Kitabı oku: «Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One», sayfa 15
Correspondence
It never struck Richard that some of his behaviour was verging on the Quixotic. His only thought now was that he was degraded from his high estate, and that the woman whom he had loved with all his heart – did love still – had turned from him in his poverty and distress.
At such times men are not disposed to fairly analyse the motives of others; and Richard was anything but an unbiased judge, as he knit his brow, told himself that he had the fight to begin now, and determined to take help from no one who had known him in his prosperity.
With this feeling strong upon him he dismissed the man who had driven him over; and, to the utter astonishment of the Saint Kitt’s station-master, took a third-class ticket for London, and entered a compartment wherein were a soldier with a bottle, a sailor just landed, an old lady with several bundles, bound on a visit to her boy in London – a gentleman, she informed everybody, who kept a public – and the customary rural third-class passengers.
And then the long, dreary journey began, Richard making up his mind to suit himself to the company amongst whom he was thrown, and failing dismally; for both soldier and sailor, whose idea of enjoyment seemed to be that they must get hopelessly intoxicated as soon as possible, took it as an offence that he would not “take a pull” of rum out of the bottle belonging to the son of Neptune, and of gin from that of the son of Mars.
To make up for this, Richard tried to be civil to a couple of rustic lasses, who received all his little bits of matter-of-fact politeness and conversation with giggles and glances at a young Devonian in the corner of the carriage, till his brickdust-coloured visage became the colour of one of his own ruddy ploughed fields, and he announced that “for zigzpence he’d poonch that chap’s yed.”
Hereupon the old lady with the bundles loudly proclaimed a wish that her “zun” was there; and ended by hoping that, if “this young man” (meaning Richard) intended to make himself unpleasant, he would go into another carriage.
It was hard – just at a time, too, when Richard’s temper seemed to be angular and sore – when the slightest verbal touch made him wince. But he set his teeth, bore a good deal of vulgar banter with patience, and was able to compliment himself grimly for his forbearance during the long ride along that single line of Cornish railway that is one incessant series of scaffold-like viaducts, over some of the most charming little valleys in our isle.
After passing Plymouth, the old lady became so sociable that she dropped asleep against our traveller. The rustics had given place to a tall traveller; and the soldier and sailor grew hilariously friendly after replenishing their bottles at Plymouth. And so, fighting hard to put the past in its proper place – behind – the train bore Richard onward to his goal.
Just before nearing Paddington Station, Trevor took out his pocket-book, and the rugged, hard look upon his face was softened. He glanced round the compartment, to see that half his fellow-passengers were asleep, the soldier drunk, the stout old lady with the bundles busy hunting for her railway ticket, and the sailor disconsolately trying to drain a little more rum out of his bottle.
By this time Trevor had grown weary of the long journey – so tedious on the hard third-class seats – in spite of his determination; and a sigh would once or twice escape, as recollections of his old first-class luxury intruded.
“I’ll hold to it, though,” he muttered.
