Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“Will you follow, Mr – Mr – ?”

“Er-rum! Sir Hampton Rea, at your service, gentlemen,” said the knight, stiffly.

“I beg pardon, Sir Hampton – strangers, you see. My friend here is Sir Felix Landells; my name is Vanleigh – Captain Vanleigh.”

“Guards,” said Sir Felix, in the midst of a good deal of formal bowing; and then, all being seated, the waggonette drove off, Sir Hampton, in the conversation which ensued, being most careful to avoid any reference to the destination of his new friends, merely requesting to be set down at the end of the lane leading to Tolcarne, the party separating amidst a profusion of bows.

“What a pair of dandies!” said Fin.

“A most refined gentleman that Captain Vanleigh,” said Sir Hampton.

“What did you think of the other one, dad?” said Fin.

“Aristocrat. Er-rum! aristocrat,” said Sir Hampton. “Blue blood there, for a certainty. I hope they’ll call. By the way, Tiny, I thought you unnecessarily cold and formal.”

“Did you, papa?” said Tiny. “Indeed, I did not mean to be so.”

Here they reached the hall, and the girls went to their room.

“Dad’s hooked,” said Fin, throwing herself into a chair. “Tiny, that dandy would come to grief if I knew him long. I should feel obliged to singe his horrid little sticky mustachios; and as for the other – oh, how I could snub him if he looked and talked at me as he did at you.”

“I sincerely hope,” said Tiny, “that we shall never see them again.”

Polly’s troubles

“By the way, Pratt,” said Trevor, as they were strolling through the grounds, “what aged man should you take Vanleigh to be?”

“Close upon forty,” said Pratt; “but he takes such care of himself, and dresses so young, that he keeps off the assaults of old Father Time.”

“He can’t be so old as that,” said Trevor, thoughtfully; “and yet he must begetting on. He was much older than we were, you know, in the old days.”

“Yes,” said Pratt; “bless him, I love Van dearly. I suppose they’ll be here soon. H’m!”

“Eh?” said Trevor.

“I said H’m!” replied Pratt.

“Yes, I know,” said Trevor, laughing; “but what does H’m mean?”

“Shall I make mischief, or shan’t I? Well, I don’t know that it would be making mischief, for it seems quite natural.”

“My dear Frank, don’t play the Sphinx, please, for I’m one of the most dense men under the sun. Now, then, speak out.”

“Only thinking, and putting that and that together,” said Pratt, relighting his cigar. “Well?”

“Well – handsome young bailiff seen in the copse yonder; pretty girl is seen going rather hurriedly along path leading to copse; and elderly lady who holds post of housekeeper, and who, by the way, seems to know it, is seen to peer through window, and then to come to door, as if in search of pretty girl. I say only, what does it mean?”

“Means a bit of sweethearting, apparently,” said Trevor, laughing. “Well, I suppose it’s all right!”

“Not if the old lady catches them, perhaps; so let’s go and talk to the old lady.”

Trevor shrugged his shoulders, and the couple walked back towards the house, where Mrs Lloyd was standing, evidently fidgeted about something or another.

“I tell you she must have gone out,” she was saying as they came up.

But just at that moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and the waggonette drew up at the door with Vanleigh and Landells.

“Jove!” said the latter, “what out-of-the-way place, Trevor. Thought never get here.”

A sharp sniff drew his attention to Mrs Lloyd, who stood with her husband just inside the door.

“Not bad,” said Vanleigh, superciliously.

“Ah, you’ll like it when you’ve been down a day or two,” said Trevor. “I’m heartily glad to see you both.”

“Thanks,” said Vanleigh, as his host led the way into the hall. “Ah, quite mediaeval.”

“Mrs Lloyd, you’ve got the oak room ready for Captain Vanleigh?” said Trevor.

“No, Master Dick, I’ve ordered the blue room for him.”

Trevor’s brow clouded, but he only bit his lip.

