To make up for this, Richard tried to be civil to a couple of rustic la.s.ses, who received all his little bits of matter-of-fact politeness and conversation with giggles and glances at a young Devonian in the corner of the carriage, till his brickdust-coloured visage became the colour of one of his own ruddy ploughed fields, and he announced that "for zigzpence he'd poonch that chap's yed."

Hereupon the old lady with the bundles loudly proclaimed a wish that her "zun" was there; and ended by hoping that, if "this young man" (meaning Richard) intended to make himself unpleasant, he would go into another carriage.

It was hard--just at a time, too, when Richard's temper seemed to be angular and sore--when the slightest verbal touch made him wince. But he set his teeth, bore a good deal of vulgar banter with patience, and was able to compliment himself grimly for his forbearance during the long ride along that single line of Cornish railway that is one incessant series of scaffold-like viaducts, over some of the most charming little valleys in our isle.

After pa.s.sing Plymouth, the old lady became so sociable that she dropped asleep against our traveller. The rustics had given place to a tall traveller; and the soldier and sailor grew hilariously friendly after replenishing their bottles at Plymouth. And so, fighting hard to put the past in its proper place--behind--the train bore Richard onward to his goal.

Just before nearing Paddington Station, Trevor took out his pocket-book, and the rugged, hard look upon his face was softened. He glanced round the compartment, to see that half his fellow-pa.s.sengers were asleep, the soldier drunk, the stout old lady with the bundles busy hunting for her railway ticket, and the sailor disconsolately trying to drain a little more rum out of his bottle.

By this time Trevor had grown weary of the long journey--so tedious on the hard third-cla.s.s seats--in spite of his determination; and a sigh would once or twice escape, as recollections of his old first-cla.s.s luxury intruded.

"I'll hold to it, though," he muttered.

And, determined to go on in his course, he opened his pocket-book, and drew from it a letter which he had received from Tolcarne. It was not long, but it sent the blood dancing through his veins, and nerved him for the fight to come. It ran as follows:--

"Dearest d.i.c.k--What shall I say to you in this your great trouble?

Can I say more than that I would give anything to be by your side, to try and advise--at all events, to try and help and comfort? Papa was very angry when your letter came, and read it to Aunt Matty; but let that pa.s.s, as I tell you only, d.i.c.k, that you have a friend in dear mamma, who stood up for you as n.o.bly as did darling little Fin, who had been in unaccountably low spirits before. I tried so hard, d.i.c.k, to come to you--to answer your letter and scold you; but they would not let me stir. I dare not tell you what they said; you must guess when I tell you that I was a dreadfully disobedient child, and Aunt Matty declared that no good could ever come to a girl who set herself up in opposition to her father and aunt. Poor dear mamma was left out of it altogether. I say all this, d.i.c.k, for fear you should think I fell away from you in your trouble, and would not come to you as you wished; but my heart was with you all the time. And now, d.i.c.k, darling, to be more matter-of-fact, what is all this to us? You could not help it; and whether you are Richard Trevor or Richard Lloyd by name, how does it alter you in the eyes of her to whom you said so much? d.i.c.k, you don't know me, or you would never have sent me that cruel letter, so full of your dreadful determination. Oh, d.i.c.k, do you think--can you think--I wish to be free? You taught me to love you, and you cannot undo your work. For shame, to write in that desponding tone because of this accident. It was very wicked and dreadful of Mrs Lloyd, but you could not help it; and now you have so n.o.bly determined to make rest.i.tution to poor Humphrey, let it all go.

My d.i.c.k only stands out more n.o.bly than ever. You have your profession, sir--go back to that, and they will only be too proud to have you; but don't go long voyages, or where there are storms. I lay awake all night listening to the wind, and thinking how thankful I ought to be that you were ash.o.r.e, d.i.c.k, and all the time I felt prouder than ever of my own boy. Oh, d.i.c.k, never talk to me of freedom! Nothing can make me change. Even if I saw with my own poor little crying eyes that you cared for me no more, I could not leave off loving; and, dear d.i.c.k--dearest d.i.c.k--don't think me bold and unmaidenly if I say now what I should not have dared to say if you had not been in trouble--d.i.c.k, recollect this--that there is some one waiting your own time, when, rich or poor, you shall ask her to come to you, when and where you will, and she will be your own little wife--Tiny.

"P.S.--Pin has looked over my shoulder, and read all this as I wrote it; and she says it is quite right, besides sending her dear love to brother d.i.c.k."

Trevor's forehead went down on his hands as he finished, his face was very pale, and a strange look was in his eyes as he re-perused the note.

"G.o.d bless her!" he muttered. "I will do something, and I believe she will wait for me; but I can't drag her down to share my poverty. But there, I won't curse it, when I see how it brings out the pure metal from the fire. I can't go back to the sea, though. Pooh! what chance have I--a poor penniless servant's son--how should I get a ship. Why, my rank has been obtained by imposture."

The rugged, hard look came back, but the sight of an enclosure once more smoothed his forehead.

"Here's dear little Fin," he said to himself. "Well, after all, it's very sweet to find out how true some hearts can be."

Saying this to himself, he opened and read a little jerky scrawl from Fin:--

"My own dear Brother d.i.c.k,--I sent you a message by Tiny, but I thought I'd write too, so as to show you that little people can be as staunch as big. Never mind about the nasty money, or the troublesome estate--you can't have everything; and I tell you, sir, that you've won what is worth a thousand Penreifes--my darling little Tiny's heart--you great, ugly monster! Dear d.i.c.k, I'm so sorry for you, but I can't cry a bit--only pat you on the back and say, 'Never mind.'

