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."