Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

"If you choose to be mean, you must put up with the consequences; and what's more, you ought to thank and pay me for coming to put you on your guard."

"Do you think she--she knows that I live here?" said Richard, in a hoarse whisper.

The woman smiled contemptuously, as she replied--

"No, she don't know it, poor mad thing! at least, I don't think so. She kept to the name, too, right enough, and wouldn't answer to the name of Pellet."

"Of course not," exclaimed Richard, fiercely; and then the two stood gazing in each other's eyes for a minute before the woman spoke, saying, maliciously--

"Perhaps she may find her way here though, after all; these mad folks are very cunning when they are after anything."

"Here! go now," exclaimed Richard, hurriedly thrusting some money into the woman's hands. "You must not give her up, Mrs Walls. We'll make a fresh settlement, and--and we'll talk it over to-morrow when I come."

The woman smiled as she made her way out of the library, and Richard Pellet stood for a few moments wiping the cold dew from his forehead, before rejoining his guests.

The city gentlemen heard no more that night respecting limited liability companies, when, after giving the strictest orders that, if anybody else should come, _she_ was to be shown into the library, Richard Pellet returned to the assembled company, and took coffee, unaware that the two gentlemen in coach-lace had thrust their tongues into their cheeks at one another, after a fashion meant to express the extreme of derision; and then, as soon as they were at liberty, went and related the affair in large text, with redundant flourishes, in the servants' hall.

"If she had chosen any other day it would not so much have mattered," said Richard Pellet to himself, as he probed a lump of sugar at the bottom of his half-cold coffee: "but to have come to-day!"

It was no wonder that, until the last guest departed, Richard Pellet's eyes were turned anxiously towards the door every time it opened, when, Nemesis-like, he expected to see enter the tall, pale figure he had looked upon that day in Borton Street, his heart too much crusted with gold to allow of a single tender thought for the afflicted woman, who was sure enough to clasp her hands and ask that she might be with her child.

Volume 1, Chapter XXI.

TRIMMING THE LAMP.

"There you are," said Tim Ruggles, shaking up a bottle, and carefully pouring out a dessert-spoonful of cod-liver oil into a wineglass, previously well wetted round with the thin blue fluid which the Carnaby Street people bought under the impression that it was milk. "There you are," said Tim, as he sat cross-legged upon his board; "and now look sharp, and get a lump of sugar out of the basin, and take your oil before she comes back."

"Brayvo! capital! and never made one ugly face," exclaimed Tim, as little Pine drank the contents of the glass, but not without a slight shudder. "That's the thing to bring you round, little one--bring you round and turn you round, and make you round as a little tub. Oil turns into fat, you know, and fat keeps you warm in winter. Fat's Nature's greatcoat, you know, for quilting and padding people's ribs, and wants no stitching on, nor pressing down. That's the way to--scissors--thank you, my pet--the way to trim the--trim the--now my twist and a short needle--that's him--to trim the lamp of life, that is; and you only want to swallow a long skein of cotton and light one end, and then you'd burn. My eye! what a go it would be for her to come home and find you burning! But come, I say, put that bottle away before she comes back."

Tim was very particular that the cod-liver oil bottle should be put away before Mrs Ruggles' return from marketing; for though the dispensary doctor had ordered that medicine twice a day for the child's cough, and a reasonable quantity was supplied, Tim had an idea of his own that if it were taken twice as often, it would act with double rapidity. So he used to invest all his very spare cash in the purchase of more of the nauseous medicine, and kept a private stock, out of which he replenished the bottle in the cupboard, so that it should not appear in Mrs Ruggles' eyes to disappear too quickly.

"Does seem such a thing," said Tim to himself, "to see any one suffering when you can't do anything to help them. There's her poor little cough getting worse and worse, and them fits coming on, and I can't help her a bit. It's dreadful, that it is. If one has to rub, or hold, or lift, or do something, it don't seem half so bad; but to stand and do nothing but look on is the worst itself. Never saw such a child as she is, though; and it makes me shiver when she gets looking in that far-off way of hers, as if she could see more than any one else. Takes her stuff without a word; but I'd sooner see her kick and cry out, and then have a good laugh after, when I talk rubbish about trimming the lamp. I don't know what it's a coming to--for she ain't like no other child--ain't like a child at all, that she ain't."

It was not once that Tim would mutter in that fashion over his work, but often and often; and in spite of his words, he did know in his heart what was coming, though, stitching away there upon his board, early and late, he tried to shut his eyes to the ray of light that fell upon them--a ray of pale wondrous light, as from another world; light which shone with a cold lustre in upon his heart, to tell him that something must soon come to pass.

For little Pine had of late grown quieter day by day; dull and heavy, too, at times, falling asleep in her chair, and more than once upon the bare floor, where Tim had found her, and gently raised her head to place beneath it the list-tied roll of newly-cut cloth for a pair of trousers, and then covered her with his coat.

As the days lengthened, a hectic red settled in her little cheeks, and a cough came on to rack her chest; when, night after night, would Tim creep out of bed to give her lozenges and various infallible sweets which he had purchased to allay the irritating tickle that kept her awake hour after hour.

"'Pon my word," Tim would say, "I don't think I should take more notice of that child if she was my very own; but somehow I can't help this here."

And it was plain enough that Tim could not help "this here;" and, intent as he seemed upon his work by day, his thoughts were fixed upon the poor child, whom he watched hour after hour unnoticed by his domestic tyrant.