And, determined to go on in his course, he opened his pocket-book, and drew from it a letter which he had received from Tolcarne. It was not long, but it sent the blood dancing through his veins, and nerved him for the fight to come. It ran as follows: —
“Dearest Dick – What shall I say to you in this your great trouble? Can I say more than that I would give anything to be by your side, to try and advise – at all events, to try and help and comfort? Papa was very angry when your letter came, and read it to Aunt Matty; but let that pass, as I tell you only, Dick, that you have a friend in dear mamma, who stood up for you as nobly as did darling little Fin, who had been in unaccountably low spirits before. I tried so hard, Dick, to come to you – to answer your letter and scold you; but they would not let me stir. I dare not tell you what they said; you must guess when I tell you that I was a dreadfully disobedient child, and Aunt Matty declared that no good could ever come to a girl who set herself up in opposition to her father and aunt. Poor dear mamma was left out of it altogether. I say all this, Dick, for fear you should think I fell away from you in your trouble, and would not come to you as you wished; but my heart was with you all the time. And now, Dick, darling, to be more matter-of-fact, what is all this to us? You could not help it; and whether you are Richard Trevor or Richard Lloyd by name, how does it alter you in the eyes of her to whom you said so much? Dick, you don’t know me, or you would never have sent me that cruel letter, so full of your dreadful determination. Oh, Dick, do you think – can you think – I wish to be free? You taught me to love you, and you cannot undo your work. For shame, to write in that desponding tone because of this accident. It was very wicked and dreadful of Mrs Lloyd, but you could not help it; and now you have so nobly determined to make restitution to poor Humphrey, let it all go. My Dick only stands out more nobly than ever. You have your profession, sir – go back to that, and they will only be too proud to have you; but don’t go long voyages, or where there are storms. I lay awake all night listening to the wind, and thinking how thankful I ought to be that you were ashore, Dick, and all the time I felt prouder than ever of my own boy. Oh, Dick, never talk to me of freedom! Nothing can make me change. Even if I saw with my own poor little crying eyes that you cared for me no more, I could not leave off loving; and, dear Dick – dearest Dick – don’t think me bold and unmaidenly if I say now what I should not have dared to say if you had not been in trouble – Dick, recollect this – that there is some one waiting your own time, when, rich or poor, you shall ask her to come to you, when and where you will, and she will be your own little wife – Tiny.
“P.S. – Pin has looked over my shoulder, and read all this as I wrote it; and she says it is quite right, besides sending her dear love to brother Dick.”
Trevor’s forehead went down on his hands as he finished, his face was very pale, and a strange look was in his eyes as he re-perused the note.
“God bless her!” he muttered. “I will do something, and I believe she will wait for me; but I can’t drag her down to share my poverty. But there, I won’t curse it, when I see how it brings out the pure metal from the fire. I can’t go back to the sea, though. Pooh! what chance have I – a poor penniless servant’s son – how should I get a ship. Why, my rank has been obtained by imposture.”
The rugged, hard look came back, but the sight of an enclosure once more smoothed his forehead.
“Here’s dear little Fin,” he said to himself. “Well, after all, it’s very sweet to find out how true some hearts can be.”
Saying this to himself, he opened and read a little jerky scrawl from Fin: —
“My own dear Brother Dick, – I sent you a message by Tiny, but I thought I’d write too, so as to show you that little people can be as staunch as big. Never mind about the nasty money, or the troublesome estate – you can’t have everything; and I tell you, sir, that you’ve won what is worth a thousand Penreifes – my darling little Tiny’s heart – you great, ugly monster! Dear Dick, I’m so sorry for you, but I can’t cry a bit – only pat you on the back and say, ‘Never mind.’ I’ll take care of Tiny for you, in spite of Aunt Matty – a wicked old woman! – for if she didn’t look up from a goody-goody book, and say that she’d always expected it, and she was very glad. Ma sends her love to you, and says she shall come across to Penreife to see you, the first time papa goes over to Saint Kitt’s. She would come now, only she wants to keep peace and quietness in the house. They’re against you now, but it will soon blow over. If it don’t, we’ll win over Aunt Matty to our side by presenting her with dogs. By the way, Pepine has a cold: he sneezed twice yesterday, and his tail is all limp. Goodbye, Dick. – Your affectionate sister,
“Fin Rea.”
Richard’s eyes brightened as he read this, and then carefully bestowed it in his pocket-book.
