A Visit.
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.
It was as follows:—
“I have heard so often of your beauty, goodness, and your many acts of kindness, that I have been tempted to ask you to come once and see me before I pass away. I would say pray come, but I think your gentle heart will listen to my simple appeal. Come to me, and say good-bye.
“Netta Lane.”
Here followed the address.
“It’s some poor creature in great distress, my dear, who has heard of us. We’ll go this afternoon, and take her something.”
“Would you go, mamma?” faltered Tiny, whose heart told her whom the letter was from.
“Certainly, my dear. I shouldn’t rest to-night if I’d left such an appeal as that unanswered, let alone enjoy our At Home; though there isn’t much enjoyment to be got out of those affairs, with everybody drinking tea on the stairs, and ten times as many people as we’ve room for.”
“Then you would go, mamma?”
“Certainly, darling. It’s an awkward time for her to send, but we’ll go; and oh, my darling, pray, pray try and look bright. You make me wretched.”
“I do—I will try, mamma!” exclaimed Tiny, suppressing a sob. “But tell me, is Captain Vanleigh going to be here to-night?”
“I—I was obliged to send him an invitation, my darling,” said Lady Rea, pitifully. “Your papa stood at my side while I wrote it. If—if—he—Mr Trevor had stood firm to you, they should have cut me in pieces before I’d have done it; but as it is, what can I do?”
Tiny made no reply; and directly after luncheon the carriage came round, and, being left at the corner of the narrow street, Lady Rea and her daughter made their way on foot to the house of Mrs Jenkles.
Mrs Lane met them, and said it was her daughter’s wish to see Miss Rea alone, if she would condescend to go up and see her; and a minute after, with a mist floating before her eyes, and a singing in her ears, Tiny stood near Netta’s couch, as the poor girl lay, with clasped fingers, gazing up at the graceful, fashionably-dressed girl.
Tiny maintained a haughty silence for a few minutes. This was the girl for whom she had been forsaken. She felt sure of it. How could it be otherwise? But the letter said that she was dying. Fin had told her of Pratt’s assurances; and, as the mist cleared away, so melted the hauteur, for she could not look upon the soft, sweet face before her with anger; and if he loved her, should not she do the same? The two girls gazed in each other’s eyes for a few moments, and then, with a smile, Netta held out one hand.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I have wanted to see you for months, and I was afraid I should not live long enough. Do you know why?”
“No—I cannot tell,” said Tiny, in a choking voice; for she, too, could see for herself the truth of what had been said.
“I wanted to see the beautiful girl that he loves—her of whom he has so often talked—and to tell you that you have misjudged him, if you think as your sister thinks in the letter she sent.”
“Letter?” exclaimed Tiny.
“Yes, this,” said the girl, producing one from her bosom. “Oh, Miss Rea, how can you slight his noble love? If you only knew! You both misjudge him. Look at me, dear. I am here now; perhaps to-morrow, or the next day, I shall be gone. But I do not think I could have died without seeing you face to face, and telling you that he has been true, and noble, and faithful to you. You might not have believed me if I had been different; but now, ready to go away, you know mine are true words, when I tell you Richard Lloyd has been to me as a brother.”
“Oh, I believe, I believe!” sobbed Tiny, sinking on her knees beside the couch. “But it is too late—too late!”
“No, no,” whispered Netta, “it is not too late. Make him happy. Send to him to come to you. He is too proud and poor to come himself. But I know his story: how he lost all through being so honourable and good. Tiny—you see I know your name; why, he has described you to me so often that I should have known you—send for him, and bless him. You could not love such a one as he too well.”
“Too late!” sobbed Tiny. “It is too late.”
She started up, and turned as if to go; but only to push her hair back from her forehead, lean over Netta’s couch and kiss her, as a pair of thin, weak arms closed round her neck. Then, tearing herself away, she hurried from the house with Lady Rea, who vainly questioned her as to the cause of her agitation.
“I asked the woman, who is very ladylike, my dear, but she said her daughter would explain; so I waited till you came down; and now,” said the little ruffled dame, “you do nothing but cry.”
“Don’t ask me now, mamma, dear,” sobbed Tiny, covering her face with her hands. “Another time I’ll tell you all.”
“Very well, my darling,” said Lady Rea, resignedly. “But, pray, try now and look brighter. Papa will be terribly put out if he finds you so; for he said you told him yesterday you would do as he wished about Captain Vanleigh, and Aunt Matty has been quite affectionate to me ever since.”
“Mamma, dear, do you think it will make you happier?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” said Lady Rea. “I blame myself sometimes for not being more determined; but I’m obliged to own that Captain Vanleigh has been very patient, and he must care for you.”
Tiny shuddered again, and her sobs became so violent that Lady Rea drew up the carriage window, for a few minutes being quite alarmed. At length, though, the poor girl grew calm, and seemed to make an effort over herself as they neared home, just as Fin crossed the road from the square garden, looking as innocent as if she had not had half an hour’s talk with Frank Pratt.