Vol 1 CHAPTER I. COLLEGE LIFE.
 It is near the end of the Lent term at Cambridge, a raw, damp day. The grey clouds are drifting thick and low, over the flat fen country, and a fine mist is falling steadily. But for once no one seems to mind the weather. It is two o’clock, and from all the colleges the men are pouring out in groups, on their way down to the river.
 
Hardly a soul in the University remains behind. Even the reading men have closed their books for the afternoon, have given up their daily constitutional out beyond Trumpington, and are going down to see their college eights row.
 
2It is the last day of the races. Along the men tramp in little knots through the narrow winding streets—talking excitedly as they go, and making many bets as to the fortune of the day—and then, across the wet grass, down to the water side.
 
Here those who are to row cross the floating bridge to the boat-houses, while the others walk slowly along the banks, to see the boats as they paddle by on their way down. Soon they come; John’s in its blazing scarlet, Trinity in dark blue, cherry-coloured Emanuel, chocolate Corpus, and violet Caius; Trinity Hall in its sober grey, Sidney in bright orange, and Queen’s in green.[1] These and many others sweep past, and the narrow river seems alive with the flashing oars.
 
1.  Many of the colours have since been changed.
 
The men on the banks hurry now, to be up at the starting posts in time.
 
Some trot along for a little way, by the side of the boat they are most interested in, watching with anxious eye, the condition and form of each man, and the regular swing of the crew. Now they have arrived at the post-reach, and are clustered along the towing path, while the boats, 3by this time empty, lie at their respective stations. Their crews stand alongside, looking grave and anxious, and receive the final words of advice and admonition from their captains.
 
At length the last boat has arrived at its post, and the first gun fires. There are three minutes yet, but the men take their places in their boats, strip off the upper jerseys and comforters in which they are wrapped, and, amid a perfect babel of last words, of little speeches of encouragement and good will, from their friends on the bank, push slowly off.
 
The crowd on the towing-path clusters thickest round the first three boats, but our place is by the fifth, for that contains the men whose fortunes will be the subject of this story. It is Caius; before it lies Emanuel, behind it Trinity Hall, confessedly the best crew of the three. Another gun. The tumult on the bank is hushed as if by magic, umbrellas are closed, coats buttoned up, and all prepare for a start. The boats lie out in the middle of the stream; twenty of them in a long line; each with its eight stalwart oarsmen, all in white, their caps forming the only distinguishing badges. Each 4of the coxswains holds in his hand a rope attached to his post. These are forty yards apart, and each boat’s bow is therefore only some sixty feet from the rudder of the one before it.
 
There is a dead silence, broken only by voices of men on the bank counting the seconds, and by the short quick orders of the coxswains.
 
“Fifteen seconds gone;”—“Paddle bow and two;”—“Twenty;” “Thirty;” “Forty seconds gone;” “Forty-five;”—“Pull half a stroke bow;”—“Fifty;” “Fifty-five;”—“Forward all;”—“Sixty.” As the word is heard, the gun is fired; a hundred and sixty oars strike the water as if by one impulse. At the same moment a roar of exhortation and encouragement breaks from the crowd on the bank; they set off to run—a wild, pushing, shouting throng.
 
No easy matter is it to keep up with the flying boats, jostled and pushed in that excited, eager crowd. Woe be to him who falls,—fortunate by comparison he who is pushed into the river. A wild looking set are they: men in boating dresses of every variety of colour, their arms waving frantically; men in pea-jackets, and waterproof coats and wraps of every description; sober 5reading men, lost in the tumult, bewildered and hustled, intent only on keeping their feet, all shouting in voices which grow momentarily hoarse and broken.
 
The boats had got an equally good start, but in the first few hundred yards Trinity Hall had considerably lessened the gap between itself and Caius, while the latter had gained but slightly upon Emanuel. In this order they round the post corner, and dash on through the gut to Grassy. “Now bow and three, now bow and three,” is the shout, and the boats sweep round the sharp curve.
 
Here Emanuel steers rather wild, and her pursuer has palpably gained upon her. The shouting redoubles; men who have dropped behind from the leading boats join the throng and take up the cry, “Now, Caius, now; you’re gaining, you’re gaining.” “Now, Trinity Hall, take her along.” There are not thirty feet between Emanuel and Caius, while Trinity Hall is not twenty behind the latter. On they fly, the boats leaping forward at each stroke like long hungry water snakes after their prey, past the Plough, and round Ditton corner. Here a fresh burst 6cheering breaks out from the opposite bank, from numbers stationed there;—dons too old and staid to run along the towing path, and men on horse-back, who start to gallop alongside. Many ladies are there too; these wave their handkerchiefs and parasols, and would like to run along with the rest. On the boats dart; rounding the corner the tired crews pull with renewed energy and hope. It is straight home now; only another half mile. They are nearing each other fast. There is certain to be a bump: which boat will make it? Nearer and nearer. Trinity Hall overlaps Caius; but her bow has not touched her flying adversary, and whenever it draws near, the rudder of the Caius boat is slightly turned, and a rush of water thrown against it. This cannot last. Inch by inch they draw up, and Caius is still three feet behind Emanuel. Her chance seems hopeless. All at once, in a momentary lull of the shouting, a well-known voice from the throng, that of one of the college tutors, himself once a famous oar, comes out clear and strong—“Now, Caius, now—twenty strokes, and you are in to them. One—two—three.” The crowd take up the cry: “four”—“five”—“six;” 7and at each stroke the boat seems to leap upon its adversary. “Seven”—“eight”—“three more and you do it.” “Nine”—“ten”—“eleven;” and a last wild cheer breaks out as the nose of the Caius boat touches the rudder of Emanuel, and the bump is made.
 
The two boats immediately pull aside to let those behind them pass, and the gasping crews lean on their oars, exhausted and breathless. One or two get out, too done-up to pull farther, while friends on the bank take their places. The light University blue flag, with the Caius’ arms in the centre, is hoisted triumphantly in the stern, and the boat paddles quietly on again, saluted by a burst of “see the conquering hero comes,” from the band on the barge near the railway bridge. The excitement is over, and the men on the bank, awaking to the consciousness that they are terribly wet, once more put up their umbrellas, and make the best of their way back to college.
 
It is evening now in the quiet courts of Caius. The wind has quite dropped, the rain has ceased, and the night is still and dark; but from some of the windows the lights stream out brightly into the gloom, and sounds of singing and loud 8laughter at times break out across the deserted court.
 
Now a man crosses the court, smoking a short pipe, with a very battered cap upon his head, and a very short gown over his shoulders; goes up the stairs to one of the rooms from which the laughter and noise come loudest, stops at a door over which the name of Grahame is painted in white letters, opens it, and goes in.
 
His arrival is greeted with shouts of welcome, with a great thumping of tumblers, and cries of “Hurrah, seven! Well rowed, old man!”
 
“Come up this way, Frank,” a voice from the other end of the room shouted through the smoke; “I have kept a place for you here by me.”
 
“I’ll come as soon as I can see my way,” the new-comer answered; “but, upon my word, considering that it’s barely nine o’clock yet, you have managed to blow a very fair amount of tobacco smoke between you.” Accordingly he made his way up to the end of the room, and took his seat by the side of his host, who was the captain and stroke of the Caius eight, and had given this party to celebrate the victory of the day, 9and the termination of the last month’s training. The men round the table, by the unanimity and earnestness with which they were smoking, seemed determined to make up for their long abstinence from the fragrant weed.
 
Frank Maynard, the new comer, was a tall, wiry man, lithe and sinewy, with broad sloping shoulders. His face was long and narrow, still whiskerless, or nearly so, and he would be probably a much better-looking man in another two or three years than he was now. But he could never be handsome; his features were by no means regular, and his honest eyes, frank smile, and powerful frame, constituted at present his only claims to attraction. He was generally addressed by his Christian name, a sure sign at the University of unusual popularity. Upon Frank’s left sat his cousin, Fred Bingham, and a stronger contrast could hardly be imagined. Fred Bingham was under the middle height, and his figure was extremely slight, almost as much so as that of a boy of fourteen, and his waist could have been spanned by the hands of an ordinary man. Apart from the extraordinary youthfulness of his appearance, 10he was good-looking, with well-cut aristocratic features. His hair was very fair, and his face had hardly a trace of colour. His voice was high-pitched and thin, and his laugh especially more resembled that of a girl than a man. He had small and well-formed feet, but his hands curiously were large, red, and coarse. Among a certain set in the college with whom he cared to make himself agreeable he was much liked, but among the boating set he was intensely unpopular. These big, strong men were antipathetic to him, their powerful figures dwarfed his, their deep hearty voices drowned his weak treble and girlish laugh, and his disagreeable remarks and cutting sneers frequently caused disputes which it needed all his cousin Frank’s influence to allay. Indeed, had it not been for Frank’s popularity, the crew would never have retained him for their coxswain, notwithstanding the fact that he really was a most useful man, always cool and collected, with a perfect knowledge of the river, a good judge of rowing, and above all a feather-weight.
 
It is unnecessary to enter into any details as to the doings of the evening, the speech-making, 11the songs, the drinking, and the smoking. Every one can imagine the scene for himself, and may conceive the noise, the shouting and laughing which twenty young fellows in full health and spirits, highly satisfied with themselves and their day’s work, would make upon such an occasion. So great was the hubbub indeed that the dons across the court began to think that even the victory of the day, which they themselves had discussed with great satisfaction over their wine in the common room, could hardly excuse such an uproarious meeting as this. About midnight, however, the party began to break up, and the men scattered over the college to their respective rooms, singing snatches of songs as they went. And then the courts were still again. Frank Maynard, and a few of the quieter men, sat for another hour smoking and discussing the race, agreeing that the credit of the day was mainly due to Crockford, the don who had called upon them for the final ten strokes which had effected the bump. After this they, too, separated, and in a few minutes Caius was quiet for the night.
 
Frank Maynard had not been very long asleep 12when he was awakened by a shouting, and the sound of running in the street. He opened his eyes—the room was lit up with a dull red light—and he hardly needed the cry of “Fire! fire!” to tell him what was the matter. He leaped from his bed, threw up his window, and looked out. There were no flames visible, but the fronts of the houses on the opposite side of the road were aglow with a dark fiery glare. It was evident that the flames were behind him—that one of the colleges was on fire. He ran into the sitting-room—to the windows which looked into the court, and there, through the trees before him, across the court, was a great glare, and sparks flying up. It was close—so close that he could not tell whether it was in the next court of his own college or in Trinity Hall, which lies behind it, separated only by a narrow lane.
 
It was the work of a minute to throw on his clothes, and to run downstairs and across to the gateway leading to the next court; and then he saw that the fire was not there, but in Trinity Hall.
 
Turning back, he ran to the porter’s-lodge. It was already open, and the porter, in answer to 13an appeal at the gate for assistance, had just gone into the college to rouse the men.
 
Frank ran down the narrow lane between Caius and the schools, and in another minute was in Trinity Hall. From the rooms above the gateway a volume of flame and red smoke was pouring out. Not many men were as yet in the court; those there were, belonged to the college itself. They were looking on, ready enough to assist, but helpless at present. The engines had not yet arrived, and the flames were having it all their own way, pouring out with a fierce crackling from the windows of the first-floor. The volume of red smoke, lit up by an occasional tongue of flame, which filled the adjoining rooms, showed that it was rapidly spreading. Very soon a bright ripple of flame runs along the ceilings, the window curtains catch, the glass shivers into fragments at the fiery touch, and the flames rush out with a roar of triumph. Now the men from the colleges near, from Caius and Trinity and Clare, are clustering in, together with a few of the townspeople. Presently the engines come lumbering up, and the handles are seized by eager volunteers. But there is no 14water at hand, and the hose are not long enough to reach to the river behind. So long lines of men are formed down to the waterside, who pass the buckets along from hand to hand, and in a few minutes the engines begin to work. By this time the fire has got a firm hold of the part attacked, and the upper stories are one sheet of flame. Dainty food do the old colleges, with their rickety wooden staircases and wainscoted rooms, dry and inflammable as so much tinder, offer to the hungry fire. At last the engines are in full play, and work at a speed at which engines have seldom worked before. Most of those at the handles are boating-men, who have been for weeks in some sort of training. Beneath their powerful arms the cranks work up and down, with a rapid stroke, very unlike the usual monotonous clank of a fire-engine. The men encourage each other with cheering shouts and boating cries of “Now then, all together!” “Now she moves!” and the jets of water dash eagerly in at the blazing windows. But the fire still spreads. The roof falls in. The flames mount up more fiercely and brightly than before, with vast volumes of glowing smoke, and myriads 15of fiery sparks. Day is dawning, and the crowded court presents a strange sight as the grey morning light breaks on the red flashing of the fire. Some of the men are in pea-jackets with boating-caps of every colour, others are in their caps and gowns. Here a party is working its engine with untiring vigour, there another group is impatiently awaiting fresh supplies of water; long lines of men are passing the buckets to and from the river. Sober dons are as busy and excited as any; a few are directing the operations, the rest are hard at work among the undergraduates. In spite of their exertions the fire still spreads. All are anxious; for if the flames extend to the adjoining wing of the court, Trinity, which is only separated by a narrow lane, is certain to catch fire. These old places are terribly inflammable. Some of the dons therefore get upon the roof, Crockford of Caius most active among them, and direct the hose of the engines; not unfrequently in their haste and inexperience deluging themselves and each other with water, to the amusement of the undergraduates below. No attempt is now made to extinguish the fire in the part it has already seized upon, every effort 16being directed to prevent it from spreading. Several times the flames break into the adjoining rooms, but the dons with the hose, on ladders at the windows, stand their ground and beat them back. All this time the college servants are moving about with cans of beer among the men at work; the butteries of the colleges near are thrown open, and refreshments served to all comers.
 
At last the efforts to check the flames are successful, and they spread no farther. Another hour passes, and it is evident that all danger is over. The flames only shoot up at intervals from the shell they have destroyed. The gown then leave it to the firemen to pump upon the ruins, and scatter to their homes to breakfast.
 
By the time that Frank Maynard had changed his things and was ready, a friend who had been working next to him at the engine, and who had agreed to come in to breakfast, arrived. Arthur Prescott was a man with a short, thick-set figure, and a kindly face with a quaint, old-fashioned expression—one of those faces which, on a boy’s shoulders, looks like that of an old man, but which never alters, and in old age looks younger than it had ever done before.
 
