Chapter XI: Part 11

"Would you go, mamma?" faltered Tiny, whose heart told her whom the letter was from.

"Certainly, my dear. I shouldn't rest to-night if I'd left such an appeal as that unanswered, let alone enjoy our At Home; though there isn't much enjoyment to be got out of those affairs, with everybody drinking tea on the stairs, and ten times as many people as we've room for."

"Then you would go, mamma?"

"Certainly, darling. It's an awkward time for her to send, but we'll go; and oh, my darling, pray, pray try and look bright. You make me wretched."

"I do--I will try, mamma!" exclaimed Tiny, suppressing a sob. "But tell me, is Captain Vanleigh going to be here to-night?"

"I--I was obliged to send him an invitation, my darling," said Lady Rea, pitifully. "Your papa stood at my side while I wrote it. If--if--he-- Mr Trevor had stood firm to you, they should have cut me in pieces before I'd have done it; but as it is, what can I do?"

Tiny made no reply; and directly after luncheon the carriage came round, and, being left at the corner of the narrow street, Lady Rea and her daughter made their way on foot to the house of Mrs Jenkles.

Mrs Lane met them, and said it was her daughter's wish to see Miss Rea alone, if she would condescend to go up and see her; and a minute after, with a mist floating before her eyes, and a singing in her ears, Tiny stood near Netta's couch, as the poor girl lay, with clasped fingers, gazing up at the graceful, fashionably-dressed girl.

Tiny maintained a haughty silence for a few minutes. This was the girl for whom she had been forsaken. She felt sure of it. How could it be otherwise? But the letter said that she was dying. Fin had told her of Pratt's assurances; and, as the mist cleared away, so melted the hauteur, for she could not look upon the soft, sweet face before her with anger; and if he loved her, should not she do the same? The two girls gazed in each other's eyes for a few moments, and then, with a smile, Netta held out one hand.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "I have wanted to see you for months, and I was afraid I should not live long enough. Do you know why?"

"No--I cannot tell," said Tiny, in a choking voice; for she, too, could see for herself the truth of what had been said.

"I wanted to see the beautiful girl that he loves--her of whom he has so often talked--and to tell you that you have misjudged him, if you think as your sister thinks in the letter she sent."

"Letter?" exclaimed Tiny.

"Yes, this," said the girl, producing one from her bosom. "Oh, Miss Rea, how can you slight his noble love? If you only knew! You both misjudge him. Look at me, dear. I am here now; perhaps to-morrow, or the next day, I shall be gone. But I do not think I could have died without seeing you face to face, and telling you that he has been true, and noble, and faithful to you. You might not have believed me if I had been different; but now, ready to go away, you know mine are true words, when I tell you Richard Lloyd has been to me as a brother."

"Oh, I believe, I believe!" sobbed Tiny, sinking on her knees beside the couch. "But it is too late--too late!"

"No, no," whispered Netta, "it is not too late. Make him happy. Send to him to come to you. He is too proud and poor to come himself. But I know his story: how he lost all through being so honourable and good. Tiny--you see I know your name; why, he has described you to me so often that I should have known _you_--send for him, and bless him. You could not love such a one as he too well."

"Too late!" sobbed Tiny. "It is too late."

She started up, and turned as if to go; but only to push her hair back from her forehead, lean over Netta's couch and kiss her, as a pair of thin, weak arms closed round her neck. Then, tearing herself away, she hurried from the house with Lady Rea, who vainly questioned her as to the cause of her agitation.

"I asked the woman, who is very ladylike, my dear, but she said her daughter would explain; so I waited till you came down; and now," said the little ruffled dame, "you do nothing but cry."

"Don't ask me now, mamma, dear," sobbed Tiny, covering her face with her hands. "Another time I'll tell you all."

"Very well, my darling," said Lady Rea, resignedly. "But, pray, try now and look brighter. Papa will be terribly put out if he finds you so; for he said you told him yesterday you would do as he wished about Captain Vanleigh, and Aunt Matty has been quite affectionate to me ever since."

"Mamma, dear, do you think it will make you happier?"

