And the months glided on. Winter came, and in its turn gave place to
the promise of spring; that came, though, with its harsh eastern blasts
that threatened to extinguish the frail lamp of life still burning
opposite Richard's rooms.
He had responded to Pin's letter soon after its receipt, but he had
heard no more. His attempts at obtaining an engagement had proved
failures still; and so he had accepted his fate, and spent his time
reading hard, his sole pleasures being a visit across the road, or a
dinner with Frank Pratt.
Of the acts of the Rea family he knew little, save that they had
wintered in Cornwall, from which a letter came occasionally from
Humphrey or Mr Mervyn, both sent to the care of Frank Pratt, Esq.; and
in his, Humphrey had twice over expressed a wish to divide the property
with his old companion.
"I don't see why you shouldn't do so," Pratt had said. "It's Quixotic
not to accept his offer."
"Aut Caesar, aut nullus," was Richard's reply. "No, Franky, I'm too
proud. I could never go to Cornwall again but as master. Those days
are gone."
"But, Dick, old man!"
"My dear Franky," said Richard, dropping something of the misanthropical
bitterness that had come over him of late, "I am quite content as I am--
content to wait; some of these days a chance will turn up. I'll abide
my time."
"He's gone back to her," said Pratt, shaking his head. "Poor old
Dick!--some people would misjudge him cruelly. Well, time will show."
Pratt was quite right, Richard had gone back to Netta; for it promised
to be a fine afternoon, and on such days it had grown to be his custom
to devote the few shillings he could spare from his scanty income to the
payment of Sam Jenkles.
It was so this day. Sam was at the door by two, with the old horse
brushed up, and every worn buckle shining. Then Richard would go
upstairs, to find Netta with a bright spot in each cheek, and an eager
welcome in her eye. She had gained ground during the autumn, but in the
winter it had all been lost; and now the time had come when Richard
raised her in his arms, and had to carry her--grown so light--down to
the cab, wherein he tenderly placed her, and took her for one of the
drives of which she was never weary.
It seemed a strange taste, but her desire was always for the same spot--
the little wood where the fallen tree was lying. Here, on sunny days,
she would sit for an hour, while he read to her; and then the quiet,
slow journey was taken back, when the little ceremony had to be gone
through in reverse, there was a grateful pressure of the hand, and
Richard took his leave.
Twenty or thirty times was this little excursion made, and always with a
foreboding on Richard's part that it was to be the last. But still she
lingered, brightening with the balmy April weather that came by fits,
and then fading again under the chilling blasts.
By some means Netta had informed herself of the return of the Rea family
to town for the season, and she prepared to execute a little plan that
had been long deferred. She had possessed herself of the note sent by
Fin--the note which Richard had let fall. Probably Mrs Jenkles was the
bearer of her messages, and had obtained the information she required.
Suffice it that Tiny Rea, now somewhat recovered, but still pale and
dejected, received one morning a note, which she read, and then placed
in her mother's hands.