17Arthur Prescott—he had been always called Old Prescott at school, and his intimate friends never spoke of him as anything else even now—was a general favourite. No one was ever heard to say a bad word of him. He was one of those men in whom all around him seem instinctively to confide, and to make a depositary of secrets which they would never relate to anyone else; a straightforward, sensible, true-hearted English gentleman.
 
Prescott and Maynard had been great friends when boys together at Westminster; and, indeed, it was principally the fact of the former’s coming to Caius which had induced Frank to choose that college in preference to any other.
 
Maynard greeted his arrival with, “That’s right, Prescott, you’re just in time to help me; there is the gridiron, put the steak on while I see about the coffee.”
 
For some time there was little conversation. Prescott was fully occupied with his culinary charge, and Maynard in the preparation of the coffee; the apparatus being one of those beautifully-scientific inventions, which, while they produce no doubt an excellent result, demand incessant 18attention, and are liable, in the event of the least thing going wrong, to explode with disastrous consequences. At last all was ready, and they sat down to breakfast. They had scarcely begun when a new-comer entered.
 
“I thought I should find you at breakfast, Maynard. Give me some, like a good fellow. My fire is gone out, and I can’t find either my gyp or bed-maker, although I’ve been shouting from the window till I am as hoarse as a raven. What are you eating? Steak, and mighty nicely done too.”
 
Their hunger once somewhat appeased, they began to talk over the events of the past night, and of the boat supper.
 
“Do you know, Frank,” Teddy Drake said, after a pause, “that cousin of yours—Bingham—becomes more unpleasant every day. I thought last night there would have been a row half-a-dozen times. He is the most insufferable little beggar I ever came across.”
 
Frank laughed. “Bingham does make himself disagreeable, Drake, I quite allow; but it is really all manner, he is not a bad fellow.”
 
19“I only go by what I see and hear, Frank, and I call him a cantankerous little vermin.”
 
“It is all outside, Drake; he is a good-hearted fellow in the main.”
 
“I don’t think it, Frank. I tell you he is a chip of the evil one.”
 
“Without going as far as Drake,” Prescott said, smiling, “I confess, Frank, that I don’t like Bingham. It is not that he is disagreeable, although he certainly is that, but that I feel instinctively repelled by him. Frankly, Maynard, he gives me the impression of being bad hearted. He is essentially a man I could not trust.”
 
“Oh come, Prescott,” Frank said, warmly, “that is not like you. I have known Fred for many years, and I believe him to be a very straightforward fellow. Disagreeable and cantankerous if you like, but a good fellow in the main. In his way he reminds me, although he is as straight as an arrow, of deformed people. They are generally kind-hearted, but they are often extremely sensitive. They imagine all sorts of slights where none are intended, and are not unfrequently very bitter in their remarks on those 20to whom nature has been more bountiful than to themselves. So with Fred; I am sure he feels it very much that he looks a mere boy, and it makes him irritable and snappish.”
 
“I have no doubt there is a good deal in what you say, Frank; but I confess that somehow or other I distrust as much as I dislike him.”
 
“He’s a chip of the evil one,” Teddy Drake muttered to himself, “and there are no two ways about it.”
 
“Now, Drake,” Frank said, “help me to push the table back, and let’s have a pipe. Another fortnight and we shall be going down; now the races are over I shall be glad to be away.”
 
“I am going to stop up and read,” Teddy Drake said, disconsolately. “My coach says that I never open a book when the men are up, and that my only chance is in the vacations, when there is nothing to do. I am afraid he’s about right; and I’ve made up my mind to stick to it. I shall run up to town and see the ‘’Varsity,’ of course, but that’s all the holidays I mean to take.”
 
“Look here, Drake,” Frank said; “the best thing you can do is to come and stay for the 21week with me. My guardian is a capital old fellow, and there’s lots of room in the house.”
 
“I should like it of all things, Frank; but does he object to smoke, because I couldn’t do without that?”
 
“He wouldn’t like it in the breakfast-room,” Frank laughed; “but he smokes himself in his study, and I have a special smoking-room upstairs.”
 
“In that case, Frank, I shall be delighted. That guardian of yours must be a trump. I wish my father saw things in the same reasonable light. He’s always down upon me about smoking; but I am afraid he will never cure me of it.”
 
“I am afraid not, Teddy. Well, you can smoke as much as you like while you are with us.”
CHAPTER II. THE DUSTMAN’S FAMILY.
 Nearly three years have passed since the night of the fire at Trinity Hall. It is a cold wintry afternoon, not a clear frost, but raw and foggy. The ice is forming rapidly, and the costermongers are reaping a rich harvest. All the ponds near London are centres of noisy groups of men with carts, of all sizes and sorts, from the large two-horse vehicle down to mere boxes upon wheels drawn by diminutive donkeys. The drivers are striving and quarrelling, and exchanging volleys of abusive language with each other, in their anxiety for priority of place and right of filling their carts. Those next to the water are engaged in breaking the ice with poles, or with iron weights attached to cords. With these they draw the ice to the shore, pulling it up with rakes, and shovelling and lifting it 23into the carts. When they are filled they drive off to dispose of their loads to confectioners and fishmongers.
 
Although it is nearly dusk there are still a good many strollers by the banks of the Serpentine looking at the state of the ice, and calculating on the chances of skating. On the other side of the bridge, on the long water, the ice is already strong, and will probably bear after another night’s frost; but the Serpentine itself, from its greater breadth and depth, is still thin in many places, and will require two or three days more frost before it will be safe. The ice is everywhere smooth and black, and it is agreed that if the frost holds there will be capital skating.
 
Frank Maynard is walking along the side of the Serpentine with his friend Prescott. He has been for two years upon the Continent, and this is his first winter in England since he left college.
 
“It will be splendid ice for skating if the frost holds, Prescott. I must certainly invest in a pair of new skates. I have some somewhere, but where I have not the remotest idea. You 24must put by your books, and keep me company, at any rate for a day or two.”
 
“I don’t think I can do that, Frank. I don’t like breaking in upon my regular work; and, indeed, I don’t care very much for skating. It must be very pleasant for a really good skater, who can wheel about like a bird, and perform all those intricate figures; otherwise, especially the first day or two of the season, it is very fatiguing and straining. If I could put by my books for a month, I would devote myself to it with all my heart, but for one or two days the pleasure does not pay for the pain. Look, Frank! there is something the matter.”
 
A knot of people were standing together at the edge of the water, apparently watching some small black object upon the ice, but it was already too dusk for the friends, until they came quite close, to see what was the matter. A small dog had run out upon the ice, which was in most places quite strong enough to bear it, but there were many patches, over the powerful springs which well-up in parts of the Serpentine, where the ice had as yet formed a mere skin. On one of these treacherous places the little animal had 25run, and had at once gone through. All round it the ice was extremely thin, and, as the dog endeavoured to scramble out, it broke under its fore-paws, until a good-sized space of water was cleared, round which the poor little animal kept swimming. Had it continued its efforts only in the line towards the shore, the dog would speedily have broken its way to stronger ice. This, however, it had not sense to do, although the men called and whistled to it, and endeavoured in every way to encourage it to swim towards them. But the poor thing continued swimming round and round in its narrow circle, making occasional efforts to get out, but only falling back again, and giving from time to time a pitiful whimper. Its mistress, a little girl of about ten years old, was crying bitterly.
 
“This is very painful, Prescott,” Frank Maynard said, after looking on for some time in silence; “the poor little brute’s cries go through me.”
 
“Come away, Frank,” Prescott said, turning to go. “I don’t know that I ever saw anything more pitiful. Let us get away; it is impossible to do anything for him.”
 
26Frank did not move, but stood looking on irresolutely. At last he said—
 
“It’s no use, I can’t help it. Here, Prescott, take my coat and waistcoat, I must go in for it.”
 
“Nonsense, Frank. My dear fellow, it would be madness!”
 
Frank paid no attention to his friend’s remonstrances, but sat down on the gravel, and began to unlace his boots. He was however anticipated. There was a movement among the crowd near, and a lad of about fourteen, without jacket or boots, stepped into the water, breaking the ice as he did so, amidst a general cheer and some few expostulations from the crowd. Frank Maynard pushed forward impetuously to the spot.
 
“Can you swim well, my boy?” he asked.
 
“Ay,” the boy answered; “I bathe in the Serpentine every morning, winter and summer, except when it’s frozen.”
 
“They’re gone to fetch the ropes,” a man said; “you had better wait till they come back.”
 
“No, no,” the lad said, “it will be too late—he’s pretty nigh done already;” and he went deeper into the water.
 
“That’s right, my lad,” Frank called out; “lose 27no time, or you will get numbed by the cold; and don’t be afraid: if you want help, sing out, and I will come in for you.”
 
Frank unlaced his boots ready to kick them off in a moment, unbuttoned his waistcoat, handed his watch to Prescott, and stood with the rest watching the boy’s progress.
 
He was swimming now. It was slow work; for as he advanced he had to break the ice, sometimes by strokes of his arm, sometimes by trying to get on it and breaking it with his weight. At last he reached the thin ice. It gave way readily enough before him; he gained the little open piece of water which the dog had made, and then turned to come back. It had not been far, not more than twenty yards, but it had taken a long time, and he was evidently exhausted.
 
“I must go in for him, or he will never get back,” Frank said, pulling off his coat and waistcoat; but just as he was about to plunge in, there was a shout from the bystanders, and a man came running up with a long rope which he had fetched from the Humane Society’s house. Frank took it from him and threw it to the boy, who caught the end, and was drawn 28rapidly to the shore amidst the shouts of the crowd, the little dog swimming behind with sharp barks of pleasure. The boy was terribly exhausted, and it was proposed to carry him to the Society’s house; but while the matter was being debated, he recovered himself a little, and said—
 
Please would they leave him alone, he was only out of breath, and would rather run home, for he was late already, and mother would be wondering what had become of him.
 
Seeing that he really was coming round and was anxious to be off, it was agreed to let him have his way. Two men accordingly chafed his arms and hands. When the circulation was restored, his jacket was put on him, and his hands encased in a pair of warm woollen gloves, sizes too large for him, the gift of one of the lookers-on. In the meantime another of the bystanders took off his hat, and went round among the crowd. He speedily collected a goodly number of halfpence, sixpences, and shillings, and a few half-crowns; Frank dropping in a sovereign for himself and Prescott. By the time that the boy had finished his toilet, such 29as it was, and had pronounced himself “all right,” the man came up with the amount collected.
 
The boy opened his eyes in astonishment. “Is all this for me?”
 
“Yes, my boy, and you deserve it well.”
 
“But I did not do it for money,” he said; “I only did it because I could not bear to hear the dog yelp so.”
 
“We know that, my lad,” Frank said; “and this money is not to pay you, but only to show you how pleased we all are with your pluck. You are a brave little fellow. What is your name? and where do you live? for I should like to see if anything can be done for you.”
 
“My name is Evan Holl, sir; and I live in Moor Street, Knightsbridge.”
 
“I shall not forget you,” Frank said; “there, run along now, and don’t stop till you get home.”
 
While they had been speaking, the man who had collected the money had with difficulty put it into the pockets of the boy’s wet trousers, for his hands were quite useless in the big gloves in which they were enveloped.
 
30“Thank you all kindly,” the boy said, when the man had finished; and was preparing to start at a run, when he exclaimed, “But where is my tray?”
 
“Here it is, please,” the child to whom the dog belonged said; “you gave it to me to keep; and, oh, I am so much obliged to you, and so is Bobby.”
 
And here Bobby, who had up to this time been shaking himself, frisking and yelping in the most outrageous way, came up and began to jump upon Evan, in evident token of his gratitude.
 
The tray which the child brought up, was a small wooden one, apparently at some time or other the lid of a box. In it were arranged sticks of peppermint, bullseyes, and brandyballs, in which, during cold weather, Evan drove a brisk trade on the ice. The contents were hastily tumbled into a tin box, in which he carried them when not exposed for sale, and with another “Thank you kindly,” the boy started at a run, and was soon lost in the darkness. This, in the ten minutes which the incident had occupied, had closed in rapidly, and the little crowd by the 31waterside speedily dispersed, talking over the adventure.
 
Evan Holl continued running, slowly at first, for he was numbed and cold to the bones, but gradually, as the blood began to circulate, at a quicker pace. So along by the end of the Serpentine, across Rotten Row, empty and deserted now, through the narrow alley by the side of the barracks into the main road, and then down by the cabstand into Knightsbridge.
 
Knightsbridge may be described geographically as the region bounded on the north by Hyde Park, on the east by Apsley House and St. George’s Hospital, and on the west by Brompton and the cavalry barracks; on the south-east by Wilton Crescent and Lowndes Square, and on the south-west by an unknown region of misery and want. A vast tide of traffic runs through it, formed by the junction of three considerable streams. Two of these are from the west; the one rises in the distant region of Richmond and Brentford, and increases greatly in magnitude by tributaries at Hammersmith and Kensington; the other has its source at Putney, but receives its chief addition in its course 32through Brompton. The third stream comes north from Chelsea, and is poured in by Sloane Street. This great tide commences early, and sets eastward with great violence during the early part of the day, beginning to ebb at about two o’clock, and running west till past midnight, after which it may be said to be slack tide until morning.
 
The stream which flows in at Sloane Street divides Knightsbridge into two portions, differing more entirely in habits, manners, and almost in language, than perhaps any similar division which could be cited. St. George’s Channel, or even the Straits of Dover, do not separate peoples more alien in every thought and action than does Sloane Street. It is, as it were, the great gulf which divides wealth and luxury from poverty and want.
 
Eastward are splendid shops, with their plate glass windows, filled with costly and elegant objects. Long lines of carriages wait in front of them, while their owners expend sums which would appear fabulous to the inhabitants of the western side. On that side are small shops crowded together, as if jostling for room, filled 33with the necessaries of life for the working classes. Their customers do not arrive in carriages, but, hurry up from obscure alleys behind, hastily make their little purchases and are gone. At no time of the week is this difference so strongly marked as on a Saturday evening.
 
Eastward the grand shops are all closed, their customers are at dinner or the opera, and their owners off to their snug suburban villas till Monday.
 
Westward the flood of business is at its highest. The bakers’ shops are so piled with bread that it seems a wonder where it can all go to, but they will be nearly empty by to-night. The grocers’ windows are filled with sugar and tea, with the prices marked on tickets of gaudy colours, with the pennies marvellously large, and the farthings microscopically small. At the doors of the greengrocers are huge baskets heaped with potatoes and vegetables. All are full of a noisy busy crowd of purchasers.
 
