A Little World

Tim found himself the next minute in the entry, holding the money he had received very far down in his pocket with one hand, as if every one in Bedford Row and its vicinity was intent upon garrotting him, and bearing off his cash.

“Squills, indeed! magneshy!” muttered Tim, indignantly; “I’d like to give him magneshy – a brute. It’s my opinion as they wouldn’t much mind if something was to happen, and this sorter thing could be dropped;” and he left hold of his money, drew forth that hand and slapped his pocket; but only to thrust back the hand and once more hold tightly to his treasure, for he told himself that some of it should go in comforts for the child, or he’d know the reason why.

Tim crossed Holborn, and made his way into a retired street, where he gave vent to a deep sigh, and, as if continuing his interrupted train of thought, he muttered —

“I can’t say as I shall only go once, or whether it’ll be twice, or a hundred times, to fetch this; but it’s my opinion something will happen.”

The thought of “something” happening seemed to cut Tim to the quick, for as if to force back the rising grief, he crushed his hat down over his eyes, and hurried through the streets to his abode, where he found Mrs Ruggles waiting to take charge of the money.

“Of course not,” exclaimed that lady, as soon as Tim, taking advantage of the child having dropped into one of her short slumbers, had related his conversation with the lawyer. “What would they care? Glad of it, as hundreds more would be; but we’ll disappoint them; they’re not going to get off so easy as they expect.”

Tim hugged himself in secret as he saw the effect of his words; for after that, for a season, Mrs Ruggles was very particular in seeing that the child took her medicine, and was at the dispensary regularly at the proper hours for receiving advice.

But this did not last long; Mrs Ruggles declaring that she thought, after all, there was not much the matter, and returning to her old ways, though even her hard fierce nature shrank from treating so severely as had been her former custom the poor suffering child surely fading away before her eyes.

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Three.

Harry’s Employ

The letter which Harry Clayton found at his chambers was in answer to an advertisement in the Times; for, finding himself somewhat straitened for money, and, in his pride, determined not to apply to Richard Pellet, Harry had offered his services to read with some young patrician preparing for college. The result of the ensuing correspondence was, that he became what he termed bear-leader to one Lionel Redgrave, son of a wealthy baronet; the affair being quickly settled, and the old baronet, who had been favourably impressed by Harry’s frank, manly bearing, warmly expressed his confidence that the result would be highly advantageous to his son.

Harry knew that his expectations were good; but a growing distaste for the life at Norwood had kept him away more and more, so that, save for occasional visits paid for the sake of seeing his mother, there was very little communication kept up; and, judging from Richard Pellet’s behaviour, it seemed likely that there would be less still in the future. So Harry eagerly made his arrangements, and a short time after, the young men were together in town, where Lionel Redgrave had determined to have chambers for the present, an arrangement in nowise distasteful to Harry Clayton, who passed his days in a state of feverish anxiety at Cambridge, in spite of his determination to read; telling himself that, after all, if he expected to win Patty, he ought not to cease to strive to see her, however unlucky he had hitherto been.

He was to meet her soon though, little as he expected it, and in a way that should take him by surprise, so much so, that he returned from his encounter bitter and annoyed.

It was evening, and the roar of fashionable Regent Street came incessantly through the entresol window.

Harry Clayton was reading, and Lionel Redgrave – a tall, well-made young fellow – was lolling back in his chair, smoking with all his might.

Three or four times over the latter impatiently shifted his position, going through the performance of one who is terribly bored; but his fidgeting attracted no attention till, in a bluff loud voice, he exclaimed —

“My dear Harry, what a serious old cad you are! Throw away those books.”

“My dear Li, what a groomy individual you do make yourself! Throw that cigar away, and let’s have a quiet evening’s reading.”

“Likely! I shall just have another cigar, and then we’ll go and see something. Open that window – there’s a good fellow,” and he leaned back in the lounge of their handsomely furnished room.

Harry rose, opened the low window, admitting the loud rattle of the traffic, and then returned to his seat, which he drew nearer to his companion.

“Look here,” he said; but there was no reply; the young man only lay back with half-closed eyes, lit a fresh cigar, and luxuriously watched the blue rings of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.

