Loe raamatut: «Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One», lehekülg 20

Too Late

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t, pray, Sam,” sobbed his wife.

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

“Sam!” sobbed his wife.

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

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

“Is she worse, ma’am?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She started as she caught a sigh from Mrs Lane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Lane started up and gazed wildly at her guest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s coming – yes, he’s coming now.”

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

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

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

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

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

“My poor child!” he groaned.

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

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

Vanleigh started up at that, exclaiming wildly —

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

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

Three Months After

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

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

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

“Come, sir, that does one good,” cried Humphrey. “I am glad I’ve come.”

“Well, I am glad to see you, Humphrey; but yet – ”

“I know, sir – I know,” said Humphrey. “I could tell you exactly what you feel – a bit of envy-like; but there, bless your heart, if it wasn’t for Polly and the thoughts of her, I should be a miserable man.”

“Well, you’ve got plenty to make you miserable,” said Richard.

“Ah, you may smile, sir – I know what you mean; but I have, all the same. I tell you, I was a deal happier man without the estate than I am with it. Old Lloyd and Mrs Lloyd – begging your pardon for speaking so of them – look sneering-like at me; so do the quality; hang them, they’re civil enough, but I can see them sneer. They look down on me, of course. I’m not one of their sort. I’m ignorant, and can’t talk to them. I get on well enough with the young fellows, shooting, and so on; but I always feel as if I ought to load their guns, and I can’t help saying ‘sir’ to every one of them.”

“But I thought Mr Mervyn – ”

“Mr Mervyn’s as good and kind a gentleman as ever lived, and he’s wanted to learn me all sort of things; but I can’t take to them – I can’t, indeed, sir. Then there’s Polly: she’s at a fine school, and, poor lass, she’s miserable, and writes to me how glad she’ll be to get away. It’s all wrong, sir. What’s the good of a horse to a man as can’t ride, or a yacht to a man as can’t sail it? I’ve got Penreife, and I go in and out of it feeling quite ashamed-like, just as if I was a fish out of water. I tell you, Master Dick, upon my sivvy, what with feeling uncomfortable about ousting you, and being sneered at on the sly, and bothered with the company and invitations, and hints to dress different, and learn this, and learn that, I haven’t had a happy day since you left. I don’t like it, and I don’t want it. Damn the estate! – there!”

“Why, my dear fellow, you’ll soon get used to it if you make up your mind. Why, you’re in your old keeper’s clothes.”

“Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be? There’s no one up here I know, so I thought I’d be comfortable-like, and I thought – I thought I should be better in them to come and see you. And now, sir, how’s it with you?”

“Oh, pretty well, Humphrey. I’ve got the command of a schooner, and I’m going on a voyage to India.”

“No, no – don’t go, Master Dick – don’t. Come down into Cornwall again.”

Richard shook his head.

“Nonsense, sir; why, lookye here. Here am I, Humphrey Lloyd – ”

“Trevor,” said Richard.

“Hang the name!” said Humphrey, “it’s always bothering me. I more often sign Lloyd than Trevor, which is about the awkwardest name there ever was to write. Ah, Master Dick, it was a bad day’s work for me when there was that change.”

“Nonsense, man.”

“Ah, but it was; and I tell you what: if it wasn’t for my darling little lassie, I should take to drinking to drown my cares – But, look here, Master Richard – they wanted me to take that name, too – Richard – but I wouldn’t stand that. Well, look here, sir, why don’t you come down, and put your foot in the old place again? What’s being born got to do with it? We couldn’t help being born; we didn’t want to be, I dessay; and we couldn’t help what they did with us in our cradles.”

“Of course not, Humphrey.”

“Well, look here, sir; you grew into a gentleman, I grew into a common man. Well, then, what’s stupider than trying to make me what I didn’t grow into, and you into a common man? It’s rubbish: we’re neither of us no good as we are.”

Richard laughed – rather bitterly, though.

