"Thereby Hangs a Tale" (continued 5)

Her voice was very husky now; but her words came firmly, and bore the impress of truth.

“It was then, Richard, that the temptation came; for all at once, as I looked down upon you both, the thought came, and I shivered. Then all opened out before me—a bright life, wealth, position, a great future for the helpless babe I held; and I said why should it not be for my boy. I shrank from it for a moment, not more. Then it seemed so easy, so sure, that I did not hesitate. In two minutes you had on the little master’s night-gown, and he wore yours; and I laid you, Dick—my boy—my flesh and blood, in the cradle, and stole downstairs with theirs.”

There was a faint rustle amongst the leaves overhead; but no one heeded, and the woman went on.

“As soon as I got down, shivering with fear, a sort of hysterical fit came over me, and I got worse; I grew so feverish that I had to lie down, and I was ill for weeks; but that passed off, and the struggle began. Ah, Richard, boy, your poor mother bore it all for you—that you might be rich and happy, while she suffered the tortures of hell; her heart yearning to take you to her heart, hearing you cry as she lay awake at nights with a stranger nursed at her breast. But that passed off when you both grew bigger; and you know how I treated you after, as I saw you grow up. People said I was hard to Humphrey. Perhaps I was, but I was never hard to you; and many a night I’ve cried myself to sleep with joy, when I have found you loving and affectionate, soothing me for the jealous tortures I suffered because I could not call you mine. But I said ‘no, there is no going back; you have made him, let it be.’”

“And Lloyd?” said Richard, hoarsely—“did he know of this?”

“Yes, I told him, and he would have confessed; but he did not dare. My boy, when you spoke to me that night in your room—when for the first time for years I kissed you, I felt that I must tell you all.”

“It’s monstrous!” cried Richard, and his face looked ten years older. “But, no; I won’t believe it—it can’t be true.”

“Not true!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, with her sallow cheeks flushing. “Ask your father. Is it so hard,” she added, bitterly, “to find that you have a father and mother alive instead of in the grave?”

“It is impossible!” cried Richard.

“Hush, hold your tongue!” she said, angrily. “You know the secret now—keep it. What is it to a soul? I never had the heart to send Humphrey away, but treated him well. Send him away now—give him money to go away. He’ll soon forget Polly. You must many her; and Richard—say a kind word to me,” she whispered, softening, “kiss me once—once only, my boy—your mother—before she goes back to be your servant, and to hold her peace for ever.”

She crept closer to him, as he stood staring straight away, her thin hands rested on his shoulders, and she gazed up into his eyes, with her face working and growing strangely young, even as his tinned old.

“Dick, my darling, handsome son, kiss me—once only. And you’ll marry her, won’t you, and make her happy? One kiss, my own boy.”

She uttered a hoarse cry, for he looked down at her with a look of loathing, and thrust her away.

“Mother? No!” he cried. “I can’t call you that. Woman, you thought to bless me, and what you have done comes upon me like a curse. Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me. Take away your hands. I cannot bear it.”

She clung to him; but he tore her hands away, and pushed her from him.

“Dick,” she cried, throwing herself on her knees to him, and embracing his knees. “Your mother. One loving word.”

“I can’t,” he gasped—“I can’t. It is too much. An impostor—a pretender; and now to be an outcast! My God! what have I done that I should suffer this? Oh, Tiny! My love—my love!”

Those last words seemed torn from his breast in a low, hoarse whisper, as, breaking from the prostrate woman, he rushed away, right into the woods—the undergrowth bending and snapping as he passed on; till, with a groan of despair, he threw himself upon the earth, and lay there, in the deep shade, with his face buried in his hands.

With the Owner.

How long Richard lay there he did not know. To him, it seemed like a year of torment, during which, in a wildly fevered state, he went over, again and again, the narrative he had heard; tried to find a flaw in it, but in vain. It was too true—too circumstantial; and at last, in a dazed, heavy way, he raised his haggard face, with his hair roughened, and wrinkled brow, to see Humphrey sitting upon a fallen tree by his side.

“Ah, Humphrey,” he said, in a calm, sad voice. “How long have you been there?”

“Ever since, sir,” said the young man. “I followed you.”

“Then you heard?”

“Every word, sir. I couldn’t help it, though. I didn’t want to listen.”

Richard bowed his head, and remained with his chin upon his breast.

“I had left Polly, sir—God bless her! she’d made me very happy with what she said—and I was taking a short cut back to try and catch you, sir, when I came upon you sudden like.”

“Yes,” said Richard, looking him full in the face. “But it was no fault of mine. I thought I was too happy for it to last. But I’ll be a man over it. Humphrey,” he exclaimed, rousing himself, “they educated me to be a gentleman, and I won’t belie them there. Once for all, I am very sorry, and I’ll make you every restitution in my power.”

“Well, sir, I did wonder why she was always so hard to me: but I don’t understand you, sir,” said Humphrey, quietly.

“Don’t sir me, man,” exclaimed Richard, passionately.

“Don’t be cross with me about it, Master Dick,” said Humphrey, smiling; “’taint my fault.”

“No, no, my good fellow, I know. Oh, it was monstrous!”

He turned away his head.

“Do you think it’s all true, Master Richard,” said Humphrey, quietly; “it seems so wild-like.”

“True enough. Oh yes, it’s true. But there, we won’t talk.”

“But I think we’d better, sir.”

“Haven’t I told you that I’ll make you restitution, man—give up all?”

“Master Richard,” said Humphrey, with a happy smile on his face, “you’ve give up to me my little love, and made me feel as if there was nothing else in the world I’d care to have. Look ye here, sir, it’s stunned me like; it’s hard, you know, to understand. I’m only a poor fellow like, come what may; and if I had the place—oh, you know, it just sounds like so much nonsense!—what could me and Polly do with it, when we could be happier at the lodge? It makes me laugh—it do indeed, sir. You, you see, have been made a scholar, and have your big friends—been made a gentleman, in fact—and nothing would ever make one of me. Let’s go on, then, as we are, sir. I’m willing. Only sometimes Polly, maybe, ’ll want a new dress, or a ribbon, or something of that kind; and then, if I ask you, you’ll give me half a sovereign, or may be a sovereign, eh?”

“Half a sovereign—a sovereign! Why, man, can you not realise that you have from now eight thousand a year?”

“No, sir, that I can’t,” said Humphrey, smiling pleasantly. “I never was good at figures. Dogs, you know, or horses, or anything in the farming line, I’m pretty tidy at; but figures bothers me. Let things stop as they are, sir; I won’t say a word, even to Polly.”

“Humphrey,” said Richard, holding out his hand, “you always were a good, true, simple-hearted fellow.”

“I hope so, sir,” said Humphrey, giving his horny palm a rub down his cord breeches before taking the extended hand, “and that’s what makes it right that we should go on as we are. Nature knew it, sir, and that’s how it was the change came about—you being the clever one, and best suited for the estate. I’m glad of one thing, though.”

“What’s that?” said Richard, wringing the extended hand.

“Why, I know now, sir, why Mrs Lloyd was always so down on me—she always was down on me, awful—regular hated me, like. Ah, the times I’ve cried over it as a boy! Nobody ever seemed to love me like till now, sir—till now.”

Humphrey beamed as he slapped his broad chest; and his simple words seemed to corroborate those of Mrs Lloyd, till the last ray of hope was crushed from Richard’s breast.

“No, Humphrey,” he said, gravely, though every word cost him a pang, “I cannot stay here as an impostor. The place is yours, I give up all.”

“That you just won’t, sir,” said Humphrey. “Why, I should be a brute beast if I let you. Come, come, let it go for a day or two, and think it over. It won’t trouble me. I don’t want it. I’m only glad of one thing—I’ve got somebody on the hip, and she won’t say no now.”

“I want no thinking, Humphrey; and we can still be friends. Come up to the house.”

“And what would Miss Tiny say?”

If Humphrey had stabbed him with the iron-pointed staff he carried, he could not have given him greater pain; and his eyes wore a strange piteous aspect as they gazed upon the young keeper’s face,

“You’ve got her to think about too, sir,” said Humphrey, “same as I have. Oh no, Master Richard, it wouldn’t never, never do.”

“Come up to the house, Humphrey—come up to the house.”

And then, without another word, but closely followed by his late servant, Richard strode hastily through the wood, whose briars and twigs in the unaccustomed path seemed now to take the part of fate, and lashed and tore him in his reckless passage, till his face was smeared with the blood which he had wiped hastily away.

“Has Mrs Lloyd come back from her walk?” said Richard to the staring footman.

“Yes, sir, two hours ago,” said the man.

“Go into the study, Humphrey Trevor,” said Richard, quietly; and then to himself, “Poor woman! and it was done for me.”

In Transition.

It was a hard fight, and the temptation was strong upon him to hide the truth. Humphrey would be content—he did not want to take his place; and he sat opposite to him now in the study, upon the very edge of the chair. Oh, it was ridiculous that he should have to give the place up to such a man—one whom he had to order before he could get him to sit down in his presence. And even when he felt that his mind was made up, and he was stoically determined to do that which was right, the rightful heir would keep upsetting his plans.

“You see, it would be so foolish, Master Dick.”

“I can’t help that, Humphrey. You must have your rights. I will not be a party to the imposture.”

“Hadn’t you better see a lawyer about it all?”

To be sure. There was Pratt—a barrister—he might give good advice.

Richard rang the bell and a servant came. “Ask Mr Pratt to be kind enough to step here.”

“If you please, sir, Mr Pratt’s gone, sir. I put his letter on your table. Yes, there it is, sir.”

Richard started.

“The rats desert the sinking ship,” he muttered; and then blushed for his doubt of his friend.

“When did he go?”

“Hour ago, sir. Telegraph come from Saint Kitt’s, sir; and he wrote that letter, sir, for you, while they got the dogcart ready to take him to the station.”