“Then you’ve arranged that Sir Felix shall have the oak room?”

“No, Master – sir,” she said, correcting herself in a very stately way, “Sir Felix will sleep in the chintz chamber.”

Trevor flushed, but he turned it off lightly.

“These are our old butler and housekeeper, Vanleigh,” he said. “Mrs Lloyd there was almost like a mother to me as a child.”

“Indeed,” said Vanleigh, superciliously; and Sir Felix fixed his glass and had a good stare at the old lady, who looked every whit the mistress of the house.

“Grey mare?” he said, in a whisper.

“Old favoured servants,” said Trevor, in return; and the young men walked into the drawing-room.

“Don’t stand staring there,” said Mrs Lloyd, fiercely, to the footman; “take up these portmantees.”

The man gave her a surly look.

“He’ll go to ruin, that he will,” said Mrs Lloyd, in a voice of suppressed anger, to her husband, as soon as they were alone; “and there you stand without a word to say for yourself.”

“Well, what can I do, my dear?” said Lloyd, feebly.

“Nothing – nothing; what you have always done – nothing. But I’ll stop it soon. I won’t be made quite a nonentity of. Where’s that girl? Go and look for her. Or, no, you must see to the dinner; and mind this, Lloyd – she’s to be kept out of sight while these fine sparks are here. I don’t like the looks of that dark fellow at all.”

Mrs Lloyd hurried away to meet Polly, just about to enter the housekeeper’s room.

“And pray, where have you been, madam?”

“Only out in the grounds, aunt – it was so fine,” was the reply.

Mrs Lloyd looked at her till a red glow overspread the girl’s face.

“Look here,” said Mrs Lloyd, catching her by one hand; “you are not a fool, Polly. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

The girl looked up at her with a shiver, and then her eyes fell.

“Don’t you try to thwart me, mind, or you’ll be sorry for it to the last day of your life. Now, look here, do you mind me?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“You are to keep in the housekeeper’s room here till those friends of Master Dick’s are gone. And don’t you try to deceive me, because I can read that pink and white face of yours like a book.”

Mrs Lloyd flung the little maiden’s hand away from her, walked to a drawer, and brought out some new linen, which she set the girl to sew, while she went about the house seeing to the arrangements for her master’s guests.

As a matter of course, little Polly had “a good cry,” making several damp places on the new linen; and then, with a sob, she wished herself safe back at her old aunt’s in the Welsh mountains, where she was poor, but happy and free as the goats.

“I’d go to-morrow if I could,” she sobbed, and then the needle hand fell upon the stiff, hard work, and she closed her wet eyes till a faint smile came across her face like a little ray of sunshine; and she whispered softly to herself, as if it were a great secret, “No, I don’t think I would.”

Mrs Jenkles’s Morning Call

“Been waiting, old lady?” said Sam Jenkles, throwing open the apron of the cab as he reached his wife’s side.

“Not a minute, Sam; but why weren’t you driving? Is he restive?”

“Restive!” said Sam; “I only wish he was. I’d give ’arf a sovrin’ to see ’im bolt.”

“And suppose I was in the cab!” said Mrs Jenkles.

“There, don’t you be alarmed. Jump in. Ratty wouldn’t run away with you inside, my dear – nor any one else.”

Sam rattled the apron down, hopped on to his perch, chirruped to Ratty, and, for a wonder, he went decently out on to Pentonville Hill, past the Angel, along Upper Street, and round by the Cock at Highbury.

“What do you think of that, old lady?” said Sam, opening his little lid to peer down at his wife. “Comfortable?”

“Comfortable – yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, looking up and beaming. “And you said he wouldn’t go.”

“He knows as you’re here,” said Sam; “and that’s his aggrawating nature. He’s a-selling me.”

“Selling you, Sam?”

“Yes; a-making out as I grumbles without cause. Sit fast; I’ll bowl yer up there in no time.”