"I don't like it," muttered Tim; "it's all rules of contrary. That there cough ought to make her pale and poorly, and it don't, for it makes her little cheeks red, and her eyes bright; and it ain't nat'ral for her to not eat nothing one time, and to eat savage another; and I'm 'most afraid to say anything to her, because she's so old and deep."

"Am I going to die?" said the child one day, suddenly, as she left off work to gaze up earnestly in Tim's face.

"Eh! what? Going to which?" exclaimed Tim, startled.

"Am I going to die, and go away?" said the child again.

"I'm blessed!" muttered Tim; "who's agoing to answer questions like that? Why, we're all of us going to die some day, my pretty," said Tim, aloud, and in quite a cheery voice, whose fire he directly after damped by singing, in a peculiar reedy, cracked voice--

"Oh! that'll be joyful!
Joyful, joy-yoy-ful, joy-hoy-ful!"

but in so melancholy a fashion that it was evident that Tim Ruggles did not look forward to the joyful event with much pleasure.

"Yes, I know that," said little Pine, dreamily; "but am I going to die soon, and go to my own mother? Mrs Johnson, who lived up-stairs, used to take cod-liver oil, and she soon died."

"Bother Mrs Johnson!" exclaimed Tim, fiercely. "I say, you know, you mustn't talk like that, my pet; it makes one feel just as if cold water was running all down one's back. You ain't Mrs Johnson, and you're taking that there stuff to make you strong and well. Now, come on, and let's say catechism."

"No, please, not this morning," little Pine would say; "my head does ache so, so much, and catechism makes me cough;" and then the sharp little elbow would rest upon the thin knee, and the child lay her head upon her hand, and listen to the tailor as he tried to tell her stories raked up piecemeal out of his memory, where they had rested for so many years that they had grown rusty, and hardly recognisable. Puss would somehow manage to get into the wrong boots, and perform wonders in the famed seven-league pair; a sensational story would be compiled out of the exploits of Jack the Giant-killer, Jack Sprat, and the hero of the bean-stalk; while to make out from Tim's description where Robinson Crusoe's adventures began, and Sinbad the Sailor's ended, would have puzzled the most learned.

For, after the fashion of his craft, Tim would baste one piece on to another, and fit in here, and fit in there, according to the circumstances of the case; the invariable result being that little Pine would begin to nod; when Tim would steal softly off his board, and closer and closer to her till he could let the weary little head rest against his breast, kneeling there in some horribly uncomfortable position until the short dose was over, and the child would once more start into wakefulness, to gaze up in a frightened way in his face. Then, seeing who held her, she would smile, and close her heavy eyelids, nestling down closer and closer, within the open waistcoat, the little thin arms trying to clasp her protector tightly; Tim anxiously watching the while, with contracted brows, the painful catching of the child's breath, and the spasms of pain that contracted her little features.

The church duties took Mrs Ruggles much away now, to the softening of these latter days of the poor child's life; and many and many an hour would Tim spend in the way described--hours which he had to work far into the night to redeem, when others were sleeping; so that the item of paraffin became so heavy in the domestic economy that Tim had to replenish the can on the sly, after the manner of the cod-liver oil bottle; and the consequence was, that his ordinary moderate amount of beer-money seldom found its way to the publican's.

How swiftly sped those minutes spent with poor little Pine! and how slowly would the hours crawl on, when, with his shaded lamp throwing its glow upon his work, Tim would sit stitching patiently away like what he was--a little, shrunken, shrivelled tailor!

Volume 1, Chapter XXII.

TIM SEEKS SYMPATHY.

"I don't know what to make of that child, ma'am," said Tim, on one of his visits to Duplex Street. "I'm afraid she's in a bad way, and that we ought to see another doctor;" and as he spoke he gazed vacantly at a guinea-pig on the hearth, a present from Monsieur Canau to one of the children, and brought from Decadia.

"Then why not take her to one, Mr Ruggles?" said Mrs Jared, rather tartly, for she strongly disapproved of Tim's obedience to his better half.

"Expense--expense--expense, ma'am," said Tim. "You see, Mrs Ruggles keeps the purse, and has her own ideas about money. Wonderfully clever woman; but I don't quite think she sees how bad poor little Pine is."

"Mr Ruggles, I don't like your wonderfully clever women," said Mrs Jared; "they are not worth much generally. I like to see a woman clever enough to do her duty to her husband and family; and if she knows that, and does it well, she is quite clever enough to my way of thinking."

"Gently, my dear, gently," said Jared; for Mrs Pellet was growing rather warm, and--as is peculiar to the female sex--loud; but Jared's words acted like oil, and his wife's feathers grew smooth directly.

Some time had elapsed since Tim Ruggles had made his appearance in Duplex Street, for the trousers trade had been brisk, and he had been busy enough at home, while messages from the foreman of the shop for which he worked were constantly being borne to Carnaby Street to know "whether Ruggles meant to wear out that last pair of trousers as well as make them;" or, "if he did not mean to make those last two pair, to send them back and let somebody else." "When, you know," said Tim, "at my place it was all board; I had my breakfast on the board, my dinner on the board, my tea on the board, my supper on the board, and for two or three nights the only sleep I had was an hour or two when I lay down on the board; and once I dreamed that I was a sewing-machine, and that Mrs Ruggles was turning my handle, when she was only shaking my arm because it was morning, and time for me to be up and at work again."

