Thereby Hangs a Tale Part 71

"And I do, my child, dearly, as I would a sister!" he exclaimed, pa.s.sionately, as he raised her up, and kissed her forehead. "Netta, I would have given my right hand sooner than have caused you pain."

"Don't blame yourself," she said, softly, extricating herself from his arms; "I should have known better. Take me home--take me home!"

She caught at his arm after trying to walk alone, and looked pitifully in his face.

"You see," she whispered, "it was a dream--a dream; but so bright, and now--"

She reeled, and would have fallen but for the strong arm flung round her; and Richard held her for a few moments till she recovered.

"Richard," she whispered, sadly, "forgive me if I was unmaidenly and bold; but it seemed so short a time that I should be here, that I could not act as others do. But take me home--take me home."

She seemed half fainting, and raised he handkerchief to her lips, to take it down stained with blood. Then, shuddering slightly, she turned her face to his, smile faintly, and laid one little thin hand upon his breast, before hanging almost inanimate upon his arm.

Richard uttered a groan as he raised her in his arms, and bore her rapidly into the lane, where, at the distance of a hundred yards, stood the cab, with Batty grazing comfortably, and Sam Jenkles dozing on his box.

"Taken ill--quick!" gasped Richard, as he lifted his burden into the vehicle. "Quick--London--the first doctor's."

Volume 3, Chapter X.

THE USE OF MONEY.

That evening Frank Pratt was busily preparing himself for a City dinner, when Richard rushed panting into the room, haggard, his face covered with perspiration, and a look of despair in his eyes that frightened his friend.

"Why, d.i.c.k, old man," he cried, catching his hands, "what is it?"

"Money, Frank--give me money--ten--twenty--fifty pounds; doctors-- doctors. I've killed her--killed her!" he groaned.

Pratt asked no questions, but unlocking a desk, he took out and placed five crisp bank notes in his friend's hand.

"I knew you would," panted Richard. "G.o.d bless you, Frank! Best doctor--consumption?"

"Morley, Cavendish Square," said Pratt, with sharp brevity.

Then waving his hand, Richard dashed from the room; while Pratt quietly sat down, half-dressed, to think it out, which meant to light his pipe.

Meanwhile his friend had rushed down, taken Sam Jenkles's cab, which was waiting, and, as he was being driven through the streets, went over the incidents of his return--how they had called on a suburban surgeon, who had administered a styptic, and ordered them to go back very gently--how Mrs Lane had met him with a look of reproachful agony in her eyes, as he lifted out the half insensible girl, and bore her upstairs; and then, as he turned to go, after laying poor Netta on the bed, she had held out her hands to him, taking his in hers, and kissing them--so unmanning him that he had sunk upon his knees by her side, and hid his face.

He could hardly recall the rest--only that he had had to go to four doctors before he could find one ready to come to the shabby street; and when at last he had been brought to the poor girl's bedside, he had recommended the hospital.

It was this that had sent the young man to Frank Pratt's for money, the value of which he now thoroughly realised for the first time in his life.

The old white-haired physician came with him at once--Ratty, the horse, never once causing trouble; and Netta gave the messenger a grateful smile, as she saw the mission upon which he had been. Then, with his mind in a whirl, Richard waited to see the physician, taking him over into his own rooms, that his questions might be unheard.

"But she will recover?" said Richard, eagerly.

The old physician shook his head.

"It is but a matter of time," he said, gravely. "I can do nothing.

Quiet, change, nutritious food, are the best doctors for a case like hers. A southern climate might benefit her a little; but it would be cruelty to send her away from home, and might do more harm than good.

The poor girl is in a deep decline."

Richard was alone. What an end to the pleasant day he had projected!-- one which should do his poor little neighbour good, and wherein at the same time he could quietly tell her of his position, and so stop at once any nascent idea she might have that he was seeking to win her love.

How could he know, he asked himself, that matters had gone so far--that the poor child really cared for him--for him, who had not a disloyal thought to Valentina Rea; who, like the poor sufferer, lay that night wakeful, and with a weary, gnawing pain at her heart--in the one case mingled of hopeless misery, in the other tinged with bitterness, and a feeling new to her--anger against the author of her pain.

Thus the days glided by, with Netta lying dangerously ill, too weak to be moved. Richard was over a dozen times a day, asking after her health, and he had insisted upon Mrs Lane taking money for the necessities of the case. Then came a day when a fly stopped at the door; and Richard from his window, expecting to see a fresh doctor, saw a quiet-looking man step out, enter, stay a quarter of an hour, and then return; and when, an hour later, he went over himself, it was to find Mrs Lane deeply agitated, and with traces of tears upon her face; but she made no confidant of him.

At last, while he was sitting writing one day, there came a letter for him, with Frank Pratt for bearer. It had come to his chambers by post, he said, enclosed in another, asking him to forward it.

Frank went away as soon as he had delivered it, seeming troubled; and on Richard opening the note, he found these words:--

"I think it right to tell you what you have done, though no one knows that I have written. I did trust you, Richard Trevor; for I thought you a true, good man, who would be as faithful to my dear sister as she would have been to you. If any one had told me you would give her up directly for somebody else, I could have struck him. But I'll tell you what you've done, for you ought to know it for your punishment: you've broken the heart of the dearest, sweetest sister that ever lived, and I hate you with all mine.

"Fin Rea.

"P.S.--Tiny's very ill, almost seriously, and all through you."

He had hardly read the note a second time, when Mrs Fiddison came in dolefully, to say that Mrs Jenkles wanted to speak to him; and upon that lady being admitted, it was to say, with a curtsey--

"If you please, sir, Mrs Lane says Miss Netta has been begging for you to be sent for, if you'd come."

Richard rose to follow the messenger, who said, softly--

"You must be very quiet, sir, for she's greatly changed."

Volume 3, Chapter XI.

IN THE SQUARE CALLED RUSSELL.

There's plenty of room in Russell Square for a walk, without the promenaders being seen by those without, either in the houses or on the pavement.

Russell Square had grown very attractive to Frank Pratt of late, and he used to smoke cigars there at all sorts of hours. He had been seen by the milk there at 6:15, railway time; Z 17 had glanced suspiciously at him at one a.m.; while the crossing-sweeper said she "knowed that there little stumpy gent by heart."

It was one afternoon about three, though, that Pratt was sauntering along one side of the square, when he saw Vanleigh and Sir Felix go slowly up to Sir Hampton's house; and a pang shot through the little fellow, as envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness took possession of his heart.

"Lucky beggars!" he groaned.

He felt better, though, the next minute, for the servant who answered the door had evidently said "Not at home!" card-cases had been withdrawn, and then the visitors had languidly descended the steps and continued their way.

"Lucky beggars!" said Pratt again. "Heigho! what a donkey I am to wander about here. Poor d.i.c.k, though, it's to do him a good turn."

He crossed the road to the railings of the garden, and as he walked there he cast a very languishing look up at the great, grim house, almost fancying he heard "Er-rum!" proceed from an open window; and if he had not said his presence there was on account of his friend, any looker-on would have vowed it was in his own interests.

He walked slowly on, thinking about Cornwall, and another visit he had projected there; of Fin Rea; about Richard and his disappointments; about his pretty neighbour; and lastly of a case he had in hand, when a little toy dog rushed amongst the shrubs inside the railings, and began snapping and barking at him with all the virulence of an old acquaintance.

"Get out, you little wretch!" thought Pratt, and then he fancied he recognised the dog.

"Why, it's Pepine!" he mentally exclaimed.

And if any doubt remained it was solved by a voice crying--