“No, Sam, don’t – pray, don’t go fast!” said his wife, in alarm.

“You sit still; it’s all right, I tell yer. Good wives is scarce, Sally, so you won’t be spilled.”

Only half convinced, Mrs Jenkles held on very tightly by the sides of the cab, till, well up now in the geography of the place, Sam ran round by the better road, and drew up at B. Sturt’s grocery warehouse.

“No,” said Sam, as Mrs Jenkles made for the shop; “side door, and ring once.”

As he spoke, Barney’s ill-looking face appeared at the door; and as Mrs Jenkles went and rang —

“Mornin’,” said Sam.

Barney scowled, and blew a cloud of tobacco at him.

“Keb, sir?” said Sam, mounting to his perch.

Barney growled, and then spat.

“Run yer up to town in no time. Cheap trains to S’burban ’andicap,” said Sam, grinning.

But Barney turned his back as the cab drove off, and asked his wife – “What, them people wanted with kebs now?”

Mrs Lane admitted her visitor, and, in a hesitating way, asked her upstairs, where her daughter, looking very pale, was seated by the window, working for very life at the hard, blue cloth garments upon which they were engaged.

The girl rose as Mrs Jenkles entered, and bent towards her, flushing slightly beneath the scrutinising gaze to which she was subjected.

At the same time, Mrs Jenkles made a short bob, and then another to Mrs Lane, who placed a chair for her, which she declined to take.

“It was my husband, ma’am,” said Mrs Jenkles, “who came up to you the other day.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Lane. “You have come from him. He brought you to-day?”

“I said I should come and see you,” said Mrs Jenkles, looking sharply from one to the other.

“And he told you?” said Mrs Lane, hesitatingly.

“Yes; my husband tells me everything,” said Mrs Jenkles, stiffly.

“Then you know how good he was to mamma?” said the girl, coming forward.

“My husband’s one of the best men under the sun, Miss; only he has his weaknesses.”

“Yes, it was weak,” said Mrs Lane, with a touch of bitterness in her voice – “and to such strangers.”

“If you mean about the money, ma’am,” said Mrs Jenkles, in the same uncompromising manner, “I don’t; I meant something else.”

Mrs Lane directed an imploring look at her daughter, and the girl hastily took up her work, as did her mother, and stitched away.

“That may have been weak, and it may not,” said Mrs Jenkles, who took in everything. “It all depends.”

“It was a most generous act,” said Mrs Lane, in a low, pained voice, “and will bear its fruit. But you will sit down?”

Mrs Jenkles seated herself on the very edge of her chair, bolt upright, while Mrs Lane drew out a well-worn purse, took from it half a sovereign, and laid it upon the table.

“I am ashamed to offer you so little of it back,” said Mrs Lane, “but it was all we could get together in so short a time. You shall have the rest – as we can make it up.”

“Thanky,” said Mrs Jenkles, shortly; but without attempting to touch the coin.

There was a pause then, only broken by that weary sound of hard stitching, which tells of sore fingers and aching eyes.

“How much more have you got in that purse?” said Mrs Jenkles, shortly.

A faint flush of resentment appeared in the mothers face, and the daughter darted an angry look at the speaker. But it died out in an instant, as with a sad, weary action, Mrs Lane reopened the purse, and shook out two more coins beside the half-sovereign upon the table.

“Two shillings,” she said, faintly; “it is all.”

Mrs Jenkles sat very still, and the stitching went on like the ticking of two clocks, measuring out the short span of the workers’ lives.

Mrs Jenkles’s eyes were busy, and she saw, as they went over the room, how shabbily it was furnished, how thinly mother and daughter were clothed, how pale and weary was their aspect, while the girl’s eyes were unnaturally bright.

At last Mrs Jenkles’s eyes caught sight of a little white corner in one of the compartments of the open purse, and she gave a hysterical gulp.