There was peace in the domestic grove at Duplex Street; the little ones were all in bed; Patty was thinking of Janet and her goldfish, and sometimes of Harry Clayton, as she sewed on buttons and strings where small garments needed them; and Mrs Jared was industriously embroidering a workhouse-window pattern upon one of a basketful of stockings, some of which strongly resembled the Irishman's knife, for it was a difficult matter to make out any portion of the original hose, so covered were they with Mrs Jared's darnings.

Jared himself was busy with his glue-pot, the constant companion of his leisure evenings. That glue-pot was to Jared Pellet what a pocket-knife is to some people, and a ball of string to others--it was a perfect treasure, and with it he performed feats strongly allied to those of Robin, Houdin, or Wiljalba Frikell, without taking into consideration the money it earned him. Boots and shoes were renovated to a wonderful extent; wall-paper torn down by tiny mischievous fingers was replaced; broken chairs had their limbs set; in fact, Jared looked upon glue as a panacea, even going so far as to pop scraps in his mouth, though it cannot be avowed that he swallowed them, and it may only have been for the purpose of cleaning his fingers. And yet, it was a nasty little pot, being of a vicious character, and given to boiling over and covering Mrs Jared's hobs and polished black bars with a nasty sticky slime that would not come off; while, when she remonstrated with Jared, being naturally proud of her black-leading, he quietly told her that it was of the nature of glue to stick, and that the little pot ought to have been watched. Just as if it was of any use to watch the treacherous little object; for one moment it would be calm, and the next in a state of violent eruption, hissing, bubbling, and sending forth noxious jets of steam to an extent which made it unapproachable.

Tim Ruggles sat very silent after Mrs Jared had spoken, for he entertained a most profound respect for her expressions of opinion; and the upshot of that conversation was, that, in spite of his wife's opposition, he took little Pine to a doctor--a hint, however, which he dropped at home relative to the possibility of a cessation of certain payments, in the event of what he called "anything happening," somewhat softened Mrs Ruggles' opposition. The next time, too, after that conversation that Tim went to Bedford Row to draw the bi-monthly payment, he ventured to suggest that a little medical advice was necessary for the child, when the gentleman who took his receipt said, "Oh!" in a quiet manner, as much as to say, "I quite agree with you; and you think so, do you?"

"Her cough tears her poor little chest terrible, sir," said Tim, respectfully.

"Indeed!" said the legal gentleman, who was very pale, smooth, and cool.

"Her sleep's broken a good deal, too, sir," said Tim, warming to his task.

"Ah!" said the legal gentleman, with a quiet, well-bred smile, which no amount of torturing would have turned into a laugh.

"It wherrits me to hear her, sir--awful," said Tim; "and I think if them as belongs to her knowed, they'd--"

"Give instructions? eh!" said the legal gentleman. "There, there! she's in capital hands--couldn't be in better. Try a little magnesia, or dill water, or squills, or what you like. Good morning, Mr Ruggles. You have the note, I think. This day two months, mind."

"But, sir," exclaimed Tim, eagerly, "if you was to put it to them."

"Exactly," said the legal gentleman; "Parker & Tomlin's abstract on office-table. Coming!" he exclaimed, replying to some imaginary call. "Good morning, Mr Ruggles; this day two months."

Tim found himself the next minute in the entry, holding the money he had received very far down in his pocket with one hand, as if every one in Bedford Row and its vicinity was intent upon garrotting him, and bearing off his cash.

"Squills, indeed! magneshy!" muttered Tim, indignantly; "I'd like to give him magneshy--a brute. It's my opinion as they wouldn't much mind if something was to happen, and this sorter thing could be dropped;" and he left hold of his money, drew forth that hand and slapped his pocket; but only to thrust back the hand and once more hold tightly to his treasure, for he told himself that some of it should go in comforts for the child, or he'd know the reason why.

Tim crossed Holborn, and made his way into a retired street, where he gave vent to a deep sigh, and, as if continuing his interrupted train of thought, he muttered--

"I can't say as I shall only go once, or whether it'll be twice, or a hundred times, to fetch this; but it's my opinion something will happen."

The thought of "something" happening seemed to cut Tim to the quick, for as if to force back the rising grief, he crushed his hat down over his eyes, and hurried through the streets to his abode, where he found Mrs Ruggles waiting to take charge of the money.

"Of course not," exclaimed that lady, as soon as Tim, taking advantage of the child having dropped into one of her short slumbers, had related his conversation with the lawyer. "What would they care? Glad of it, as hundreds more would be; but we'll disappoint them; they're not going to get off so easy as they expect."

Tim hugged himself in secret as he saw the effect of his words; for after that, for a season, Mrs Ruggles was very particular in seeing that the child took her medicine, and was at the dispensary regularly at the proper hours for receiving advice.

But this did not last long; Mrs Ruggles declaring that she thought, after all, there was not much the matter, and returning to her old ways, though even her hard fierce nature shrank from treating so severely as had been her former custom the poor suffering child surely fading away before her eyes.

Volume 1, Chapter XXIII.

HARRY'S EMPLOY.

The letter which Harry Clayton found at his chambers was in answer to an advertisement in the _Times_; for, finding himself somewhat straitened for money, and, in his pride, determined not to apply to Richard Pellet, Harry had offered his services to read with some young patrician preparing for college. The result of the ensuing correspondence was, that he became what he termed bear-leader to one Lionel Redgrave, son of a wealthy baronet; the affair being quickly settled, and the old baronet, who had been favourably impressed by Harry's frank, manly bearing, warmly expressed his confidence that the result would be highly advantageous to his son.