"I don't know, my dear," said Lady Rea. "I blame myself sometimes for not being more determined; but I'm obliged to own that Captain Vanleigh has been very patient, and he must care for you."

Tiny shuddered again, and her sobs became so violent that Lady Rea drew up the carriage window, for a few minutes being quite alarmed. At length, though, the poor girl grew calm, and seemed to make an effort over herself as they neared home, just as Fin crossed the road from the square garden, looking as innocent as if she had not had half an hour's talk with Frank Pratt.

Volume 3, Chapter XV.

AT HOME.

"And what do you mean to do, Tiny?" said Fin, as she stood by her sister's side, dressed for the evening. "Papa told me about it, and nearly boxed my ears because I said it was a shame; and he ended by saying if I did not follow your example, and listen to Sir Felix, he would keep me on bread and water; and then I laughed out loud, and he left the room in a fury. How could you be so weak?"

"I don't know," faltered Tiny, "only that I was very miserable. Constant dropping will wear a stone."

"Then the stone must be very soft. Withdraw your promise," cried Fin. "Do as I do. I'll be as obedient a child as I can, but I will not be married against my will."

"Please, Miss, somebody's downstairs already," said their maid, entering the room. "And Edward says Sir Hampton's in a towering passion because there was no one but him in the drawing-room."

"Isn't mamma there?" cried Fin.

"No, Miss, her ladyship was dressed, and going down; but her primrose satin came undone--give way at the hooks and eyes--and she had to go back to change it."

"Tell Edward to say we'll be down in a moment," said Fin.

Hurrying the girl out of the room, she turned to Tiny, who stood looking pale and stunned.

"It wasn't true, Fin!" she said, pitifully, as her face began to work. "He wasn't deceitful. I saw her to-day."

"Saw whom?" exclaimed Fin, in wonder.

"That poor girl. She sent for me--she is dying; and oh, Fin, darling, I feel as if my heart would break!"

She sank sobbing on her sister's shoulder, sadly disarranging poor Fin's dress; but that was forgotten as, with eager haste, the little maiden tried hard to soothe and comfort her.

"If ma won't fight for you, Tiny, I will," she cried, impetuously. "I declare its too bad. I don't half know what you are talking about; but Frank--I mean Mr Pratt, always sticks up for his friend. Ugh! I wish I'd been near when that wicked Mrs Lloyd changed the babies, I'd have knocked her head off."

At this moment there was a knock at the bedroom door.

"Coming--coming--coming--coming!" said Fin, in a crescendo,

Then running to the door, she opened it once more to the maid.

"Please, Miss--"

"Bother--bother--bother!" cried Fin. "Don't you see Miss Rea's poorly? Go and say we'll be down soon."

"But, please, Miss, Sir Hampton sent Edward for me, and jumped on me horrid. He said it was my fault you weren't dressed, and your dear ma looks quite frightened with the people coming."

"Go and say we'll come down as soon as my sister's better--there!"

She half pushed the girl from the room, and then turned to Tiny.

"Now, look here, Tiny--you're very fond of that wicked Richard Trevor, bad as he's behaved to you."

Tiny gave her a pitiful look.

"Then I say, once for all, it would be a piece of horrible wickedness for you to let papa frighten you into this engagement. Now, tell me directly how it was. You ought to have told me before. If you had been a good, wise sister, you would."

"Oh, Tin, I could not tell you!" said Tiny, plaintively. "You had just come in from the square, and looked so happy about--"

"I didn't--I wasn't--I hate him; and I won't listen to him any more till you are happy," burst out Fin.

Tiny smiled.

"Papa sent for me into his study, and took my hand, and sat down by me. He was so gentle and kind. He said he wanted to see us both settled in a position which should give us the entree into good society; for he said that, after all, he knew well enough people did not care for him, as he'd been a tradesman."

Fin gave her head a jerk.

"He told me he had given way about--about--"

"Yes, yes--go on--I know," said Tin.