“That will do.”

He tore open the letter, which enclosed the telegram from a friend in chambers—

“Come directly. A good brief for you. Don’t lose the chance.”

The hastily-scrawled letter was as follows:—

“Dear Dick,—Don’t blame me for going. I must take work when it comes; and honestly, for reasons I can’t explain, I am glad to go.—Yours, F.P.”

“Must be genuine,” thought Richard. “Well, it has happened at a good time. I’m glad he has gone.”

Then a thought struck him.

He and Humphrey might divide the estate. But, no, he drove it away; he would be honest.

“Shall I go over to Saint Kitt’s and fetch Mr Lawyer Dancer, sir?” said Humphrey.

“Say no more about it, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Richard. “I want no advice—I want nothing—only this, Humphrey, that you will forgive those old people—my—my parents. Let them have money to the end of their days, even if it is not deserved.”

“Oh, but Master Richard.”

“And promise me that you will not allow any prosecution and punishment to be held over their heads.”

“Is it likely, Master Richard?” said Humphrey, laughing.

“Now let me have a few hours to myself, to collect my thoughts, and write a few letters.”

Humphrey leaped from his chair.

“’Bout draining the little meadow, sir?” he said. “Shall I set the men on? The tiles is come.”

Richard’s face contracted with pain, and then a bitter smile crossed it.

“My dear Humphrey,” he said, taking his hand, “can you not realise your position? You are master here.”

“No, sir,” cried Humphrey, flinging down his hat, and then picking it up—“I’ll be blessed if I can. This has put my head all in a buzz, like bees swarming, and I can’t understand it a bit.”

He left the room, and Richard gave a sigh of relief, seating himself at his table, and taking up a pen to write; but only to rest his head upon his hand, and stare before him, dazed—crushed.

“Please, sir, Mrs Lloyd says can you make it convenient to see her?” said the footman; and then he started back, astounded at his master’s anger.

“No,” roared Richard, “I will see no one. Let me be left alone.”

Then he hastily wrote a letter to Pratt, and fastened it down before dropping it in the letter-bag, and threw it into the hall.

He had hardly finished before, knocking first softly, Lloyd opened the door, to stand trembling before him.

Richard pointed to the door.

“Go,” he said, hoarsely. “I can’t talk to you now. Another time—in a week—in a month—wait until then.”

“But—”

“Go—for Heaven’s sake, go!” cried Richard, frantically.

He was left alone.

Next came a note in pencil from Mrs Lloyd.

“My dearest Boy—Forgive me; it was for your sake I did all this. Pray be careful, for I fear Humphrey has some suspicion. Do see me, and give me your advice.

“M.J.L.”

“Poor woman!” he muttered, tearing the note bit by bit into tiny fragments. “Her plan is destroyed, save that this niece—my fair cousin, Polly—will sit in the seat she intended, without poor Humphrey is spoiled by prosperity. Poor fellow! It will be a hard trial for him.

“Be careful?” he said, laughing in a strange, harsh fashion. “Does she think I am going to remain her accomplice in this horrible fraud?”

He sat down, then, to think; but his brain was in a whirl, and he gave up in despair.

At last he woke up to the fact that it was growing late, and he remembered that he was to have accompanied the Reas on an expedition that afternoon, and now it was past six. They must have been and returned.

What would poor Tiny think?

A cold, chilling feeling of despair came over him now. What would she think? Yes, how would she take it? All must be over between them now—at least, for some years to come.

A servant announced dinner, and he bade him send it back. Locking the door after him, he sat down in an easy-chair, conscious that several times there had been knocks at the door, but paying no heed whatever.

Night fell, and he had not moved; and then, in a strange, fitful, dreamy fashion, the night passed away.

He must have dozed at times, he knew; for his thoughts had wandered off into dreams, and the dreams had trailed off in turn into thoughts; and now it was morning, for the grey light was streaming through the antique casement, and a feint glow overhead told of the rising sun.

He threw open the windows, and the cool morning breeze, fresh from the Atlantic, seemed to calm and refresh him. His thoughts grew more collected; and at last he left the window, and went out into the hall, to seek his bedroom.

A bitter smile crossed his lip as he noticed the luxurious air of wealth about him, and then a sigh drew his attention to the fact that the cause of all his agony had been watching at his door the night through, and was now on her knees stretching out her hands as if in supplication for pardon.

“Oh, my boy—my boy, what are you going to do,” she groaned.

“Do?” he said, bitterly, as she crept to his feet. “Act like the gentleman you wanted me to be.”

“What do you mean, Richard—my son? There, I give up about Polly. I’ll never say another word. You shall do as you like.”

“I need not ask you if what you told me yesterday was true,” he said, calmly. “Well, we must make amends.”

“How? What do you mean?” she said, starting up.

“Mean? Why, by giving up everything to the rightful owner, and leaving him possession at once.”

“Richard,” she cried, passionately, catching him by the arm, “you would not be so mad.”

“I shall be so honest,” he said.

“What, give up—give up everything to Humphrey?”

“Everything,” he said, coldly, “and at once.”

“You’re mad—mad!” gasped Mrs Lloyd. “And after all I have done for you—to make you a gentleman.”

“These are its effects,” he said, bitterly. “You made me a gentleman—I wish to act as one.”

“But, Richard—think—your father—your old mother—we shall be turned out in disgrace—to starve,” she cried, piteously.

“Mother, I cannot help the disgrace,” he said, coldly. “I would save you if I could, but the disgrace would be greater to keep up this horrible imposture.”

“Hush!” she whispered, “the servants will soon be down—they may hear us. Oh, you cannot mean, Richard, what you say.”

“I told Humphrey yesterday,” continued Richard, “that I begged he would care for you; but that is only for the present. As soon as I can find means to earn my bread, I will keep you both myself; so that you shall be spared the disgrace of taking alms from the man you wronged.”

“Fool—idiot—mad boy!” hissed Mrs Lloyd, seizing his arm angrily, and shaking it. “You shall not act like this. I’ve been nearly thirty years building this up, and do you think I will have it crushed down like that? Say a word if you dare!”

“If I dare!” exclaimed Richard. “Do you know that Humphrey does more than suspect, that he knows all—heard all from your own lips in the lane yesterday?”

Mrs Lloyd’s jaw dropped.

“The true-hearted, honest fellow refused to take advantage of his position.”

“Of course, yes,” cried Mrs Lloyd. “We’ll pay him out, and let him go. Yes, he shall have Polly,” she added, with a look of pleasure on her troubled face.

“Enough of this,” said Richard, firmly. “Loose my arm. Some day I may be able to talk to you again. Now, go to your room, and make arrangements either for leaving, or make your peace with your new lord. He loves little Polly, and that will act as a shield for you.”

“I say you shall not give in,” cried Mrs Lloyd, in a hoarse, angry voice.

But he dragged his arm free, and dashed up the stairs.

End of Volume Two.

Mistaken Zeal.

In the course of the morning Richard grew calmer. He had a long interview with Humphrey, giving him plenty of advice as to his future proceedings; and then sending for Mr Mervyn, whom Humphrey happened to mention as a gentleman in whom he had great confidence.

But the messenger was not needed, for Mr Mervyn was coming up the drive, and he was sent on another errand, with a couple of notes to Penreife—one to Sir Hampton, the other to Tiny.

“I was on my way here, Mr Trevor,” he began.

“My name is Richard Lloyd, Mr Mervyn,” said Richard, quietly.

“Yes—yes,” said Mr Mervyn, “I have heard. It is all over the place.”

“So soon?” said Richard, bitterly.

“Yes; and directly I heard,” said Mervyn, “I came up. But, my dear sir, it’s like a romance; it can’t be true.”

“It’s true enough,” said Richard, coldly.

“But under the circumstances, Mr Trev—Lloyd,” said Mervyn, “Mr Humphrey here won’t press—”

“That’s what I want Master Richard here to understand,” said Humphrey. “As I says to him yesterday, sir, what’s the good of it to me?”

“Exactly,” said Mervyn, “right is right; but as Mr Trev—Lloyd is innocent in the matter, and has made engagements and the rest of it, why not come to some arrangement satisfactory to both?”

“Mr Mervyn, you are sent for here as the friend of Mr Humphrey Trevor.”

“Exactly, Mr Tre—Lloyd. I beg your pardon, but my tongue is not so quick of apprehension as my brain.”

“I want you to advise and help him in his novel position.”

“I will,” said Mervyn, frankly; “but I should like to advise and help you too. You see, Mr Tre—there—Mr Richard, you have possession.”

“I give it up,” said Richard.

“But you might hold it, and give friend Humphrey here a great deal of trouble.”

“Mr Mervyn, I claim to be still a gentleman, whatever my birth,” said Richard, haughtily. “Will you act as Humphrey’s friend?”

“I will.”

“Then understand this, sir. I have had a hard fight, and I have come through the temptation, I hope, like a man. I now resign everything to Mr Humphrey Trevor here. I ask his pardon for usurping his rights, and I beg his forbearance towards my poor father and mother. I will not make this cruel injury to him worse by any opposition.”

Humphrey shuffled in his seat, and tried to speak, but he only wiped his damp face, and looked helplessly at the man he was bound to oust.

“You see, Mr Mervyn,” continued Richard, “Mr Trevor’s will be a peculiar position.”

“Yes,” said Mervyn; “but had you not better get some legal advice?”

“What for?” said Richard. “Can anything be plainer? As I said, Mr Trevor’s will be a peculiar position. He will be the mark of the designing, and he will need a staunch friend at his side. Will you be that friend?”

“I will,” said Mervyn, wringing his hand. “Yours too, my dear fellow, if you’ll let me. But,” he added, in a whisper, “Miss Rea?”

A spasm of pain shot across Richard’s face, and he was about to speak when Humphrey turned to him.