Across the pathway are the stalls of the itinerant vendors, lit by candles in paper lanterns. Wonderful are these, too, in their 34way—piles of vegetables, so large that it is a marvel how the decrepit old women who look after the stalls ever got them there; book-stalls and picture-stalls; men with barrows covered with toys of every conceivable description, and all at one penny; men with trays of sweetmeats and lollipops of the most tempting shapes and colours; men with yards of songs, and packets of infallible shaving paste; and men selling twenty articles, among which is a gold wedding-ring, for one penny;—all alike shouting at the top of their voices, and expatiating on the merits of their goods, and all surrounded by a gaping crowd, consisting, of course, chiefly of boys.
 
At some of these, wet as he was, Evan Holl stopped for a minute. Had it not been for the thick gloves, and the tray and tin box under his arm, he would have certainly expended a penny or two among all this tempting display. As it was, after a brief pause, he hurried on past the bright shops, and the crowded stalls, and the butchers’ shops with their great gaslights flaring out, and the women bargaining for their Sunday dinner. He then turned down beneath an archway, and was 35soon in the labyrinth of small streets lying behind this part of Knightsbridge. Now he has left the whirl and confusion of business behind him; he is among the homes of the poor. All is quiet here. The children are indoors or in bed, the mothers, mostly, are doing their shopping. A few men stand about at their doors, smoke long pipes, and chat with their neighbours. Here and there the sounds of singing and noise come through the windows of small public-houses. At the doors of these, perhaps, pale women, in thin torn clothes, stand waiting anxiously; entering timidly sometimes, hanging on already half-drunken husbands, and begging them to come home ere their pay is all spent. Poor things! well may they persist, for on their success depends whether they and their children shall have food for the next week or not. They must not care for curses or an occasional blow, they are accustomed to that, it is for them a battle of life, they must win or starve. Through all this Evan Holl goes. He takes but little notice of it; not that he is hard-hearted, as he has but now sufficiently proved; but he is used to it, and knows that it will be on a 36Saturday night. A few more steps and he is home.
 
A shout greets his arrival, and some of the children, of whom there are several in the room, run up to relieve him of his tray, but fall back again with the exclamation, “Why, Evan, you are all wet!”
 
“Wet!” Mrs. Holl said, hurrying up. “Drat the boy! what has he been after now?”
 
“It is all right, mother; you just wait till I get these things off my hands; why, my pocket is full of money.”
 
“Bless us and save us!” Mrs. Holl ejaculated; and then, maternal solicitude triumphing even over curiosity, “Never mind that now, Evan; why you are dripping wet, and your teeth are all of a chatter; what on earth have you been doing with yourself?”
 
“I have been in the Serpentine, mother.”
 
“Mercy’s sake!” Mrs. Holl exclaimed, “the boy’s mad! There, go upstairs and take off your clothes, and get into bed at once.”
 
Evan did as he was told, as far as going upstairs was concerned, but he only changed his things, and came down again.
 
37His mother, had it been her nature, would have been really angry when she saw him reappear, but as it was not, she contented herself by telling him he was a wilful lad. She then bade him sit down by the fire, and drink some hot beer, with sugar and ginger in it, which she had prepared for him while he was upstairs; giving him strict orders not to speak a word till he had finished it, and was quite warm again. Evan accordingly drank his beer, not hurrying over it, but pretending it was too hot to drink fast; amusing himself with the openly expressed impatience of the other children, who were eagerly watching him, and by the less openly betrayed, but not less real curiosity of Mrs. Holl, who kept bustling about the room in apparent unconcern, but really just as anxious as the others to know what had befallen him. Mrs. Holl’s family is evidently a large one, for there are four or five now in the room, while occasionally a wail from above proclaims that there is at least one little one up there. They are all healthy looking and clean, and their clothes are tidy and carefully mended. The room itself looks bright and cheerful. It is low and whitewashed, and ornamented 38by sundry pictures in varnished frames, principally brightly-coloured prints. The one in the place of honour over the chimney-piece represents a youth in an impossible attitude, and a Scotch plaid of an unknown clan, beneath a greenwood-tree, bidding farewell to a florid young woman, with feathers in her hair; she is attired in a white dress with Tartan scarf of the most brilliant hues.
 
There is a large chest of drawers, black with age, which serves also the purpose of a sideboard; many queer little mugs and ornaments of various sorts and colours stand upon it, and behind them is a large japanned waiter with gaudy flowers.
 
The irons and tins and candlesticks suspended from nails in the wall, or standing on the chimney-piece, shine till one can see one’s face in them; so do the dark arm-chair and table, and so does the old oak settle, in which Evan is sitting by the fire.
 
Before Evan commenced his story, Mr. Holl came in, and in the pleasure which his advent occasions all thought of Evan is for a time lost, and he gives up the post of honour by the fire to 39his father. John Holl is a dustman, and is a sober and industrious man. He has his peculiarities—as who has not?—but he is a good husband and father, as it is easy to see by the pleasure with which his return is greeted. He is a short, stoutly built man, with shoulders rounded from carrying heavy baskets up area stairs, and his legs are bowed and clumsy. John Holl earns good wages, for he has many a sixpence given him in the course of the day, and he has no need to spend money on beer, for he gets plenty of that in the discharge of his avocation.
 
Mother is hurrying about now, laying the cloth for supper, and taking the pot containing potatoes, which form the staple of that repast, off the fire, where they have been for some time boiling and bubbling.
 
Mrs. Holl goes out charing; she is a large woman with a hoarse voice, and her hand is clumsy and hard, from washing and scrubbing and polishing. She has a heavy tread, and is considered by the servants generally at the houses where she works to be a low person. Perhaps she is, but her heart is in the right place. She is a true, kind-hearted, tender woman; a very rough 40diamond truly, badly cut and displayed to the worst possible advantage, but a real stone of the first water for all that. She is a foolish person too, for as if her own children were not enough for her to love and work for, she has adopted and brought up an orphan, who had none else to care for it, and must have otherwise been taken to the workhouse. But, in spite of her folly, her neighbours like her for it, and in their little ways assist her, take the young ones between them when she goes out charing, and help her a bit with her washing.
 
Mrs. Holl can neither read nor write herself, but she wants all her children to be able to do so. She has managed to pay for their schooling at the national schools, and has quite a respect for their learning. She listens with breathless delight and interest of an evening while they read aloud by turns from that exciting periodical, the Red Handed Robber of the Black Forest, published weekly at one penny, and to be completed in one hundred and twenty numbers.
 
Until Mrs. Holl had placed the large dish of steaming potatoes on the table, she was too much absorbed in her occupation to give a thought to 41any other subject. But just as she had done so, John Holl, who had several times taken his pipe from his mouth, and looked round in a puzzled way, said, “It is very strange, Sairey, but it seems to me just as if some one had been a drinking of spiced beer. Don’t take it amiss, old woman, I don’t mean to say that I think you have been a drinking of it, for you’re not that sort. Still there is something that smells uncommon like spiced beer.”
 
“Bless me,” Mrs. Holl said, “what a head I have got, to be sure! I do declare I have not told you a word about it, for it slipped clean out of my mind. You are quite right, John, you do smell spiced beer, for Evan has been drinking it. The boy has been in the Serpentine, and came home that wet you could have squeezed the water out of him by the pailful.”
 
“In the Serpentine!” John Holl exclaimed; “I heard that the ice was too thin to think of going on it. Why, Evan, that was not like you, not a bit, you are generally steady enough. How did you get in? Some foolery, I’ll wager a pot of beer.”
 
In answer to this appeal from his father, Evan 42related what had happened; the others gathering round him, and the young ones even leaving off eating their supper to listen, and breaking in with many exclamations of astonishment as he proceeded.
 
“It was very wrong, Evan,” his mother said, “you might have got yourself drownded, and what should we have said then? Why, Lor, you might have gone under the ice, and we should never have known nothing about what had become of you, till they brought your tray of lollipops home. That would be all we should have had left of you. What should we have done?”
 
Mrs. Holl began to weep aloud at the picture she had raised; the younger children immediately followed her example, and required so much pacifying that it was some time before quiet was restored.
 
“Lor bless you, mother,” Evan said, “there is no call to take on about it. I was not going to get drowned close to the shore; besides, there was a gentleman, who got ready to come in for me, if I had sung out for help; and he would have done it too. I could see he meant it.”
 
“It were a risky job,” John Holl said; “a 43plaguy risky job. I ain’t going for to say as you are altogether wrong, Evan, but it were certainly risky.”
 
“You were quite right, Evan,” a voice said warmly, “quite right, and I would give a good deal, if I had it, to have been in your place, and to have done something one could look back with pleasure upon, if only for once in my life.”
 
The speaker was a lad of about seventeen, who has not yet been described, and yet he was of all these the person who would have first fixed the attention of any incomer.
 
He sat on the opposite side of the fire to John Holl, in a sort of box with high wheels to it; by turning these he moved himself about the room. He had a very intelligent face, thoughtful but not sad. His shoulders and the upper part of his body were straight and well developed, and his arms strong and nervous; down to his waist he was a fine well-formed figure, but below he was a helpless cripple. He had been injured as a child, his legs had lost all power, and had become perfectly drawn up and useless. He was a sad spectacle, and yet he was not unhappy, and by 44the little attentions which the children showed him it was easy to see how great a favourite he was with them. Evan now produced a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, in which he had put his money, and unfolded it and exhibited the store.
 
It was emptied on to the table, among the shouts of the children, who evidently considered that their brother had become the possessor of boundless riches, and indulged in all sorts of surmises as to what would be done with all this wealth, while Evan counted up the amount. There were twenty-five shillings in silver and copper, and the sovereign Frank Maynard had put in—two pounds five in all.
 
Having counted it, Evan again took it up and brought it to his father, but John Holl put it aside. “No, lad, the money is thine, you have fairly earned it, and it is yours to do as you like with. Don’t fool it away, and think well over everything before you spend it. You are getting too old for your tray now; with that you might buy a good barrow, and do a great deal better; but there’s time enough for that. Give it to mother; she will take care of it for you, and 45you have but to go to her when you want it.”
 
And so it was arranged; and then Mrs. Holl took the young ones off to bed, whither the elders followed them very soon after.
CHAPTER III. BROKEN DOWN.
 Talking over their little adventure, Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott crossed from the Serpentine to Albert Gate. The evening had set in with a cold raw fog, which was momentarily getting thicker.
 
“One ought to be very careful at the crossings such a night as this, Prescott. It is just foggy enough to prevent the drivers seeing twenty yards ahead of them, and yet not sufficiently thick to make them go slowly. The road is very slippery, too.”
 
As they spoke a man who was standing at the edge of the pavement near them, after peering cautiously into the fog, started to cross. Frank and his friend followed slowly, for it really required considerable caution; as, from the constant roar and rumble of the traffic it was difficult 47to judge how far off an approaching vehicle might be.
 
They had not gone half-way across the road when there was a shout, and a rapid trampling of horses, and an omnibus came out of the fog not fifteen yards distant. It was driving fast, and the friends stopped simultaneously to allow it to pass in front of them.
 
The man who was crossing before them was, however, exactly in the line of the omnibus as it came out of the fog. He stopped, hesitated, and, although three steps would have placed him out of danger, he turned to go back. As he did so in his haste and confusion his foot slipped on the frozen road, and he fell. In another instant the horses would have been upon him, when Frank Maynard, who had at once perceived the danger when he stopped, sprang forward, snatched him up in his strong arms, as if he had been a child, and threw himself forward. He was barely in time. The shoulder of the off horse struck him, and sent him staggering with his burden to the ground, but fortunately beyond the reach of the wheels. Frank was on his feet in an instant, raised the man, who appeared to be confused and 48hardly conscious of what was occurring, to his feet, and assisted him to the footpath. All this was the work of half a minute, and they were at once joined by Prescott.
 
“Are you hurt, Frank?” he asked, anxiously.
 
“No, nothing to speak of, old man; bruised myself a bit, and barked my arm, at least I should say so by the feel of it; but I think that is about all the damage.”
 
“I thought you were under the horses, Frank; you have made me feel quite sick and faint. My dear fellow, this is the last walk I shall take with you, if this is your way of going on.”
 
Frank laughed.
 
“It is all right, Prescott, there are no bones broken. How are you, sir? not hurt, I hope,” he asked the man he had picked up, who was standing looking round in a sort of confused bewildered way, as if he hardly yet understood what had happened.
 
Frank repeated his question.
 
“Eh? I beg your pardon,” the man said; “were you speaking to me? No—no, I don’t think I am hurt; indeed, I hardly know what is the 49matter. Let me see——;” and he passed his hand helplessly over his forehead. “Oh yes, I remember now. I was crossing, and I saw a ‘bus coming, and somehow I slipped down. I shut my eyes so as not to see it come over me, and then I felt myself caught up, and then another great shake. Yes, yes, I see it all now; and it was you, sir, who picked me up, and saved my life? Dear me—dear me—I do hope you are not hurt, sir. I know I owe my life to you, for I must have been killed, and then what would have happened to Carry? I do hope you are not hurt.”
 
Frank assured him that he was not.
 
“Now, really, sir” (the man went on in a rambling nervous sort of way), “really I can’t thank you as I ought to do, but if you would but kindly come in to see me, my Carry will thank you for both of us. I am a poor nervous creature at the best, and the whole place seems in a whirl with me, but here is my card,” and he produced a packet of cards from his pocket. “It is a poor place, sir, but we should be very glad if you will come in to see me; and will you please tell me what your name is?”
 
“My name is Maynard, and I live in the 50Temple,” Frank answered. “Pray do not trouble yourself about thanking me. I am quite content to know that you have got off without more harm than a few bruises. I will be sure to look you up one of these days—yes, you can rely upon it. Good evening, mind how you go home; you are rather shaky still. Good night.” And, shaking him by the hand, Frank moved away with his friend.
 
The man stood looking after them as they disappeared in the fog, and then turned and walked westward. Pausing sometimes, taking off his hat and passing his hand across his forehead and over his hair in a confused puzzled sort of way, as if even now he were not quite clear what had really happened.
 
At the corner of Sloane Street he stopped, too nervous to attempt to cross; others went over quietly enough, but he could not summon up resolution to follow their example. At last he went up to a policeman who was standing at the corner, and meekly requested him to be kind enough to cross with him.
 
The man looked sharply and suspiciously at him. Certainly, his appearance was against him. 51One side of his face was much cut where he had fallen the second time, and his hat was all crushed in; altogether, he did not look a reputable figure.
 