He then took out and read again the letter that had come by post: —
“My dear old Dick, – Had yours and its thunderclap. Gave me a bad headache. Hang it all! if it’s true, what a predicament for a fellow to find out that he’s somebody else – ‘Not myself at all,’ as the song says! But you have possession, Dick; and, speaking as a lawyer, I should say, let them prove it on the other side. Don’t you go running about and telling people you’ve no right to the property; for, after all, it may only be an hallucination of that old woman’s brain. What a dreadful creature! Why, if she isn’t your mother – and really, I think she can’t be – I should feel disposed to prosecute her; and I should like to hold the brief. Don’t be in too great a hurry to give up, but, on the contrary, hold on tight; for that’s a fine estate, and very jolly, so long as you could keep off the locusts. On looking back, though, there are a good many strange things crop up – the wonderful display of interest in dear Master Dick, and all the rest of it. Looks bad – very bad – and like the truth Dick. But, as I said before, legally you’ve got possession, and if I can help you to keep it – no, hang it, Dick! if the place isn’t yours, old boy, give it up. There, you see how suitable I am for a barrister. I could never fight a bad cause. But, as I said before, give it up, every inch of it. I wouldn’t have my old man Dick with the faintest suspicion of a dirty trick in his nature. Cheer up, old fellow, there’s another side to everything. That Sybaritish life was spoiling you. Why, my dear boy, you’ve no idea how jolly it is to be poor. Hang the wealth! a fico for it! Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on fire at high or low water, above bridge or below. Meanwhile, we’ll banquet, my boy, feast on chops – hot chops – and drink cold beady beer out of pewters. Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your tin, what do you know of real life? Setting aside metaphysics, Dick, old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,
“Frank Pratt.
“P.S. – I should have liked to see Tolcarne again. Pleasant, dreamy time that. Of course you will see no more of the little girls?”
“Poor old Frank,” said Richard, refolding the letter. “I believe he cared for little Fin.”
There was no time for dreaming, with the bustle of Paddington Station to encounter; and making his way into the hotel, he passed a restless, dreamless night.
New Lodgings
Richard was pretty decided in his ways. Hotel living would not suit him now; and soon after breakfast he took his little valise, earned a look of contempt from the hotel porter by saying that he did not require a cab, and set off to walk from Paddington to Frank’s chambers in the Temple; where he arrived tired and hot, to climb the dreary-looking stone stairs, and read on the door the legend written upon a wafered-up paper, “Back in five minutes.”
With all the patience of a man accustomed to watch, Richard up-ended his portmanteau, and sat and waited hour after hour. Then he went out, and obtained some lunch, returning to find the paper untouched.
Sitting down this time with a newspaper to while away the time, he tried to read, but not a word fixed itself upon his mind; and he sat once more thinking, till at last, weary and low-spirited, he walked out into the Strand, the portmanteau feeling very heavy, but his determination strong as ever.
“Keb, sir – keb, sir,” said a voice at his elbow; for he was passing the stand in Saint Clement’s Churchyard.
“No, my man – no.”
“Better take – why, I’m blest!”
The remark was so emphatic that Richard looked the speaker in the face.
“Don’t you remember me, sir – axdent, sir – op’site your club, sir – me as knocked the lady down, sir?”
“Oh yes,” said Richard, “I remember you now. Not hurt, was she?”
“On’y shook, sir. But jump in, sir. Let me drive yer, sir. Here, I’ll take the portmanter.”
“No, no,” said Richard, “I don’t want to ride, I – there, confound it, man, what are you about?”
“No, ’fence, sir – I on’y wanted to drive a gent as was so kind as you was. Odd, aint it, sir? That there lady lives along o’ me, at my house, now – lodges, you know – ’partments to let, furnished.”
“Apartments!” cried Richard, eagerly; “do you know of any apartments?”
“Plenty out Jermyn Street way, sir.”
“No, no; I mean cheap lodgings.”
“What, for a gent like you, sir?” said Sam Jenkles.
“No, no – I’m no gentleman,” said Richard, bitterly; “only a poor man. I want cheap rooms.”
“Really, sir?” said Sam, rubbing his nose viciously.
“Yes, really, my man. Can you tell me of any?”
“You jump in, sir, and I’ll run you up home in no time.”
“But I – ”
“My missus knows everybody ’bout us as has rooms to let – quiet lodgings, you know, sir; six bob a week style – cheap.”
“No, no; give me your address, and I’ll walk.”