“Master Richard,” he said, in a husky voice, “we was boys together, and played together almost like brothers. This here comes to me stunning, like. You say it’s mine. Well, it aint my fault. I don’t want it. Keep it all, if you like; if not, let’s share and share alike.”

The last words fell on empty air, for Richard had waved his hand to both, and hurried out of the room.

That evening, with beating heart, he walked towards Tolcarne gates. He had been busy amongst his papers, tearing up and making ready for that which he had to do on the morrow; and now, more agitated than he would own, he sought the lane where so many happy hours had been spent to see if Tiny Rea would grant him the interview he had written to ask for, that he might say good-bye.

It was a soft, balmy night, and the stars seemed to look sadly down through the trees as he leaned against a mass of lichen-covered granite, pink here and there with the pretty stonecrop of the place, waiting, for she was behind time.

“Will she come,” he said, “now that I am a beggar without a shilling, save that which I could earn? Oh, shame! shame! shame! How could I doubt her?”

No, he would not doubt her; she could not have cared about his money. She was too sweet and loving and gentle. And what should he say—wait? No, he dared not. He could only—only—leave her free, that she might—

“Oh, my darling!” he groaned; and he laid his broad forehead upon the hard, rugged stone, weeping now like a child.

The clouds came across the sky, blotting out one by one the glistening stars; a chilly mist swept along the valley from the sea, and all around was dark and cold as the future of his blasted life. For the minutes glided into hours, and she came not—came not to say one gentle, loving word—one God-speed to send him on his way; and at last, heart-broken, he staggered to the great floral gate, held the chilly rails, kissed the iron, and gazed with passionate longing up at the now darkened house, and then walked slowly away, stunned by the violence of his grief.

The wind was rising fast, and coming in heavy soughs from off the sea. As he reached the lodge gates at Penreife he paused, staring before him in a helpless way, till a heavy squall smote him, and with it a sharp shower of rain, whose drops seemed to cool his forehead and rouse him to action.

Starting off, with great strides, he took the short cut, and made for the sea, where the fields ended suddenly, their short, thyme-scented grass seeming to have been cut where there was a fall of full four hundred feet, down past a rugged, piled-up wall of granite, to the white-veined rock, polished by the restless sea below. To any one unaccustomed to the coast a walk there on a dark night meant death, either by mutilation on the cruel rocks, always seeming to be studded with great gouts of crimson blood, where the sea anemones clung in hundreds, or else by drowning in the deep, clear water, when the tide was up, and the waves played amidst the long, chocolate strands of fucus and bladder-wrack, waving to and fro.

It was going to be a wild night, but it seemed in keeping with the chaos of his mind. Far out on the sea, softly rising to and fro in the thick darkness, were the lights of the fishing-boats, as a score or so lay drifting with their herring-nets; and in his heart there was not a rough fisher there whose lot he did not envy.

“And she could not come!” he groaned, as he stood there, with bare head. “Oh, my love—my love! To go without one gentle word, far, far away, and but yesterday so happy!”

The wind increased in force, and, with the gathering strength of the tide, the waves came rushing in, to beat in thunder against the rocks far beneath his feet; and then, with a rush, the fine salt spray was whirled up, and swept in his face, as he gazed straight out to sea.

At another time he might have shuddered, standing thus upon the edge of that great cliff, with—just dimly seen in its more intense blackness—the rugged headland that stretched like a buttress into the sea upon his left. But now the horrors of the place seemed welcome, and he felt, as a smile came on his dripping features, that it would be pleasant to leap from where he stood right off at once into oblivion.

It seemed so easy, such a quiet way of getting rest from the turmoil and trouble of the future, that the feeling seemed to grow upon him.

“No,” he said at last; “that would be a coward’s end. I’ve done one brave thing to-day; and now, old friend, you shall have me again to toss upon your waves, but it shall be as your master, not as a slave.”

As he spoke he raised his hands and stretched them out, when he heard a hoarse cry behind him, and as he sharply turned and stepped back, something seemed to come out of the darkness, seize him by the throat, and the next moment he was over the cliff, suspended above eternity.

Then there was an awful silence, only broken by the roar, thud, and hiss of the waves below, as they rushed in, broke upon the rocks, and then fled back in foamy spray.

Richard’s fingers were dug into the short, velvet turf, and he hung there, with his legs rigid, afraid to move, and wondering whether those were friendly or inimical hands that clutched his throat. It seemed an age of horror before the silence was broken, and then came a panting voice, which he knew as Humphrey’s, to sob, as it were, in his ear—

“Master Dick, don’t be scar’d. I’ve got you tight, but I can’t move. Get your nerve, and then shift your hands one at a time to me.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Richard did so, with the damp gathering on his brow the while.

“That’s brave, sir. Now get your toes in the cracks of the granite somewhere—gently, don’t hurry—I won’t let go, though I can’t move.”

Richard obeyed, drew himself up an inch, then another, and another, felt that he was saved—then made a slip, and all seemed over, but Humphrey held to him with all his strength, and once more Richard tried, tearing hands and knees with the exertion, till he got his chest above the cliff edge, then was halfway up, and crawled safely on, to fall over panting on his side.

“Quick, Master Richard, your hand!” shouted Humphrey.

And the saved had to turn saver, for the keeper had been drawn closer and closer to the edge by Richard’s efforts, and but for a sudden snatch, and the exercise of all his strength, the new owner of Penreife would have glided off the slippery grass into the darkness beneath.

“Safe,” muttered Humphrey, rising. “Give me your hand, Master Richard. I thought, when I followed you, you meant to leap off.”

“No, Humphrey,” said Richard, sadly, “I will not throw my worthless life away. It is such glimpses of death as that we have just seen that teach the value of life. Goodnight; don’t speak to me again.”

Humphrey obeyed, and followed him in silence to the house.

The next morning, as soon as the letters had been brought in, Richard took his—a single one—and, without a word to a soul, carried a small portmanteau to the stable-yard, waited while the horse was put to, and then had himself driven off.

As he passed the lodge a note was put into his hand by a boy. An hour later he was in the train, and the destination of that train was the big metropolis, where most men come who mean to begin afresh.

Correspondence.

It never struck Richard that some of his behaviour was verging on the Quixotic. His only thought now was that he was degraded from his high estate, and that the woman whom he had loved with all his heart—did love still—had turned from him in his poverty and distress.

At such times men are not disposed to fairly analyse the motives of others; and Richard was anything but an unbiased judge, as he knit his brow, told himself that he had the fight to begin now, and determined to take help from no one who had known him in his prosperity.

With this feeling strong upon him he dismissed the man who had driven him over; and, to the utter astonishment of the Saint Kitt’s station-master, took a third-class ticket for London, and entered a compartment wherein were a soldier with a bottle, a sailor just landed, an old lady with several bundles, bound on a visit to her boy in London—a gentleman, she informed everybody, who kept a public—and the customary rural third-class passengers.

And then the long, dreary journey began, Richard making up his mind to suit himself to the company amongst whom he was thrown, and failing dismally; for both soldier and sailor, whose idea of enjoyment seemed to be that they must get hopelessly intoxicated as soon as possible, took it as an offence that he would not “take a pull” of rum out of the bottle belonging to the son of Neptune, and of gin from that of the son of Mars.

To make up for this, Richard tried to be civil to a couple of rustic lasses, who received all his little bits of matter-of-fact politeness and conversation with giggles and glances at a young Devonian in the corner of the carriage, till his brickdust-coloured visage became the colour of one of his own ruddy ploughed fields, and he announced that “for zigzpence he’d poonch that chap’s yed.”

Hereupon the old lady with the bundles loudly proclaimed a wish that her “zun” was there; and ended by hoping that, if “this young man” (meaning Richard) intended to make himself unpleasant, he would go into another carriage.

It was hard—just at a time, too, when Richard’s temper seemed to be angular and sore—when the slightest verbal touch made him wince. But he set his teeth, bore a good deal of vulgar banter with patience, and was able to compliment himself grimly for his forbearance during the long ride along that single line of Cornish railway that is one incessant series of scaffold-like viaducts, over some of the most charming little valleys in our isle.

After passing Plymouth, the old lady became so sociable that she dropped asleep against our traveller. The rustics had given place to a tall traveller; and the soldier and sailor grew hilariously friendly after replenishing their bottles at Plymouth. And so, fighting hard to put the past in its proper place—behind—the train bore Richard onward to his goal.

Just before nearing Paddington Station, Trevor took out his pocket-book, and the rugged, hard look upon his face was softened. He glanced round the compartment, to see that half his fellow-passengers were asleep, the soldier drunk, the stout old lady with the bundles busy hunting for her railway ticket, and the sailor disconsolately trying to drain a little more rum out of his bottle.

By this time Trevor had grown weary of the long journey—so tedious on the hard third-class seats—in spite of his determination; and a sigh would once or twice escape, as recollections of his old first-class luxury intruded.

“I’ll hold to it, though,” he muttered.