"And that if he had not lost his position he should never have opposed the match; but as that was all over, he begged me to consent to receive Captain Vanleigh's attentions. And, oh, Fin, he knew about the attentions to that poor girl, and told me of it."

"Then some spiteful spy must have told him that," cried Fin. "Oh, Aunt Matty."

"He talked to me for an hour, Fin, so kindly all the time--said it would be for the best, and that it would make him happy and me too, he was sure; and at last I gave way. For oh, Fin, darling, I had no hope yesterday--nothing, I felt, to live for; and I thought that if I could make him satisfied, and dear ma happy, that was all I need care to do."

"Then you were a wicked, weak little coward," said Fin, "I'd have died sooner than given way. There, here they are again for us; and now I suppose we are to meet those people to-night."

"Yes; papa said he should write to Captain Vanleigh."

"And Sir Felix, of course. Madame, your humble servant--Finetta, Lady Landells. There, we're coming down now. Miss Rea is better," she said, in answer to a knock at the door.

Tiny turned to the glass, and smoothed her hair, while Fin went and stood behind her, holding her waist.

"What are you going to do?" she said, sharply.

Tiny shook her head.

"Masterly inactivity--that's the thing," cried Fin. "Do nothing; let things drift, same as I do. It can't go on, I'm sure it can't. There, let's go down, for poor dear mamma's sake, and I'll be buffer all the evening. Whenever Bluebeard comes near you, I'll get between, and we'll have a long talk to-morrow."

The two girls went down, to find many of the visitors arrived; and the news of Tiny's indisposition having spread, she was surrounded directly with kind inquirers. But she hardly heard a word that was said to her, for her timid eyes were wandering round the room, to see if the object of her dread had arrived; and then, noticing his absence, she sank back in a fauteuil with a sigh of relief.

Fin mounted guard by her side, and snubbed the down off the wings of several butterflies who came fluttering about them, her little lips tightening into a thin smile as Sir Felix and Vanleigh were announced.

Directly they had freed themselves from their host and hostess, they made their way to the corner of the great drawing-room, now ablaze with gas and candles, where the sisters were together; and, in spite of Fin's diplomacy, she found Vanleigh too much for her, as he quietly put aside her vicious little thrusts, and ended by interposing himself between her and Tiny--Fin being carried off by Sir Felix, whose face wore quite a puzzled expression, so verbally nettled was his little prize.

Aunt Matty met them, carrying with her a halo of lavender wherever she went, and exhaling the sad fragrance in every direction as she moved. Pepine was poorly in bed, so that his mistress was able to devote the whole of her attention to those with whom she came in contact.

"Ah, Sir Felix!" she exclaimed, "and so you've captured my saucy little bird of a niece. You'll have to clip her wings some day," she continued, playfully.

As she spoke she tapped Fin on each shoulder--from whence the imaginary wings doubtless sprang--with her fan, while aunt and niece gazed in each other's eyes.

"Yes, exactly," said Sir Felix, smiling feebly.

But somehow he did not feel comfortable, and in spite of his after-efforts to lead Fin into conversation, he failed.

The end of it was that the little maid telegraphed to another admirer, and had herself carried back to where she had left her sister; but Tiny was gone.

In fact, as soon as they were left alone, Vanleigh had quietly offered his arm.

"This room is too hot for you, Valentina," he said. "Let me take you out of the crowd."

"Masterly inactivity," Fin had said, and the words seemed to ring in Tiny's ears, as, unable to refuse, she suffered herself to be led through the crowded rooms, past Lady Rea, who nodded and smiled--past Aunt Matty, who came up, tapped the Captain on the middle shirt stud with her fan, and pinched her niece's cheek, as she smiled at her like a wintry apple--past Sir Hampton, who came behind her, and whispered, a faint "Er-rum."

"Thank you, Tiny: good girl!"--out on to the great broad staircase, now a complete conservatory of exotics where the air was perfectly cool by comparison; and there Vanleigh found her a seat smiling occasionally at the new-comers who kept thronging upstairs to where Lady Rea was receiving--Sir Hampton now keeping an eye upon the couple, a flight of stain below him, and nodding encouragement whenever his eyes met those of his child.