There was a heap of thick cloth work lying on the table between the two women – the one coarse, unrefined, but comfortably clothed and fed, the other refined and worn to skin and bone – and this heap covered Mrs Jenkles’s actions as she rose, walked to the table, and then, without a word, went out of the room.

“Has she gone?” whispered Netta, as Mrs Jenkles’s retreating footsteps were heard.

“Yes,” said Mrs Lane, with a weary sigh, and she worked on.

“It was very, very cruel,” said the girl, with her voice shaking, and, in spite of her efforts, a heavy sob would make its way from her breast, and the tears stole down her cheeks. “Mother, darling, what shall we do?”

“Hope and wait,” was the response, in a low, pained voice. “It was only their due. The husband was very kind.”

“But the two shillings – for bread,” sobbed the girl. “Mamma, does papa know – can he know of this?”

Mrs Lane leaned back in her chair, and held one hand over her eyes for a few moments; then, with a gesture to her child to be silent, she once more bent over her work.

Netta brushed the tears from her eyes, drew in her breath as if in pain, and worked on in silence for a quarter of an hour, when steps were once more heard upon the stairs.

The eyes of mother and daughter met, those of the latter in dread; but it was not the heavy step of Barney, nor the snatchy shuffle of his wife, but a quick, decided, solid footstep, and the moment afterwards Mrs Jenkles re-entered the room, and closed the door.

Mrs Lane rose in surprise, and took a step to meet her. Directly after, completely broken down, she was sobbing on the coarse, uneducated woman’s neck; for she had seen at a glance that the money still lay upon the table by the empty purse – empty now, for the duplicate it had contained was gone – as, with a loving, sisterly movement, the cabman’s wife slipped back upon her finger the ring she had been to redeem, and then, kissing her upon the forehead, whispered —

“My poor dear, what you must have suffered! Hush, hush! There, there!” said Mrs Jenkles, after a pause, with tears streaming down her own simple, honest face; and she patted and tried to soothe her forsaken sister as she would a child.

“There, there, there; don’t you cry too, my pretty,” she said, as Netta flew to her, and kissed her on the cheek. “Come, come, come, we must hold up. There, that’s better; now sit down.”

“And I said God had forsaken us in our distress,” sobbed Mrs Lane. “I little thought what forms his angels took.”

“There, there, there,” said Mrs Jenkles, wiping her eyes with a rapid motion; “if you talk like that you’ll drive me away. I told Sam I’d come up to see, for I didn’t know; and he is so easily led away, and I thought all sorts of things. But, bless and save us, he never told me half enough. There, there, wipe your eyes.”

As she spoke, with a delicacy for which one might not have given her credit, she turned her back, leaving mother and daughter sobbing in each other’s arms, while she slipped the money back in the purse, and placed it on the chimney-piece. Her next act was to take off her bonnet and shawl, hang them behind the door, and take up Netta’s work and chair, beginning to stitch away with a vigour that astonished the girl, as she tore herself away from her mother, and came to resume her toil.

“No, no, my dear; I’ll give you a rest while you see about a bit of dinner; for,” she said, with a cheery smile, “you’ll let me have a bit with you to-day, now, won’t you? I’ll try and earn it.”

The girl’s tears were ready to flow again, but Mrs Jenkles’s finger was shaken menacingly at her, and she turned to her mother, who rose, dried her eyes, and came and kissed the broad, smooth forehead.

“God will bless you for this,” she said, softly; and then the work went on once more, with such sunshine in the room as had not seemed to enter it for weeks.

“Ah!” said Mrs Jenkles, as she bit off a fresh length of thread with her firm, white teeth. “Rents are dear up this part, I suppose.”

“I pay seven and sixpence a week for this and the back room,” said Mrs Lane.

“They’d be dear at half with such furniture,” said Mrs Jenkles.

There was another spell of sewing, when Mrs Lane said that she would see about the dinner; and then, as if reading Mrs Jenkles’s thoughts —

“I don’t like letting Netta go out alone.”

