Richard felt very sanguine of success during the first weeks of his stay
in London. He was young, ardent, active, and a good sailor. Some
employment would be easily obtained, he thought, in the merchant
service; and he only stipulated mentally for one thing--no matter how
low was his beginning, he must have something to look forward to in the
future--he must be able to rise. But as the days glided into weeks, and
the weeks into months, he was obliged to own that it was not so easy to
find an opening as he had expected, and night after night he returned to
his solitary lodgings weary and disheartened.
Mrs Fiddison sighed, and said he was very nice--so quiet; her place did
not seem the same. And certainly the young fellow was very quiet,
spending a great deal of his time in writing and thinking; and more than
once he caught himself watching the opposite window, and wondering what
connexion there could be between Vanleigh and his neighbours.
This watching led to his meeting the soft dark eyes of Netta, as she
busied herself at times over her flowers, watering them carefully,
removing dead leaves and blossoms, and evidently tending them with the
love of one who longs for the sweet breath of the country.
Then came a smile and a bow, and Netta shrank away from the window, and
Richard did not see her for a week.
Then she was there again, showing herself timidly, and as their eyes met
the how was given, and returned this time before the poor girl shrank
away; and as days passed on this little intercourse grew regular, till
it was a matter of course for Richard to look out at a certain hour for
his pretty neighbour, and she would be there.
This went on till she would grow bold enough to sit there close to the
flowers, her sad face just seen behind the little group of leaves and
blossoms; and, glad of the companionship, Richard got in the habit of
drawing his table to the open window, and read or wrote there, to look
up occasionally and exchange a smile.
"I don't see why I shouldn't know more of them," he said to himself, one
morning; and the next time a donkey-drawn barrow laden with Covent
Garden sweets passed, Richard bought a couple of pots of lush-blossomed
geraniums, delivered them to Mrs Jenkles, and sent them to Miss Lane,
with his hope that she was in better health.
Mrs Jenkles took the pots gladly, but shook her head at the donor.
"Is she so ill?" said Richard, anxiously.
"I'm afraid so, sir," said Mrs Jenkles. "Her cough is so bad."
As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful
endorsement of the woman's words.
Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his
place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best
position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by
his little neighbour, "Poor girl!" said Richard.
A very strange feeling of depression came over him as his thoughts went
from her to one he loved; and he sighed as he sat making comparisons
between them.
An hour after, Mrs Fiddison came in, with her head on one side, a
widow's cap in one hand, a crape bow in the other, and a note in her
mouth, which gave her a good deal the look of a mourning spaniel, set to
fetch and carry.
Mrs Fiddison did not speak, only dropped the note on the table, gave
Richard a very meaning look, and left the roam.
"What does the woman mean?" he said, as he took up the note. "And
what's this?"
"This" was a simple little note from Netta Lane, written in a ladylike
hand, and well worded, thanking him for the flowers, and telling him
that "mamma" was very grateful to him for the attention.
A week after, and Richard had called upon them; and again before a week
had elapsed, he was visiting regularly, and sitting reading to mother
and daughter as they plied their needles.
Then came walks, and an occasional ride into the country, and soon
afterwards Frank Pratt called upon his old friend, to find him leading
Netta quietly into the Jenkles's house, and Pratt stood whistling for a
moment before knocking at Mrs Fiddison's door, and asking leave to wait
till his friend came across.
Mrs Fiddison had a widow's cap cocked very rakishly over one ear, and
she further disarranged it to rub the ear as she examined the visitor,
before feeling satisfied that he had no designs on any of the property
in the place, and admitting him to Richard's sanctum.
At the end of half an hour Richard came over.
"Ah, Franky!" he exclaimed, "this is a pleasure."
"Is it?" said Pratt.
"Is it?--of course it is; but what are you staring at?"
"You. Seems a nice girl over the way."
"Poor darling!--yes," said Richard, earnestly.
"Got as far as that, has it?" said Pratt, quietly.
"I don't understand you," said Richard, staring hard.
"Suppose not," said Pratt, bitterly. "Way of the world; though I didn't
expect to see it in you."
"`Rede me this riddle,' as Carlyle says," exclaimed Richard. "What do
you mean, man?"
"Only that it's as well to be off with the old love before you begin
with the new."
"Why, Franky, what a donkey you are!" said Richard, laughing. "You
don't think that I--that they--that--that--well, that I am paying
attentions to that young lady--Miss Lane?"
"Well, it looks like it," said Pratt, grimly.
"Why, my dear boy, nothing has ever been farther from my thoughts," said
Richard. "It's absurd."
"Does the young lady think so too?"
Richard started.
"Well, really--I never looked at it in that light. But, oh, it's
ridiculous. Only a few neighbourly attentions; and, besides, the poor
girl's in a most precarious state of health."
"Hum!" said Pratt. "Well, don't make the girl think you mean anything.
Who are they?"
"I asked no questions, of course--how could I? They are quite ladies,
though, in a most impecunious state."
"Hum!" said Frank, thoughtfully, and he rose from his chair to make
himself comfortable after his way; that is to say, he placed his feet in
the seat, and sat on the back--treatment at which Mrs Fiddison's modest
furniture groaned. "Old lady object to this?"
Frank tapped the case of his big pipe, as he drew it from his pocket in
company with a vile-scented tobacco pouch.
"Oh no, I'm licenced," said Richard, dreamily; for his thoughts were
upon his friend's words, and he felt as if he had unwittingly been doing
a great wrong.
"I'm going to take this up, Dick," said Pratt, after smoking a few
minutes in silence.
"Take what up?" said Richard, starting.
"This affair of yours, and these people."
"I don't understand you."
"Perhaps not," said Pratt, shortly. "But look here, Dick, you're not
going to break faith with some one."