"I received Sir Hampton's note yesterday," said Vanleigh at last, speaking slowly, and in a suppressed voice, as the guests passed on. "Don't start--I am not going to make a scene. I only wish to tell you how happy you have made me, and that you shall find me patient and watchful of your every wish."

"Masterly inactivity," thought Tiny.

"I am going to wait--to let you see that heretofore you have misjudged me. And now let me assure you that I am not going to presume upon the consent I have received."

He waited, and she felt obliged to speak.

"Captain Vanleigh," faltered Tiny, "it was at my father's wish that I gave way, and consented to receive your visits. It is only fair to tell you that you are seeking to gain one who does not--who can never care for you."

"My dear Valentina," he said, smiling, "I am quite content. I know your sweet, gentle nature better than you know it yourself. And now for once, and once only, I am going to revert to an unpleasant theme, begging you first to forgive me for touching a wound that I know still throbs."

"Captain Vanleigh!"

"It is odd, is it not," he said, speaking with a mingling of profound tenderness and respect--"this talking of such things in a crowd? I only wished to say this once, that you do not know me. I am going to prove my love by patience. Valentina, dearest, you have been wasting the sweetness of your heart on an unworthy object."

She tried to rise; but his hand rested on her arm, and detained her.

"I pain you; but I must tell you, sweet one, that he whom you cared for, no sooner left your side than he sought consolation with another, forsaking a love that is meet for the best on earth--a love of which I feel myself unworthy. Stay, not a syllable. Those were cruel words, but the words of truth. Now we understand one another, let us draw a veil over the past, never to refer to it again. You will know me better soon."

As he spoke, there was a little bustle in the hall, where visitors were constantly arriving; and as Vanleigh stood gazing down in the pale, frightened face before him, watching the struggle that was going on, a plainly dressed woman brushed by the servant, who tried to stay her, and reached the stairs.

"Forgive me, Valentina," whispered Vanleigh, bending over her. "I touched the wound but to try and heal it. My future life shall be all devotion; and in the happiness to come you will--"

Tiny half rose; and he was about offering his arm to conduct her back to the drawing-room, when a voice below arrested him.

"Don't stop me! I must see him. I know he is here."

"But you can't, you know. Here, Edward!"

It was one of the servants who called, but he was too late; the strange visitor had already reached the landing as Sir Hampton hurried down, aghast at such a daring interruption.

At that moment the woman uttered a cry of joy, and darted towards where Vanleigh stood with his companion.

"Oh, Arthur!" she cried, "they would not bring a message. I was obliged to force my way in."

"Who is this madwoman?" cried Vanleigh, turning of a waxy pallor, while Tiny clung to the balustrade for support.

"Yes; mad--almost!" cried the woman, with a piteous cry. "But come-- come at once! She is praying to see you once more. Arthur, Arthur," she panted, sinking at his knees, and clasping them, "for God's sake, come--our darling is on the point of death!"

"Who is this woman? Er-rum--Edward--James!" cried Sir Hampton, "where are the police?"

"Don't touch me!" cried the unwelcome visitor, starting to her feet; and her words came panting from her breast. "Quiet, Arthur, or it's too late! Sir," she cried, turning to Sir Hampton, whose hand was on her arm, "I am Captain Vanleigh's wife!"

Volume 3, Chapter XVI.

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."

Volume 3, Chapter XVII.

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 eclaircissement.

"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.

Volume 3, Chapter XVIII.

A FELLOW-TRAVELLER.

"Don't mind telling you now," said Frank Pratt, sitting back in the railway carriage, with his hands under his head, and great puffs of smoke issuing from between his lips as he stared at Richard, who was gazing quietly at the pleasant Devon prospect past which they flew.

"Don't mind telling me what?" said Richard, dreamily.

"That I never expected to get you down here. Dick, old man, I've felt like a steam-tug fussing about a big ship these last few days. However, I've got you out of dock at last."

"Yes," said Richard, dreamily, "you've got me out of dock at last."