“And quite right, too, with her face,” said Mrs Jenkles. “But she looks tired. You ought to walk out every day for an hour or two.”

The girl gave her a pitiful look.

So the day wore on, Mrs Jenkles taking dinner and tea with them, and seeing that each of them partook of a hearty meal, leaving about half-past nine with a bundle.

It was sharp work to get home before Sam should arrive from the yard; but Mrs Jenkles managed it, had the table laid, the supper out, and the beer fetched, before he came in, took off his shiny hat and old coat, and seating himself began to fill his pipe.

“Well, old lady,” he said, “what time did yer get back?”

“About a quarter of an hour ago,” said Mrs Jenkles, as she took out some of the work upon which she had been engaged.

Sam whistled and stared.

“What’s them?” he said, pointing with his pipe at the work.

“Only some slop-work I want to finish.”

Mrs Jenkles seemed so busy, that she could not look up and meet her husband’s eye. In fact, to use her own expression, she was all of a twitter, and did not know what Sam would say; for though she nominally ruled him, Sam had a will of his own.

“Well, and did you find out about ’em?”

“Yes, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, without raising her eyes.

“Bad lot, aint they?” he said, puffing away at his pipe.

Mrs Jenkles shook her head.

“What, aint I been took in, then?” said Sam. “Aint they deep, designing people, as got hold of yer poor innocent husband, and swindled him out of thirty bob?”

“Oh, Sam, Sam!” exclaimed Mrs Jenkles, with her lip quivering, “I never see anything so pitiful in my life.”

“Poof!” exclaimed Sam, bursting out into a guffaw, as he turned in his seat, hugged the back of the chair, and shook with laughter. “That’s my poor, silly, soft old wife, as can’t be trusted out. Did they offer to pay you any of the money back?”

Mrs Jenkles nodded.

“How much?”

“Half a sovereign, Sam.”

“Well, that’s something; and jolly honest, too!”

“But I didn’t take it, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, dropping her work, to go and rest her hands upon his shoulder.

“You didn’t take it?”

“No, Sam, dear.”

“Then you’ve been and let ’em have more.”

“Yes, Sam, dear.”

“There’s a wife for you,” he said – “there’s a helpmate; and I aint made my guv’nor’s money to-day by four bob.”

“I couldn’t help it, Sam – I couldn’t, indeed,” she said; bursting into tears; “it was so pitiful – she’s a real lady, I’m sure, and her daughter, straining over that heart-breaking work; oh! it was more than I could bear.”

“I wasn’t such a werry great fool, Sally,” he said.

“Oh no, Sam. Oh no. But I haven’t told you all yet.”

“You haven’t?”

“No, dear.”

“Well, put me out of my misery at once,” said Sam, “that’s all.”

“Don’t be angry with me, Sam, it’ll come back to us some way, I hope; and if it don’t, we shall only have done what thousands more would have done if they had only known.”

“Let’s have it,” said Sam, gruffly.

“They’re paying seven and six, Sam, for those wretched rooms, and the woman’s a horrid creature.”

“Yes, she is that,” said Sam, nodding.

“And the poor young lady’s frightened to death of the man, who insulted her once. He is a dreadful-looking fellow.”

“Wuss, ever so much,” said Sam, nodding at his pipe-bowl.

“And I – I – ”

“Told ’em about our being about to be empty; that’s about what you did,” said Sam.

“Yes, Sam.”

“Well, you’re a nice one. Of course you’ve put the rent up?”

“No, I haven’t, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I’ve – ”

“Asked only the same. Why, our rooms is a palace to theirs – not as I ever see a palace to know.”

“They’re smaller, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles.

“Precious little,” said Sam. “Well, you’ve offered ’em at six bob, eh? Well, you are a nice one; and doing their work, too!”

“No, Sam, dear, I told them they could have them for five shillings a week.”