Harry knew that his expectations were good; but a growing distaste for the life at Norwood had kept him away more and more, so that, save for occasional visits paid for the sake of seeing his mother, there was very little communication kept up; and, judging from Richard Pellet's behaviour, it seemed likely that there would be less still in the future. So Harry eagerly made his arrangements, and a short time after, the young men were together in town, where Lionel Redgrave had determined to have chambers for the present, an arrangement in nowise distasteful to Harry Clayton, who passed his days in a state of feverish anxiety at Cambridge, in spite of his determination to read; telling himself that, after all, if he expected to win Patty, he ought not to cease to strive to see her, however unlucky he had hitherto been.

He was to meet her soon though, little as he expected it, and in a way that should take him by surprise, so much so, that he returned from his encounter bitter and annoyed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was evening, and the roar of fashionable Regent Street came incessantly through the entresol window.

Harry Clayton was reading, and Lionel Redgrave--a tall, well-made young fellow--was lolling back in his chair, smoking with all his might.

Three or four times over the latter impatiently shifted his position, going through the performance of one who is terribly bored; but his fidgeting attracted no attention till, in a bluff loud voice, he exclaimed--

"My dear Harry, what a serious old cad you are! Throw away those books."

"My dear Li, what a groomy individual you do make yourself! Throw that cigar away, and let's have a quiet evening's reading."

"Likely! I shall just have another cigar, and then we'll go and see something. Open that window--there's a good fellow," and he leaned back in the lounge of their handsomely furnished room.

Harry rose, opened the low window, admitting the loud rattle of the traffic, and then returned to his seat, which he drew nearer to his companion.

"Look here," he said; but there was no reply; the young man only lay back with half-closed eyes, lit a fresh cigar, and luxuriously watched the blue rings of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.

"Look here, Lionel," said Harry again, after a pause; this time eliciting for response, the one word--

"Bother!"

"I really cannot stand this sort of thing any longer," said Harry, without noticing the other's coolness. "You know why I am here--you know why your father wished me to be with you; and really I cannot consent to go on, week after week, in this unsatisfactory manner."

"Why not?" said the other, coolly emitting a puff of smoke.

"Why not? Because I feel as if I were robbing him. A month gone to-day, and what have we done?"

"Done! Seen no end of life, my boy--studied from nature. What more would you have?"

"Life!" exclaimed Harry, bitterly; "do you call that wretchedly artificial existence that we have seen by gaslight, life? If I were a moralist, I should call it the well-lighted ante-chamber of the pit; but I won't preach."

"No, don't, that's a good fellow. Daresay you're quite right, but it's a very pleasant way of getting down to the pit all the same. But I say, Harry, don't bother; you've been very jolly so far. Let's go on just the same."

"And your father?"

"Bless his old heart! what about him? Sent me a cheque, this morning-- extra, you know--and hoped we get on well together. He's got a first-rate opinion of you. By the way, write and acknowledge the cheque, and say we get on first-rate."

"But, Redgrave, pray be serious."

"So I am," exclaimed the other, pettishly, as he dashed his cigar out of the window, and suddenly rose to a sitting posture. "Now, look here, Clayton. I like having you with me, 'pon my soul, I do; you act like ballast to me, you do indeed. I'm given to carrying too much sail, and if it was not for you, I should be like my little yacht, the _Kittiwake_, in a squall, and on my beam ends in no time."

Harry tapped the table impatiently with his fingers.

"Now, look here, Harry," continued Lionel; "as to robbery, don't you be a fool. You're saving the governor no end by keeping down my expenses; for you know, Harry, I am rather afraid of you, I am indeed; but I want you to stop with me all the same. Don't speak; it's my turn to preach now. As to reading, and all that sort of thing, studying, and working up--I can't read, and I won't read. I'm not clever, and classics are no use to me, and never will be, with my income. What the deuce do I care about Homer and Virgil, and all the rest of the Greek and Roman humbugs? It's right enough for a clever fellow like you--all brains. But, 'pon my soul, Harry, if you bother me any more, I'll swear, and then I'll bite, so there's an end of it."

Harry shrugged his shoulders, and then in despair closed the book at his side, gazing the while, with a serio-comic look of chagrin, in the handsome Saxon face of the speaker.

"'Taint your fault, Harry; so just hold your tongue and have a cigar, and pitch me over another, for I'm dog tired."

Saying which, he contrived to catch the roll of tobacco leaf, lit a fusee on the sole of his boot, and then threw himself back, but only--as there came a smart rap at the door--to yell out impatiently--

"Come in!"

The door was opened, and a smart-looking maid brought in a letter, which was evidently for the master of the chambers; but as his hands were locked together behind his reclining head, and the exertion of loosening them seemed to be more than he cared to encounter, Harry took the missive from the girl, and glanced at the superscription.

"For you," he said, as the girl retired.

"'Taint from the governor, I can see at this distance," said Lionel. "Open it and see what's inside, there's a good fellow. Tailor's bill I'll be bound."

"No," said Harry, turning the note over uneasily; "it is evidently a lady's hand."

"Lady's hand! Gammon! Who'd write to me?"

"Lady's hand--evidently French," continued Harry, and then he read from the envelope--

"To Mr--Mr L.R., 70 Regent Street."

"Why, it's an answer to the advertisement," cried Lionel, bursting into a loud laugh. "Read it out, old boy."

Harry seemed as if he were attracted by the delicacy of the handwriting; for, instead of tearing open the missive, he took out a penknife and cut the paper, heedless of Lionel Redgrave's sneering laugh.