“You have begun it pretty early, you have!” he said, sternly. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a respectable-looking man to be about the streets in this state before six o’clock in the evening.”
 
“I have not been drinking, indeed I have not, policeman; but I have been knocked down by an omnibus, or at least I was nearly knocked down; at least—indeed I don’t quite clearly know how it did happen; but I know an omnibus had something to do with it.”
 
The policeman’s belief in the man’s state of inebriety was evidently unshaken; however, he took him by the arm and walked across the road with him, and then dismissed him, telling him that “he should advise him to go straight home, or he would find himself in the wrong box before long.” The man again attempted to expostulate, but the policeman cut him short by turning to go back to his former station, with a parting admonition: “There, don’t you talk, it won’t do you 52any good; you go home; take my advice, and don’t stop by the way.”
 
The man, shaking his head in feeble deprecation at the policeman’s opinion, pursued his way along the crowded pavement, past the bright shops, and the stalls with their noisy vendors—through which Evan Holl had passed a short half-hour before. He went along quite unconscious of the crowd and the bustle, getting frequently jostled and pushed against, and receiving angry expostulation and considerable abuse, to none of which he paid the slightest heed. At length he reached the end of the row where the next street ran across it into the main road. This, however, he had not to cross, as his way lay up the side street, but not far, only past three or four houses; then he stopped at the door of a small shop, opened it, and went in.
 
It was a small stationer’s shop, illuminated by a solitary tallow candle standing upon the counter, and whose long wick with its dull red cap testified plainly that it had not been attended to for some time. Round the shop were ranges of shelves filled with dingy volumes, with paper numbers pasted upon their backs. There were 53piles of penny periodicals upon the counter, and a glass case with partitions containing cigars. These, with the small pair of scales beside them, and sundry canisters upon the shelves, showed that its proprietor combined the tobacco and literary businesses. The little parlour behind was separated from the shop by a glass door, with a muslin curtain drawn across it, and through this the bright flickering light of a fire shone cheerfully. The man opened the door, and went in. It was a small room, but was very snug and comfortable. The furniture and curtains were neat and well chosen, and altogether much superior to what would have been expected from the shop and locality. The tea-things stood upon the table, and a copper kettle on the hob was singing merrily. On the hearth-rug a girl was sitting reading a novel by the light of the fire; a very pretty figure, light and graceful, as could be seen in the attitude in which she half sat, half reclined; a girl of some eighteen years old, with a bright happy face. Her hair was pushed back from her forehead, and fell in thick clustering curls behind her ears. Her face was very pretty, with an innocent child-like expression. 54About her mouth and chin there was some want of firmness and character, but by no means sufficiently so to mar the general effect of her face. She had large blue eyes, over which she had a little trick of drooping her eyelids, and she had a saucy way of tossing her head. Altogether, Carry was a belle, and was perfectly aware of it; and indeed, to say truth, her head was a little turned by all the nonsense and flattery that she was constantly receiving; but she was a good girl for all that, and devotedly attached to her father, the man who now entered.
 
Stephen Walker was perhaps fifty years old, about the middle height, but stooping a good deal; evidently, by his manner, a nervous, timid man. His address and way of speaking unmistakably showed that he had seen better days; but when he slipped down the rounds of the ladder, he had lost any little faith he might ever have had in himself, and was content to remain helplessly at its foot, with scarce an effort to try to regain his lost position. Stephen Walker’s father had been a well-to-do City tradesman, a very great man in his own eyes; an active bustling member of the Court of Common 55Council, respected but not much liked there for the harsh dictatorial way in which he enunciated his opinions; very great upon the inexpediency of pampering the poor, a strict reformer of abuses, and withal a harsh, vulgar, narrow-minded man.
 
Stephen was a weakly child, and his mother, a quiet timid woman, would fain have kept him at home, and herself attended to his education until he should be old enough to be sent to some school down in the country; but his father would not hear of it, and in his own house his will was law. Accordingly, at the earliest possible age, he was sent to St. Paul’s School, a timid, shrinking child, and among the rough spirits there he fared but badly. Cowed and kept down at home, bullied and laughed at at school, Stephen Walker grew up a nervous delicate boy. When he was fifteen his father said that he knew enough now, or if he did not he ought to, and that so he was to come into the shop. Into the shop he accordingly came, and when there his life was a burden to him. His mother, who would have softened things for him as far as she could, and would at all events have been kind to him, and 56have commiserated with and cheered him, had been dead some three years, and his life became one long blank of misery. He hated the shop, he hated business, he almost hated his father. Heartily did he envy his associates in the shop, who at least, when the day’s work was over, could take their departure and be their own masters until the shutters were taken down in the morning. His drudgery never ceased, for when the shop was closed, his father, a great part of whose daytime was occupied by City business, would sit down with him at his desk and go into the whole accounts of the day’s sales until half-past nine. Then upstairs, where the servants would be summoned, and his father take his place at the head of the table with a large Bible before him, which he would read and expound in a stern harsh manner, eminently calculated to make the Scriptures altogether hateful to those who heard him. This with prayer lasted for an hour. Then to bed; to begin over again in the morning. Such was Stephen Walker’s life for six years; and then, when he was twenty-one, his father died suddenly. It was just in time to save his son’s life; in another year it might 57have been too late, for his health was breaking fast; as it was, it was too late for him ever to become other than he was, a nervous timid man.
 
It was some time before Stephen Walker could come to understand that he was now a free agent, and that he could really do as he liked. It was so unnatural for him to be able to carry into execution any wish of his own, that, after his father’s funeral was over, he went back as regularly as ever to his duties in the shop. At the end of a month an old schoolfellow came in, told him he was not looking well, and asked him to go into the country with him for the day. Stephen was absolutely startled, even the possibility of such a thing as his leaving the shop had never entered his mind. In the six years such an event had never happened. He looked round frightened and aghast at the proposition. As, however, he had no reasons to adduce, beyond the fact that he never did go anywhere, which his friend insisted was the very reason why he should go now, he was finally persuaded. Never did man enjoy his first holiday less than Stephen Walker did. He felt like a guilty self-convicted truant; he had a constant impression upon his mind that he was 58doing something very wrong, and on his return entered the shop with a guilty air, and a conviction that the assistants behind the counter were eyeing him disapprovingly.
 
However, the ice was broken. He began, at first at long intervals, but afterwards, as he learnt really to enjoy the sweets of his newly found liberty more and more often, to absent himself from the shop, until by degrees he discovered that he really was his own master. The first time a friend remarked that he rather wondered he did not sell the business and retire altogether, it seemed to him almost a profane suggestion. Still in time it became familiar to his mind, and at length, finding that no obstacle except that of his own imagination stood in his way, he determined to carry it out. Accordingly in less than eighteen months from his father’s death he disposed of the lease and goodwill of the business, and found that he was master of ￡30,000. He then, acting upon the advice of his physician, started for a long tour upon the continent; not going alone,—he had not sufficient confidence in himself for that, but taking with him as companion a friend who had been on the continent before, and who spoke 59French, paying all his expenses, and a handsome sum in addition.
 
There he remained in all three years, and in this time his health became re-established; but although his manner greatly improved from his mixture with travelling society, he still remained a nervous timid man.
 
At the end of this three years he married a very pretty ladylike looking girl, who was governess in a family wintering in Rome. Her beauty was her only redeeming point, for she was a silly, vain, indolent woman.
 
The newly married couple returned after another three months wanderings to London, near which they shortly after took a pretty villa.
 
They were unfortunate in their children, having lost all they had when quite young, with the exception only of their youngest daughter Carry. Had Stephen Walker continued to live quietly upon his income all might have gone well; but his wife was an extravagant woman and a miserable manager, and Stephen, who in money matters was helpless as a child, soon found that his expenditure was greater than his income.
 
The idea of remonstrating with his wife or 60endeavouring to curtail the household expenses never entered his mind; the only plan which presented itself to him was to increase his income. To do this he took to speculation, and to the most hazardous of all speculations, that in mining shares; hazardous to anyone, but most of all to a man like Stephen Walker. As might have been anticipated, his operations were almost always unsuccessful. Indeed in the way in which he conducted them it was impossible that it could have been otherwise. He bought shares in mines when they were most prosperous, and stood at the highest point in the market, and directly any reverse or depression took place, although perhaps only of a temporary nature, instead of holding on and waiting until the mine recovered itself, he would rush into the market and dispose of his shares for what they would fetch. It may therefore be readily imagined that Stephen Walker’s fortune melted rapidly away, under his repeated and heavy losses, and the extravagance of his wife. The latter although she would peevishly remonstrate with him, not as to his speculation, but on his losses, had not the least idea of suiting their expenditure to their decreased means. And so 61things went on from bad to worse, until at last the end came. A mine in which he had invested far more heavily than usual under the influence of the brilliant prospects held out, and the advice of a friend, collapsed, and that so suddenly, that Stephen had no opportunity to dispose of his shares. He was placed on the list of contributories, and called upon for a heavy sum for the winding-up expenses. Then the crash came, and Stephen Walker found himself possessed of only a few hundred pounds and the furniture of the villa. This was sold, and he removed with his wife and his child, then about seven years old, into small lodgings. Here for a year his life was embittered by the reproaches and complainings of his helpless wife; at the end of that time she died, and left a great blank in his life. He had been blind to her faults, and had accepted her querulous reproaches as deserved and natural; besides, as long as she lived, he had had some one to look to for advice, little qualified as she was to give it. Now, excepting his little daughter, he was quite alone. For another year, while his little capital dwindled away, he tried in vain to get something to do. This would have been in 62any case an almost hopeless task, and was rendered still more so from his extreme want of confidence in himself, which altogether prevented his endeavouring to push himself forward.
 
At length he took a resolution, one of the few, and certainly by far the best, he ever had taken. He determined to sink the few hundred pounds he had remaining in buying a house and opening a shop. After a considerable search, he found the one in New Street; the former proprietor, who was also in the tobacco and periodical line, had died, and his widow was anxious to dispose of the house; the goodwill, such as it was, of the shop being thrown into the bargain. Stephen Walker purchased it of her, furnished the lower part, and let off the upper, and never regretted his bargain.
 
The profits of the shop were not large, but having no rent to pay, and receiving a few shillings every week from the tenants, he was able to live comfortably, and with the company and affection of his little daughter, found himself really happier and more in his element than he had ever before been in his life.
 
Carry grew up in her humble home, a bright 63happy child, very fond of her father, and very fond, too, of all the admiration which the frequenters of the shop bestowed upon her.
 
“Why, how late you are, father!” she said as he entered. “Tea has been ready this half-hour at the very least,” and she put down her book and looked up at him. “Why, father, what has happened?” she exclaimed in a changed tone, and leaping hastily to her feet. “Your cheek is all covered with blood, your hat is broken in, and you look quite strange. Oh! father, what is the matter? are you hurt?”
 
“No, Carry, I do not think I am, but I am confused and bewildered.”
 
“Sit down in the chair by the fire, then; now give me your hat and coat; that’s right, and your comforter, dear old father; now wait and I will get warm water and a towel, and bathe its dear old face. There, now you look nice; now tell me all about it.”
 
The man submitted himself to the girl’s hands in the helpless way natural to him.
 
“Well, Carry, I hardly know myself what has happened. I was crossing at Albert Gate when I saw a ‘bus coming. It was very foggy and 64slippery, and I did not see it till it was quite close, and then somehow I fell. I tried to shut my eyes, but I could not, and then I felt the horses trampling upon me, and the wheels came crushing down upon my body. Oh, it was terrible, Carry!”
 
“But, oh, father,” the girl said faintly, and the bright colour was quite gone from her cheeks now, “you must be terribly hurt; some of your ribs must be broken; why did not you say so at once? Please sit quiet while I put on my bonnet, and run round to fetch a doctor,” and she turned to do so, but she was trembling so much that she had to sit down in a chair.
 
“No, Carry, you do not understand me. I do not mean that the ‘bus absolutely did run over me.”
 
“But you just said it did, father; you said that you felt the wheels crush your body.”
 
“Did I, Carry? Well, I did not mean it. Oh no, I was not run over after all.”
 
“What a dear, silly old father you are, and how you frightened me!” the girl said, laughing and crying together. “I have a great mind to be very angry with you in real earnest, and 65not to speak another word to you all the evening.”
 
“I am very sorry, Carry. I did not mean it, my child. I only meant that I felt it was going to run over me, and I am sure I suffered quite as much as if it had. No, just as the horses were quite close to me—certainly within a yard or two, for their heads looked to me almost over mine—I felt myself caught up by some one, like a baby, carried a step or two, then there was a great shake, and down we both went with a terrible shock, then I was picked up again, and found myself safe on the pavement.”
 
“Oh, father, what a narrow escape! you might really have been killed, and it was very very serious after all, so I will forgive you for frightening me so much. And who was it saved your life?”
 
“I hardly remember rightly, my dear, my head is quite in a whirl still. I remember, though, there were two gentlemen waiting to cross just as I started, for I heard one of them say we ought to be careful, and so I was, my dear, very careful, else I should not have slipped. I suppose they were just behind me, and one of them caught me 66up just as the horses were going to trample on me. He was not quite in time, for the horses caught him and knocked us both down, only I suppose it was out of reach of the wheels, at any rate they did not go over us; and really that is all I know about it.”
 
“Oh, father, how brave of him! Who was he?”
 
“I am sure I don’t know, Carry. He did tell me what his name was; but I am sure I forget it. Let me see—no, I don’t remember it at all; but I know he said he lived in the Temple—or, no—let me see, perhaps it was in Lincoln’s Inn, either that or Gray’s Inn—anyhow I am nearly sure it was one of the three.”
 
“Oh, father, I am so sorry you do not recollect his name, I should so have liked to thank him, and it will seem so ungrateful if you never go near him to tell him how much obliged you are. If it had not been for him what would have happened to you? I am very sorry.” And the girl’s eyes filled with tears again. “Did you tell him where you lived, father?” she asked presently, as her father sat gazing dejectedly into the fire.
 
67“I think I did, Carry; yes, I do think I did. By the way I have some recollection that I gave him my card, and I fancy that he said he would call upon me.”
 
“But can’t you remember for certain, father, whether you gave him your card? surely you must remember such a thing as that,” Carry persisted.
 
Stephen Walker passed his hand vaguely across his forehead.
 
