Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“Well, ma, I told him it was of no use, for I knew what he was going to say.”

“Oh, Fin, my dear child, I’m afraid they neglected your etiquette very much at school.”

“No, they didn’t, ma,” said Fin, with her eyes twinkling – “they were always sowing me with it; but I was stony ground, as Aunt Matty would say, and it never took root. Oh, ma, if you had only seen what a donkey he looked! – and he smelt all over the room, just like one of Rimmel’s young men. Then,” continued Fin, speaking fast and excitedly, “he went on talking stuff – said he’d lay his title and fortune at my feet; that he’d give the world to win my heart, and I told him I hadn’t got one; said he should wait patiently, and kept on talk, talk, talk – all stuff that he had evidently been learning up for the occasion; and I’d have given anything to have been able to pull his ears and rumple his hair, only he might have thought it rude.”

“Oh yes, my dear,” said mamma, innocently.

“And at last I said I didn’t think I should ever accept any one, for I hated men; and then he sighed, and looked at me side-wise, and wanted to take my hand; and I ran out of the room, and that’s all.”

“But, Fin, my dear – ”

“Oh, I know, ma, it was horribly rude; but I hate him. Pf! I can smell him now.”

Lady Rea sighed.

“And now, I suppose,” said Fin, “we are to be pestered – poor Tiny and your humble servant; they’ll follow us to church, get sittings where they can watch us, and carry on a regular siege. I wish them joy of it!”

Lady Rea only sighed, and stroked the glossy head, till Fin suddenly jumped up, and ran out of the room; but only to come back at the end of a minute, and stand nodding her head.

“Well, my dear, what is it?” said Lady Rea.

“You’ll have to put your foot down, mamma,” said Fin, sharply.

Lady Rea glanced at her little member, which, in its delicate kid boot, looked too gentle to crush a fly; and she sighed.

“A nice state of affairs!” said Fin.

“There’s Tiny, up in her bedroom crying herself into a decline, and Aunt Matty in the study with papa conspiring against our happiness, because it’s for our good. Now, mark my words, mamma – there’ll be a regular plot laid to marry Tiny to that odious Bluebeard of a Captain, and if you don’t stop it I shall.”

Lady Rea sat, with wrinkled brow, looking puzzled at the little decisive figure before her; and then, as Fin went out with a whisk of all her light skirts, she sat for a few moments thinking, and then went up to her elder daughter’s room.

Frank a Visitor

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.