And, determined to go on in his course, he opened his pocket-book, and drew from it a letter which he had received from Tolcarne. It was not long, but it sent the blood dancing through his veins, and nerved him for the fight to come. It ran as follows:—

“Dearest Dick—What shall I say to you in this your great trouble? Can I say more than that I would give anything to be by your side, to try and advise—at all events, to try and help and comfort? Papa was very angry when your letter came, and read it to Aunt Matty; but let that pass, as I tell you only, Dick, that you have a friend in dear mamma, who stood up for you as nobly as did darling little Fin, who had been in unaccountably low spirits before. I tried so hard, Dick, to come to you—to answer your letter and scold you; but they would not let me stir. I dare not tell you what they said; you must guess when I tell you that I was a dreadfully disobedient child, and Aunt Matty declared that no good could ever come to a girl who set herself up in opposition to her father and aunt. Poor dear mamma was left out of it altogether. I say all this, Dick, for fear you should think I fell away from you in your trouble, and would not come to you as you wished; but my heart was with you all the time. And now, Dick, darling, to be more matter-of-fact, what is all this to us? You could not help it; and whether you are Richard Trevor or Richard Lloyd by name, how does it alter you in the eyes of her to whom you said so much? Dick, you don’t know me, or you would never have sent me that cruel letter, so full of your dreadful determination. Oh, Dick, do you think—can you think—I wish to be free? You taught me to love you, and you cannot undo your work. For shame, to write in that desponding tone because of this accident. It was very wicked and dreadful of Mrs Lloyd, but you could not help it; and now you have so nobly determined to make restitution to poor Humphrey, let it all go. My Dick only stands out more nobly than ever. You have your profession, sir—go back to that, and they will only be too proud to have you; but don’t go long voyages, or where there are storms. I lay awake all night listening to the wind, and thinking how thankful I ought to be that you were ashore, Dick, and all the time I felt prouder than ever of my own boy. Oh, Dick, never talk to me of freedom! Nothing can make me change. Even if I saw with my own poor little crying eyes that you cared for me no more, I could not leave off loving; and, dear Dick—dearest Dick—don’t think me bold and unmaidenly if I say now what I should not have dared to say if you had not been in trouble—Dick, recollect this—that there is some one waiting your own time, when, rich or poor, you shall ask her to come to you, when and where you will, and she will be your own little wife—Tiny.

“P.S.—Pin has looked over my shoulder, and read all this as I wrote it; and she says it is quite right, besides sending her dear love to brother Dick.”

Trevor’s forehead went down on his hands as he finished, his face was very pale, and a strange look was in his eyes as he re-perused the note.

“God bless her!” he muttered. “I will do something, and I believe she will wait for me; but I can’t drag her down to share my poverty. But there, I won’t curse it, when I see how it brings out the pure metal from the fire. I can’t go back to the sea, though. Pooh! what chance have I—a poor penniless servant’s son—how should I get a ship. Why, my rank has been obtained by imposture.”

The rugged, hard look came back, but the sight of an enclosure once more smoothed his forehead.

“Here’s dear little Fin,” he said to himself. “Well, after all, it’s very sweet to find out how true some hearts can be.”

Saying this to himself, he opened and read a little jerky scrawl from Fin:—

“My own dear Brother Dick,—I sent you a message by Tiny, but I thought I’d write too, so as to show you that little people can be as staunch as big. Never mind about the nasty money, or the troublesome estate—you can’t have everything; and I tell you, sir, that you’ve won what is worth a thousand Penreifes—my darling little Tiny’s heart—you great, ugly monster! Dear Dick, I’m so sorry for you, but I can’t cry a bit—only pat you on the back and say, ‘Never mind.’ I’ll take care of Tiny for you, in spite of Aunt Matty—a wicked old woman!—for if she didn’t look up from a goody-goody book, and say that she’d always expected it, and she was very glad. Ma sends her love to you, and says she shall come across to Penreife to see you, the first time papa goes over to Saint Kitt’s. She would come now, only she wants to keep peace and quietness in the house. They’re against you now, but it will soon blow over. If it don’t, we’ll win over Aunt Matty to our side by presenting her with dogs. By the way, Pepine has a cold: he sneezed twice yesterday, and his tail is all limp. Goodbye, Dick.—Your affectionate sister,

“Fin Rea.”

Richard’s eyes brightened as he read this, and then carefully bestowed it in his pocket-book.

He then took out and read again the letter that had come by post:—

“My dear old Dick,—Had yours and its thunderclap. Gave me a bad headache. Hang it all! if it’s true, what a predicament for a fellow to find out that he’s somebody else—‘Not myself at all,’ as the song says! But you have possession, Dick; and, speaking as a lawyer, I should say, let them prove it on the other side. Don’t you go running about and telling people you’ve no right to the property; for, after all, it may only be an hallucination of that old woman’s brain. What a dreadful creature! Why, if she isn’t your mother—and really, I think she can’t be—I should feel disposed to prosecute her; and I should like to hold the brief. Don’t be in too great a hurry to give up, but, on the contrary, hold on tight; for that’s a fine estate, and very jolly, so long as you could keep off the locusts. On looking back, though, there are a good many strange things crop up—the wonderful display of interest in dear Master Dick, and all the rest of it. Looks bad—very bad—and like the truth Dick. But, as I said before, legally you’ve got possession, and if I can help you to keep it—no, hang it, Dick! if the place isn’t yours, old boy, give it up. There, you see how suitable I am for a barrister. I could never fight a bad cause. But, as I said before, give it up, every inch of it. I wouldn’t have my old man Dick with the faintest suspicion of a dirty trick in his nature. Cheer up, old fellow, there’s another side to everything. That Sybaritish life was spoiling you. Why, my dear boy, you’ve no idea how jolly it is to be poor. Hang the wealth! a fico for it! Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on fire at high or low water, above bridge or below. Meanwhile, we’ll banquet, my boy, feast on chops—hot chops—and drink cold beady beer out of pewters. Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your tin, what do you know of real life? Setting aside metaphysics, Dick, old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,

“Frank Pratt.

“P.S.—I should have liked to see Tolcarne again. Pleasant, dreamy time that. Of course you will see no more of the little girls?”

“Poor old Frank,” said Richard, refolding the letter. “I believe he cared for little Fin.”

There was no time for dreaming, with the bustle of Paddington Station to encounter; and making his way into the hotel, he passed a restless, dreamless night.

New Lodgings.

Richard was pretty decided in his ways. Hotel living would not suit him now; and soon after breakfast he took his little valise, earned a look of contempt from the hotel porter by saying that he did not require a cab, and set off to walk from Paddington to Frank’s chambers in the Temple; where he arrived tired and hot, to climb the dreary-looking stone stairs, and read on the door the legend written upon a wafered-up paper, “Back in five minutes.”

With all the patience of a man accustomed to watch, Richard up-ended his portmanteau, and sat and waited hour after hour. Then he went out, and obtained some lunch, returning to find the paper untouched.

Sitting down this time with a newspaper to while away the time, he tried to read, but not a word fixed itself upon his mind; and he sat once more thinking, till at last, weary and low-spirited, he walked out into the Strand, the portmanteau feeling very heavy, but his determination strong as ever.

“Keb, sir—keb, sir,” said a voice at his elbow; for he was passing the stand in Saint Clement’s Churchyard.

“No, my man—no.”

“Better take—why, I’m blest!”

The remark was so emphatic that Richard looked the speaker in the face.

“Don’t you remember me, sir—axdent, sir—op’site your club, sir—me as knocked the lady down, sir?”

“Oh yes,” said Richard, “I remember you now. Not hurt, was she?”

“On’y shook, sir. But jump in, sir. Let me drive yer, sir. Here, I’ll take the portmanter.”

“No, no,” said Richard, “I don’t want to ride, I—there, confound it, man, what are you about?”

“No, ’fence, sir—I on’y wanted to drive a gent as was so kind as you was. Odd, aint it, sir? That there lady lives along o’ me, at my house, now—lodges, you know—’partments to let, furnished.”

“Apartments!” cried Richard, eagerly; “do you know of any apartments?”

“Plenty out Jermyn Street way, sir.”

“No, no; I mean cheap lodgings.”

“What, for a gent like you, sir?” said Sam Jenkles.

“No, no—I’m no gentleman,” said Richard, bitterly; “only a poor man. I want cheap rooms.”

“Really, sir?” said Sam, rubbing his nose viciously.

“Yes, really, my man. Can you tell me of any?”

“You jump in, sir, and I’ll run you up home in no time.”

“But I—”

“My missus knows everybody ’bout us as has rooms to let—quiet lodgings, you know, sir; six bob a week style—cheap.”

“No, no; give me your address, and I’ll walk.”

“No you don’t, sir, along o’ that portmanter. Now, I do wonder at a gent like you being so obstinit.”

Richard still hesitated; but it was an opportunity not to be lost, and, before he had time to thoroughly make up his mind, Sam had hoisted the portmanteau on the roof, afterwards holding open the flap of the cab.

“It’s all right, sir; jump in, sir. Ratty wants a run, and you can’t carry that there portmanter.”

“A bad beginning,” muttered Richard.

Then he stepped into the cab, and the apron was banged to, Sam hopped on to his perch, and away they rattled along the Strand into Fleet Street, and up Chancery Lane.

“He’s a-going it to-day, sir, aint he?” said a voice; and Richard turned sharply round, to see Sam Jenkles’s happy-looking face grinning through the trap. “He’s as fresh as a daisy.”

The little trapdoor was rattled down again, for other vehicles were coming, and Sam’s hands were needed at the reins, the more especially that Ratty began to display the strangeness of his disposition by laying down his ears, whisking his tail, and trying hard to turn the cab round and round, clay-mill fashion. But this was got over, the rest of the journey performed in peace, and Sam drew up shortly at the door of his little home, the two front windows of which had been turned into gardens, as far as the sills were concerned, with miniature green palings, gate and all, the whole sheltering a fine flourishing display of geraniums and fuchsias, reflected in window-panes as clean as hands could make them.

“Why, this would do capitally,” said Richard, taken by the aspect of the place.

“Dessay it would, sir,” said Sam, grinning; “but our rooms is let. But come in, sir, and see the missus—she’ll pick you out somewheres nice and clean. But, hallo! what’s up?”

Richard had seen that which brought the exclamation from Sam’s lips, and stepped forward to help.

For, about a dozen yards down the quiet little street, Mrs Lane was supporting Netta, the pair returning evidently from a walk, and the latter being overcome.

“Thank you—a little faint—went too far,” said Mrs Lane, as Richard ran up to where she was sustaining her daughter. “Netta, darling, only a few yards farther. Try, dear.”

“She has fainted,” said Richard. “Here, let me carry her.”

Before Mrs Lane could speak, Richard had taken the light figure in his arms, and, guided by the frightened mother, bore it to Sam’s door.

