Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“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?”

Between Friends

A fortnight passed away.

It was a difficult matter to do – to make up his mind as to the future; but after a struggle, Richard arrived at something like the course he would pursue. He must live, and he felt that he had a right to his pay as an officer; so that would suffice for his modest wants.

Then, as to the old people. He wrote a quiet, calm letter to the old butler, saying that some time in the future he would come down and see them, or else ask them to join him. That he would do his duty by them, and see that they did not come to want; but at present the wound was too raw, and he felt that it would be better for all parties that they should not meet.

Another letter he despatched to Mr Mervyn, asking him once more to be a friend and guide to Humphrey; and, above all, to use his influence to prevent injury befalling Stephen and Martha Lloyd.

His next letter was a harder one to write, for it was to Valentina Rea. It was a struggle, but he did it; for the man was now fully roused in spirit, and he told himself that if ever he was called upon to act as a man of honour it was now. He told her, then, that he never loved her more dearly than now; that he should always remember her words in the letter he treasured up, but that he felt it would be like blighting her young life to hold her to her promise. If, in the future, he could claim her, he would; but he knew that father – soon, perhaps, mother – would be against it, for he could at present see no hope in his future career.

But all the same, he signed himself hers till death; sent his dear love to “little Fin;” and then, having posted his letters, he felt better, and went to seek out Frank Pratt.

“He won’t turn out a fine weather friend, of that I’m sure,” he said, as he went up, the staircase in the Temple, to be seized by both hands as soon as he entered, and have to submit to a couple of minutes’ shaking.

“Why, Dick, old man, this does one good!” exclaimed Pratt. “Now, then, a steak and stout, or a chop and Bass, two pipes, and a grand debauch at night, eh?”

“What debauch?” said Richard, smiling.

“Front row of the pit, my boy. Absolute freedom; comfort of the stalls without having to dress. Nobody waiting to seize your ‘overcoat, sir.’ Good view of the stage; and, when the curtain’s down, time and opportunity to pity the curled darlings of society, who stand, in melancholy row, with their backs to the orchestra, fiddling their crush hats, and staring up at the audience through eyeglasses that blind.”

“And meet Flick and Vanleigh.”

“Who cares?” said Pratt, forcing his friend into a well-worn easy chair, and taking away hat and stick. “Isn’t that a lovely chair, Dick? I’ve worked that chair into that shape – moulded it, sir, into the form of my figure, and worn off all its awkward corners. Pipe? – there you are. ’Bacco? – there you are. Whisky? – there you are. And there’s a light. Have a dressing-gown and slippers?”

“No, no – thanks,” said Dick, laughing.

But his face twitched as, after filling and trying to light a pipe, he laid it hastily down, wrung Pratt’s hand, and then started up and walked to the window, to stand gazing out at the dirty walls before him.

Before he had been there a moment, a friendly hand was laid upon his shoulder and Pratt got hold of his hand, standing behind him without a word, till he turned again and walked back to his seat.

“Don’t mind me, Franky, I’m very sore yet.”

“I know, I know,” said Pratt, feelingly. “It’s hard – cursed hard! I’d say damned hard, only as a straightforward man I object to swearing. But where’s your bag, portmanteau, luggage?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Richard, lighting his pipe, and smoking.