“No you don’t, sir, along o’ that portmanter. Now, I do wonder at a gent like you being so obstinit.”
Richard still hesitated; but it was an opportunity not to be lost, and, before he had time to thoroughly make up his mind, Sam had hoisted the portmanteau on the roof, afterwards holding open the flap of the cab.
“It’s all right, sir; jump in, sir. Ratty wants a run, and you can’t carry that there portmanter.”
“A bad beginning,” muttered Richard.
Then he stepped into the cab, and the apron was banged to, Sam hopped on to his perch, and away they rattled along the Strand into Fleet Street, and up Chancery Lane.
“He’s a-going it to-day, sir, aint he?” said a voice; and Richard turned sharply round, to see Sam Jenkles’s happy-looking face grinning through the trap. “He’s as fresh as a daisy.”
The little trapdoor was rattled down again, for other vehicles were coming, and Sam’s hands were needed at the reins, the more especially that Ratty began to display the strangeness of his disposition by laying down his ears, whisking his tail, and trying hard to turn the cab round and round, clay-mill fashion. But this was got over, the rest of the journey performed in peace, and Sam drew up shortly at the door of his little home, the two front windows of which had been turned into gardens, as far as the sills were concerned, with miniature green palings, gate and all, the whole sheltering a fine flourishing display of geraniums and fuchsias, reflected in window-panes as clean as hands could make them.
“Why, this would do capitally,” said Richard, taken by the aspect of the place.
“Dessay it would, sir,” said Sam, grinning; “but our rooms is let. But come in, sir, and see the missus – she’ll pick you out somewheres nice and clean. But, hallo! what’s up?”
Richard had seen that which brought the exclamation from Sam’s lips, and stepped forward to help.
For, about a dozen yards down the quiet little street, Mrs Lane was supporting Netta, the pair returning evidently from a walk, and the latter being overcome.
“Thank you – a little faint – went too far,” said Mrs Lane, as Richard ran up to where she was sustaining her daughter. “Netta, darling, only a few yards farther. Try, dear.”
“She has fainted,” said Richard. “Here, let me carry her.”
Before Mrs Lane could speak, Richard had taken the light figure in his arms, and, guided by the frightened mother, bore it to Sam’s door.
“That’s right, sir, in there,” said Sam, eagerly – “fust door on the left’s the parly. Poor gal!”
This last was in an undertone, as the young man easily bore his burden in – finding, though, that a pair of large dark eyes had unclosed, and were gazing timidly in his, while a deep blush overspread cheek and forehead.
“There,” said Richard, laying her lightly down upon the couch, and helping to arrange the pillows with all a woman’s tenderness. “You look weak and ill, my dear, and – and – I beg pardon,” he said, hesitating, as he met Mrs Lane’s gaze, “I think we have met before.”
Mrs Lane turned white, and shrank away.
“Of course,” said Richard, smiling. “My friend here, who drove me up, told me you lodged with him.”
Mrs Lane did not speak, only bowed her head over Netta.
“If I can do anything, pray ask me,” said Richard, backing to the door, and nearly overturning bustling Mrs Jenkles, who came hurrying in with —
“Oh, my dear, you’ve been overdoing it – I beg your pardon, sir.”
“My fault, I think,” said Richard.
And with another glance at the great dark eyes following him, he backed into the passage – this time upon Sam, who had carried in the portmanteau.
“If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” said Sam – “our back room here’s on’y a kitchen; but we lets our parlour, as you see. There,” he said, leading the way, “that’s my cheer, sir; and the wife ’ll come and talk to you dreckly, I dessay. I must go back on to the rank.”
“One moment,” said Richard.
“There, sir, I don’t want paying for a bit of a job like this,” said Sam. “Oh, well, if you will pay, I shall put that down to the lodgers’ nex’ ride.”
“They are your lodgers, then?”
“Yes, sir; and it all come out of that old Ratty when I knocked Mrs Lane over.”
