, as he quietly put aside her vicious little thrusts, and ended by interposing himself between her and Tiny – Fin being carried off by Sir Felix, whose face wore quite a puzzled expression, so verbally nettled was his little prize.

Aunt Matty met them, carrying with her a halo of lavender wherever she went, and exhaling the sad fragrance in every direction as she moved. Pepine was poorly in bed, so that his mistress was able to devote the whole of her attention to those with whom she came in contact.

“Ah, Sir Felix!” she exclaimed, “and so you’ve captured my saucy little bird of a niece. You’ll have to clip her wings some day,” she continued, playfully.

As she spoke she tapped Fin on each shoulder – from whence the imaginary wings doubtless sprang – with her fan, while aunt and niece gazed in each other’s eyes.

“Yes, exactly,” said Sir Felix, smiling feebly.

But somehow he did not feel comfortable, and in spite of his after-efforts to lead Fin into conversation, he failed.

The end of it was that the little maid telegraphed to another admirer, and had herself carried back to where she had left her sister; but Tiny was gone.

In fact, as soon as they were left alone, Vanleigh had quietly offered his arm.

“This room is too hot for you, Valentina,” he said. “Let me take you out of the crowd.”

“Masterly inactivity,” Fin had said, and the words seemed to ring in Tiny’s ears, as, unable to refuse, she suffered herself to be led through the crowded rooms, past Lady Rea, who nodded and smiled – past Aunt Matty, who came up, tapped the Captain on the middle shirt stud with her fan, and pinched her niece’s cheek, as she smiled at her like a wintry apple – past Sir Hampton, who came behind her, and whispered, a faint “Er-rum.”

“Thank you, Tiny: good girl!” – out on to the great broad staircase, now a complete conservatory of exotics where the air was perfectly cool by comparison; and there Vanleigh found her a seat smiling occasionally at the new-comers who kept thronging upstairs to where Lady Rea was receiving – Sir Hampton now keeping an eye upon the couple, a flight of stain below him, and nodding encouragement whenever his eyes met those of his child.

“I received Sir Hampton’s note yesterday,” said Vanleigh at last, speaking slowly, and in a suppressed voice, as the guests passed on. “Don’t start – I am not going to make a scene. I only wish to tell you how happy you have made me, and that you shall find me patient and watchful of your every wish.”

“Masterly inactivity,” thought Tiny.

“I am going to wait – to let you see that heretofore you have misjudged me. And now let me assure you that I am not going to presume upon the consent I have received.”

He waited, and she felt obliged to speak.

“Captain Vanleigh,” faltered Tiny, “it was at my father’s wish that I gave way, and consented to receive your visits. It is only fair to tell you that you are seeking to gain one who does not – who can never care for you.”

“My dear Valentina,” he said, smiling, “I am quite content. I know your sweet, gentle nature better than you know it yourself. And now for once, and once only, I am going to revert to an unpleasant theme, begging you first to forgive me for touching a wound that I know still throbs.”

“Captain Vanleigh!”

“It is odd, is it not,” he said, speaking with a mingling of profound tenderness and respect – “this talking of such things in a crowd? I only wished to say this once, that you do not know me. I am going to prove my love by patience. Valentina, dearest, you have been wasting the sweetness of your heart on an unworthy object.”

She tried to rise; but his hand rested on her arm, and detained her.

“I pain you; but I must tell you, sweet one, that he whom you cared for, no sooner left your side than he sought consolation with another, forsaking a love that is meet for the best on earth – a love of which I feel myself unworthy. Stay, not a syllable. Those were cruel words, but the words of truth. Now we understand one another, let us draw a veil over the past, never to refer to it again. You will know me better soon.”

As he spoke, there was a little bustle in the hall, where visitors were constantly arriving; and as Vanleigh stood gazing down in the pale, frightened face before him, watching the struggle that was going on, a plainly dressed woman brushed by the servant, who tried to stay her, and reached the stairs.

“Forgive me, Valentina,” whispered Vanleigh, bending over her. “I touched the wound but to try and heal it. My future life shall be all devotion; and in the happiness to come you will – ”

Tiny half rose; and he was about offering his arm to conduct her back to the drawing-room, when a voice below arrested him.

“Don’t stop me! I must see him. I know he is here.”

“But you can’t, you know. Here, Edward!”

It was one of the servants who called, but he was too late; the strange visitor had already reached the landing as Sir Hampton hurried down, aghast at such a daring interruption.

At that moment the woman uttered a cry of joy, and darted towards where Vanleigh stood with his companion.