“That’s right, sir, in there,” said Sam, eagerly—“fust door on the left’s the parly. Poor gal!”

This last was in an undertone, as the young man easily bore his burden in—finding, though, that a pair of large dark eyes had unclosed, and were gazing timidly in his, while a deep blush overspread cheek and forehead.

“There,” said Richard, laying her lightly down upon the couch, and helping to arrange the pillows with all a woman’s tenderness. “You look weak and ill, my dear, and—and—I beg pardon,” he said, hesitating, as he met Mrs Lane’s gaze, “I think we have met before.”

Mrs Lane turned white, and shrank away.

“Of course,” said Richard, smiling. “My friend here, who drove me up, told me you lodged with him.”

Mrs Lane did not speak, only bowed her head over Netta.

“If I can do anything, pray ask me,” said Richard, backing to the door, and nearly overturning bustling Mrs Jenkles, who came hurrying in with—

“Oh, my dear, you’ve been overdoing it—I beg your pardon, sir.”

“My fault, I think,” said Richard.

And with another glance at the great dark eyes following him, he backed into the passage—this time upon Sam, who had carried in the portmanteau.

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” said Sam—“our back room here’s on’y a kitchen; but we lets our parlour, as you see. There,” he said, leading the way, “that’s my cheer, sir; and the wife ’ll come and talk to you dreckly, I dessay. I must go back on to the rank.”

“One moment,” said Richard.

“There, sir, I don’t want paying for a bit of a job like this,” said Sam. “Oh, well, if you will pay, I shall put that down to the lodgers’ nex’ ride.”

“They are your lodgers, then?”

“Yes, sir; and it all come out of that old Ratty when I knocked Mrs Lane over.”

“But the young lady?”

“Thanky, sir, for calling her so; that’s just what she is.”

“Is she an invalid?”

“Feard so, sir,” said Sam, in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t like her looks at all. But I can’t stop, sir; the missus ’ll be here, and I hope she’ll know of a place as suits.”

The next moment, Sam Jenkles was gone, and Richard sat looking round at the bright candlesticks and saucepan-lids, hardly able to realise the fact that but a day or two before he was the master of Penreife, for what had taken place seemed to be back years ago.

His musings were interrupted by the entry of Mrs Jenkles, who stood curtseying and smoothing her apron.

“Is she better?” said Richard, anxiously.

“Yes, sir, she’s quite well again now,” said Mrs Jenkles. “She’s weak, sir—rather delicate health; and Sam—that is my husband—said you wanted apartments, sir.”

“And that you would be able to find me some,” said Richard, smiling.

“I don’t think we’ve anything good enough about here, sir, for a gentleman like you.”

“For a poor man like me, you mean. Now look here, Mrs—Mrs—”

“Jenkles, sir.”

“Mrs Jenkles. I can afford to pay six or seven shillings a-week, that is all.”

“Then there’s Mrs Fiddison, sir, nearly opposite. Very clean and respectable. Bedroom and sitting-room, where a young gentleman left only about a week ago. He played a long brass thing, sir, at one of the theatres, and used to practise it at home; and that’s why he left.”

“That will do, I daresay,” exclaimed Richard, who, in the first blush of his determination, was stern as an ascetic, and would have said Yes to the lodgings if Mrs Jenkles had proposed a couple of neatly furnished cellars.

The result was that the cabman’s wife went over with him to Mrs Fiddison’s, and introduced him to that lady, who was dressed in sombre black, held a widow’s cap in her hand, and was evidently determined to keep up the supply, for there were at least six arranged about the little parlour into which she led the way.

Not Musical.

Mrs Fiddison was a tall, thin lady, who was supposed to be a widow from her display of caps; but the fact was that she had no right to the matronly prefix, she being a blighted flower—a faded rosebud, on whom the sun of love had never shone; and the consequence was that her head drooped upon its stalk, hung over weakly on one shoulder, while a dewdrop-like tear stood in one eye; and, like carbonic acid gas concealed in soda-water, she always had an indefinite number of sighs waiting to escape from her lips.

She smiled sadly at Richard, and waved him to a chair, to have taken which would have caused the immolation of a widow’s cap—which, however, Mrs Fiddison rescued, and perched awry upon her head, to be out of the way.

“This gentleman wants apartments, Mrs F.,” said Mrs Jenkles.

“Mine are to let,” said Mrs Fiddison, sadly; “but does the gentleman play anything brass?”

Richard stared, and then remembered about the last lodger.

“Oh, dear, no,” he said, smiling.

“Because I don’t think I could bear it again, let alone the neighbours’ lodgers,” said Mrs Fiddison. “I might put up with strings, or wood, but I could not manage brass.”

“I do not play any instrument,” said Richard, looking at the lady in a troubled way, as her head drooped over the cap she was making, and she gazed at it like a weeping widow on a funeral card.

“So many orchestral gentlemen live about here,” said Mrs Fiddison. “You can hear the double bass quite plain at Cheadley’s, next door but one; but Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice.”

“Indeed,” said Richard, glancing at Mrs Jenkles, who stood smoothing her apron.

“Yes,” said Mrs Fiddison, holding out the white crape starched grief before him, so that he might see the effect of her handiwork. “The last new pattern, sir.”

Richard stared at Mrs Jenkles, and that lady came to his assistance.

“Mrs F. makes weeds for a wholesale house, sir.”

“They ought to be called flowers of grief, Mrs Jenkles,” said the lady. “A nice quiet, genteel business, sir; and if you don’t object to the smell of the crape, you’d not know there was anything going on in the house.”

“Oh, I’m sure I shouldn’t mind,” said Richard.

“Prr-oooomp!” went something which sounded like young thunder coming up in the cellar.

“That’s the double bass at Cheadley’s, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison; “and, as I was a-saying, you’ll find the rooms very quiet, for Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice. Mrs Waggly said she was sure it was that made her have the bile so bad; and I shouldn’t wonder if it was.”

“And the terms,” said Richard.

“You are sure you don’t play anything brass, sir?” said Mrs Fiddison, looking at him with her head all on one side, as if to say, “Now, don’t deceive a weak woman!”

“Indeed, I am not musical at all,” said Richard, smiling.

“Because it isn’t pleasant, sir, for a landlady who wishes to make things comfortable,” continued Mrs Fiddison, smiling at the cap—which she had now put on her left fist—as if it were a face.

“It can’t be, of course.” said Richard, getting impatient.

“Mr Took, my last lodger, sir, played the rumboon; and sometimes of a morning, when he was doing his octaves, it used to quite make my brain buzz.”

“I think the rooms would suit me,” said Richard, glancing round.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, wiping one eye with a scrap of crape. “You can see the marks all over the wall now.”

“Marks—wall?” said Richard.

“Ah, you don’t understand the rumboon, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, pointing with a pair of scissors to various little dents and scratches on the wall, as she still held up the widow’s cap. “Those places are what he used to make when he shot the thing out to get his low notes—doing his octaves, sir.”

“Indeed,” said Richard, recalling the action of the trombone player in the marine band on board his last ship.

“Perhaps you’d like to see the bedroom, sir?”

“Would you mind seeing that for me, Mrs Jenkles?” said Richard.

“It’s plain, sir, but everything at Mrs Fiddison’s here is as clean as hands can make it,” said Mrs Jenkles, glancing from one to the other.

“Then it will do,” said Richard. “And the terms?”

“Seven shillings my last lodger paid me, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, drooping more and more, and evidently now much impressed by one of Richard’s boots. “I did hope to get seven and six for them now, as there’s a new table-cover.”

Richard glanced at the new cotton check on the table.

“Then I’ll pay you seven and sixpence,” he said.

“The last being full of holes he made when smoking,” said Mrs Fiddison.

“Then that’s settled,” said Richard. “Mrs—Mrs—”

“Jenkles, sir,” said the cabman’s wife, smiling.

“Mrs Jenkles, I’m much obliged to you for your trouble,” he said.

“And so am I,” said Mrs Fiddison, removing a tear once more with a scrap of crape. “My dear,” she continued, fixing a band to the cap, and holding it out—“isn’t that sweet!”

Mrs Jenkles nodded.

“I think the gentleman wants the rooms at once,” she said, glancing at Richard.

“Yes, that I do,” he replied. “I’ll fetch my portmanteau over directly.”

“Oh, dear!” ejaculated Mrs Fiddison—“so soon.”

And with some show of haste, she took a widow’s cap off a painted plaster Milton on the chimneypiece, another from Shakespeare, and revealed, by the removal of a third, the celebrated Highland laddie, in blue and red porcelain, taking leave of a green Highland lass, with a china sheep sticking to one of her unstockinged legs.

Half an hour after, Richard was sitting by the open window, looking across the street at where a thin, white hand was busy watering the fuchsias and geraniums in the window, and from time to time he caught a glimpse of Netta’s sweet, sad face.

Then he drew back, for two men came along the street. The first, black-browed and evil-eyed, he recollected as the fellow with whom he had had the encounter on the race day, and this man paused for a moment as he reached Sam Jenkles’s door, turned sharply round, pointed at it, and then went on; the second, nodding shortly as he came up, raised his hand, and knocked, standing glancing sharply up and down the street, while Richard mentally exclaimed—“What does he want here?” Then the door opened, there was a short parley with Mrs Jenkles, and the man entered, leaving Richard puzzled and wondering, as he said, half aloud—

“What could these men be doing here?”

Between Friends.

A fortnight passed away.

It was a difficult matter to do—to make up his mind as to the future; but after a struggle, Richard arrived at something like the course he would pursue. He must live, and he felt that he had a right to his pay as an officer; so that would suffice for his modest wants.

Then, as to the old people. He wrote a quiet, calm letter to the old butler, saying that some time in the future he would come down and see them, or else ask them to join him. That he would do his duty by them, and see that they did not come to want; but at present the wound was too raw, and he felt that it would be better for all parties that they should not meet.