“Really, my dear, I can’t help thinking that I did, although I can’t be sure. Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, “I have it now. I know I had twelve cards in my pocket. I know that, because when I went to the printer for them the fresh lot were not ready, but as I wanted some to go on with, he struck off a dozen while I was waiting. Look in the breast-pocket of my great coat, the cards are there. Count them, and if there is one short I must have given it to him, for I am sure I spoke to no one else on my way home.”
 
Carry eagerly took the cards and counted them; to her delight there were only eleven.
 
“Did he say he would come, father?”
 
“It seems to me that I have a distinct remembrance 68that he did, Carry; but, there, I may be wrong. I am a poor nervous creature.”
 
“You are a dear, silly old darling,” Carry said, kissing him, “and I shan’t be able to trust you out by yourself in future. The idea of slipping down in the street like a little baby! I have a great mind to scold you dreadfully. But there you have had fright enough for once; and now I will make tea for you, and that always does you good.”
 
While they were at tea Carry asked, “Do you think you should know the gentleman again if you met him, father?”
 
“Yes, my dear, I am nearly sure that I should.”
 
“What was he like, father?” Carry asked, “do try and think what he was like.”
 
“He was a young man of four or five and twenty, I should say, and he seemed tall to me, and he must have been as strong as a giant, for he picked me up as easily as you would a kitten.”
 
“Was he good-looking, father?” Carry asked, a little shyly, this time.
 
“I should say he was, my dear; but my head 69was in such a swim that I did not notice much about his face; but I certainly think he was good-looking. There, my dear, there is some one just come into the shop.”
 
After this several customers came in, and Carry was pretty well occupied for the rest of the evening. She did not renew the subject of her father’s preserver. Stephen Walker lit a long pipe and smoked thoughtfully beside the fire. Once or twice he went into the shop, but he was not of much use to Carry, and received orders to sit quiet and smoke his pipe, for that he had given her quite anxiety enough for one day. At ten o’clock the shop was shut, and they went up to bed, Stephen Walker to sleep fitfully, waking up with great starts, under the idea that the omnibus wheels were passing over his body. Carry lay awake for a long time, trying to picture to herself her father’s preserver, and wondering whether he would ever come to see them.
CHAPTER IV. THE OWNERS OF WYVERN HALL.
 
 
Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott, after leaving Stephen Walker standing bewildered upon the pavement, did not pursue their way along Knightsbridge, but turned at once into Lowndes Square. They walked the length of this, and stopped at one of the three or four houses which form the end of the square, or rather oblong. It belonged to Captain Bradshaw, Frank’s uncle, with whom the young men were going to dine.
 
Harry Bradshaw was the younger of two brothers, sons of Reginald Bradshaw, of Wyvern Park, in Oxfordshire. It was a fine property. Indeed, there were not many finer in the county—with its noble old mansion, its wide park, and its stately trees—and had been in the family for centuries. During all this time—if tradition is 71to be believed—the Bradshaws had been a hearty, honest, hard-riding, and deep-drinking race; and Reginald did not belie his ancestry, but drank as deeply and rode as hard as the best of them could have done.
 
But stately as was Wyvern Hall, and wide and fair as was its park, the Bradshaws were by no means a wealthy race. Previous to the rebellion they had been so, but the Bradshaw of that time had thrown himself heart and soul into the Royalist cause. He had lost everything but life, and lived abroad with his Prince in France, until, at the death of Cromwell, men once more shook off the iron Puritan yoke from their necks, and welcomed their King home again from his long exile. With him returned Marmaduke Bradshaw. More fortunate than many, he succeeded in regaining his family estate, and in ousting the pious corn-factor of the neighbouring town, who had, by the fervour and lengthiness of his prayers, and the strength of his right arm, fought and prayed himself into possession of the domain of the malcontent and godless follower of the man Stuart. But although Marmaduke succeeded in thus regaining possession of the mansion and 72park, he was not so fortunate as to the various outlying farms and properties. Some, indeed, he recovered, but the greater part were in the hands of surly iron-fisted men, who had won them on the fields of Marston and Naseby and Worcester, and who were by no means men to unclose their hands upon what they had once grasped. Force was not to be tried. The King was engaged in endeavouring to make himself popular to all parties, and had very difficult cards to play between them, Marmaduke Bradshaw, therefore, settled down in the family mansion with a greatly diminished rent roll, but still thinking himself lucky in comparison to many others, whose devotion in times of adversity to their King was but ill rewarded on his return to power.
 
The mansion and estate were strictly entailed, and the Bradshaws had hard work, with their horses and their hounds and their lavish hospitality, to keep up their establishment in accordance with their apparent wealth, and to hold their own among the county families, with perhaps far larger means and less expensive domains. Nor indeed could they have done so, had it not 73been the rule and habit of the family to marry well. They were a good-looking, fine-grown race; and to be mistress of Wyvern Park was no unenviable position; consequently the Bradshaws had nearly their choice among the county heiresses. Thus by constant additions of fresh property the lords of Wyvern Park were able to maintain their position and reputation. Reginald Bradshaw had, in accordance with the family tradition, married a neighbouring heiress, and for some years kept almost open house. But by the time that his eldest son came of age, and Harry was seventeen, money began to run short with him. The property his wife had brought him was mortgaged nearly to its full value. To his grievous dissatisfaction and disgust, therefore, he found that he could no longer retain his mastership of the hounds, and that it was absolutely necessary considerably to retrench his expenditure. Harry was offered a choice among the professions; the church, the army, or navy, or an Indian cadetship. He selected the latter, and started a few months later, with his father’s blessing, a light heart, a hundred pounds in his pocket, and permission 74to draw for two hundred a year as long as he required it.
 
The times were troublous and promotion rapid; and when at the age of six-and-twenty he heard first the news of his father’s death, and, four months later, of that of his brother, who was thrown from his horse returning from a hunt dinner, he was already a captain. He returned to England at once; for his brother had died unmarried, and he was now therefore the owner of Wyvern Park. In another year he married a pretty, quiet girl, possessed of considerable property; with this new accession, and under his auspices, the property improved greatly. Although he had been only eight years in India, the climate had during that comparatively short residence sufficed to ruin his constitution, and to send him home a confirmed valetudinarian. He found himself therefore, to his great disgust—for he was passionately fond of field sports—obliged to give up all horse exercise. Fortunately he was not prevented from shooting, and in the season would spend all his time in the fields with his dogs and gun; but he was entirely debarred from the hunting field, and was forbidden 75to indulge to any extent in the pleasures of the table. But although all this was an intolerable grievance to the master of Wyvern Park, yet Wyvern Park throve upon it greatly. In a few years, instead of mortgaging his property as his ancestors had done, Harry Bradshaw found himself in a position to clear off many old standing liabilities on the outlying properties, and to be able to add others to them. Although unable to join in the hunting field, or in the deep-drinking bouts and jovial meetings of the period, there was hardly a more popular man in the county than Harry Bradshaw. He was by no means of the ordinary big burly Bradshaw build, but was a light active figure, with an open kindly bronzed face, clustering black hair, a merry infectious laugh, an inexhaustible fund of fun and anecdote, an inveterate habit of swearing—then a far more common habit than now—a very quick fiery temper, and an intense objection to anything like dictation on the part of others.
 
Generally popular in the county as he was, there were yet some by whom Captain Bradshaw was looked upon with an eye of extraordinary 76disfavour. Foremost among them was the Earl of Longdale, the patron, and, as he considered, the owner of the little borough of Longdale, which had been an hereditary appanage of his family from time immemorial. Very aggrieved and highly indignant therefore was he when Harry Bradshaw—whose estate adjoined the earl’s, and who had had a dispute with his lordship respecting the right of shooting over a small piece of waste land which lay wedged in between the properties—brought down from London an unknown barrister of Conservative opinions, and at every election contested the borough with his lordship’s Whig nominee. His candidate never polled a dozen votes certainly, for as nearly the whole property belonged to the earl, and none of his tenants dared to record their votes against him, it was a hopeless struggle; still, it was none the less provoking to the earl to read, in the county papers, the fulminations against himself with which Harry Bradshaw wound up his speeches on proposing his candidate, or to hear of the cheers with which these orations had been greeted. For if his lordship’s tenants were compelled to vote one way, they considered that they 77had at least the right to shout as they pleased. And Harry Bradshaw’s speeches were exactly of the sort to carry an audience away with him,—full of biting truths, interspersed with humorous appeals and broad fun, dashed here and there with bitter personal invectives, and spoken with a thorough enjoyment and zest, and an earnest conviction of truth and right.
 
But the great climax of Harry Bradshaw’s offences was when the earl shut up a public footpath leading across a pretty corner of his park.
 
The town of Longdale, although indignant at losing its prettiest walk, would yet have sullenly acquiesced in it, had not Harry Bradshaw taken the matter up, and with some of his labourers levelled the barrier which had been erected. He then at his own expense fought the case from court to court, until at last the right of the public to the walk was triumphantly established, and the earl’s pet project defeated.
 
Captain Bradshaw had two sisters, both very much younger than himself. The eldest, Alice, after she came of age, when on a visit to some friend in London, met and fell in love with Richard Bingham, a young civil engineer.
 
78Very indignant was her brother when informed of what he considered such an extremely derogatory proceeding. “The Bradshaws had always married well, and why she should want to make a fool of herself he did not know.” Alice appeared to give way to the storm, but when a few months later she repeated her visit to London, she one day went out, was quietly married to the man of her choice, and only returned to her friends to bid them good-bye, and inform them that she was now Mrs. Bingham. The first notification which her brother received of it was on reading the notice in the columns of the “Times;” and had the feelings of society permitted a man to fight a duel with his brother-in-law, Harry Bradshaw would most unquestionably have called him out. As it was, he was forced to content himself with solemnly denouncing his sister, and writing a letter to her husband, expressing his sentiments towards him, and these sentiments were of such a nature that no future communication ever passed between them.
 
Shortly after, his younger sister married, with his consent, if not with his absolute approval. 79Percy Maynard was a barrister, with a fair practice and a moderate fortune, and although Captain Bradshaw had rather that his sister had fallen in love with one of the neighbouring proprietors, still, as he really liked the man she had chosen, he made no serious objections to the match.
 
He himself had at that time been for some years a widower, having lost his wife after only four years of happy married life, leaving him one little girl.
 
Two or three years later he married again, but his second wife bore him no children. His daughter, Laura, grew up a spoilt child, very loveable in her happy home, but with more than all her father’s fiery temper, and an almost sullen obstinacy, which was certainly no ingredient of his disposition. So she grew up until she was eighteen, and then an event occurred which changed all Harry Bradshaw’s hopes and plans, and embittered his whole future life. Laura followed her aunt Alice’s example. She formed an acquaintance with a lawyer’s clerk, who sometimes came down instead of his principal to transact business with her father. How 80Laura met him, what opportunities there were for their first casual acquaintance to ripen into intimacy and then into love, Captain Bradshaw never knew and never inquired. Undoubtedly their interviews had taken place almost entirely during the three or four months of each year which the family spent in London, where Laura was in the habit of frequently going out attended only by her maid. However, by some accident he discovered it, a stormy scene followed, Laura’s temper rose as quickly as her father’s, she openly declared she had been for some weeks secretly married, and was not ashamed to own it. This brought matters to a climax, and Laura, half an hour afterwards, left the house never to return.
 
Captain Bradshaw’s anger was seldom very long-lived, but on this occasion he was far longer than usual before he got over it. However, at the end of some months, he came to the conclusion that it was quite time to forgive her, that is, to forgive her sufficiently to allow her a sufficient income to live upon in comfort. He accordingly wrote to the solicitors—with whom he had quarrelled, taking his business from their 81hands immediately he had heard of Laura’s marriage—and requested them to send him the address of their clerk. The answer he received was that he had left their service in the same week that the exposure had taken place, and that they had not seen or heard of him since.
 
Captain Bradshaw advertised, and tried every means to discover them. He at last put the matter into the hands of the Bow Street authorities, but months elapsed before any news whatever was obtained. When he did hear, it was the worst news possible. His daughter was dead; had died in want and misery, after surviving her husband two months. Harry Bradshaw was fairly broken by the blow. He never inquired more. He shrunk from hearing any particulars. She was dead. That was pain and grief sufficient. Any further detail could but add to his remorse. He withdrew from all society, and after a few months went abroad, where he remained some three years, returning once more a widower. Then he again entered the world, but as a changed and saddened man. The world, however, saw nothing of this, it was only when alone that he gave way; with others he was the same 82lively, amusing man as ever, his laugh gay and infectious as of old,—it was his nature, and he could not be otherwise. He entirely gave up country life now, closed Wyvern Hall, left the Earl of Longdale in undisturbed possession of the borough, and took up his residence permanently in London, spending most of his time at his Club—the Oriental.
 
The younger and favourite sister lived near him. She had only one child, Frank, to whom Captain Bradshaw took greatly, and came to look upon almost as his own son. Under the influence of his present softened feelings, he after some years made advances to young Frederick Bingham, which, however, he could not bring himself to extend to the father and mother.
 
The lad responded readily to these overtures, called at the house, and was soon as much at home there as his cousin Frank. He spared no pains to ingratiate himself with his uncle, who, although he still preferred Frank, took a warm liking to him, and when the time came for his going to the University, made him a handsome allowance to pay his expenses there. When Frank was about seventeen he lost his father and 83mother within a few weeks of each other, and after that, until he left College, his uncle’s house was his home, and he spent his vacations entirely there.
 
When Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott arrived at the house in Lowndes Square, they found Captain Bradshaw in the drawing-room. He was still a light active figure, although he walked rather bent; his hair and whiskers were nearly white, and, until he spoke, he looked an old man; but when he did so, his face lit up, his eyes sparkled, and his lip played in a smile, and in the manner of his talk he was as young again as ever. There was a fourth person present, of whom no mention has yet been made. Alice Heathcote was a niece of Captain Bradshaw, the daughter of his second wife’s sister, and to whom he was guardian. The mother had died ten years before, and Alice, except when away at school, had lived with him ever since. A tall girl, with a thoughtful face, and good features; a broad rather than a high forehead, light grey eyes, a profusion of brown hair, and a slight figure, which almost leant back in its lissome grace. Her age was about twenty.
 
84“That is right, Frank,” Captain Bradshaw said, as the young men entered. “I am glad to see that all this wandering about over the continent has not destroyed your habits of punctuality. Mr. Prescott, I am glad to see you.”
 
“What on earth have you been doing with yourself, Frank?” Alice Heathcote said. “Your hand is all cut, and you have a great scratch on your cheek.”
 