“But the young lady?”
“Thanky, sir, for calling her so; that’s just what she is.”
“Is she an invalid?”
“Feard so, sir,” said Sam, in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t like her looks at all. But I can’t stop, sir; the missus ’ll be here, and I hope she’ll know of a place as suits.”
The next moment, Sam Jenkles was gone, and Richard sat looking round at the bright candlesticks and saucepan-lids, hardly able to realise the fact that but a day or two before he was the master of Penreife, for what had taken place seemed to be back years ago.
His musings were interrupted by the entry of Mrs Jenkles, who stood curtseying and smoothing her apron.
“Is she better?” said Richard, anxiously.
“Yes, sir, she’s quite well again now,” said Mrs Jenkles. “She’s weak, sir – rather delicate health; and Sam – that is my husband – said you wanted apartments, sir.”
“And that you would be able to find me some,” said Richard, smiling.
“I don’t think we’ve anything good enough about here, sir, for a gentleman like you.”
“For a poor man like me, you mean. Now look here, Mrs – Mrs – ”
“Jenkles, sir.”
“Mrs Jenkles. I can afford to pay six or seven shillings a-week, that is all.”
“Then there’s Mrs Fiddison, sir, nearly opposite. Very clean and respectable. Bedroom and sitting-room, where a young gentleman left only about a week ago. He played a long brass thing, sir, at one of the theatres, and used to practise it at home; and that’s why he left.”
“That will do, I daresay,” exclaimed Richard, who, in the first blush of his determination, was stern as an ascetic, and would have said Yes to the lodgings if Mrs Jenkles had proposed a couple of neatly furnished cellars.
The result was that the cabman’s wife went over with him to Mrs Fiddison’s, and introduced him to that lady, who was dressed in sombre black, held a widow’s cap in her hand, and was evidently determined to keep up the supply, for there were at least six arranged about the little parlour into which she led the way.
Not Musical
Mrs Fiddison was a tall, thin lady, who was supposed to be a widow from her display of caps; but the fact was that she had no right to the matronly prefix, she being a blighted flower – a faded rosebud, on whom the sun of love had never shone; and the consequence was that her head drooped upon its stalk, hung over weakly on one shoulder, while a dewdrop-like tear stood in one eye; and, like carbonic acid gas concealed in soda-water, she always had an indefinite number of sighs waiting to escape from her lips.
She smiled sadly at Richard, and waved him to a chair, to have taken which would have caused the immolation of a widow’s cap – which, however, Mrs Fiddison rescued, and perched awry upon her head, to be out of the way.
“This gentleman wants apartments, Mrs F.,” said Mrs Jenkles.
“Mine are to let,” said Mrs Fiddison, sadly; “but does the gentleman play anything brass?”
Richard stared, and then remembered about the last lodger.
“Oh, dear, no,” he said, smiling.
“Because I don’t think I could bear it again, let alone the neighbours’ lodgers,” said Mrs Fiddison. “I might put up with strings, or wood, but I could not manage brass.”
“I do not play any instrument,” said Richard, looking at the lady in a troubled way, as her head drooped over the cap she was making, and she gazed at it like a weeping widow on a funeral card.
“So many orchestral gentlemen live about here,” said Mrs Fiddison. “You can hear the double bass quite plain at Cheadley’s, next door but one; but Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice.”
“Indeed,” said Richard, glancing at Mrs Jenkles, who stood smoothing her apron.
“Yes,” said Mrs Fiddison, holding out the white crape starched grief before him, so that he might see the effect of her handiwork. “The last new pattern, sir.”
Richard stared at Mrs Jenkles, and that lady came to his assistance.
“Mrs F. makes weeds for a wholesale house, sir.”
“They ought to be called flowers of grief, Mrs Jenkles,” said the lady. “A nice quiet, genteel business, sir; and if you don’t object to the smell of the crape, you’d not know there was anything going on in the house.”
“Oh, I’m sure I shouldn’t mind,” said Richard.
