Frank Pratt’s Cross-Examination, and Après.
Captain Vanleigh had declared solemnly that Penreife was “the deucedest dullest place” he ever saw in his life; and Sir Felix said it was “’nough to kill ’fler;” but, all the same, there was no talk to Trevor of moving; they lounged about the house chatting to each other, and consumed their host’s cigars to a wonderful extent; they ate his dinners and drank his wine; and Vanleigh generally contrived to go to bed a few guineas richer every night from the whist table.
Pratt protested against the play, but Trevor laughed at him.
“My dear boy,” he said, “why not let such matters take their course? Van is my guest; surely I should be a bad host if I did not let him win a little spare cash. Have you anything else to grumble about?”
“Heaps,” said Pratt, trying to put his little legs on a chair in front of the garden seat where he and his friend were having a morning cigar; but they were too short, and he gave up the attempt.
“Go on, then,” said Trevor, lazily, “have your grumble out.”
“Hadn’t I better go back to town?” said Pratt, sharply.
“Why, are you not comfortable?”
“Yes—no—yes—no. I’m precious uncomfortable. I see too much,” said Pratt.
“Well, let’s hear what you see that makes you so uncomfortable,” said Trevor, carelessly.
“Dick, old boy,” said Pratt, “you won’t be offended with me for what I say?”
“Not I,” was the answer.
“What are you thinking about?” said Pratt, watching the other’s face.
“I was only thinking about you, and wondering why, if you don’t like what you see, you can’t close your eyes.”
“That’s what you are doing, Dick!” said Pratt, eagerly.
“My dear Frank, have you discovered powder barrels beneath the house—is there a new plot?”
“Don’t be so foolish, Dick. Why don’t you let those two fellows go?”
“Because they are my guests, and stay as long as they like.”
“And are doing their very best to undermine your happiness.”
“Nonsense, man.”
“Dick, old fellow, answer me honestly. Don’t you care a great deal for that little girl up at Tolcarne?”
There was a few moments’ pause, during which the colour came into Trevor’s cheek.
“Honestly, I do,” he said at last. “Well, and what of that?”
“Well, Dick, are you blind? Van’s making all the play that he can, and father and aunt favour him. He’s there nearly every day. He’s there now.”
Trevor gave a start, and turned round to face his friend, his lips twitching and fingers working; but he burst out laughing the next moment.
“Anything else, Franky?”
“Laugh away,” said Pratt, who looked nettled—“only give me credit for my warning when you find I am right.”
“That I will,” said Trevor. “Now then, go on! What’s the next plot against my peace of mind?”
“Suppose I ask you a question or two!”
“All right—go on!”
“Have you noticed anything wrong with Humphrey?”
“Been precious sulky lately.”
“Sulky! The fellow’s looked daggers at you, and has barely answered you civilly.”
“Well, he has been queer, certainly.”
“Why is it?” said Pratt.
“Bilious—out of order—how should I know?”
“The poor fellow’s in love!”
“Poor Strephon,” said Trevor, idly.
“And he sees a powerful rival in the path,” continued Pratt.
“The deuce he does!” said Trevor, laughing. “Is that Van, too? But hang it, Frank!” he cried, starting up, “seriously, I won’t stand any nonsense of that kind. If Van’s been making love to that little lass, I’ll put a stop to it. Why, now I think of it, I did see him looking at her!”
“No!” said Pratt, quietly. “It isn’t Van—he’s too busy at Tolcarne!”
“Silence, croaker!” cried, Trevor, laughing in a constrained fashion. “But, come—who is the powerful rival?”
“Dick, old fellow, I’m one of those, and no humbug, who have a habit of trying to ferret out other people’s motives.”
“Don’t preach, Franky. Is it Flick? because if it is, the girl’s laughing at him.”
“No,” said Pratt; “it isn’t Flick.”
“Then who the deuce is it?”
“You!”
Trevor burst into a hearty laugh.
“Why, Frank!” he exclaimed, “if ever there was a mare’s-nesting old humbug, it’s you. Why, whatever put that in your head?”
Pratt sat looking at him in silence for a few moments.
“Dick,” he said, “if ever there was a deliciously unsuspicious, trusting fellow, you are he.”
“Never mind about that,” said Trevor. “I want to get this silly notion out of your head.”
“And I want to get it into yours.”
“Well, we’ll both try,” said Trevor. “You begin: I’ll settle you after.”
“To begin, then,” said Pratt. “You’ve several times met that girl in the lane yonder.”
“Yes; now you mention it—I have.”