Frank glanced at his hand. “Really, Alice, I did not know it. I tumbled down, crossing Knightsbridge. It is a mere trifle: only the skin off. I will run up to your room, uncle; I shall not be a minute.”
 
“Frank has just been doing a very gallant action,” Prescott said, when his friend had left the room; “he saved a man’s life, at the risk of his own, and a very near thing it was, too.” And he then related what had taken place.
 
Captain Bradshaw listened with eager interest, and Alice, whose cheek had paled when she first heard Prescott’s announcement of the risk Frank had run, flushed up with pleasure and excitement at the particulars. The story was just finished, 85and the questions which arose from it answered, when Frank came downstairs again.
 
“Well, Frank, Prescott here is telling us that you have been risking your life in the most reckless way, and becoming an amateur member of the Humane Society. Joking apart, my dear boy, it was a very plucky thing, and the speed with which it had to be done shows that you have a cool head as well as a strong arm and good pluck.”
 
“What a fellow you are, Prescott!” Frank said, in a tone of indignant remonstrance, and colouring up as a girl might have done. “Prescott has been making a mountain out of a molehill, uncle. A man slipped down, and I picked him up. It was a mere impulse; nothing could be simpler or more natural.”
 
“Stuff and nonsense, Frank! you saved the man’s life; it showed pluck and presence of mind, and the fact that you were knocked down speaks for itself what a very near thing it was. I am proud of you, my boy, and so is Alice, ain’t you, Alice?”
 
“I think it was very brave of Frank,” Alice Heathcote said, quietly—much more quietly, 86indeed than might have been expected from the previous glow of enthusiasm upon her face. “Who was the man you picked up, and did he tell you his name?”
 
“He seemed a poor nervous sort of creature, and hardly knew whether he stood upon his head or his heels, after he was safe on the pavement. As to who he was, I have got his card; here it is—
 
STEPHEN WALKER,
TOBACCONIST,
Stationery of all kinds at the lowest prices.
Newspapers and periodicals punctually supplied.
“Stephen Walker!” Captain Bradshaw said, “there was a man of that name, a major in my regiment, when I first joined. He was killed in a skirmish, I remember quite well.” And here the captain’s reminiscence was cut short by the servant announcing dinner.
 
“Alice, take my arm. These two young fellows are neither of them strangers.”
 
“I should think not, sir,” Prescott said, “considering that it is eight or nine years since I first used to come here from Westminster to spend Saturdays and Sundays with Frank.”
 
87The dining-room was a large well-proportioned room, with a dark red paper; and with large prints of Conservative statesmen, in heavy oak frames, looking down at the proceedings. In the daylight it was an undeniably gloomy room, imperfectly lighted, and very dark; but with the curtains drawn, and in the warm soft light of the wax candles, it was a very snug room indeed.
 
“It is a mere form my sitting down to dinner,” Captain Bradshaw continued, when they had taken their seats, “for I dare not eat anything.”
 
“You are not worse than usual, I hope, uncle?”
 
“I am as bad as I can be, Frank; my liver is all but gone. I can’t last much longer, my boy, quite impossible; I am going as fast as I can.”
 
“I hope not, uncle,” Frank said, gravely; but he was not much alarmed, for he had heard nearly the same thing almost as long as he could remember.
 
“I tell you, Frank, it is impossible. I have no more liver than a cat. I can’t understand why I have gone on so long. Damn it, sir, it is flying in the face of Nature. I was down at the Club, to-day, and met Colonel Oldham, who was a youngster with me in India. I told him that as 88he was going away for three or four months upon the continent, I would say good-bye to him for good, for it was quite impossible I could hold out till he came back again.”
 
“What did Colonel Oldham say, uncle?”
 
“Well, Frank, between ourselves, the old fool said that he should say nothing of the sort, for that I had made him the same speech ten years ago.” Captain Bradshaw joined merrily in the laugh against himself.
 
“I should not be surprised, uncle, if you make the same speech to him ten years hence.”
 
“Stuff and nonsense, Frank, the thing is impossible. Damn it, sir, I am a living miracle as it is—a man living without a liver. I intend leaving what there is left to the College of Surgeons, that is, if they can find it. It won’t take up much room, for I would lay odds that a half-ounce phial will contain it, with room to spare.”
 
“My dear uncle,” Miss Heathcote said, “pray do not talk so very unpleasantly. You have gone on as you are for a very long time, and we all hope that you will for a long time more.”
 
Harry Bradshaw shook his head, and went on with his dinner. He really believed what he said; 89and yet he had uttered these forebodings with a cheerful voice, a merry laugh, and a sparkling eye. He could not speak seriously upon any subject, even such an one as this, unless he was in a passion, and then he could be very serious indeed.
 
Dinner passed off cheerfully. The principal part of the talk was supported by Frank and his uncle. The latter, indeed, kept up a steady stream of chat, mingled with many anecdotes of his Eastern experience, most of which the other had heard before, but they were always fresh and amusing from the humour with which they were told, and the glee with which the old officer related them. After dinner, they drew round to the fire. The servant placed a small table before them, to hold decanters and glasses, and Miss Heathcote took out some fancy work, as it was a rule of her uncle’s that unless strangers were there she should remain with them.
 
“Don’t spare the wine, boys, I must not drink more than a glass or two myself, but I may at least have the pleasure of seeing you do so. And now, what have you been doing with yourselves this afternoon?”
 
90Frank, in reply, related the episode of the saving the dog’s life at the Serpentine.
 
“By Gad, Frank, that must have been a fine little fellow. I should like to have been there. I would have given a five-pound note to have seen it. Did you say you took his address?”
 
“Yes, uncle; I thought I might have an opportunity of doing the boy a good turn some day or other.”
 
“Then, Frank, when you go to see him, I should be glad if you would give him that sovereign for me. Poor little brute! I mean the dog, not the boy. It must have been a painful scene. I never shall forget a thing which happened to me on my way home from India. Your saying how pitiful it was to see the dog drowning and being able to do nothing for it, reminded me of it. There was a little cabin boy on board, I should say he was about twelve years old, one of the sharpest and jolliest little fellows I ever saw. He waited on us at mess, and we all quite took to him. Well, sir, we were becalmed down near the Cape. It was very hot weather, and the crew asked permission to bathe. Of course it was given, and in five minutes half the men were in 91the water, among them Curly Jack, as we used to call the boy, who could swim like a fish. Well, sir, they had been in the water some time, when the mate gave the word for them to come out, and most of them had climbed up the side, but there were still a few in the water, and all were close to the ship’s side except little Jack, who was some distance off, eighty yards or so. Suddenly a man called out, ‘A shark!’ Where he came from or how he got there I don’t know. He had no right to be there at that time of year, and we had not seen one before. However, sure enough, there he was. Of course it was only his back-fin that we saw, cutting along the surface, but there was no mistaking that. He might have been two hundred yards off when we saw him, and he was making directly for the boy. What we all felt I cannot tell you. My heart seemed to stand still, and a deadly feeling of faintness came over me. I would have given worlds to have looked away, but I could not if my life had depended upon it. There was a shout of ‘Swim, Jack, swim for your life!’ and then a great splashing in the water, and I believe that every man who had been bathing jumped in again and 92swam towards him, splashing and hallooing in hopes of frightening the shark. But he gave no signs of hearing them, and the black fin cut through the water in a straight line towards poor Jack. The boy knew his danger, and I could see that his bright ruddy face was as pale as death. He never said a word, but swam as I never saw a man swim before, and for a moment I hoped he might reach the men who were swimming in a body towards him, before the shark could overtake him. But I only hoped so for a moment, the beast came nearer and nearer, he was close upon him. I would have given worlds to have been able to shut my eyes, but I could not. Suddenly I saw the boy half leap out of the water with a wild cry, which rang in my ears for weeks, and then down he went, and we never saw a sign of him again.”
 
“How dreadful, uncle! how shocking! Please never tell me that story again,” Alice Heathcote said. “I shall dream of it. Poor little boy!”
 
“That was a most horrible business,” Frank said. “By Jove! I would not have seen that for any money that could be given me. I do like a row, or danger of any sort if one’s in it oneself, 93but to stand quiet and look on is more than I could do.”
 
“Let us go upstairs, if you will not have any more wine; Alice will sing you a song or two before you go.”
 
And so they went upstairs. Alice Heathcote took her place at the piano, and glanced for an instant towards Frank to see if he were coming to choose a song. Seeing, however, that he was telling his uncle an alligator adventure he had met with up the Nile, she took the first which came to hand, and opened it before her. Prescott, seeing that Frank was making no sign of going towards the piano, took his place by the side of her, and turned over the leaves. She sang one song, and then, getting up, said that she was quite out of voice, and could not sing any more, that story of the sailor boy had, she supposed, upset her. Then, taking her work, she sat down by her uncle and worked quietly, joining very little in the conversation, and only glancing up occasionally at the speakers. Soon after tea the friends took leave, and, lighting their cigars, walked back to the Temple.
CHAPTER V. A MODEST ANNIVERSARY.
 A quarter past eight o’clock on Monday morning; a clear, sharp, frosty day; the shutters are down and the shop open at Stephen Walker’s. From eight to ten is the busiest part of the day with them. Carry, looking very bright and pretty, is counting a number of the morning papers, which have just come in and are lying in a pile, damp and flabby, in front of her. Stephen Walker is standing beside her occupied in folding them, a task which, from long practice, he performs with wonderful quickness and exactitude. On the other side of the counter a small boy, with a good-humoured face and a merry impudent eye, with his hands in thick knitted gloves, and a red comforter round his neck, is waiting, stamping his feet to warm them and swinging his arms for the same purpose.
 
95“Here is your lot,” Carry said, when she had finished; “twelve ‘Times,’ two ‘Posts,’ and three ‘’Tisers.’ Now mind, Tom Holl, no stopping about or playing at marbles.”
 
“As if it were likely, Miss, that one would stop to play at marbles such a morning as this—oh yes! very.”
 
“There, take the papers and run off then.”
 
The boy put them under his arm, and went off at a brisk trot.
 
“What are you doing, father?”
 
“I am trying to put the books into proper order, Carry. Dear, dear, what terrible confusion they are in! Here is 55 next to 4, and the next to that is 87.”
 
“Oh please, father, do leave them alone. I shall never be able to find anything. I know now exactly where they all are, and could put my hand upon any book that is asked for in the dark; but if you once meddle with them I shall never find them again; the numbers don’t go for anything.”
 
“Just as you like, Carry. When do you suppose breakfast will be ready?”
 
“I am sure I don’t know, father; I must attend 96to the shop at present, and I do think the very best thing you could do would be to go in and see about it. Now that would be really very useful; besides, you are such a figure that I don’t like you to be seen here. That great cut and swelling upon your cheek make you look as if you had been fighting on Saturday night. Why, those two gentlemen who came in just now, and asked what you had been doing, when you said you had slipped down, looked at each other and winked and laughed. I could see they did not believe you a bit—and no one else will.”
 
“Do you really think so, Carry? Dear me, dear me! that is very wrong of them, and will get me quite a bad name. Be sure to tell them when they call to-morrow how it happened. But perhaps you are right, my dear, and I had better keep as much as I can out of the shop of a morning till my face has got quite right again. I will see about breakfast: but, be sure, if you really want me, to call, and I will come in at once, whatever they may say about me.”
 
In truth, Carry was by no means sorry for an excuse which would keep her father out of the shop of a morning, at any rate for a week or so, 97a result which sometimes took her some little scheming to attain. For at that time a good many clerks were in the habit of coming in to buy tobacco, before they took ‘bus for the city; not perhaps that Stephen Walker’s tobacco was unusually good, but then certainly his daughter was uncommonly pretty. Those who did not smoke bought the “Times” for the use of their office there, which gave them the double advantage of having it to read on their way up, and of having a chat with Carry Walker before starting. So there were quite a number of men came in of a morning from half-past eight to half-past nine; and Carry who, as has been said, was in no ways loath to be admired, had a bright smile, and a laughing remark ready for each. So Stephen Walker’s shop was quite a well-known rendezvous, and the young men would stand there chatting with Carry till the ‘bus came along past the end of the street, where the coachman would regularly stop for them. Carry very much enjoyed all this. Her head was somewhat turned perhaps; but, in spite of her little vanities, she was a shrewd, sensible girl, and took all the nonsense talked to her at pretty nearly what it was worth. She had 98always an answer for every remark, and in the little wordy passages generally managed to hold her own; and yet, although full of fun and life, she never for an instant forgot herself, or allowed her fun to carry her away. Her numerous admirers felt and respected this, and consequently the little war of words never exceeded anything that the father might not have listened to. At the same time there were unquestionably more fun and talk on those mornings when he did not appear in the shop. Some of these admirers of Carry were really in earnest, and would gladly have shared their homes and salaries with the tobacconist’s pretty daughter; but she gave no encouragement to one more than another, and to the two or three who, in spite of this, had endeavoured to persuade her to unite her lot with theirs, she had very decidedly intimated that she had at present no idea whatever of changing her condition.
 
By half past nine her work was nearly over. The last batch of her visitors was off to town; the last “Times” was sold out, and in those days there were no penny papers.
 
When the shop was empty Carry went into the 99little parlour, and found that her father had got the breakfast ready, and was sitting by the side of the fire waiting patiently till she should come in. Stephen Walker was no more sorry than his daughter was that he should have some excuse for leaving her alone in the shop during the busy time. He was perfectly aware that a large proportion of his customers came more for the purpose of seeing and talking with her than to buy tobacco or papers. And as he felt perfectly assured of Carry’s discretion and self-respect, he was not at all afraid of leaving her to take care of herself. At first it had not been so, and he had been very loath to leave her in the shop alone, and had, when he went into the parlour, been in the habit of leaving the door ajar, so that he could hear what went on. When he found, however, that the conversation never surpassed the limits of fair badinage, and that Carry turned aside all the compliments paid to her, with a merry laugh, he grew confident, and was quite content to leave her to herself, especially as he could not but feel that his presence was a restraint both to them and her. He was quite sensible of the fact that in the two years which had elapsed since she first took her 100place in the shop, that the business had trebled, and that his and her comforts were proportionately increased.
 
They had scarcely sat down to breakfast before they heard some one come into the shop. Carry got up with a little exclamation of impatience, opened the door, and looked out.
 
“Good morning, Evan, what is it?”
 
“Good morning, miss. Could I speak to Mr. Walker?”
 
“Come in Evan, we are at breakfast; that is right; now shut the door.”
 
“What do you want, Evan?” Stephen Walker asked.
 