Another letter he despatched to Mr Mervyn, asking him once more to be a friend and guide to Humphrey; and, above all, to use his influence to prevent injury befalling Stephen and Martha Lloyd.

His next letter was a harder one to write, for it was to Valentina Rea. It was a struggle, but he did it; for the man was now fully roused in spirit, and he told himself that if ever he was called upon to act as a man of honour it was now. He told her, then, that he never loved her more dearly than now; that he should always remember her words in the letter he treasured up, but that he felt it would be like blighting her young life to hold her to her promise. If, in the future, he could claim her, he would; but he knew that father—soon, perhaps, mother—would be against it, for he could at present see no hope in his future career.

But all the same, he signed himself hers till death; sent his dear love to “little Fin;” and then, having posted his letters, he felt better, and went to seek out Frank Pratt.

“He won’t turn out a fine weather friend, of that I’m sure,” he said, as he went up, the staircase in the Temple, to be seized by both hands as soon as he entered, and have to submit to a couple of minutes’ shaking.

“Why, Dick, old man, this does one good!” exclaimed Pratt. “Now, then, a steak and stout, or a chop and Bass, two pipes, and a grand debauch at night, eh?”

“What debauch?” said Richard, smiling.

“Front row of the pit, my boy. Absolute freedom; comfort of the stalls without having to dress. Nobody waiting to seize your ‘overcoat, sir.’ Good view of the stage; and, when the curtain’s down, time and opportunity to pity the curled darlings of society, who stand, in melancholy row, with their backs to the orchestra, fiddling their crush hats, and staring up at the audience through eyeglasses that blind.”

“And meet Flick and Vanleigh.”

“Who cares?” said Pratt, forcing his friend into a well-worn easy chair, and taking away hat and stick. “Isn’t that a lovely chair, Dick? I’ve worked that chair into that shape—moulded it, sir, into the form of my figure, and worn off all its awkward corners. Pipe?—there you are. ’Bacco?—there you are. Whisky?—there you are. And there’s a light. Have a dressing-gown and slippers?”

“No, no—thanks,” said Dick, laughing.

But his face twitched as, after filling and trying to light a pipe, he laid it hastily down, wrung Pratt’s hand, and then started up and walked to the window, to stand gazing out at the dirty walls before him.

Before he had been there a moment, a friendly hand was laid upon his shoulder and Pratt got hold of his hand, standing behind him without a word, till he turned again and walked back to his seat.

“Don’t mind me, Franky, I’m very sore yet.”

“I know, I know,” said Pratt, feelingly. “It’s hard—cursed hard! I’d say damned hard, only as a straightforward man I object to swearing. But where’s your bag, portmanteau, luggage?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Richard, lighting his pipe, and smoking.

“What do you mean by all right? Where shall I send for them?”

“Send for them?”

“Send for them—yes. You’ve come to stay?”

“Yes, for an hour or two.”

“Dick,” cried Pratt, bringing his fist down upon the table with a bang, “if you are such a sneak as to go and stay anywhere else, I’ll cut you.”

“My dear Frank, don’t be foolish, I’ve taken lodgings.”

“Then give them up.”

“Nonsense, man! But listen to me. You don’t blame me for giving up?”

“I don’t know, Dick—I don’t know,” said Pratt. “I’ve lain in bed ruminating again and again; and one time I say it’s noble and manly, and the next time I call you a fool.”

Richard laughed.

“You see, old fellow, I’m a lawyer. I’ve been educating myself with cases, and the consequence is that I think cases. Here, then, I say, is a man in possession of a great estate; somebody tells him what may be a cock-and-bull tale—like a melodrama at the Vic, or a story in penny numbers—about a mysterious changeling and the rest of it, and he throws up at once.”

“Yes,” said Richard.

“Speaking still as a man fed upon cases I say, then, give me proofs—papers, documents, something I can tie up with red tape, make abstracts of, or set a solicitor to prepare a brief from. I’m afraid you’ve done wrong, Dick, I am indeed.”

“No, you are not, Franky,” said Richard, quietly. “Now speak as a man who has not been getting up cases—speak as the lad who was always ready to share his tips at school. No, no, Franky; the more I think of it, the more I feel convinced that I have behaved—as I cannot be a gentleman—like a man of honour.”

“Gentleman—cannot be a gentleman!” said Pratt, puffing out his cheeks, and threatening his friend with one finger, as if he were in the witness-box. “What do you mean, sir? Now, be careful. Do you call Vanleigh a gentleman?”

“Oh yes,” said Richard, smiling.

“Then I don’t,” said Pratt, sharply. “I saw the fellow yesterday, and he cut me dead.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, and no wonder. He was talking to a black-looking ruffian who bothers me.”

“Bothers you?”

“Yes, I know I’ve seen him before, and I can’t make out where.”

“Was it at the steeplechase?” said Richard, quietly.

“You’ve hit it, Dick,” cried Pratt. “That’s the man. Why weren’t you called to the bar? But I say, why did you name him? You know something—you’ve seen them together.”

“I have.”

“Um!” said Pratt, looking hard at his friend. “Then what does it mean?”

“Can’t say,” said Richard, quietly—“only that it don’t concern us.”

“I don’t know that,” said Pratt; “it may, and strongly. But tell me this, how long have you been in town?”

“A fortnight.”

“A fortnight, and not been here!”

“I have been three times,” said Richard, “and you were always out.”

“How provoking! But you might have written. The fact is, Dick, I’m busy. All that work that was held back from me for so long is coming now. I was a bit lucky with my first case.”

Which was a fact, for he had carried it through in triumph, and solicitors were sending in briefs.

“I have been busy, too—making up my mind what to do.”

“Then look here, Dick, old fellow. I’m getting a banking account—do you hear? a banking account—and if you don’t come to me whenever you want funds, we are friends no more.”

“Franky,” said Richard, huskily, “I knew you were a friend, or I should not have come to your chambers for the fourth time. But what did you mean about Vanleigh’s affairs concerning us?”

“Well, only that they may. You know they are in town, of course?”

“Why, yes; I met Van the other day. Flick is sure to be near him.”

“Yes, as long as Flicky has any money to spare—afterwards Van will be out. But I mean them.”

“Whom?” said Richard, starting. “Our Tolcarne friends—Russell Square, you know,” said Pratt, reddening slightly.

“No,” said Richard, hoarsely, “I did not know it.”

“Yes, they have been up a week.”

“How did you know it?”

“Well,” said Pratt, reddening a little more, “I—that is—well, there, I walked past the house, and saw them at the window.”

“You’ve watched it, then, Franky?” said Richard, quietly.

“Well, yes, if you like to call it so; and I’ve seen Van and Flick go there twice. How did they know that you had—well, come to grief?”

Richard shook his head.

“I’ll tell you. Depend upon it, that amiable spinster aunt, who loved you like poison, sent them word, and also of their return to town.”

“Possibly,” said Richard, in the same low, husky voice.

“Dick, old fellow, I don’t think you’ve done quite right in giving up all,” said Pratt. “You had some one else to think of besides yourself.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t talk to me now,” said Richard, hoarsely. “The task is getting harder than I thought; but if that fellow dares—Oh, it’s absurd!”

He stood for a few moments with his fists clenched, and the thoughts of Vanleigh’s dark, handsome face, and his visit to the little Pentonville street, seemed to run in a confused way through his brain, till he forced them aside, and, with assumed composure, filled his glass, and tossed it off at a draught.

He was proceeding to repeat it, when Pratt laid a hand upon his arm.

“Don’t do that, old fellow,” he said, quietly. “If there’s work to be done, it’s the cool head that does it; drink’s only the spur, and the spurred beast soonest flags. Let you and me talk it over. Two heads are better than one, and that one only Van’s. Dick, old fellow, what are you going to do?”

Lady Rea’s State of Mind.

Frank Pratt was quite right, the Rea family were in town; and thanks to Aunt Matilda, who had sent to Captain Vanleigh a notification of all that had taken place, that gentleman and his companion had resumed their visits; and had, in the course of a few days, become quite at home.

Lady Rea had felt disposed to rebel at first, but Vanleigh completely disarmed the little lady by his frank behaviour.

“You see, Lady Rea,” he said to her one day, in private, “I cannot help feeling that you look upon me rather as an intruder.”

“Really, Captain Van—”

“Pray hear me out, dear Lady Rea,” he said, in protestation. “You prefer poor Trevor as your son-in-law—I must call him Trevor still.”

“He was as good and gentlemanly a—”

“He was, Lady Rea—he was indeed,” said Vanleigh, warmly, “and no one lamented his fall more than I did.”

“It was very, very sad,” said Lady Rea.

“And you must own, dear Lady Rea that as soon as I heard of the attachment between Trevor—I must still call him Trevor, you see—and your daughter, I immediately withdrew all pretensions.”

“Yes, you did do that,” said Lady Rea.

“Exactly,” said Vanleigh. “Well, then, now the coast is once more clear, and the engagement at an end—”

“But it isn’t,” said Lady Rea.

“Excuse me, my dear Lady Rea—I have Sir Hampton’s assurance that it is so. He tells me that Trevor—poor old Trevor—resigned his pretensions in the most gentlemanly way.”

“Yes, he did,” said Lady Rea; “and it was very foolish of him, too.”

“Doubtless,” said Vanleigh, with a smile; “but still, under the circumstances, how could he have done otherwise? Ah, Lady Rea, it was a very sad blow to his friends.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so, Captain Vanleigh,” said Lady Rea.

“Don’t say that,” replied Vanleigh. “But now, Lady Rea, let me try and set myself in a better position with you. Of course you must know that I love Miss Rea?”

“Well, yes—I suppose so,” said the little lady.

“Then let us be friends,” said Vanleigh. “I am coming merely as a visitor—a friend of the family; and what I have to ask of you is this, that I may be treated with consideration.”