“About the time when you’ve been going up to Tolcarne?”
“Yes; and it was evident that she was there to meet Humphrey. Why, I laughed and joked the pretty little lass about it.”
“Yes; and did you ever meet Humphrey afterwards?”
“Bravo! my little cross-examining barrister. Yes I did—two or three times. I’m not sworn, mind,” added Trevor, laughing.
“True men don’t need swearing,” said Pratt.
“Thanks for the compliment. Well?”
“How did Humphrey look?”
“Well—yes—now you mention it—to be sure! He looked black as thunder. Oh, but, Franky, I’ll soon clear that up. I wouldn’t hurt the poor lad’s feelings for the world.”
“Wait a bit,” said Pratt. “What, more mystery? Well, go on.”
“Did it ever strike you as strange that you should encounter a pretty, well-spoken little girl like that in your walks?”
“No; I told you I thought she was out to see Humphrey.”
“Or that you should meet her in the passages at home here, to bring you letters, or messages from Mrs Lloyd?”
“Well, now you mention it, yes: it has struck me as odd once or twice.”
“Never struck you that the girl came of her own accord?”
“Never, and I’m sure she never did. She rather avoided me than not; so come, Master Counsellor, you’re out there.”
“Did it never strike you that she was sent?”
Trevor did not answer, but sat gazing in his friend’s face for a few moments, as if he were trying to catch his drift, and then in a flash he seemed to read all the other meant; for his brow grew cloudy, and he sat down hastily, then got up, and took a few strides up and down before reseating himself.
“Well,” said Pratt, “can you see it?”
“I see what you mean, Franky; but I can’t quite think it. The old woman would never have the impudence to plan such a thing.”
“Dick, old fellow, it’s as plain as the day. She’s made up her mind that her little niece shall be mistress of Penreife, and she is playing her cards accordingly.”
“Then I’m afraid, if that is her game, she’ll lose the trick.”
“Dick, old fellow,” said Pratt, “you’re not annoyed?”
“But I am—deucedly annoyed—not with you, Franky; but don’t say any more now, I mean to think it over.”
“Being a friend to an unsuspicious man is about the most unpleasant post on the face of the earth,” said Pratt, moralising, as he saw his friend stride away. “Everybody hates you for enlightening him, and even he cannot forgive you for waking him from his pleasant dreams. Now where has he gone?—oh, to bully that plotting old woman. Well, I’ve done right, I think; and now I’ll have my stroll.”
Frank Pratt started off to do what he called “a bit of melancholy Jaques,” in the pleasant woodland lanes; and was not long in finding an agreeable perch, where he seated himself, lit his big pipe, and began communing with himself till the pipe was smoked out; and then he sat on and thought without it, till a coming light footstep took his attention.
“Now I make a solemn affidavit,” he said, “that I did not come here to play the spy upon anybody’s actions. If they choose to come and act under my very nose, why, I must see the play. Who’s this?”
“This” proved to be little Polly, who walked quickly by him, glancing suspiciously round as she continued her walk.
“Scene the first!” said Pratt; “enter village maiden with flowers. To her village lover,” he continued as a heavy step was heard. “No, by Jove! it’s Dick.”
He was right, for Trevor came along at a swinging pace, and apparently in a few moments he would overtake the girl.
“If I didn’t believe Dick Trevor to be as open as the day, how suspicious that would look!” thought Pratt.
Trevor passed on without seeing him, and then there was a pause. The sun’s rays darted through the overhanging boughs; birds flitted and sang their little love songs overhead; and in a half-dreamy way Pratt sat thinking upon his perch till voices and coming footsteps once more aroused him.
“It’s them!” he said to himself. “I’ll go.”
He made as if to descend, but it struck him that he should be seen if he moved, and he sat still watching—to see at the end of a few moments Tiny Rea coming along the footpath, evidently looking agitated as she walked on in advance.
“She’s never seen Dick and her together!” Pratt said, mentally; and he felt as if he could have run and spoken to the girl; but that which next met his eyes made him utter a low, deep sigh, and he looked as if made of the mossy stone upon which he sat, as Fin Rea followed her sister, hanging on Mr Mervyns arm, and gazing eagerly in his face, while he evidently told her something which was of interest.
They passed slowly by, as if in no hurry to overtake Tiny; and Pratt watched them till quite out of sight, when he got down in a heavy, stunned fashion, to go slowly farther and farther into the wood, where he threw himself down amongst the ferns, and buried his face in his hands, as he groaned—
“More than old enough to be her father!”