They relapsed into silence for a time, Pratt sitting watching his friend, and noting more than ever the change that had come over him during the last few months. There were lines in his forehead that did not exist before, and a look of staid, settled melancholy, very different from the calm, insouciant air that used to pervade his countenance.

"Poor old Dick," muttered Pratt, laying aside his pipe; "I mustn't let him look down like this." Then aloud, "Dick, old boy, I'm going to preach to you."

Richard turned to him with a sad smile.

"Go on, then," he said.

"I will," said Pratt. "Never mind the text or the sequence of what I say. I only wanted to talk to you, old fellow, about life."

"I was just then thinking about death," said Richard, quietly.

"About death?"

"I was visiting in spirit the little corner at Highgate where that poor girl lies, and thinking of a wish she expressed."

"What was that?"

Richard shook his head, and they were silent as the train rushed on.

"Life is a strange mystery, Dick," said Pratt at last, laying his hand on his friend's knee; "and I know it is giving you great pain to come down here and see others happy. It is to give them pleasure you are coming down?"

Richard nodded.

"Last time we were down here together, Dick, I was one of the most miserable little beggars under the sun. I don't mind owning it now."

His friend grew more attentive.

"You were happy then, old fellow, and very hard you tried to make others so too, but I was miserable."

"Why?"

"Because I was poor--a perfect beggar, without a prospect of rising, and I had found out that in this queer little body of mine there was a very soft heart. Dick, old boy, the wheel of fortune has given a strange turn since then. I've gone up and you have gone down, and 'pon my soul, old fellow, I'm very, very sorry."

"Nonsense, Franky," said Richard, speaking cheerfully. "If ever a man was glad, I am, at your prosperity. But you don't look so very cheerful, after all."

"How can I?" said Frank, dolefully, "with you on my mind for one thing, and the lion's mouth gaping for my unlucky head."

"Lion's mouth?"

"Yes, Dick; I'm going to Tolcarne to pop my head in; and, to make matters worse, there's a horrible, sphinxy griffin sits and guards the lion's den."

"You mean that you are going to propose for little Fin?"

"I am, Dick, I am," said Pratt, excitedly. "I wouldn't have said a word if I had kept poor, but with my rising income--"

"And some one's permission?"

"Bless her, yes; she says she hates me, and always shall, till her sister's happy, but I may ask papa, so as to get rid of poor Flick and his persecutions. I believe the poor chap cares for her; but I can't afford to let him have her, and make her miserable--eh, Dick?"

"Frank, old fellow, I wish you joy, and I'm glad of it, for she's a dear little girl."

"Oh, that don't express it within a hundred," said Pratt. "Dear little girl! That's the smallest of small beer, while she's the finest vintage of champagne. But, I say, Dick, old fellow, you've got to help me over this."

"I? How?"

"She says she shall hate me till her sister's happy; and, Dick, old fellow, there's only one way of making Valentina Rea happy, and that you know. There--there--I've done. Don't look at me like that. Fortune's wheel keeps turning on: I shall be down in the mud again soon, and you cock-a-hoop on the top. Do you stick to your purpose of not going on to-night?"

"Yes, I shall go on in the morning from Plymouth, be present at the wedding, and then come away."

"But you'll go and see the old people? Dick, recollect Mrs Lloyd did all out of love and pride in her boy."

"Yes, I have made up my mind to go and see them," said Richard, quietly. "I'll try and be a dutiful son."

"And if I can manage it, you shall be a dutiful friend and brother-in-law too, my boy," muttered Pratt, as he sank back in his seat, relit his pipe, and smoked in peace.

Plymouth platform was in a state of bustle on the arrival of the train. The friends had alighted from their coupe, inquired about the early morning train for Penzance, pointed out their light luggage toon obsequious porter, whose words buzzed with z's, and were about to make their way to the great hotel, when Pratt's attention was taken by a little grey, voluble old woman, very neatly and primly dressed in blue print, with a scarlet shawl, and a wonderful sugar-loaf beaver hat upon her head. She was in trouble about her railway ticket, two bundles tied up in blue handkerchiefs, and a large, green umbrella.