"What a model of care you are, Harry," he exclaimed; "fold your clothes up every night when you go to bed, I'll swear."

Harry smiled, and then read aloud:--

"Honoured Sir,--Seeing your advertisement in to-day's _Times_, I
believe I know a gentleman who was followed by a dog answering the
description of your bull-tarrier; so I will do myself the honour of
waiting upon you this evening, at eight o'clock.--Your obedient
servant,

"Fancy."

"Your obedient servant," repeated Lionel.

"`To command' scratched out," said Harry.

"That's a rum sort of letter to come in a lady's hand, and in French style--isn't it? Is it spelt right?"

"Perfectly, and the writing is exquisite."

"Dog-stealing cad safe, and he has got some one to write for him."

"He'll be here directly, if he keeps his appointment," said Harry, referring to his watch; "it only wants a few minutes to eight. What shall you do? See Mr Fancy, or hand him over to the police?"

"See him, of course! What's the good of handing him over to the police? Cost me just as much money, and I should not get my dog."

Harry shrugged his shoulders, while Lionel lay back a little farther on his lounge, so that he could hold up and admire the set of his close, groomy-looking, drab trousers.

"Not a bad fit, are they, Hal?" he said, after a pause.

"Excellent for a stable-helper," was the sarcastic reply.

"H'm! Perhaps so. But they are like the real thing, though, ain't they? Bilstob's an out-and-outer for taking up an idea, if you give it him."

"Stably ideas, I suppose," said Harry.

"Yes, if you like," said Lionel, rather sulkily; and then the young men smoked on in silence, till, forgetting the sneers of his companion, Lionel again spoke.

"Wonder whether this chap will turn up, Clayton? Try another advertisement if he don't. I wouldn't have lost that dog for twenty pounds."

"And I would give twenty pounds sooner than keep the ugly wretch," said Harry.

"Perhaps so; but then you see you can't appreciate breed. Don't be cross, old chap," he continued, laughing. "You must be bear-leader, and lick me into shape."

Harry shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

"There! turn up the gas a little higher, Harry; and do, for goodness' sake, give up that confounded French shrug; and, I say, Hal, if this cad does come, leave me to manage him. His won't be a classic tongue, old fellow, and I know how to deal with these fellows so much better than you. By Jove, though, here he is! Come in!"

For there had been another knock at the door, and the maid once more appeared.

"Plee, sir, there's a man down-stairs, as says he have an appointment with you, sir. Is he to come up?"

"Yes; send him up, Mary; that is, if he's fit."

"Fit, sir?" said the girl, looking puzzled.

"Yes; clean--decent," said Lionel, laughing, and the girl withdrew.

A minute later, a heavy, halting step was heard upon the stairs, and the visitor, none other than Canau's landlord from Decadia, was ushered into the room.

Volume 1, Chapter XXIV.

"D. WRAGG, NAT'RALIST."

"Sarvant, gentlemen," said the new-comer, who must now be fully introduced. He made four steps forward into the room, each step being accomplished by the planting of a heavy boot with a club-sole, some six inches thick, a couple of feet forward, when, with a bow and a jerk, the other leg was brought to the front, and the man stood upright, took another step, bowed, and again jerked himself into the perpendicular-- each effort of locomotion being accompanied by an automaton flourish of one arm, similar to that of a farming man sowing turnips broadcast.

He was a wiry-looking little fellow, with sharp ferrety eyes, and short bristly hair standing up at the sides of his head, giving him the look of a fierce Scotch terrier--the resemblance being heightened by an occasional twitch of the facial muscles, which might have been taken for displays of annoyance at the workings of troublous insects beyond the reach of teeth or paws.

"Sarvant, gentlemen," he said; "and if so be as it ain't a liberty--"

He paused in his utterance, jerked himself back to the door, opened it, peered out as if seeking a rat--if not smelling one--closed the door again, jerked himself back, and laid one finger beside his very small nose, saying--

"I'll make all snug afore I begin."

This was evidently in completion of his sentence; and then, while in a half-amused, half-contemptuous manner, Lionel Redgrave watched his actions, the man leaned his body first on one side, then on the other, as if, with ultra caution, he were endeavouring to peer behind the two occupants of the room; peeping beneath the table; and finishing the performance by tip-toeing, and straining his neck to look here and there in the most mysterious way imaginable.

"Confound you! why don't you look up the chimney while you are about it?" cried Lionel, at last. "What the deuce does the fellow mean?"

"It's all right, gentlemen," said the man, taking a handkerchief out of his hat, wiping his face, and then placing the very tall head-covering upon the floor, while out of a shabby old dress-coat pocket he dragged a copy of a newspaper.

"Which of you gents is L.R.?" he continued, when, after much jerking and fumbling, he had contrived to open and refold the paper to his taste, and with one extremely dirty finger to fix, as it were, the advertisement.

"Never you mind about that," said Lionel, gruffly. "Have you brought the dog?"

"Brought the dorg, gentlemen? Now, is it likely?" was the answer, in tones of remonstrance. "Not likely! How could I bring the dorg when I hadn't got it? It was only through seeing that ad. in the paper, that I says, says I, `Why that there's just like the dorg as I see Mr Barkles with'--a dorg as he said follered him 'ome lars night's a week."

Lionel growled, and the visitor jerked himself a step forward.

"So I says to our Janet, I says, `Jest drop a line,' I says, `to that pore gent as has lost his dorg,' I says; `and I'll see if I can't be the 'appy mejum of gettin' on it back for him.'"