“Look here, Lionel,” said Harry again, after a pause; this time eliciting for response, the one word —

“Bother!”

“I really cannot stand this sort of thing any longer,” said Harry, without noticing the other’s coolness. “You know why I am here – you know why your father wished me to be with you; and really I cannot consent to go on, week after week, in this unsatisfactory manner.”

“Why not?” said the other, coolly emitting a puff of smoke.

“Why not? Because I feel as if I were robbing him. A month gone to-day, and what have we done?”

“Done! Seen no end of life, my boy – studied from nature. What more would you have?”

“Life!” exclaimed Harry, bitterly; “do you call that wretchedly artificial existence that we have seen by gaslight, life? If I were a moralist, I should call it the well-lighted ante-chamber of the pit; but I won’t preach.”

“No, don’t, that’s a good fellow. Daresay you’re quite right, but it’s a very pleasant way of getting down to the pit all the same. But I say, Harry, don’t bother; you’ve been very jolly so far. Let’s go on just the same.”

“And your father?”

“Bless his old heart! what about him? Sent me a cheque, this morning – extra, you know – and hoped we get on well together. He’s got a first-rate opinion of you. By the way, write and acknowledge the cheque, and say we get on first-rate.”

“But, Redgrave, pray be serious.”

“So I am,” exclaimed the other, pettishly, as he dashed his cigar out of the window, and suddenly rose to a sitting posture. “Now, look here, Clayton. I like having you with me, ’pon my soul, I do; you act like ballast to me, you do indeed. I’m given to carrying too much sail, and if it was not for you, I should be like my little yacht, the Kittiwake, in a squall, and on my beam ends in no time.”

Harry tapped the table impatiently with his fingers.

“Now, look here, Harry,” continued Lionel; “as to robbery, don’t you be a fool. You’re saving the governor no end by keeping down my expenses; for you know, Harry, I am rather afraid of you, I am indeed; but I want you to stop with me all the same. Don’t speak; it’s my turn to preach now. As to reading, and all that sort of thing, studying, and working up – I can’t read, and I won’t read. I’m not clever, and classics are no use to me, and never will be, with my income. What the deuce do I care about Homer and Virgil, and all the rest of the Greek and Roman humbugs? It’s right enough for a clever fellow like you – all brains. But, ’pon my soul, Harry, if you bother me any more, I’ll swear, and then I’ll bite, so there’s an end of it.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders, and then in despair closed the book at his side, gazing the while, with a serio-comic look of chagrin, in the handsome Saxon face of the speaker.

“’Taint your fault, Harry; so just hold your tongue and have a cigar, and pitch me over another, for I’m dog tired.”

Saying which, he contrived to catch the roll of tobacco leaf, lit a fusee on the sole of his boot, and then threw himself back, but only – as there came a smart rap at the door – to yell out impatiently —

“Come in!”

The door was opened, and a smart-looking maid brought in a letter, which was evidently for the master of the chambers; but as his hands were locked together behind his reclining head, and the exertion of loosening them seemed to be more than he cared to encounter, Harry took the missive from the girl, and glanced at the superscription.

“For you,” he said, as the girl retired.

“’Taint from the governor, I can see at this distance,” said Lionel. “Open it and see what’s inside, there’s a good fellow. Tailor’s bill I’ll be bound.”

“No,” said Harry, turning the note over uneasily; “it is evidently a lady’s hand.”

“Lady’s hand! Gammon! Who’d write to me?”

“Lady’s hand – evidently French,” continued Harry, and then he read from the envelope —

“To Mr – Mr L.R., 70 Regent Street.”

“Why, it’s an answer to the advertisement,” cried Lionel, bursting into a loud laugh. “Read it out, old boy.”

Harry seemed as if he were attracted by the delicacy of the handwriting; for, instead of tearing open the missive, he took out a penknife and cut the paper, heedless of Lionel Redgrave’s sneering laugh.

“What a model of care you are, Harry,” he exclaimed; “fold your clothes up every night when you go to bed, I’ll swear.”

Harry smiled, and then read aloud: —