“Oh, Arthur!” she cried, “they would not bring a message. I was obliged to force my way in.”

“Who is this madwoman?” cried Vanleigh, turning of a waxy pallor, while Tiny clung to the balustrade for support.

“Yes; mad – almost!” cried the woman, with a piteous cry. “But come – come at once! She is praying to see you once more. Arthur, Arthur,” she panted, sinking at his knees, and clasping them, “for God’s sake, come – our darling is on the point of death!”

“Who is this woman? Er-rum – Edward – James!” cried Sir Hampton, “where are the police?”

“Don’t touch me!” cried the unwelcome visitor, starting to her feet; and her words came panting from her breast. “Quiet, Arthur, or it’s too late! Sir,” she cried, turning to Sir Hampton, whose hand was on her arm, “I am Captain Vanleigh’s wife!”

Too Late

Frank Pratt, the successful barrister, saw a portion of the scene from the pavement outside, where he formed one of the little crowd by the awning. He had been restlessly walking up and down, watching the lights and shadows on the blinds. He had gazed in at the open door at what seemed to him a paradise, as he heard the music and hum of conversation, scented the fragrance from flower and perfumes that floated out, and then called himself a miserable little beggar.

“Never mind,” he said at last, lighting his pipe, and looking longingly at one of the tall obelisks by the door of a neighbouring mansion, and thinking what a capital perch it would make for him to sit and look on from – “never mind, bless her, she’ll snub them like fun.”

He felt better then, and saw Sir Felix and Vanleigh go up the carpeted steps without a pang. Ten times over he made up his mind to go and have a quiet little tavern supper, and then to his chambers and read; but he could not tear himself away; and so it was that he saw the arrival of the uninvited guest, and in the confusion that ensued witnessed something of what followed, standing aside to let Vanleigh come hurrying out, holding his neglected wife by the hand, furious, and yet too horror-stricken and remorseful to speak to her.

“A cab!” he shouted; and a minute after they entered, and the shabby screw was whipped into a gallop, and going in the direction of Pentonville.

Earlier in the evening Netta had seemed brighter, and had eaten heartily of some fruit Richard had fetched for her from Covent Garden. She was very weak, but she had begged to be dressed, and was lying upon the little couch; while Mrs Jenkles, after helping, had gone down into the kitchen, where Sam was sitting at his tea, to look at him very fixedly, and then her face began to twitch and work.

“She aint worse, is she?” said Sam, in an awe-stricken whisper.

“Oh, Sam, Sam,” sobbed the poor woman, bursting into tears; “and her so young, too. It’s very, very sad.”

“I shan’t go out to-night, then,” said Sam, a little more hoarsely than usual. “Ratty may have a holiday. It’s a hill wind as blows nobody any good. If I do go to have a smoke, old woman, I shall be standing across the road in Mother Fiddison’s doorway.”

“Oh, Sam, it’s very, very sad,” sobbed Mrs Jenkles again; “and her so young. If it had been her mother or me!”

“Stow that, old gal,” said Sam, with a choke. “If there’s e’er a woman as can’t be spared outer this here wicked world of pore cabmen and hard fares, it’s you. What’d become o’ me?”

“Oh, Sam,” sobbed Mrs Jenkles from inside her apron.

“I should go to the bad in a week, old gal. I should never pass a corner public without dropping in; and at the end of six months there’d be a procession o’ cabs follering a subscription funeral, raised by threepenny bits and tanners; and every cabby on the ranks’d have a little crape bow on his whip in memory o’ Sam Jenkles, as drunk hisself to death.”

“Don’t, pray, Sam,” sobbed his wife.

“It’s true enough, missus; and I b’lieve the chaps ’d be sorry; while as for old Ratty, I b’lieve he’d cry.”

“Sam!” sobbed his wife.

“I wonder,” said Sam, dolefully, “whether they’d let the old ’oss follow like they do the soldiers, with my whip and boots hanging one side, and my old ’at on the other. Sh! here’s Mrs Lane.”

“Mrs Jenkles,” cried their lodger, hurriedly, “go and ask Mr Lloyd to come over. She wants to see him.”

“Is she worse, ma’am?”

The mother’s lip quivered for reply; but after stifling a sob, she gasped —

“And ask Mr Reston, the doctor, to step in.”

“I’ll run for him, mum, while the missus fetches Mr Lloyd,” said Sam, hurrying away.

A few minutes after, Richard ascended to Netta’s room, to be received with a smile of pleasure, and he took the seat to which the poor girl pointed.

“Are you better to-night, my dear?” he said, kissing her gravely.