"Look here, my man," said Harry, regardless of his pupil's frowns; "bring the dog back, and my friend will pay the offered reward."

"Bring the dorg back here, sir! Well no, that ain't likely. How do I know what might happen? Don't you make no mistake about me, sir. I'm a respectable tradesman, and that's my card, `D. Wragg, Nat'ralist, Dealer in Br'ish and Furren Birds, and setrer, 12 Brownjohn Street, Decadia.'"

As he spoke he held out a dirty, glazed, worn-edged card to the last speaker, who motioned to him to place it upon the table, which was done with a great deal of jerking and twitching, Mr D. Wragg pushing the piece of pasteboard well into view, and then, apparently not satisfied, standing it up on edge against a book before continuing--

"I'm good for what you like, gents, from a dorg down to a pegging finch. Do you want a 'arf dozen o' rats to try a terrier? send to me. Is it a good blackish ferret? I'm ready for you. It were only last week I had a badger. I've squirrels as'll crack nuts, fit to give to any lady in the land. Do you want a few score o' blue rocks for 'Ornsey or Battersea? I've got 'em;--'arf a 'undred o' sparrers--a hedge 'og--a toy tarrier--or a poll-parrot as wouldn't say swear to save its life, and I'm your man. That's my card, `D. Wragg, Nat'ralist, Dealer in Br'ish and Furren Birds, and setrer, 12 Brownjohn Street, Decadia.' And what's more, make it a tenner, and I'll undertake to say as I'll wurk the gent as your dorg follered, so as you can come on to my place to-morrer, put down the stiff, and bring your dorg 'ome again."

Mr D. Wragg, the "nat'ralist's," countenance had been a study as he delivered himself of this harangue, jerking, twitching, and showing his teeth, as if he were constantly about to make at an obtrusive fly settled upon his nose, but never achieving thereto. But now, stooping, he took his handkerchief from the hat upon the floor, put the newspaper in its place, and then indulged in a good wipe, as his sharp ferrety eyes gazed inquiringly from face to face.

"Now, look here, you, sir," said Lionel, roughly; "I offered a fiver for the dog, because that's what he's worth. I believe him to have been stolen; but never mind about that. I'll give five pounds to have him back, and there's an end of it. If you like to earn the money, bring the dog back; if not--cut!"

"Now, just a minute, gentlemen. See here now;" and resting his elbow upon his hip, the visitor stretched out one open palm, and patted it softly with the other; but instead of looking at any one, his restless eyes wandered from the sporting prints to the ballet-dancers upon the wall, and from them again to the cigar-boxes, pipes, and other evidences of the owner's tastes. "Now look here, gents; don't you make no mistake. I'm a respectable tradesman, and if it rested with me--there's your dorg. I don't want no rewards for doing what's right. I get my reward in making a good customer. But, don't you see, it's a gent as has got the dorg. It follered him, and he's took a fancy to it. He's a reg'lar customer of mine, and he says to me, he says--`I wouldn't part with that dorg,' he says, `for ten pound, I wouldn't. He polished off ten rats in two minutes this very morning,' he says."

"That's the dog and no mistake," cried Lionel, excitedly.

"Toe be sure it is, gents," said D. Wragg, with his eyes twinkling; "and that there gent as has got him, sir, is a man as I never knowed to break his word. I says to him, though, I says--`Suppose,' I says, `as the real owner of him was to turn up; you'd let him go then?' I says. `Well,' he says, `if he were a real gent, 'praps I might; but sech a noble beast as that ere didn't ought to be in anybody's hands.'"

Lionel looked, half-amused, half inquiringly, at Harry, who, however, only turned over the leaves of a book and avoided his gaze.

"What do you say to it all, Hal?" said Lionel at last.

"Ring the bell and send for a policeman," was the laconic reply.

"Was that there meant for me, sir?" said D. Wragg, with a snap which must have dislodged the fly had it been present, and giving himself a doggy twist that plainly indicated a tormenting flea. "Well, gents, if it's coming to that, I'm off. There's my card--that's me--D. Wragg, Nat'ralist. But don't you make no mistake; I aint a running away because of the police, which is a body of men as I despises, and well they knows it, too. I aint got your dorg--'taint likely; and you may search my place if you like with all the police in London; and if you can get your dorg back, why all I can say is, as you'll be luckier than most gents is; so goodnight to you."

D. Wragg jerked himself down, picked up his hat, and was about to put it on; but he dropped it the next moment, for with a bound Lionel leaped from his chair, and before Harry Clayton had recovered from his astonishment, D. Wragg was seized by the throat and being forcibly shaken, as the young man hissed between his teeth--

"You scoundrel! What have you done with my dog?"

Harry Clayton leaped up in his turn, and, partly by force, partly by entreaty, made Lionel quit his hold upon the trembling man, who once more picked up his hat and endeavoured to plant it in its proper place; but, what with his shaking hands, and the roughly folded paper inside, the attempt proved a failure.

The danger being removed, the confidence of D. Wragg began to return, and with an amount of jerking and twisting that was almost frightful in the way it threatened dislocation of sundry members, even if it did not break the man's back, he took the paper from his hat, and contrived to stuff it into one of the tight coat-pockets; then the head-piece was thrust on defiantly, and its owner began to jerk himself towards the door, shaking his fist the while.