“Polly and I have had it all over, sir. I went down to her school-place, poor little lass. She’s very unhappy, and we came to the conclusion that with the cottage nicely papered and painted, and a hundred a year, we should be as happy as the day’s long. So come, Master Richard – there’s the place nohow for want of you. Come down, and take possession.”

“Humphrey, if ever there was a fellow born with the soul of a gentleman, it’s you. But no; there is such a thing in a man as pride, and I have too much to accept your offer; and, besides, I have made an engagement.”

“Not to be married, sir?”

“No, no; my ship, man, my ship.”

“Oh!” said Humphrey; “because I was thinking, sir. There’s Miss Rea, you know.”

“What about her?” said Richard, sharply.

“Oh, only that she’s down at Tolcarne now, sir. They say she’s been better lately. There was some talk about her being engaged to an officer – that captain, sir, as come down and stayed with us – you, I mean – but they say that’s all broken off, because he was married already. His wife fetched him, and he’s gone off in a regiment to India.”

Richard remained silent.

“Well, come – look here, Master Dick, you say you won’t take the place back?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then let’s go halves.”

“Humphrey, it is yours by right; keep it,” said Richard, decisively.

“Well, come then, sir, we were boys together, you won’t refuse to do your old companion a good turn?”

“Anything consistent that you ask me to do, Humphrey, I’ll do with pleasure.”

“Then come down and be my best man at my wedding.”

Richard hesitated, for there was a battle going on within his breast. He longed – longed intensely to go down and see Cornwall again. Tiny Rea was there – he might see her. Yes, and make himself more wretched than ever, for he could not speak to her. It would be madness to go – and yet once – to see the old place before he left England – just for a few hours. And why should he not see Tiny, just to tell her of his unaltered faith? He felt that he would give the world to go, and yet pride kept him back, “All right – I’ll walk in, Mrs Fiddison,” said a voice, and Frank Pratt entered.

“Well, Dick, old man, how are you? Ah, Humphrey, I told you I should turn up some time.”

“I’m trying to get Master Dick here, sir, to come down and be my best man at the wedding.”

“Well, he’ll do that for you, surely,” said Pratt, quietly. “Go down, Dick. I’ve promised Humphrey to go. I said I would directly he asked.”

Pratt looked very solemn over it; but there was tremendous exultation in his heart as he thought of seeing Pin, for the family had left Russell Square directly after the unpleasant éclaircissement.

“He’ll come, Humphrey. There, I’ll promise for him, and so you may make your mind happy.”

“But just say you will, Master Dick,” said Humphrey, rising.

“Well, I will, Humphrey,” said Richard, holding out his hand, though he repented the next moment, as his successor took his leave.

“Seen Mrs Vanleigh lately?” said Pratt, as soon as they were alone.

“Poor woman! no, not for two days. I must call.”

“Van’s behaving very well now that it’s too late. There’s a regular allowance for her at his army agents. I didn’t believe a man could have changed so as he did. It was that fever did it, coming upon the shock. Poor wretch! I never saw a man so stricken down as he was at the poor girl’s funeral.”

He caught Richard’s eye.

“There, what a blundering ass I am, Dick, old man. It’s my trade to rout out all sorts of old sores. But, mum, I won’t say any more. How’s our friend the cabby?”

“Oh, quite well!”

“And Madame?”

“Excellently well. They say that perhaps Mrs Vanleigh is coming to stay with them again; but I don’t think it would be wise for the poor woman to do so.”

“Quite right,” said Pratt. “Well, I must be off and work. I’ve got an Indian case on – Jeefee Rustam versus Tomkins, and two or three more things to get out of the way before I go down to Cornwall. By the way, I met our languid friend, Flick, at the dub yesterday.”

“Well?”

“He cut me, sir. Looked bayonets, lance-points, and sabres at me. Heigho! Well, we can’t all win. Ta-ta.”

“Good-bye.”

“Cornwall, mind.”

Richard nodded, and he was left alone, to make up his mind a dozen times that he could not go down to the old place without a great sacrifice of dignity, and as often something seemed to whisper him that he must go; and to that faint whisper he lent an attentive ear, for the desire grew so strong at last that he found himself unable to resist.