“Yes, much,” she said, retaining his hand and keeping it pinioned between hers. “I want you to sit and talk to me to-night – mamma will like to hear – about our rides, and the woods and flowers. Ah, how little I’ve seen of the country and the flowers!”

She started as she caught a sigh from Mrs Lane.

“You could not help it, dear,” she said, hastily. “Don’t think me ungrateful. Come and kiss me, and tell me you don’t.”

Mrs Lane bent over her, and kissed her poor thin lips; and though the fount was nearly dry, a couple of burning tears fell upon the face of her child.

“If I could only be at rest about you,” said Netta, drawing her mother closer to her, “I could be so happy. There, we’ve asked Mr Lloyd to come, and here is a welcome.”

She half playfully pointed to a chair, and once more took Richard’s hand between both hers, listening to him as he tried to talk cheerfully, not so much of the past as of trips to come, till, meeting her eyes, and seeing in them the sad, reproachful gaze of one who said “Why this deceit?” his voice grew husky, and he was silent.

“What’s that?” said Netta, suddenly, as she heard steps below. “Oh, mamma, you have sent for him again – why did you?”

There was tender love in the reproachful smile – one which faded as the doctor entered, and Richard gave up his place to him.

He made but a brief stay, and was followed out of the room by Mrs Lane.

“Sit down again, Richard,” said the girl, fondly. “Take those,” she said, pointing to a pair of scissors on the table. “Now cut off that long piece of hair.”

As she spoke she separated a long, dark brown tress and smilingly bent towards him as he divided it from her head.

“There,” she said, smiling, as she knotted it together like so much silk; “give that to Tiny – some day – and tell her it was sent by one who had prayed night and day for her happiness and yours.”

“Oh, my poor child!” groaned Richard, as he placed her gift in his pocket-book.

“And, Richard, when you are happy together, talk about me sometimes; you’ll bring her to see where they have laid me – where I lie asleep?”

“For God’s sake, do not talk like this, my darling!” he exclaimed; “I cannot bear it!”

“I must,” she said, excitedly. “I must, the time is so short. Tell her, Richard,” she whispered, earnestly, “that I loved you very dearly; for I did not know then about her. But tell her it was so innocent and dear a love, that I think God’s angels would not blame me for it. I would not talk so now, Richard, but I am dying.”

He started up to run for help, but she feebly restrained him.

“No, no, don’t go; it is not yet,” she whispered. “Stay with me even when it’s growing dark. Promise me you will stay and hold my hand till the last. I shall not feel so afraid then, and I don’t think it can be wrong. I used to think once about you, so strong and brave; how in the future you would take care of me, and that I should never be afraid again. Then I used to sit and whisper your name, and stop from my work to kiss the flowers you sent me, every leaf and every blossom, and whisper to it, ‘You are my darling’s gift.’ Was this wrong of me? I could not help it. No one knew, and I have been so different to others. My life has been all work and sorrow – her sorrow – and those were my happy moments.”

“My poor darling!” was all he could utter; and the words came like a groan.

“Don’t trouble about it,” she whispered; “I’m not sorry to die. You have made me so happy. I feel as if I may take those tender words from you now, Richard. You called me darling twice to-night. Kiss me once again.”

Tiny’s name was on his lips as he bent over her, and raised the little frail form in his arms; and hers were wreathed around his neck as he pressed his lips to hers twice – lips which responded to the caress.

As he laid her tenderly back upon her pillow, she retained one of his broad, nervous hands, pressed her lips to it once, and then placed it feebly beneath her cheek, lying with her eyes half-closed, and her voice coming in a faint whisper as she said —

“I don’t think she would be angry if she knew all. Ah, mother darling, I did not know you had come back. Come here.”

For Mrs Lane was sitting in the corner of the room by the door, with her face buried in her hands.

She came and sat at the foot of the couch, unable to restrain her sobs.

“I could not help loving him, dear,” she said, smiling; “he is so good and true. It was not the same love I have for you. Richard, you’ll be rich again some day. You’ll be kind to her?”

“Rich or poor, on my soul I will!” he exclaimed.

“She has worked so hard for me,” said Netta, feebly. Then starting with a wildly anxious look upon her face, she uttered a strange, passionate cry as of one in intense mental agony.

“My child – my poor child!” cried Mrs Lane, throwing herself on her knees by the couch.

“Why – why did I not think of it before?” cried Netta, wildly. “I ought to have thought – Oh, it will be too late.”

“What is it – what can I do?” cried Mrs Lane.

“Papa – papa – papa!” wailed the girl; “I must see papa.”