"Here! confound you, stop!" roared Lionel, who was hot and excited. "Name your time and I'll come and fetch the brute. I know that it is a stealing case. I can see that, though you think I'm a flat; but I'm not going to put myself to trouble, so I tell you at once."

"Don't you make no mistake," cried D. Wragg, defiantly; "and don't you call things by no hard names. I didn't steal your dorg. I'm a respectable tradesman, I am; and if you want a score--"

"Confound you! what time?" roared Lionel, angrily, as he once more started to his feet.

"Any time before one, gents--any time in the morning; but don't you make no mistake about me. And look here, gents, I know that there party well as has got your dorg--leastwise," he added, with a wink, "if it is the same dorg--and he's one of them suspicious sorter parties, that, if so be as he thought as there'd be any gammon--"

"Gammon! what do you mean?" cried Lionel, for the man paused.

"Dodges, gents, dodges; such as suspecting on him of having stolen the dorg, and getting of his name dirty. Why, if there was any of that sorter thing, that there dorg would never be seen again; and as to bringing the police, either uniform or plain clothes, it's my belief as he'd smell 'm a mile away, sure as my name's D. Wragg, nat'ralist; so don't you make no--"

"There, there! we've had enough of that," growled Lionel; and apparently bearing no malice for his rough treatment, now that there was a prospect of the reward being paid, the little man jerked himself to the door, turned, winked solemnly at Harry, and the next moment he was gone.

"What do you think of that, Harry?" said Lionel, as the heavy step was heard descending the stairs.

"Shall I tell you? You will not be offended?"

"Offended! Not I. Say what you like."

"Better not," said Harry, bluntly; "for my thoughts run upon self-government, and the way in which some part with their money."

Lionel did not seem to understand the allusion, for he only whistled softly as he set light to another cigar; while Harry raised his book, but not to read, for he began to think of the letter received that night, and to compare it with the appearance of D. Wragg, ending by dismissing the matter from his thoughts, with the remark, beneath his breath, that it was very strange, and a hope that it was not a trap.

"Perhaps I can act as friend, as well as tutor," he said to himself, with a smile; and then his thoughts roved off to Patty Pellet.

Volume 1, Chapter XXV.

AN ENCOUNTER.

"Brownjohn Street? First to the left, and secun' to the right. Better button up your pockets," said a policeman, setting his neck in his shining stock, and looking hard at the inquirers of the way, who nodded thanks, and then strode leisurely on, the younger making loud remarks to his companion concerning the appearance of those whom he termed "the natives," and returning in a cool insolent way the unfriendly looks of divers slouching gentlemen engaged in shoulder-polishing the street corners, or hanging about doorsteps to converse with slatternly girls.

Not observing that they were followed by the policeman, the inquirers took the "first to the left, and secun' to the right." And then referring to a card which he took from his pocket, the younger man stopped short in front of D. Wragg's, looked eagerly at the dogs, and afterwards with his companion entered the shop.

"By jove, Harry, where are we?" exclaimed the first, aloud. "Look at that! who would not be a dove?" Then, fixing his glass in one eye, he stared rudely at Patty Pellet, who, taken by surprise, stood motionless for a few moments, with scarlet face, upon a low pair of steps, the dove she had been feeding still resting upon her hand and pecking softly at her lips.

"Allow me!" exclaimed Lionel, advancing as if to assist the astonished girl to descend; but the next instant she had bounded down, to stand with brightened eye at bay in one corner of the shop, her gaze being now directed at Harry, the recognition being mutual, though the latter was so completely taken aback that no word passed his lips.

The next moment Harry had taken all in at a glance--the shop, the trade, Patty evidently quite at home there. His heart beat fast; and in spite of himself, as he thought of his companion, he felt, "What shall I do if she claims acquaintanceship?"

He felt ashamed of himself for harbouring the thought; but Patty made no sign, and the short silence was broken by Lionel.

"Prudish; eh?" he said, coolly, and he took a step forward.

"Recollect yourself," whispered Harry, sternly, and he laid his hand heavily upon the young man's shoulder.

"Oh! all right," was the rejoinder, and Lionel laughed, while Harry, still struggling with his feelings, wondered what was to come next. He called himself coward and cur one moment, and the next he rejoiced that Patty totally ignored their former meeting; while, immediately after, strange thoughts assailed him, and he felt a bitter sting as he realised the fact that the bright little flower who had proved so attractive to him at Norwood, should have its habitation amidst such squalor and surroundings of evil. He was a coward, and he knew it, as he mentally exclaimed, "I can't know her here before him!"

These thoughts passed like a flash; but Harry was not alone, for swift fancies passed through Patty Pellet's mind, each one leaving a bitter sting, as she felt that what the old people had said was right--there was too much difference between their stations, and that Harry Clayton was ashamed to know her before his friends.

"And I am ashamed to know him as well," she concluded, defiantly, as Harry in a suppressed voice, exclaimed, "I did not expect--"

Then he stopped and recovered himself, trying hard to arrange his ideas, his mind wandering from the Norwood drawing-room to Duplex Street, and from there to the strange place they were in.

"Had Lionel noticed the half recognition?" he asked himself, as fresh sordid ideas sprung up. "If he had, how could the present post be retained with comfort to himself? and he could not afford very well to throw it up. He would be lowered in the young fellow's eyes directly-- it was terribly unfortunate." Love was getting, for the moment, his wings terribly bruised in the encounter.

Then he stepped forward himself, and said, calmly, as if addressing a stranger--"I think this is Mr D. Wragg's place of business, is it not?"