“Oh, of course, Captain Vanleigh.”

“If in the future Miss Rea can bring herself to look upon my pretensions with favour, I shall be the happiest man alive. If she cannot—well, I will be patient, and blame no one.”

“He was very nice, my dear,” said Lady Rea to her daughter. “No one could have been more so; but I told him I didn’t think there was any hope.”

“Of course there isn’t, ma, dear,” said Fin; “and it’s very indecent of him to come as he does, and so soon after Richard’s misfortune; but I know how it all was—Aunt Matty did it.”

“Aunt Matty did it, my dear?”

“Yes, ma. Wrote to Captain Vanleigh at his club, and told him all about how pa said poor Richard was not to be mentioned in the house, and how we were all brought up to town for change.”

“I don’t think Aunt Matty would do anything so foolish, my dear,” said mamma.

“Then how came they to call as soon as we had been up two days?” said Fin. “Aunt Matty would do anything she thought was for our welfare, even if it was to poison us.”

“Oh, Fin, my dear!”

“Well, I can’t help it, ma, dear; she is so tiresome. Aunt Matty is so good; I’m glad I’m not, for it does make you so miserable and uncharitable. Oh, ma, darling, what a dreadfully wicked little woman you must be!”

“Oh, my dear!”

“I’m sure Aunt Matty thinks you are. I often see her looking painfully righteous at you when you are reading the newspaper or a story, while she is studying ‘Falling Leaves from the Tree of Life,’ or ‘The Daily Dredge.’”

“My dear Fin, don’t talk so,” said Lady Rea. “Aunt Matty means all for the best.”

“Yes, ma, dear,” said Fin, with a sigh, “that’s it. If she only meant things for the second best, I wouldn’t care, for then one might perhaps be comfortable.”

“But, my dear, don’t talk so,” said Lady Rea; “and I think you are misjudging Aunt Matty about her sending to Captain Vanleigh.”

“Oh no, ma, dear,” cried Fin. “It’s quite right. That dreadful noodle, Sir Felix, let it all out to me just now in the dining-room, while the Captain was upstairs with you.”

“Has he been speaking to you, then?” said Lady Rea, eagerly.

“Yes, ma,” said Fin, coolly; but there was a pretty rosy flush in her little cheek.

“What did he say, dear?”

“He-haw, he-haw, he-haw-w-w-w!” said Fin, seriously.

“Fin!”

“Well, it sounded like it, ma,” said Fin, “for I never did meet such a donkey.”

“But, my dear Fin—”

“Well, I know, ma,” exclaimed Fin, “it’s rude of me; but I’m naturally rude. I’ve got what Aunt Matty would call the mark of the beast on me, and it makes me wicked.”

“Tut, tut, tut! Fin, my dear,” said Lady Rea, drawing her child to her, till Fin lay with her head resting against her, but with her face averted. “Now, come, tell me all about it. I don’t like you to have secrets from me.”

“Well, ma, he met me, and begged for five minutes’ interview.”

“Well, my dear?”

“Well, ma, I told him it was of no use, for I knew what he was going to say.”

“Oh, Fin, my dear child, I’m afraid they neglected your etiquette very much at school.”

“No, they didn’t, ma,” said Fin, with her eyes twinkling—“they were always sowing me with it; but I was stony ground, as Aunt Matty would say, and it never took root. Oh, ma, if you had only seen what a donkey he looked!—and he smelt all over the room, just like one of Rimmel’s young men. Then,” continued Fin, speaking fast and excitedly, “he went on talking stuff—said he’d lay his title and fortune at my feet; that he’d give the world to win my heart, and I told him I hadn’t got one; said he should wait patiently, and kept on talk, talk, talk—all stuff that he had evidently been learning up for the occasion; and I’d have given anything to have been able to pull his ears and rumple his hair, only he might have thought it rude.”

“Oh yes, my dear,” said mamma, innocently.

“And at last I said I didn’t think I should ever accept any one, for I hated men; and then he sighed, and looked at me side-wise, and wanted to take my hand; and I ran out of the room, and that’s all.”

“But, Fin, my dear—”

“Oh, I know, ma, it was horribly rude; but I hate him. Pf! I can smell him now.”

Lady Rea sighed.

“And now, I suppose,” said Fin, “we are to be pestered—poor Tiny and your humble servant; they’ll follow us to church, get sittings where they can watch us, and carry on a regular siege. I wish them joy of it!”

Lady Rea only sighed, and stroked the glossy head, till Fin suddenly jumped up, and ran out of the room; but only to come back at the end of a minute, and stand nodding her head.

“Well, my dear, what is it?” said Lady Rea.

“You’ll have to put your foot down, mamma,” said Fin, sharply.

Lady Rea glanced at her little member, which, in its delicate kid boot, looked too gentle to crush a fly; and she sighed.

“A nice state of affairs!” said Fin.

“There’s Tiny, up in her bedroom crying herself into a decline, and Aunt Matty in the study with papa conspiring against our happiness, because it’s for our good. Now, mark my words, mamma—there’ll be a regular plot laid to marry Tiny to that odious Bluebeard of a Captain, and if you don’t stop it I shall.”

Lady Rea sat, with wrinkled brow, looking puzzled at the little decisive figure before her; and then, as Fin went out with a whisk of all her light skirts, she sat for a few moments thinking, and then went up to her elder daughter’s room.

Frank a Visitor.

Richard felt very sanguine of success during the first weeks of his stay in London. He was young, ardent, active, and a good sailor. Some employment would be easily obtained, he thought, in the merchant service; and he only stipulated mentally for one thing—no matter how low was his beginning, he must have something to look forward to in the future—he must be able to rise. But as the days glided into weeks, and the weeks into months, he was obliged to own that it was not so easy to find an opening as he had expected, and night after night he returned to his solitary lodgings weary and disheartened.

Mrs Fiddison sighed, and said he was very nice—so quiet; her place did not seem the same. And certainly the young fellow was very quiet, spending a great deal of his time in writing and thinking; and more than once he caught himself watching the opposite window, and wondering what connexion there could be between Vanleigh and his neighbours.

This watching led to his meeting the soft dark eyes of Netta, as she busied herself at times over her flowers, watering them carefully, removing dead leaves and blossoms, and evidently tending them with the love of one who longs for the sweet breath of the country.

Then came a smile and a bow, and Netta shrank away from the window, and Richard did not see her for a week.

Then she was there again, showing herself timidly, and as their eyes met the how was given, and returned this time before the poor girl shrank away; and as days passed on this little intercourse grew regular, till it was a matter of course for Richard to look out at a certain hour for his pretty neighbour, and she would be there.

This went on till she would grow bold enough to sit there close to the flowers, her sad face just seen behind the little group of leaves and blossoms; and, glad of the companionship, Richard got in the habit of drawing his table to the open window, and read or wrote there, to look up occasionally and exchange a smile.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t know more of them,” he said to himself, one morning; and the next time a donkey-drawn barrow laden with Covent Garden sweets passed, Richard bought a couple of pots of lush-blossomed geraniums, delivered them to Mrs Jenkles, and sent them to Miss Lane, with his hope that she was in better health.

Mrs Jenkles took the pots gladly, but shook her head at the donor.

“Is she so ill?” said Richard, anxiously.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Her cough is so bad.”

As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful endorsement of the woman’s words.

Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by his little neighbour, “Poor girl!” said Richard.

A very strange feeling of depression came over him as his thoughts went from her to one he loved; and he sighed as he sat making comparisons between them.

An hour after, Mrs Fiddison came in, with her head on one side, a widow’s cap in one hand, a crape bow in the other, and a note in her mouth, which gave her a good deal the look of a mourning spaniel, set to fetch and carry.

Mrs Fiddison did not speak, only dropped the note on the table, gave Richard a very meaning look, and left the roam.

“What does the woman mean?” he said, as he took up the note. “And what’s this?”

“This” was a simple little note from Netta Lane, written in a ladylike hand, and well worded, thanking him for the flowers, and telling him that “mamma” was very grateful to him for the attention.

A week after, and Richard had called upon them; and again before a week had elapsed, he was visiting regularly, and sitting reading to mother and daughter as they plied their needles.

Then came walks, and an occasional ride into the country, and soon afterwards Frank Pratt called upon his old friend, to find him leading Netta quietly into the Jenkles’s house, and Pratt stood whistling for a moment before knocking at Mrs Fiddison’s door, and asking leave to wait till his friend came across.

Mrs Fiddison had a widow’s cap cocked very rakishly over one ear, and she further disarranged it to rub the ear as she examined the visitor, before feeling satisfied that he had no designs on any of the property in the place, and admitting him to Richard’s sanctum.

At the end of half an hour Richard came over.

“Ah, Franky!” he exclaimed, “this is a pleasure.”

“Is it?” said Pratt.

“Is it?—of course it is; but what are you staring at?”

“You. Seems a nice girl over the way.”

“Poor darling!—yes,” said Richard, earnestly.

“Got as far as that, has it?” said Pratt, quietly.

“I don’t understand you,” said Richard, staring hard.

“Suppose not,” said Pratt, bitterly. “Way of the world; though I didn’t expect to see it in you.”

“‘Rede me this riddle,’ as Carlyle says,” exclaimed Richard. “What do you mean, man?”

“Only that it’s as well to be off with the old love before you begin with the new.”

“Why, Franky, what a donkey you are!” said Richard, laughing. “You don’t think that I—that they—that—that—well, that I am paying attentions to that young lady—Miss Lane?”

“Well, it looks like it,” said Pratt, grimly.

“Why, my dear boy, nothing has ever been farther from my thoughts,” said Richard. “It’s absurd.”

“Does the young lady think so too?”

Richard started.

“Well, really—I never looked at it in that light. But, oh, it’s ridiculous. Only a few neighbourly attentions; and, besides, the poor girl’s in a most precarious state of health.”