"Break faith, Frank!" exclaimed Richard, angrily. "There is no
engagement now. The poor girl is free till I have made such a
fortune"--he smiled bitterly--"as will enable me once more to propose.
There, there, don't say another word, Franky, old man, it cuts--deeper
than you think. I wouldn't say this much to another man living. But as
for that poor child over the way, I have never had a thought towards her
beyond pity."
"Which is near akin to love," muttered Frank. Then aloud--"All right,
Dick. I could not help noticing it; but be careful. Little girls'
hearts are made of tender stuff--some of them," he said, speaking
ruefully--"when they are touched by fine, tall, good-looking fellows."
"Pish!" ejaculated Richard. "Change the subject."
"Going to," said Pratt, filling his pipe afresh, and smoking once more
furiously. "Better open that window, these pokey rooms so soon get
full. That's right. Now, then, for a change. Look here, old fellow,
you know I'm going ahead now, actually refusing briefs. Do you hear,
you unbelieving-looking dog?--refusing briefs, and only taking the best
cases."
"Bravo!" said Richard, trying to smile cheerily.
"I'm getting warm, Dick--making money. Q.C. some day, my boy--perhaps.
But seriously, Dick, old fellow, I am going ahead at a rate that
surprises no one more than yours truly. When I'd have given my ears for
a good case, and would have studied it night and day, the beggars
wouldn't have given me one to save my life, even if I'd have done it for
nothing. Now, when I'm so pressed that it's hard work to get them up,
they come and beg me to take briefs. This very morning, one came from a
big firm of solicitors at ten o'clock, marked fifty guineas, and I
refused it. At one o'clock, hang me if they didn't come back with it,
marked a hundred, and a fellow with it, hat in hand, ready, if I'd
refused again, to offer me more."
"Frank," cried Richard, jumping up, and shaking his friend warmly by the
hand, "no one is more delighted than I am."
"Mind what you're up to," said Pratt, who had nearly been tilted off his
perch by his friend's energy. "But I say, it don't seem like it."
"Why?"
"Because you won't share in it. Now, look here, Dick, old fellow, you
must want money, and it's too bad that you won't take it."
"I don't want it, Frank--I don't, indeed," cried Richard, hastily.
"Living as I do, I have enough and to spare. I tell you, I like the
change."
"Gammon," said Pratt, shortly. "It's very well to talk about liking to
be poor, and no one knows what poverty is better than I; but I like
money as well as most men. I used to eat chaff, Dick; but I like corn,
and wine, and oil, and honey better. Now, look here, Dick, once for
all--if you want money, and don't come to me for it, you are no true
friend."
"Franky," said Richard, turning away his face, "if ever I want money,
I'll come to you and ask for it. As matters are, I have always a few
shillings to spare."
As he spoke, he got up hastily, lit a pipe, and began to smoke; while
Mrs Fiddison in the next room, heaved a sigh, took off her shoes, and
went on tiptoe through the little house, opening every door and window,
after carefully covering up all her widows' caps.
"There is one thing about noise," she said to herself, "it don't make
the millinery smell."
"I knocked off a few days ago," said Frank, from out of a cloud.
"You are working too hard," said Richard, anxiously.
"'Bliged to," said Pratt. "Took a change--ran down to Cornwall."
Richard started slightly, and smoked hard.
"Thought I'd have a look at the old place, Dick--see how matters were
going on."
Silence on the part of Richard, and Pratt breathed more freely; for he
had expected to be stopped.
"First man I ran against was that Mervyn, along with the chap who was
upset in the cab accident in Pall Mall, and gave you his card--a Mr
John Barnard, solicitor, in Furnival's Inn--cousin or something of
Mervyn's--knew me by sight, and somehow we got to be very sociable.
Don't much like Mervyn, though. Good sort of fellow all the same--
charitable, and so on."
Richard smoked his pipe in silence longing to hear more of his old home,
though every word respecting it came like a stab.
"Heard all about Penreife," continued Pratt, talking in a careless,
matter-of-fact way. "Our friend Humphrey is being courted, it seems, by
everybody. Half the county been to call upon him, and congratulate him
on his rise. I expected to find the fellow off his head when I saw him;
but he was just the same--begged me to condescend to come and stay with
him, which of course I didn't, and as good as told me he was horribly
bored, and anything but happy."
There was a pause here, filled up by smoking.
"The old people are still there, and they say the new owner's very kind
to them; but our little friend Polly's away at a good school, where she
is to stay till the wedding. Humphrey wants to see you."
Richard winced.
"Asked me to try and bring about a meeting, and sent all sorts of kind
messages."
Richard remained silent.
"Says he feels like as if he had deprived you of your birthright; and as
for the people about, they say, Dick,"--Pratt paused for a few moments
to light his pipe afresh--"they say, Dick, that you acted like a fool."
Richard faced round quietly, and looked straight at his friend.
"Do you think, Frank, that I acted like a fool?"
Pratt smoked for a moment or two, then he turned one of his fingers into
a tobacco stopper, and lastly removed his pipe.
"Well, speaking as counsel, whose opinion is that you ought to have
waited, and left the matter to the law to sift, I say yes."
"But speaking as my old friend, Frank Pratt," said Richard, "and as an
honest man?"
"Well, we won't discuss that," said Frank, hopping off his perch.
"Good-bye, old chap."
He shook hands hastily, and left the house, glancing up once at Sam
Jenkles's upper window, and then, without appearing to notice him,
taking a side glance at Barney of the black muzzle, who was making a
meal off a scrap of hay, with his shoulders lending polish to a
public-house board at the corner.
"There's some little game being played up here," said Frank to himself.
"I'll have a talk to Barnard."
Volume 3, Chapter VIII.