“Prr-oooomp!” went something which sounded like young thunder coming up in the cellar.
“That’s the double bass at Cheadley’s, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison; “and, as I was a-saying, you’ll find the rooms very quiet, for Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice. Mrs Waggly said she was sure it was that made her have the bile so bad; and I shouldn’t wonder if it was.”
“And the terms,” said Richard.
“You are sure you don’t play anything brass, sir?” said Mrs Fiddison, looking at him with her head all on one side, as if to say, “Now, don’t deceive a weak woman!”
“Indeed, I am not musical at all,” said Richard, smiling.
“Because it isn’t pleasant, sir, for a landlady who wishes to make things comfortable,” continued Mrs Fiddison, smiling at the cap – which she had now put on her left fist – as if it were a face.
“It can’t be, of course.” said Richard, getting impatient.
“Mr Took, my last lodger, sir, played the rumboon; and sometimes of a morning, when he was doing his octaves, it used to quite make my brain buzz.”
“I think the rooms would suit me,” said Richard, glancing round.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, wiping one eye with a scrap of crape. “You can see the marks all over the wall now.”
“Marks – wall?” said Richard.
“Ah, you don’t understand the rumboon, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, pointing with a pair of scissors to various little dents and scratches on the wall, as she still held up the widow’s cap. “Those places are what he used to make when he shot the thing out to get his low notes – doing his octaves, sir.”
“Indeed,” said Richard, recalling the action of the trombone player in the marine band on board his last ship.
“Perhaps you’d like to see the bedroom, sir?”
“Would you mind seeing that for me, Mrs Jenkles?” said Richard.
“It’s plain, sir, but everything at Mrs Fiddison’s here is as clean as hands can make it,” said Mrs Jenkles, glancing from one to the other.
“Then it will do,” said Richard. “And the terms?”
“Seven shillings my last lodger paid me, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, drooping more and more, and evidently now much impressed by one of Richard’s boots. “I did hope to get seven and six for them now, as there’s a new table-cover.”
Richard glanced at the new cotton check on the table.
“Then I’ll pay you seven and sixpence,” he said.
“The last being full of holes he made when smoking,” said Mrs Fiddison.
“Then that’s settled,” said Richard. “Mrs – Mrs – ”
“Jenkles, sir,” said the cabman’s wife, smiling.
“Mrs Jenkles, I’m much obliged to you for your trouble,” he said.
“And so am I,” said Mrs Fiddison, removing a tear once more with a scrap of crape. “My dear,” she continued, fixing a band to the cap, and holding it out – “isn’t that sweet!”
Mrs Jenkles nodded.
“I think the gentleman wants the rooms at once,” she said, glancing at Richard.
“Yes, that I do,” he replied. “I’ll fetch my portmanteau over directly.”
“Oh, dear!” ejaculated Mrs Fiddison – “so soon.”
And with some show of haste, she took a widow’s cap off a painted plaster Milton on the chimneypiece, another from Shakespeare, and revealed, by the removal of a third, the celebrated Highland laddie, in blue and red porcelain, taking leave of a green Highland lass, with a china sheep sticking to one of her unstockinged legs.
Half an hour after, Richard was sitting by the open window, looking across the street at where a thin, white hand was busy watering the fuchsias and geraniums in the window, and from time to time he caught a glimpse of Netta’s sweet, sad face.
Then he drew back, for two men came along the street. The first, black-browed and evil-eyed, he recollected as the fellow with whom he had had the encounter on the race day, and this man paused for a moment as he reached Sam Jenkles’s door, turned sharply round, pointed at it, and then went on; the second, nodding shortly as he came up, raised his hand, and knocked, standing glancing sharply up and down the street, while Richard mentally exclaimed – “What does he want here?” Then the door opened, there was a short parley with Mrs Jenkles, and the man entered, leaving Richard puzzled and wondering, as he said, half aloud —
“What could these men be doing here?”
