Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

But he bore it all in a calm, manly fashion; shook hands warmly with Mr Mervyn, who had come with a white favour in his button-hole; stood best man to Humphrey; and after little Polly, but a week before at school, had been given away by her uncle, and, the wedding over, the carriage had driven back with the bride and bridegroom, he took his place again quite calmly, shook hands with those who clustered round, and was driven away.

Everything went off well; and at the simple wedding breakfast, when called upon, Richard, in a very manly speech, wished health and happiness to the bride and bridegroom. Humphrey responded, broke down, tried again, broke down again, and then, leaving his place, crossed to where Richard sat, grasped his hand, and in a voice choking with emotion, exclaimed —

“Master Dick, I’m speaking for my wife as well as myself when I tell you that, if you wish us to be a happy couple, you must come back to your own.”

Richard rose, and returned the strong grasp; but before he could utter a word Pratt brought his hand down bang upon the table, exclaiming —

“Mother Hubbard, by Jove!”

Every face was directed at the door, where, standing, in her black hat and scarlet shawl, with her hands resting upon the horn handle of her umbrella, was the little grey old woman of Plymouth Station.

“It’s dear Aunt Price,” cried Polly, jumping up; and, regardless of her finery, she ran to the severe-looking old lady, hugged her affectionately, and then began to unpin her shawl, and take off her hat. “Oh, aunty, I’m so glad you’ve come.”

“And are you married, look you?” said the old lady.

“Married, yes,” cried Humphrey, heartily; “we couldn’t wait, you know, or it would have been too late. Give’s your umbrella, and come and sit down. Why didn’t you come last night?”

“It was too far, my poy,” said the old lady; “and I was tired. It’s a long way, look you, from Caerwmlych, and I’m a very old woman now. Well, Lloyd – well, Chane, you’re both looking older than when I was here last, close upon thirty years ago, and nursed you through two illnesses.”

“We are quite well,” said Mrs Lloyd; “but didn’t expect you here.”

“P’r’abs not, p’r’abs not,” said the old lady; “put Polly here wrote to me to come, and I thought it was time, for she’s peen telling me strange news, look you.”

Lloyd shuffled in his chair, Mrs Lloyd was silent, and Richard’s brow knit as he glanced across the table at Pratt, while Humphrey busied himself in supplying the old lady’s plate.

“I cot Polly’s letter, look you, and I teclare to cootness, if I’d been tead and perried, I think I should have cot up and t come, look you. And so you’re married to Humphrey! Ah, well, he was a tisacreeable paby; but he’s grown, look you, into a fine lad, and I wish you poth choy.”

The old lady took a glass of wine and ate a little, and then grew more garrulous than ever, while no one else seemed disposed to speak.

“And I’m glad to see you again,” said the old lady, looking at Richard. “I tidn’t expect it when I left you at the railway place; and yet I seemed to know you again, look you. I felt I knew the face, and I teclare to cootness I couldn’t tell where I’d seen it, but I rememper now.”

“Come, aunt, darling,” said Polly, “make a good breakfast.”

“Tinner you mean, child,” said the old lady.

“Well, dinner, dear,” said Polly, “because I want a long talk with you before we go.”

“You’re coing away, then?”

“Yes, aunt, for a month; but you’ll stay till we come back?”

“Well, I ton’t know, look you,” said the old lady, sturdily. “Chane Lloyd and I never tid get on well together; but if Mr Richard Trevor there isn’t too prout to ask a poor old woman off the mountains – who nursed his poor mother, and tantled him in her arms when he was a paby – I teclare to cootness I will stay.”

A dead silence fell upon the group at the table. Humphrey seemed uncomfortable, Polly clung to his arm, Mrs Lloyd looked white and downcast, and her husband glanced at the door, and motioned a servant who was entering to retire.

Richard broke the silence, after giving a reassuring smile to Humphrey and his wife, by saying, gravely —

“I would ask you to stay with pleasure, Mrs Price, if I were master here, but you are mistaken. There sits Mr Humphrey Trevor; I am your own kith and kin, Richard Lloyd.”

“Chut! – chut! – chut!” exclaimed the old lady, starting up and speaking angrily, as she pointed at him with one finger. “Who ever saw a Lloyd or a Price with a nose like that? Ton’t tell me! You’re Mr Richard Trevor, your father’s son, and as much like him, look you, as two peas.”

The Lloyds rose, Mrs Lloyd looking like ashes as she clung to her husband’s arm; while Pratt left his place, and stood behind the chair of his friend.

