Loe raamatut: «Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One», lehekülg 16

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.”