Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

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.”