“I’d forgotten all about it, look you,” said the old lady, prattling away, “till Polly wrote to me from her school; and then it all came back about Chane Lloyd and her paby, and her having the fever when her mistress died. Why, look you, tidn’t I go up to the nursery after peing town to see the funeral, and find Chane Lloyd hat peen up there, and put her paby in the young master’s cratle? and, look you, titn’t I go town to chite her, and find her all off her heat, and she was ill for weeks? I thought she’d tone it without knowing, or, peing wild-like, had liked to see her little one in the young master’s clothes. I put that all right again, and nursed poth pabies till she cot well. Lloyd – Trevor – tidn’t I see them poth as soon as they came into the worlt, and to you think I ton’t know them? Why, look at them!”

She turned to Pratt, who was nearest to her; but she cried out in alarm, for the little fellow had caught her in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks, as he cried —

“It isn’t Mother Hubbard, Dick, but the good fairy out of the story-book. God bless you! old lady, for this. Here, Humphrey, see to your mother.”

But Humphrey was pumping away at both Richard Trevor’s arms, as he cried, excitedly —

“Hooray! Master Dick. I never felt so happy in my life. Polly, lass, we shall get the cottage after all.”

He saw the next moment, though, that Mrs Lloyd had fainted dead away; and his were the arms that carried her to her bedroom, while Polly crept to the old Welshwoman’s side.

“I came, look you, Master Richard, to put all this right,” said the old lady. “Putt it was all nonsense, I teclare to cootness. Anypody might have seen.”

“I – I thank you – I’m contused – dazed, rather,” said Trevor, looking from one to the other. “Polly, my poor girl, I’ll try to make up to you for this disappointment.”

“I’m not disappointed, please, Mr Richard, sir,” said Mrs Humphrey, bobbing a curtsey, and then trying a boarding-school salute and failing, and blushing terribly.

“I’m very happy indeed, and I’m sure Humphrey is – he said so, and he always tells the truth. And if you please, sir, aunt and I will go now into the housekeeper’s room.”

“That you won’t, if I have any influence with some one here,” said Pratt. “No, my pretty little wife; you and your brick of a husband shall go off in triumph; and oh, by Jove! here’s the present I brought down for you.”

Frank Pratt’s present was a handsome ring, and he was placing it above the plain one already on her finger, when Humphrey came back.

“She’s all right again,” he said, huskily. “I was obliged to come away, for she wanted to go on her knees – and I couldn’t stand it. Polly – Aunt Price – she wants you both. Master Dick, sir, isn’t this a day?”

Conclusion

Everybody said, as a matter of course, afterwards, that the whole affair was perfectly absurd, and that anybody could see with half an eye that Humphrey was not a Trevor. All the same, though, he had been accepted for many months as the owner of the estate.

The young couple went off on their wedding trip, for Mrs Lloyd’s illness was of only a transitory nature; and soon after the carriage had taken them to the station, the old housekeeper sent a message to Trevor, asking leave to see him.

What took place at that interview Richard Trevor never said; but the result was that a couple of hours after she and her husband had left the place, having refused Trevor’s offer to let them stay, though living on his bounty to the end.

In writing, it needs but a stroke of the pen to carry the reader now to a year ago or the reverse; so let us say that a year has elapsed, and there is once more a dinner-party at Penreife, where there are visitors staying. It is to meet them that Sir Hampton and Lady Rea are coming from Tolcarne. One of the visitors is with her sister beneath one of the shady trees on the lawn; and the other, a little solemn-looking man, her husband, has been making a tour of the place with Richard Trevor.

They stopped at the pretty keeper’s lodge, with its little farm, to drink new milk, tempered from a flask, offered in glasses by pretty Mrs Humphrey Lloyd, who looked wonderfully important with the new baby. Then they visited the stables, where an old friend was enjoying a pipe after seeing to the comforts of the horses; for Sam Jenkles, when poor Ratty was obstinate for the last time, and insisted upon dying of old age in the road instead of at peace in the stables, gladly accepted the offer made to him to take the superintendence of the little stud at Penreife; while his wife lived in one of the prettiest cottages on the estate, and was always busy at the house during company times.

Sam’s news when he came down was that Mrs Fiddison had changed her name, having been proposed to by a widower who fancied she was one of the bereaved; also that one Barney had got into some little difficulty with the police, and had gone abroad for change of air.

On returning to the house for dressing, the ladies were already prepared, and the gentlemen had only time to hurry on their things before there was a loud “Er-rum” in the hall, and Sir Hampton Rea was ready to button-hole his sons-in-law, telling the Cornish one that the new greenhouse was a great success, and that Sanders should come over the next day to see the wistaria.

As for Lady Rea, she was being heartily kissed, every kiss budding into a smile on her pleasant face, till Tiny made the discovery that the plump, affectionate little dame was coming undone, when she had her whisked away and pinned, volubly telling her daughter the while that Pepine was so ill, Aunt Matty had not the heart to come.

At eleven precisely the last “Er-rum” is heard in the hall, and peace – truly a blessed peace – falls on the pleasant Cornish home.