I'll take care of Tiny for you, in spite of Aunt Matty--a wicked old woman!--for if she didn't look up from a goody-goody book, and say that she'd always expected it, and she was very glad. Ma sends her love to you, and says she shall come across to Penreife to see you, the first time papa goes over to Saint Kitt's. She would come now, only she wants to keep peace and quietness in the house. They're against you now, but it will soon blow over. If it don't, we'll win over Aunt Matty to our side by presenting her with dogs. By the way, Pepine has a cold: he sneezed twice yesterday, and his tail is all limp. Goodbye, d.i.c.k.--Your affectionate sister,

"Fin Rea."

Richard's eyes brightened as he read this, and then carefully bestowed it in his pocket-book.

He then took out and read again the letter that had come by post:--

"My dear old d.i.c.k,--Had yours and its thunderclap. Gave me a bad headache. Hang it all! if it's true, what a predicament for a fellow to find out that he's somebody else--'Not myself at all,' as the song says! But you have possession, d.i.c.k; and, speaking as a lawyer, I should say, let them prove it on the other side. Don't you go running about and telling people you've no right to the property; for, after all, it may only be an hallucination of that old woman's brain. What a dreadful creature! Why, if she isn't your mother--and really, I think she can't be--I should feel disposed to prosecute her; and I should like to hold the brief. Don't be in too great a hurry to give up, but, on the contrary, hold on tight; for that's a fine estate, and very jolly, so long as you could keep off the locusts. On looking back, though, there are a good many strange things crop up--the wonderful display of interest in dear Master d.i.c.k, and all the rest of it. Looks bad--very bad--and like the truth d.i.c.k. But, as I said before, legally you've got possession, and if I can help you to keep it--no, hang it, d.i.c.k! if the place isn't yours, old boy, give it up.

There, you see how suitable I am for a barrister. I could never fight a bad cause. But, as I said before, give it up, every inch of it. I wouldn't have my old man d.i.c.k with the faintest suspicion of a dirty trick in his nature. Cheer up, old fellow, there's another side to everything. That Sybaritish life was spoiling you. Why, my dear boy, you've no idea how jolly it is to be poor. Hang the wealth! a fico for it! Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on fire at high or low water, above bridge or below. Meanwhile, we'll banquet, my boy, feast on chops--hot chops--and drink cold beady beer out of pewters. Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your tin, what do you know of real life? Setting aside metaphysics, d.i.c.k, old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,

"Frank Pratt.

"P.S.--I should have liked to see Tolcarne again. Pleasant, dreamy time that. Of course you will see no more of the little girls?"

"Poor old Frank," said Richard, refolding the letter. "I believe he cared for little Fin."

There was no time for dreaming, with the bustle of Paddington Station to encounter; and making his way into the hotel, he pa.s.sed a restless, dreamless night.

Volume 3, Chapter III.

NEW LODGINGS.

Richard was pretty decided in his ways. Hotel living would not suit him now; and soon after breakfast he took his little valise, earned a look of contempt from the hotel porter by saying that he did not require a cab, and set off to walk from Paddington to Frank's chambers in the Temple; where he arrived tired and hot, to climb the dreary-looking stone stairs, and read on the door the legend written upon a wafered-up paper, "Back in five minutes."

With all the patience of a man accustomed to watch, Richard up-ended his portmanteau, and sat and waited hour after hour. Then he went out, and obtained some lunch, returning to find the paper untouched.

Sitting down this time with a newspaper to while away the time, he tried to read, but not a word fixed itself upon his mind; and he sat once more thinking, till at last, weary and low-spirited, he walked out into the Strand, the portmanteau feeling very heavy, but his determination strong as ever.

"Keb, sir--keb, sir," said a voice at his elbow; for he was pa.s.sing the stand in Saint Clement's Churchyard.

"No, my man--no."

"Better take--why, I'm blest!"

The remark was so emphatic that Richard looked the speaker in the face.

"Don't you remember me, sir--axdent, sir--op'site your club, sir--me as knocked the lady down, sir?"

"Oh yes," said Richard, "I remember you now. Not hurt, was she?"

"On'y shook, sir. But jump in, sir. Let me drive yer, sir. Here, I'll take the portmanter."

"No, no," said Richard, "I don't want to ride, I--there, confound it, man, what are you about?"

"No, 'fence, sir--I on'y wanted to drive a gent as was so kind as you was. Odd, aint it, sir? That there lady lives along o' me, at my house, now--lodges, you know--'partments to let, furnished."

"Apartments!" cried Richard, eagerly; "do you know of any apartments?"

"Plenty out Jermyn Street way, sir."

"No, no; I mean cheap lodgings."

"What, for a gent like you, sir?" said Sam Jenkles.

"No, no--I'm no gentleman," said Richard, bitterly; "only a poor man. I want cheap rooms."

"Really, sir?" said Sam, rubbing his nose viciously.

"Yes, really, my man. Can you tell me of any?"

"You jump in, sir, and I'll run you up home in no time."

"But I--"

"My missus knows everybody 'bout us as has rooms to let--quiet lodgings, you know, sir; six bob a week style--cheap."