The words had hardly left his lips before he was burning with rage and bitterness. What I had he been seeking her for months, and now that they had met, was he ashamed to know her before Lionel Redgrave, because he was a patrician, and the poor girl was here, when, scores of times, he had thought of her as his heart's queen? But why was she here? What did it all mean?

These thoughts passed like lightning through his brain; but before Patty could answer, a response came from the back room.

"All right, sir, all right, I'm D. Wragg--that's my name," and the owner thereof began to jerk himself forward, while, with a slight bow, Patty glanced from one to the other, and then disappeared.

"Is this the Decadia, Harry?" said Lionel meaningly, "or are we at court? But what the devil's that fellow staring at?" he exclaimed, as he turned his glass fiercely upon a lowering face glaring in at the door, as, with his hands in his pockets, an ill-looking ruffian stood watching the two strangers.

"It's all right, gents, it's all right," exclaimed D. Wragg; "that's only Jack Scruby, and he's nobody. It's all right, gents!" and he jerked his arm here and there. "There's rats, gents, aint they? There's dorgs, aint they! What do you say to as nice a toy tarrier as was ever give to a lady?"

"Who's the young lady who was here just now?" said Lionel, coolly.

D. Wragg's face changed slightly, as looking sharply up into his visitor's face, he said, bluntly--

"Oh, never mind her; she's a visitor--girl up-stairs. We was talking about dorgs, wasn't us?"

Lionel was checked for the moment; but seeing Harry's eye fixed keenly upon him, he said, roughly--

"There, there! I want no toy tarriers. Where's Luff?"

"It's all right, sir; don't you make no mistake. When I says as I'll get a gent his dorg, I mean it; and--there now!" he exclaimed, with a voice of the most intense disgust. "I did think as I was dealing with gents as would keep their word. I calls that shabby. But just as you like, though; I'm ready."

"What do you mean?" said Harry Clayton; for the little man had thrust his hands into his pockets, and leant back against a parrot's cage, whose occupant immediately buried its beak amongst the wiry hair that ornamented D. Wragg's scalp.

"What do I mean? Why! didn't I give you both a hint about the suspiciousness of the gent as had the dorg? Didn't I tell you what might be the consequences? Didn't I tell you as they was a body of men as I despises? And yet you both has the meanness to go and bring one along with you. That ere aint the way to get dorgs back as is lost. Don't you make no mistake, gents. You may depend upon it as the party as that dorg follered home has gone right chock away in disgust long enough ago."

"Police!" exclaimed Lionel. "Why, the man's mad!"

"Looks like it, don't it," said D. Wragg, coolly. "Only don't you make no mistake. I've had dealings in dorgs afore now, gents; and I don't think, as you'll find, I aint fledged."

The young men turned as the speaker pointed towards the door, and gave quite a start as, in place of the heavy features just before the occupants of the door-frame, they saw peering in the impassive inquiring countenance of a policeman.

But the next moment the constable had sauntered on, muttering first the word "rats," and after walking a few steps, "or pigeons."

Harry directly recognised in him the constable who had directed them, and turning to the dealer, he said, quietly--

"My friend here is a gentleman, Mr Wragg. He gave you to understand distinctly last night that he should not employ the police."

"Then what was that there Bobby a looking in for, then?" said the dealer, in an injured tone.

"On my honour I don't know, unless it was from simple curiosity," replied Harry. "We asked him to direct us in a street a short distance away."

"Honour bright?" said D. Wragg.

"I gave you my word," said Harry, with ill-concealed contempt; and there was something so straightforward in the young man's countenance, that it immediately carried with it conviction, for the dealer brightened up, and directly thrust out a hand in token of amity.

Smiling the while, Harry Clayton took it, Lionel looking on with an amused expression.

"I beg your pardon, sir--I beg your pardon. Don't you make no mistake. I aint a mean, contemptible cageful of suspicion, I aint. I beg your pardon. That there's a hand as never did nothing wuss yet than help to get a gent back his dorg, so as to oblige a regular customer. Plenty of gents trust me, and comes to me when they've had their dorgs foller other people; and I acks as mejum and commissioner, and does my best for both parties."

"'Pon my soul, this grows highly amusing," said Lionel, laughing. "Why, Harry, I'm right; we must have come to court. May I ask if the young lady of the house will again be visible, so as to go through the same performance?"

Harry looked annoyed, and D. Wragg gave Lionel a sharp, searching sidelong glance, which the other missed.

"Let's settle the business at once, gents," said D. Wragg. "Let me see, sir," he continued, jerking himself round the counter. "I'll trouble you for two fivers."

"But where's the dog?" said Lionel.

"Don't you make no mistake, sir. You hand over the money, and you shall have him in five minutes."

Lionel hesitated for a moment, and then drew a couple of crisp notes from his pocket-book, and handed them to the dealer.

"I suppose you will give me a receipt?" said Lionel.

"Never put pen to paper in my life, gents, and never means to," was the reply. "It's been the ruin of thousands. But you shall have a receipt for buying a dog, if you like. Here," he said, stumping to the inner door, and speaking to somebody within; "you won't mind coming to write out a receipt for ten pound for me, will you? If you won't, I must call Janet down. That's right, my dear; come and do it while I go and see if that there party's brought the dorg."

To Harry Clayton's great annoyance, Patty came slowly and timidly from the inner room, her face flushed and her eyes wandering from one to the other.

She quickly took pen and paper from a drawer and began to write, while D. Wragg jerked himself out of the door.