Mrs Lane sank in a heap with her head bowed down upon her knees.

“I – I must see papa,” wailed Netta again – “I did not think before – I have something to say – it only came just now. Oh, mother, you will fetch him before it is too late.”

Mrs Lane started up and gazed wildly at her guest.

“Can I go? Can I do anything?” he exclaimed.

“No, no, stay with me,” wailed Netta; “he would not come for you. Mamma, you will go. Dear mother, bring him here.”

Without another word, Mrs Lane ran into the next room and hurried on her things, returning to kiss the anxious, flushed face gazing so wistfully at her.

“You will not leave her?” she said, hoarsely.

“No, he will not go,” moaned Netta; “but be quick – be quick.”

Richard’s heart beat fast, for, as he was left alone, Netta’s eyes closed and a terrible pallor succeeded the flush. He was about to rise and summon Mrs Jenkles, but Netta divined his intention, and uttered a feeble protest.

“You said you would not leave me. I am only tired. It is of no use.”

She lay there with her cheek pillowed on his hand, and her eyes closed, but her lips moved gently; and as in that feebly-lighted room the solemn silence seemed to grow more painful, Richard felt a strange thrill of awe pass through him: for he knew that the words she softly whispered to herself were words of prayer.

After a time, Mrs Jenkles softly opened the door and peered in.

“Can I do anything for you, my dear?” she said, gently.

“Yes,” said Netta, in a faint whisper; “come here. Kiss me and say good-bye,” she continued, after a pause. “Now go and tell Sam I have prayed for a blessing on you both for your kindness to the poor creature you found in such distress.”

Mrs Jenkles’s sorrow, in spite of herself, found vent in a wail; and she hurried out of the room to weep alone by her own fireside.

Then an hour passed without a change, only that twice over the great soft, dilated eyes opened widely to gaze wonderingly about till they rested on Richard, when a faint smile came on the poor wan face, the thin cheek nestled down into the strong man’s hand, and a faint sigh of content fluttered from the lips of the dying girl.

It must have been nearly eleven when Netta opened her eyes widely.

“They are very long,” she said, in a harsh, cracked voice – “Very long; he must come soon. Why did I not think of it before?”

“She must soon return,” said Richard. “Shall I send?”

“No, no! It would be no use,” she whispered; and her great loving eyes rested fondly on his for a moment. “Do not let go of my hand, and I shall not feel afraid.”

She sank back once more, but only to start at the end of a few moments.

“He’s coming – yes, he’s coming now.”

Richard strained his ears to listen, but there was not a sound; but as a smile of content came once more upon the anxious features, there was the roll of distant cab wheels, and he knew that the senses of the dying girl were preternaturally quickened.

The next minute the wheels stopped at the door, and there were steps on the stairs.

“He has come!” cried the girl, joyfully. “Lift me up in your arms, Richard, that I may see him.”

As he responded to her wish, and held her up with her head resting upon his shoulder, the door opened, and, to his intense astonishment, the handsome man of fashion, looking sallow, haggard, and ten years older, with the great drops of sweat upon his face, and his hair clinging wetly to his brow, half staggered into the room.

“Papa, dear papa!” wailed the girl, stretching out one hand; and with a groan, as he read in her wasted features the coming end, he stumbled forward, to sink crushed and humbled to his knees before the face of death.

“My poor child!” he groaned.

“I knew – you would come,” moaned the girl, faintly. “Mother – quick – papa – kind to her – once more – suffered so – so much – ”

With her last strength, her trembling little fingers placed those of Vanleigh upon the hand of his neglected, forsaken wife; and then, as a shudder ran through her frame, her nerveless arm dropped, and her head turned away to sink pillowed on Richard’s arm. There was a smile upon her lip, as her eyes were bent fixedly upon his, and then as he gazed he saw that their loving light faded, to give place to a far-off, awful stare, and a deep groan burst from the young man’s breast.

Vanleigh started up at that, exclaiming wildly —

“Quick – a doctor – the nearest physician – do you hear!”

“It is too late,” said Richard, sadly. “Your child is dead.”

Three Months After

“Why did you come, Humphrey? Why did you hunt me out?” cried Richard, in answer to a speech made by the broad-shouldered West-country-man, who had been ushered in by Mrs Fiddison.

“Because I wanted to see you, Master Dick. I’ve written, and you won’t answer; so I got Mr Pratt there to tell me where you were, and here I am.”

Richard stood frowning for a few moments; but there was something so bright and frank in the face before him that a sunshiny look came in his own, and he shook hands heartily.