“Five!” shouted Sam.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Jenkles, pitifully; “don’t be cross, dear. They said they wouldn’t take them.”

“That’s a comfort,” said Sam.

“But,” exclaimed Mrs Jenkles, hurriedly, “I persuaded them to come. I told them that they would be saving half a crown a week, and that in twelve weeks they would have paid off the thirty shillings you lent them, and they’re coming.”

“And how many more weeks will it take to pay off the money you lent them?” said Sam, facing round sharply.

“Only three, dear; it was only seven and sixpence, Sam.”

“You’ll ruin me,” said Sam. “You know as we’re as poor as can be,” he went on, with his eyes averted from her.

“No, Sam, we’re not; for we’ve a comfortable home, and we always save a little.”

“And you go and make jellies and give away.”

“How did you know that?” said Mrs Jenkles, sharply.

“Ah! you women can’t go on long in your wicked ways without being found out,” said Sam. “I heerd on it.”

“The poor child was dying, same as our poor little Dick was, Sam, and – and – ”

Sam turned his head farther away.

“And now you invite poor people to come, as ’ll never be able to pay their bit o’ rent; an’ the end on it all ’ll be the workus.”

“Oh, Sam; pray, pray, don’t! Do I deserve all this?” and the poor woman burst out sobbing.

“God bless you! no, old lady,” cried Sam, pulling her on to his knee, and giving her a sounding kiss, as she laid her head upon his shoulder. “It ’ll all come right in the long run; see if it don’t. Life aint worth having if you can’t do, a bit o’ good in it.”

“Then you really aint cross with me, Sam?”

“Not a bit,” said Sam. “Look at me. Sally, my old gal, it’s my belief as them angels as takes the toll at the gate up above in the shiny way ’ll let you go through free.”

“Sam!” cried Mrs Jenkles, trying to lay her hand on his mouth.

“And look here, old lady,” he continued, stroking her face; “when that does come off, which I hope it won’t be for scores o’ years to come, you keep werry, werry tight hold o’ my hand, and then, perhaps, I shall stand a chance of getting into heaven too.”

End of Volume One

Love Minor

Little Polly wiped her eyes after her happy thoughts; for the shower had passed, and the gleam of sunshine augmented till her face grew dimpled, and she went on stitching busily. It was very evident that she had some consolation – some pleasant unguent for the irritation caused by Aunt Lloyd; for at the end of half an hour she was singing away at some old Welsh ditty, in a sweet, bird-like voice, filling up, when she forgot the words, with a melodious little hum, which was only checked on the appearance of her tyrant, that lady mating occasional incursions. Sometimes Aunt Lloyd required table linen; then she came to unlock the press where the dessert was laid out, and hand it to the footman, counting the fruit on the dishes as she did so.

“Now, Robert, what are you looking at there?” she said, sharply, as she caught the man’s eyes straying in the direction of Polly. “Mind your work, if you please.”

Polly did not get snubbed, for she had been bending diligently over her stitching, which, as soon as the tray of dessert had gone, came in for a close inspection; but, as it was very neatly done, there was no complaint.

“Hold out your hands, child,” said Mrs Lloyd, suddenly; and she examined the finger roughened by the hard material and contact with the needle. “Ah, that stuffs too stiff; it shall be washed first. Mend those.”

The linen was doubled up, put away, and some soft material placed in the girl’s hands, over which she had been diligently at work one hour, when Mrs Lloyd returned for coffee from her stores, with which she again departed, muttering about “Such a set to bring down!” and Polly’s musical little voice began once more.

Let’s see: the dictionary says that an enchanter is one who calls down by chanting or singing – one who practises sorcery by song. Polly, then, must have been an enchantress, for her little ditty about the love of some deserted maid had the effect of bringing cousin Humphrey Lloyd through the shrubbery to the open window of the housekeeper’s room; and just in the midst of one of the sweetest of the little trills there was a rustle amongst the laurels, and a deep voice whispered “Polly!”