“Hum!” said Pratt. “Well, don’t make the girl think you mean anything. Who are they?”

“I asked no questions, of course—how could I? They are quite ladies, though, in a most impecunious state.”

“Hum!” said Frank, thoughtfully, and he rose from his chair to make himself comfortable after his way; that is to say, he placed his feet in the seat, and sat on the back—treatment at which Mrs Fiddison’s modest furniture groaned. “Old lady object to this?”

Frank tapped the case of his big pipe, as he drew it from his pocket in company with a vile-scented tobacco pouch.

“Oh no, I’m licenced,” said Richard, dreamily; for his thoughts were upon his friend’s words, and he felt as if he had unwittingly been doing a great wrong.

“I’m going to take this up, Dick,” said Pratt, after smoking a few minutes in silence.

“Take what up?” said Richard, starting.

“This affair of yours, and these people.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Perhaps not,” said Pratt, shortly. “But look here, Dick, you’re not going to break faith with some one.”

“Break faith, Frank!” exclaimed Richard, angrily. “There is no engagement now. The poor girl is free till I have made such a fortune”—he smiled bitterly—“as will enable me once more to propose. There, there, don’t say another word, Franky, old man, it cuts—deeper than you think. I wouldn’t say this much to another man living. But as for that poor child over the way, I have never had a thought towards her beyond pity.”

“Which is near akin to love,” muttered Frank. Then aloud—“All right, Dick. I could not help noticing it; but be careful. Little girls’ hearts are made of tender stuff—some of them,” he said, speaking ruefully—“when they are touched by fine, tall, good-looking fellows.”

“Pish!” ejaculated Richard. “Change the subject.”

“Going to,” said Pratt, filling his pipe afresh, and smoking once more furiously. “Better open that window, these pokey rooms so soon get full. That’s right. Now, then, for a change. Look here, old fellow, you know I’m going ahead now, actually refusing briefs. Do you hear, you unbelieving-looking dog?—refusing briefs, and only taking the best cases.”

“Bravo!” said Richard, trying to smile cheerily.

“I’m getting warm, Dick—making money. Q.C. some day, my boy—perhaps. But seriously, Dick, old fellow, I am going ahead at a rate that surprises no one more than yours truly. When I’d have given my ears for a good case, and would have studied it night and day, the beggars wouldn’t have given me one to save my life, even if I’d have done it for nothing. Now, when I’m so pressed that it’s hard work to get them up, they come and beg me to take briefs. This very morning, one came from a big firm of solicitors at ten o’clock, marked fifty guineas, and I refused it. At one o’clock, hang me if they didn’t come back with it, marked a hundred, and a fellow with it, hat in hand, ready, if I’d refused again, to offer me more.”

“Frank,” cried Richard, jumping up, and shaking his friend warmly by the hand, “no one is more delighted than I am.”

“Mind what you’re up to,” said Pratt, who had nearly been tilted off his perch by his friend’s energy. “But I say, it don’t seem like it.”

“Why?”

“Because you won’t share in it. Now, look here, Dick, old fellow, you must want money, and it’s too bad that you won’t take it.”

“I don’t want it, Frank—I don’t, indeed,” cried Richard, hastily. “Living as I do, I have enough and to spare. I tell you, I like the change.”

“Gammon,” said Pratt, shortly. “It’s very well to talk about liking to be poor, and no one knows what poverty is better than I; but I like money as well as most men. I used to eat chaff, Dick; but I like corn, and wine, and oil, and honey better. Now, look here, Dick, once for all—if you want money, and don’t come to me for it, you are no true friend.”

“Franky,” said Richard, turning away his face, “if ever I want money, I’ll come to you and ask for it. As matters are, I have always a few shillings to spare.”

As he spoke, he got up hastily, lit a pipe, and began to smoke; while Mrs Fiddison in the next room, heaved a sigh, took off her shoes, and went on tiptoe through the little house, opening every door and window, after carefully covering up all her widows’ caps.

“There is one thing about noise,” she said to herself, “it don’t make the millinery smell.”

“I knocked off a few days ago,” said Frank, from out of a cloud.

“You are working too hard,” said Richard, anxiously.

“’Bliged to,” said Pratt. “Took a change—ran down to Cornwall.”

Richard started slightly, and smoked hard.

“Thought I’d have a look at the old place, Dick—see how matters were going on.”

Silence on the part of Richard, and Pratt breathed more freely; for he had expected to be stopped.

“First man I ran against was that Mervyn, along with the chap who was upset in the cab accident in Pall Mall, and gave you his card—a Mr John Barnard, solicitor, in Furnival’s Inn—cousin or something of Mervyn’s—knew me by sight, and somehow we got to be very sociable. Don’t much like Mervyn, though. Good sort of fellow all the same—charitable, and so on.”

Richard smoked his pipe in silence longing to hear more of his old home, though every word respecting it came like a stab.

“Heard all about Penreife,” continued Pratt, talking in a careless, matter-of-fact way. “Our friend Humphrey is being courted, it seems, by everybody. Half the county been to call upon him, and congratulate him on his rise. I expected to find the fellow off his head when I saw him; but he was just the same—begged me to condescend to come and stay with him, which of course I didn’t, and as good as told me he was horribly bored, and anything but happy.”

There was a pause here, filled up by smoking.

“The old people are still there, and they say the new owner’s very kind to them; but our little friend Polly’s away at a good school, where she is to stay till the wedding. Humphrey wants to see you.”

Richard winced.

“Asked me to try and bring about a meeting, and sent all sorts of kind messages.”

Richard remained silent.

“Says he feels like as if he had deprived you of your birthright; and as for the people about, they say, Dick,”—Pratt paused for a few moments to light his pipe afresh—“they say, Dick, that you acted like a fool.”

Richard faced round quietly, and looked straight at his friend.

“Do you think, Frank, that I acted like a fool?”

Pratt smoked for a moment or two, then he turned one of his fingers into a tobacco stopper, and lastly removed his pipe.

“Well, speaking as counsel, whose opinion is that you ought to have waited, and left the matter to the law to sift, I say yes.”

“But speaking as my old friend, Frank Pratt,” said Richard, “and as an honest man?”

“Well, we won’t discuss that,” said Frank, hopping off his perch. “Good-bye, old chap.”

He shook hands hastily, and left the house, glancing up once at Sam Jenkles’s upper window, and then, without appearing to notice him, taking a side glance at Barney of the black muzzle, who was making a meal off a scrap of hay, with his shoulders lending polish to a public-house board at the corner.

“There’s some little game being played up here,” said Frank to himself. “I’ll have a talk to Barnard.”

A Proposal.

Frank Pratt had no sooner gone than Richard began to stride hastily up and down the little room, to the great endangering of Mrs Fiddison’s furniture. As he neared the window he glanced across, to see Netta sitting there at work, and a faint smile and blush greeted him.

“Poor girl,” he muttered. “But, no, it’s nonsense. She can’t think it. Absurd! She’s so young—so ill. There, it’s childish, and I should be a vain fool if I thought so.”

He stood thinking for a few moments, and as he paused there was the rattle of wheels in the street, and Sam Jenkles drove his hansom to the door and stopped, gave the horse in charge of a boy, and went in.

The next minute Richard had crossed too, for a plan had been formed on the instant.

Mrs Jenkles met him at the door, and at his wish led him to where Sam was seated at a table, hurriedly discussing a hot meal.

“Drops in, sir, if ever I drives a fare in this direction, and the missus generally has a snack for me. Eh, sir? Oh no, sir. All right, I’ll wait,” he said, in answer to a question or two.

And then Richard ascended the stairs, knocked and entered, to find that mother and daughter had just risen from their needlework, Mrs Lane to look grave, Netta with a bright look in her eyes, and too vivid a red in either cheek.

“Ah, you busy people,” he said, cheerily, “what an example you do set me! How’s our little friend to-day?”

The bright look of joy in Netta’s face faded slightly as she heard their visitor speak of her as he would of some child, but there was a happy, contented aspect once more as she placed her hand in his, and felt his frank pressure.

“Mrs Lane,” said Richard, speaking gaily, “I’m like the little boy in the story—I’m idle, and want some one to come and play with me, but I hope for better luck than he.”

Mother and daughter looked at him wonderingly.

“I’ve come to tell you,” he said, “that the sun shines brightly overhead; there’s a deep blue sky, and silvery clouds floating across it; and six or seven miles out northward there are sweet-scented wild flowers, waving green trees, all delicious shade; the music of song-birds, the hum of insects, and views that will gladden your hearts after seeing nothing but smoke and chimneypots. I am Nature’s ambassador, and I am here to say ‘Come.’”

As he spoke the work fell from Netta’s hands, her eyes dilated, and a look of intense glad longing shone from her soft, oval face, while she hung upon her mother’s lips, till, hearing her words, the tears gathered in her eyes, and she bent her head to conceal them.

Mrs Lane’s words were very few; they were grateful, but they told of work to be done by a certain time, and she said it was impossible.

“But it would do you both good. Miss Netta there wants a change badly,” said Richard; “and you haven’t heard half my plan. Jenkles has his cab at the door, and I propose a drive right out into the country, and when we get back you will ask me to tea. It will be a squeeze, but you will forgive that.”

Poor Mrs Lane’s face looked drawn in its pitiful aspect. She felt that such a trip would be like so much new life to her child, but she could not go, and she shook her head.

“It may not be etiquette, perhaps,” said Richard, quietly, “but I shall ask you to waive that, and let me take Netta here. You know it will do her good, and she will have Mr Jenkles, as well as your humble servant, to take care of her.”

Mrs Lane looked him searchingly in the face, which was as open as the day, and then, glancing at Netta, she saw her parted lips and look of intense longing. The refusal that had been imminent passed away, and laying her hand upon the young man’s arm, she said, softly—