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.