“If you please, sir, I wanted to ask you, if when you go up to town, you would get me some books for James to read.”
 
“What sort of books, Evan?”
 
“Not story books sir, but clever books about mechanics, and that sort of thing; not easy ones, sir, he is a wonderful chap at ‘rithmetic, James is, and can do any of the sums in the one we have got at home; but I have heard him say he should like to learn mathematics. I would go myself sir, and not trouble you, but Lor, I should not 101know which was which. I don’t want new ones, but books from the old stalls; I have heard tell, they are very cheap there. Here is ten shillings, sir; would you kindly choose as many as you can get for it, and please keep them here for me, ‘cause I want to surprise him with them?”
 
“But gracious, child!” Carry said, “where on earth did you get ten shillings to spend on old books?”
 
“If you please, miss, it were given to me, and more too, for picking a little dog out of the Serpentine, and I thought that I couldn’t do better with it than get some books for James. He is mighty clever, and he has nothing to amuse him, poor fellow, except his flowers, so he will have plenty of time to think over all these hard things.”
 
“You are a good boy, Evan,” Stephen Walker said, “and I will do my best, and ten shillings will go a good way. That sort of book is always to be picked up very cheap. I can get an algebra, Euclid, and trigonometry, anyhow, and perhaps a book on conic sections, and it will take your brother some time to master them. But, Evan, 102does your father know what you are spending your money upon?”
 
“Oh yes, he knows,” the boy said; “besides, he told me that the money was mine, and I could spend it upon what I liked. And please, Mr. Walker, father told me to give his respects, and would you go in and smoke a pipe with him this evening?”
 
“Will you tell your father from me,” Stephen Walker said, “that he may rely upon my coming. And where are you going now, Evan?”
 
“I am going down to the Serpentine; I hear they are skating there this morning, and I have got a new tray, and such a lot of bull’s eyes and peppermints, rather. Will you have some, miss,” and the boy took out a handful and put them down by Carry’s plate.
 
“Thank you, Evan, I will take two or three, not more; I could not eat them—that will do, thank you; I hope you will do a good day’s work.”
 
“No fear of that, miss; I just shall do this week if the frost goes on. Good bye, miss. Good bye, sir, and thank you; please don’t forget the books,” and Evan Holl was gone.
 
103“Do you know, father, I think it’s lowering yourself going into John Holl’s, he is a very good sort of a man, but he is only a dustman. I think you ought to look higher than that, if only for my sake.”
 
“John Holl is a very decent man, my dear,” her father said mildly, “and he always treats me with proper respect. There are not many places I do go to; but I esteem John Holl to be a very respectable man in his sphere of life, and I do not think it can do me any harm.”
 
Carry pouted a little, but made no further remark. She had very little knowledge of her father’s past life. She could remember vaguely that as a child she had lived in a much better house, but that was all. Stephen Walker had never spoken of earlier times, beyond telling her that he had formerly kept a much larger shop, which had been his father’s before him; but that he had been unfortunate, and had therefore settled down into a place more suited to his means. More than this he had never told her, for he thought it better for the girl’s happiness that she should remain in ignorance of what the past had been. He thought that if she had known 104in what a different station she might have moved, it might tend to make her discontented with her state. For himself, he accepted his lot cheerfully, and was on the whole far happier than he had ever been before, and he judged her by himself.
 
Stephen Walker really liked these little evenings with his humble friends. When he went in there to smoke a pipe he was always treated with a certain deference which gratified any lingering feelings of personal pride he might have, and made him flatter himself with the idea that in so doing he was really conferring a favour instead of accepting one.
 
Anyone entering John Holl’s at seven o’clock that evening would have seen at once that something very important was about to take place. The floor had been evidently recently scrubbed, and in those parts not covered by the square patch of drugget in the middle of the room, was so clean and white that it almost seemed a pity to tread upon it. The chairs and table absolutely shone with the amount of rubbing and polishing which had been bestowed upon them, and the ornaments on the chest of drawers had been 105arranged upon a spotless white cloth to the best possible advantage.
 
Mother had just come down from upstairs, where she had been engaged in tidying herself, and looked red and hot from the hard work and excitement.
 
John Holl himself was sitting in his usual place by the side of the fire, smoking his long pipe with his accustomed air of thoughtful gravity. James was in his box on wheels opposite to him, but not immediately so, the chair next to the fire being, as the place of honour, reserved for Stephen Walker.
 
The younger children are seated upon the stairs as being quite out of the way, and are from that post of vantage viewing all the preparations with an air of extreme interest, passing away the time the while, by munching apples and cakes which have fallen to them as their share of the feast.
 
Presently Evan returns, and the cause of his absence is at once apparent, for he is followed by a potboy from a neighbouring public-house, carrying in one hand a large can of beer and in the other three empty pewter pots, which he 106places upon the table in company with several long clay pipes which are lying upon it ready for use. He then takes from the pockets of his jacket two black bottles which he places beside them, and with a brief “good-night” takes his leave. And now when Mrs. Holl has placed some tumblers upon the table, the preparations for the feast are complete.
 
For even the Holls have their feasts—not often and not great ones. In no single respect resembling those banquets which a city alderman pictures to himself at the word feast, where turtle soup with its lumps of green fat mingles if not harmonises with venison and truffles, the whole crowned with that wonderful institution—the loving cup.
 
But the Holls have none of these things, nor perhaps would be able thoroughly to appreciate them if they had. The contents of the black bottles and battered pewter pots form the great staple of the entertainment. Strange stories, could they speak, might these pewters relate of those who have drunk from them, and curious would be the history of each of their numerous dints and bruises. That one was crushed only 107last Saturday night by being thrown by a drunken husband at his wife; the symmetry of the next was spoilt against a navvy’s skull in an English and Irish row; for stealing the third, Daniel Crinky, alias the Ferret, was sent on a long sea voyage; and many another tale of drunkenness and crime.
 
This is one of the pewter’s innocent uses, and they seem to have been specially cleaned and brightened up in honour of the occasion. It is the twentieth anniversary of John and Sarah Holl’s wedding-day. The guests soon begin to arrive; there are not many of them—half-a-dozen or so. In the first case, as he is a public character should be mentioned A 56. For he is a public character, and his place can by no means be termed a sinecure. Far from it, for A 56 has plenty of hard work and not over much pay in return. He must make up his mind for hard knocks, and occasionally in the discharge of his duty to be nearly killed, perhaps in the open day, with dozens of bystanders looking on, too cowardly or too indifferent to lift a finger in his defence. He will have some unpleasant duties, too, such as keeping the line all day in the rain 108at Chiswick Fête, and is expected to be within a few yards of every irascible gentleman who is overcharged by a cabman, or who imagines himself to be in any way aggrieved. He must make up his mind to being a pretty general object of dislike among the lower orders, and to be taunted and chaffed and groaned at on all public occasions, he being at those times considered a fair subject for sport. All this and much more must he bear with perfect equanimity and good temper, for if he should ever get a little crusty, and hit rather harder then the occasion appears to warrant, he knows that “Mentor,” and “Censor,” and “Civis,” and many others will be down upon him at once in the columns of the daily papers. But to their credit be it spoken, it is very seldom that A 56 and his brethren from A 1 to the end of the alphabet ever give an opportunity for a charge against them.
 
Next to A 56 must be mentioned Perkins. Perkins is not a handsome man, in fact the reverse. He is rather tall and strongly built, with high cheek bones, small sunken eyes, and a broken nose. He wears a groom’s waistcoat 109with a heavy steel watchguard, and a gaudy scarf round his neck with a showy mosaic gold pin. From these tokens it may be at once seen that Perkins is or has been a prize-fighter. A nasty customer was Perkins in his time, and many a victory has he won, from his first appearance as Harry Parson’s novice, to the time when backing himself to fight Unknown for 200l. a side, he was nearly killed. It was in that celebrated conflict that his nose was broken; and he then retired from the ring, and was established by his admirers in the snug Public, known as “The Lively Stunners,” where every Wednesday evening a select harmonic meeting is held, at which good humour and fisticuffs prevail, as see “Bell’s Life.”
 
Between Perkins and A 56 a species of feud exists, for Perkins cannot disguise that he objects to A 56. Not on personal grounds, far from it; but as being one of the body who are constantly on the watch to interrupt and put an end to the noble art of which he, Perkins, is a professor; and he attributes to A 56 and his fellows the disrepute into which that noble science has fallen. Of the others present, as they will not 110appear again in the pages of this history, no description need be given.
 
After the first guest had arrived the rest soon came in, entering generally with a rather awkward air, as if impressed somewhat with the gravity and importance of the occasion, but thawing rapidly when they had once seated themselves and had each got one of the long pipes into full operation.
 
Presently Stephen Walker arrives, and is inducted in the post of honour. His being thus late was caused by his desire to see the shop closed, and Carry comfortably seated at the fire with a novel, before coming out.
 
As was but natural the weather was the first object of discussion, but this did not last long, it being unanimously agreed that the frost was likely to last any time. After that, various other topics are introduced and discussed gravely, and generally with a fair knowledge of the subject. At last, as all conversation among working men at that period was sure to do, their talk turned upon the Chartist movement which was agitating the lower classes of the metropolis.
 
“I wish the Charter had never been heard of,” 111John Holl said, “I’m sick of it. Look at my brother Bill. A better workman never stepped in shoes, always at work, always on the best wages, and look at him now, never doing a stroke, but wasting his time going about talking. It’s been a weary time for Bessy since he took up with it. But, Lor bless you, to hear him talk you would think that we were all black niggers. It sounds all very fine, and though I know I aint a black nigger, I can’t say anything against it. But, Lor bless you! you should hear James, he ats him, and he gives him word for word, and line for line, and Bill gets hit pretty hard, I can tell you; you do slap it into him, James, don’t you?”
 
The lad, who had been very quiet, only putting in a remark occasionally, laughed merrily.
 
“I like arguing with Uncle Bill, he is so accustomed to have it all his own way, and he does not half like it sometimes when I come down upon him. I am very sorry for him though, and I do wish I could convince him. He is so honest, and he believes in what he says so much, that it is a pity to think that it will lead him into trouble.”
 
112“Why did he not come here to-night, John?” Stephen Walker asked.
 
“He has got what he calls a ‘committee’ on, and, bless you, he wouldn’t miss a committee, he wouldn’t, not if he knew he should find us all dead when he came out.”
 
Here Mrs. Holl, who had been upstairs putting the younger children to bed, came down again, and began to bustle about, and lay a cloth for supper. She then brought out a huge pie from the cupboard, and in a few minutes the whole party drew round the table and set to. When supper was over, Mrs. Holl cleared the table, put the black bottles and tumblers upon it, poured out a large jug of boiling water, and each mixed himself a glass.
 
There was then a little pause, and Stephen Walker, finding that the eyes of the company were directed generally towards him, said—
 
“Gentlemen, we are met here to night to celebrate a very happy occasion. Twenty years ago to-day, my friends, John and Sarah Holl were married. How happy they have been they best know, but from what I have seen of them, and I have known them for some years now, I should 113say that they are as happy a couple as any in the town, and I think you will agree with me when I say that they well deserve to be. John, I drink your health and your good wife’s, may you continue for another twenty years to be as happy as you have been up to this time.”
 
His speech was received with murmurs of applause, and with thumping of glasses from those seated near enough to the table to be enabled to indulge in that evidence of their approbation.
 
Then all nodded to John and Sarah over their glasses, and said, “Here’s to ye,” and there was a pause of silence for John Holl’s reply.
 
And then John, wiping his mouth with the back of his broad, brown hand, and clearing his throat, said—
 
“Mr. Walker and friends all, speaking ain’t in my way much, but for Sairey and self, I must tell you how much I feel obligated for all your kind wishes. Mr. Walker, and friends all, I thank yer kindly. Sairey here and I have been married twenty long years now, and we ha’ been very happy together. It don’t seem twenty year, but I know it is. Sairey, she were a tall, shapely lass, and I were an active, young chap 114then; as you may see, friends all, we ha’ changed rarely since then. But I don’t think we ha’ changed other way. I do believe, Sairey an’ me are just as fond o’ each other as we was this day twenty year back. Mr. Walker, and friends all, my wife Sairey has been a good wife to me. I can’t say rightly how good, but I feel it. I know well that I ain’t made Sairey as good a husband as I might ha’ done—hold your tongue, Sairey—but as you see, friends all, I don’t think she likes me any the less for it now. We aint lived just an idle life all these years, and we didn’t expect to when we got married. We have had our hardish times, too, but nothing not to say to grumble about. On the whole we have got on pretty fair, and ha’ laid up a few pound for a wet day. Mr. Walker, and friends all, thank ye kindly. Sairey, old girl, here’s to ye,” and John gave his wife a loud-sounding kiss, and Sarah, although she was a low person, and hardly knew what nerves meant, wiped away a tear unobserved amongst the thumping of glasses, and stamping of feet, which greeted the conclusion of John Holl’s speech. After that there was a greater appearance of general ease, and of a determination to enjoy 115themselves. Presently they began to sing. A 56 sang, principally comic songs, and sang them with so much spirit, that it was evident that under the rather stolid demeanor, and close cut regulation whisker, A 56 concealed a strong sense of humour. The crippled lad sang, and with considerable taste and feeling, and Perkins favoured the company with some of the songs of the “Lively Stunners” in his best style. And the others sang; but the most marked feature about their songs was the almost entire absence of any appreciable air, and that they all had a chorus apropos of nothing, of ri tiddy ti tiddy ad libitum. The singers too seemed continually striving to get up to some imaginary note, about two octaves above the normal compass of their voices, and as their eyes moved in accordance with their voices, at these times only the whites were visible; the entire effect to any one unaccustomed to it being extremely painful.
 