"I can't find it, young man; I teclare to cootness, look you, I can't find it."

"Very sorry, ma'am," said the ticket collector, who had followed her from the regular platform; "then you'll have to pay from Bristol."

"Put look you," cried the old lady, "I tid pay once and cot the ticket, look you, and I put it somewhere to pe safe."

"Have you searched all your pockets?" said Richard.

"Yes, young man," said the old lady; "I've only cot one, look you-- there!" and she dragged up her dress to display a great olive green pocket as big as a saddle-bag, out of which, after placing a bundle in Pratt's hands and the umbrella in Richard's to hold, she turned out a heterogeneous assortment of nutmegs, thimbles, reels of cotton, pieces of wax-candle, ginger, a bodkin case, pincushions, housewives, and, as the auctioneers say, other articles too numerous to mention.

"It don't seem to be there," said Richard, kindly.

"No, young man, it isn't. I hunted it all over, look you, and I must have peen robbed."

"Well, ma'am, I'm very sorry," said the collector, "but you must pay again."

"I teclare to cootness, young man, I can't, and I won't. I shall have no money to come pack."

"Can't help that," said the collector, civilly enough. "I must do my duty, ma'am."

"How much is it?" said Richard.

"From Bristol, third-class, sir, eight and tenpence."

"Look you, young man, I shall pe ruined," cried the old woman, tearfully.

"I'll pay it," said Richard, thrusting his hand into his pocket.

"You're a tear, coot poy, pless you," cried the old lady; and to the amusement of all on the platform, she went on tiptoe, reached up to Richard, and gave him a sounding kiss. "Pless you for it. Coot teeds are never thrown away."

"I hope you are a witch, Mother Hubbard," said Pratt, laughing. "Here's your bundle. Don't forget to do him a good turn."

Richard took out the money, and the collector was about to write a receipt, when it suddenly occurred to the young man to open the umbrella, which he did with some difficulty, and the missing ticket fell out.

"There," cried the old lady, joyfully, "I knew I put it somewhere to pe safe. Thank you, young man, and pless you all the same; for, look you, it was as coot a teed as if you had tone it."

"Don't say any more, mother," said Richard, laughing. "Good-bye."

Volume 3, Chapter XIX.

A QUIET WEDDING.

There was just time to snatch a hasty breakfast the next morning before starting for the station, and after a short journey they mounted into the dog-cart which Humphrey had sent to meet them. By comparing times, Pratt, who had taken all the management upon himself, found that he could execute a little plan he had been hatching; and when they neared Penreife, after a chat with the groom about the preparations, he proposed to Richard that they should alight, send the vehicle on, and take the short cut by the lanes.

"If you like," said Richard, quietly; and the sadness that had seemed to hang over him more and more as they neared their journey's end now half unmanned him.

"I thought you'd like better to walk up to the old place alone," said Frank, "instead of having a third person with us."

"Thank you, Frank, thank you," said Richard, in a voice that was husky with emotion. "It was a mistake to come."

"No, no, a kindness to Humphrey and me."

"I--I--thought I could stand it better, and not behave like such a weak fool," said Richard. "There, it's over now. Let's get through our task, so that I may go back."

"You must wait for me, you know, Dick," said Frank, cheerily. "There, cheer up, old man, it isn't for ever and a day. Try and be hopeful, and put on a bright face before the wedding folks. It's all going to be as quiet as possible--a couple of carriages to the church and back. Your old people will be there. Say a kind word to them--there, you know how to do it."

"I'll try and act like a man, Frank, hard as it will be. But you've set me a bitter task."

"Then you shall have some sweet to take with it," said Pratt to himself. Then aloud, "Ah, how nice this old lane looks. I never saw the ferns brighter or richer. How the sun shines through the trees. What a lovely morning, Dick! I say," he gabbled on in a hasty way, "look at that tiny waterfall. What a change, Dick, from Fountain Court, Temple."

"Why did you come this way?" groaned Richard, as he strove hard to fight down the emotion caused by the recollections that pervaded his memory.