However, all seemed satisfied, and when the party broke up, which they did a little before twelve, as several of them had to be at their work early, they expressed themselves as greatly delighted with their evening. And so they went off, 116the others to bed, but policeman A 56, who had only got leave in honour of the occasion, went off to the station to report himself, and then to relieve the comrade who had taken his place on his beat. Tramp, tramp, with his slow, heavy, regular tread all night, up and down many a quiet street, where his heavy foot-fall seems to echo strangely; steadily on, with once or twice a pause, and a sound of voice in remonstrance and dispute, and then a little scuffle as some drunken man is either persuaded to go home or else taken off to the station. Down many an area does the bright eye of his lantern pry; now it dances along a wall, now ‘tis on the ground, now it flits into a window. Loudly the bells chime the hours in the still, starlight night—two—three—four—London is at its stillest, the last carriage from the latest party is back now, the last straggling foot passenger in bed. Five—six—and now there are some signs of life and movement again. The workmen are beginning to start to their distant places of work, stamping their feet, and swinging their arms, to warm themselves in the keen morning air. Had it been market-day, long ere this the light carts would have been rattling into 117Covent Garden, to purchase a supply of vegetables, and be back again before the earliest customers are awake. Now it approaches seven, and the grey morning light begins to break over London, and to dim the brightness of A 56’s lantern. The streets are busy with men hastening to their work. Seven—and it is comparatively quiet again. Half-past—and sleepy-looking housemaids begin to draw up blinds, and to open front doors, and sweep down the steps. And now the milk-carts drive up, and as the clock strikes eight, London seems to wake with a start. The ‘busses rattle off with their loads of men for the early offices, foot passengers muffled to the throats, cabs and carts; day has fairly begun. And now A 56 is relieved, and goes home and sleeps long and soundly.
CHAPTER VI. THE BINGHAMS.
 Behind Sloane Street lie the quiet and secluded regions of Hans Place. Very respectable, and intensely dull is Hans Place, looking more like a portion of some sleepy little cathedral town than a corner of busy moving London. The rush and the roar of traffic pass it afar off, sounding like the murmur of the distant ocean. Were it not that it happens to be a short cut from Brompton to the upper part of Sloane Street, it is probable that not five vehicles or ten foot-passengers, beyond the inhabitants themselves and the tradespeople who supply them, would ever pass through it. Little groups of children, indeed, from the small streets lying between it and Knightsbridge, come up into it, and the elders sit down on door steps, and discourse soberly and gravely together, while the younger ones play on the deserted pavement, 119fearless of interruption. But these seem the only signs of life. It can hardly be that Nature made an exception in the case of Hans Place to her general laws, and that no children are ever born to any of its inhabitants; but it is believed that, in the memory of man, none were ever seen at play in the dismal piece of ground in its centre, known as the garden. Indeed, the only denizens of the place which seem endowed with life and vitality are the sparrows. These twitter and fight noisily in the dusty trees, or hop about on the wide road, heedless of interruption, hardly moving even when a passing vehicle drives by, but, standing with their heads on one side, watching it inquisitively with their bright fearless eyes.
 
In Hans Place reside the Binghams. Mr. Bingham is a civil engineer, and dabbles generally in building operations. He is a man of about middle height, spare, and active; very careful as to his attire, and of a mild conciliatory address; a pleasant, well-informed man.
 
Mrs. Bingham, the sister of Captain Bradshaw, is the picture of good temper. Short and stout, as such women generally are, devoted to 120her husband and children, having no thought, no care, no object in life unconnected with the narrow circle of her own family. Not a clever woman—that is, not a clever woman of the world. As a painter and musician, she was really talented; but to have heard her talk, no one would have given her credit for being anything of the sort. And yet, in any point unconnected with her own family and belongings, she was shrewd and sensible, with a little touch of satire; but the affection and admiration of the mother of the Gracchi for her children, were as nothing to the feelings with which she regarded her progeny. Terrible indeed was Mrs. Bingham’s house to visitors when the children were young. She would dilate upon their affectionate dispositions, their extraordinary cleverness and precocity. Their sayings and doings would be rehearsed at length, and the children themselves brought in, exhibited, and praised, Mrs. Bingham taking it for granted that all this would afford at least as much pleasure to her visitors as to herself. It was fortunate that this idea was so thoroughly rooted in her mind, that she required very little active acquiescence. A general smile, an “indeed,” 121and “dear me,” thrown in from time to time, was sufficient to satisfy her; but even with this, it was universally agreed among Mrs. Bingham’s friends that a visit to her was a very dreadful affair.
 
The children were by no means bad children in themselves. Frederick, the eldest, has been already spoken of, and, as a boy, was a pleasant and quiet, but hasty tempered lad. The two daughters were quiet, simple girls, taking much after their mother in her home tastes, and affectionate disposition. They were, at this time, of the ages of sixteen and fifteen respectively. Fred Bingham was in no way changed by the three years which had passed since the night of the boating party at Cambridge. He did not look one day older; there were no signs of whisker on his smooth fair face; a slight moustache of light hair had grown upon his upper lip; this, contrary to the usual custom in the year ‘48, he assiduously cultivated, although with small success, but if constant stroking could have conduced to its growth, it would have been a very much more important affair than it was.
 
The Binghams had nearly finished breakfast. Mr. Bingham had quite done, and was looking 122out of the window at a solitary foot passenger who was in sight, when his wife asked him,
 
“Are you going up to your office this morning, my dear?”
 
“No; I am going over to Bayswater, to value a house, but I dare say I shall be in town in the afternoon.”
 
“Then I suppose you are going to the office, Freddy, dear?”
 
“Now, look here, Venerable,” Fred Bingham said, “I suppose you want something; if you do, say it out, and don’t be beating about the bush, and asking questions about things which don’t concern you.”
 
“Now, Freddy, that is so like you. No, I don’t want anything at all. I was only thinking what a treat it would be to take the poor children to a pantomime.”
 
“Oh, you were thinking what a treat it would be to take the poor children to a pantomime,” Fred mimicked. “Well, supposing that it would, I really don’t see what connection that has to my going to office.”
 
“Now, Freddy, how you do take me up. I was only wondering whether you would be 123doing anything to tire yourselves, because if not——”
 
“Oh, because if not, I suppose you wondered next whether you could do me into buying tickets for them.”
 
“No, Freddy, I did not wonder anything of the sort. I am sure your dear papa would do that.”
 
“I don’t know, my dear,” Mr. Bingham said, standing on the hearth-rug, and jingling the money and keys in his trousers pockets, as was a favourite habit of his. “I don’t know, my dear, that their dear papa will do anything of the sort. He is peculiarly short of money at present.”
 
“There, Venerable,” Fred said, “don’t look so downcast. I will get tickets for the poor things, and as I suppose you will be wanting to go too, instead of staying quietly at home, as an old lady of your age should do, I must get one for you, too. Make up your minds which theatre you will go to, but don’t talk about it now, as you will all talk together, and then I shan’t get you the tickets at all. Settle it among yourselves out of the room, and let me know before I start.”
 
“There’s a dear, kind Freddy,” Mrs. Bingham 124said, admiringly: “he is always such a good, kind fellow.” And she looked round proudly upon the girls, who purred acquiescence.
 
“There, that will do, Venerable, a very little of that goes a long way; besides, I believe I have heard you say as much before. And, look here, girls, I shall expect you both to practise that glee we were singing last night, to-day and to-morrow, so as to be perfect in the evening, and not make such an exhibition of yourselves as you did last night. And now, all three of you take yourselves off at once, and make up your minds about the theatre; I want to have ten minutes talk with the pater upon business before we start.”
 
Mrs. Bingham rose without a word, and went out accompanied by the girls, with the parting remark, given in a decided tone, which defied contradiction, that “there never was such a dear fellow in the world.”
 
Fred Bingham was very kind to his mother and sisters. He was liberal in the extreme with his money, and they deservedly doted upon him. He was, it is true, excessively dictatorial in his way of speaking to them, but they obeyed all he said unquestioningly, taking it partly as fun, 125partly his right, the due of his extreme kindness and cleverness.
 
When they had left the room, Frederick Bingham turned to the father. The smile had gone from his face now, and he spoke in a cold hard business way, very different from the light jesting tone he had used to his mother.
 
“How long shall you be at Bayswater?”
 
“I should think two hours will be quite sufficient; it is not a large house.”
 
“Those Biglows have not paid their rent yet. I think you had better go up to St. John’s Wood and see about it.”
 
“I will go if you think so, Fred, but it will be of no use.”
 
“Give them to the end of the week, and if they don’t pay on Saturday, put a man in the first thing on Monday morning.”
 
“You see, Fred, they said last week when I saw them,” Mr. Bingham said hesitatingly, “that Biglow had been ill for months, and had been too weak to touch a brush.”
 
“That is their business,” the son said harshly, “not ours. Let them go into a smaller house. There will be enough furniture left, after paying 126us our half-year’s rent to furnish that. The furniture is very good. I took particular notice myself last time I saw them. Anyhow, the dining-room alone is worth fifty pounds at a sale. You can tell them that you don’t want to do anything unhandsome, but that you must have the forty pounds they owe; and that rather than sell them up, if they like to leave the dining-room and drawing-room furniture, we will let them take the rest out and cry quits. That will suit both of us; it will save them being sold up, and it is worth a good hundred pounds to us.”
 
“But, Fred, he might easily borrow the means to pay the half-year’s rent on the furniture by merely giving a bill of sale.”
 
“Nonsense, father; the man’s an artist, and knows no more of business than a child. Do as I advise you, and you will see he will jump at the offer, and be grateful besides.”
 
“Well, Fred, you will never die a pauper, that’s pretty certain,” his father said, admiringly.
 
“I have no intention of doing so,” Fred said drily. “That is settled then. I don’t know that there is anything else to arrange. Call round at the office if you have time; but I shall 127leave early myself. I suppose we shall dine at five, to give us plenty of time for the theatre business”
 
Fred then went to the door, and shouted for his mother, who came with the information that they had decided upon the Princess’s.
 
“Very well, Venerable, I will get the tickets as I go up. I am off now. Have the girls got my hat and gloves, and brushed my great coat?”
 
The girls had; and now brought them to him. It took him another five minutes getting them on—especially the gloves—for Fred Bingham was, like his father, extremely careful about his personal adornment, especially in the matter of gloves—which he was never without—wearing them upon every possible occasion; for if there was one thing which galled Fred Bingham more than another, it was those unfortunate great unshapely red hands of his.
 
The Binghams lived on the side of Hans Place nearest to Knightsbridge. The shortest way, consequently, into the high road, was to cut down through the small streets instead of going out into Sloane Street. Fred Bingham, however, after turning out of Hans Place, did 128not take the most direct way, but turning through two or three narrow lanes, he came out into New Street, which he followed till he came to Stephen Walker’s shop, where he turned in. Carry was alone in the shop, and it was at once evident by the girl’s manner that Fred Bingham was a regular customer; and by her slightly heightened colour that he was by no means an unwelcome one.
 
“Good morning, Carry; looking as bright and pretty as ever, I see.”
 
“What nonsense you do talk to be sure, Mr. Bingham!” the girl laughed. “I shall certainly give up coming into the shop altogether, and put father in here from half-past nine till you are gone, if you don’t give up talking rubbish.”
 
“Give me a cigar, Carry. No, not those things; one out of my special box; thank you. Now you would not be so cruel as that, Carry, I am quite sure. I should pine visibly if you hid your bright face. I am almost as thin as I can be now, but I should become a candidate for the at present vacant situation of walking skeleton, in no time.”
 
“Oh! I dare say,” the girl retorted, “you 129would not eat a mouthful the less at your dinner, I’d wager, whether you saw my bright face or not.”
 
“You are quite wrong, Carry, I can assure you. What are you working at so industriously?”
 
“Never mind,” the girl said, laughing. “Never ask questions about things which don’t concern you. You know the rest of it.”
 
“Quite well, Carry. But that appears to me to be a masculine garment, and therefore it is possible that it may concern me; because if it is intended for a favoured swain, I shall infallibly slay him.”
 
“You need not do that, it is only a shirt for father. Besides, I have told you fifty times I have no favoured swain, as you call it.”
 
“Oh yes, I know you have; but you see I have a great difficulty in believing you.”
 
“Now, Mr. Bingham, really if you go on like that, I shall go into the next room,” the girl said, making, however, no effort to rise.
 
“Really, Carry, it is very hard on a man that he may not say what he thinks.”
 
“Yes, but you don’t think it”
 
130“I do think it, Carry; on my honour I think you the very prettiest girl——”
 
“There now, sir, you see I am obliged to go,” Carry said, really getting up this time. “But then that’s fortunate; I can hear a ‘bus; so I am well rid of you.”
 
“Bye bye, Carry; I must be up in town this morning in good time, or I would stay for the next hour, if it were only to plague you.” And so he was gone.
 
Carry did not take up her work again for some time, but sat thinking quietly, till her father came into the shop from the room behind, when she began to work assiduously.
 
“Carry, you have not been out for the last two days. Put on your bonnet, child; I will mind the shop for a while. A little fresh air will do you good.”
 
“Very well, father, I will go out for a little time; and I shall look in and have a chat with James Holl. I don’t suppose I shall be more than an hour gone.”
 
In a few minutes, Carry came down dressed for her walk; and with a parting nod to her father, went out. First down into Knightsbridge. 131Here she spent some little time in looking at the tempting displays in the shop windows. Oh that she had but money that she might go in and make unlimited purchases! Fancy, too, how exactly that bonnet would suit her complexion, and how well she should look in that Indian shawl! And so Carry walked up the hill as far as the Duke’s. Turning here she retraced her steps to Sloane Street, and thence, striking into the narrow streets, was soon at the Holls’ door. After a preliminary knock with her hand, she lifted the latch and entered.
 
There were only three persons in the room. The crippled lad was at the window, to which he had wheeled up his box, partly to enable him to see out, partly for the benefit of the light for his work. On a table in front of him were a number of thin sheets of wax of various colours, a few paints and brushes, some wire and modelling tools, and some exquisite wax flowers which he had finished, with others in different stages of progress, upon which he was still engaged. Two little girls were standing beside him, with books in their hands, and one of them was reading aloud, while he listened and corrected her 132as he worked. A little impatiently, perhaps, which was very unusual for him, but on the table near him was an algebra, part of Evan’s present, which he had only received the day before. It was open, but was lying with its face downwards, and it was evident, by the glances which he cast in that direction, that he was longing to continue his study. He looked up when his visitor entered, and a bright flush of pleasure came across his face.
 
“How do you do, Miss Carry? It seems quite a time since you were here last.”
 
“Not more than a week, James; and how are you, and where is Mrs. Holl?”
 
“I am quite well, Miss Carry. Mother has gone out for the day; but please sit down for a little while, you know what pleasure a talk with you always gives me.”
 
The girl kissed the children, and then drew up a chair and sat down by him.
 
“Thank you,” he said, “You see I am hearing Jessie and Loo their lessons. There, children, that will do for this morning; put away your books and go and play, but don’t make a noise.” The little girls gladly did as they were 133told, and were soon sitting on two low stools in front of the fire, busy playing with two dolls, so old and battered that their clothes might be put on at pleasure either way, there being no distinguishable difference between their faces and the backs of their heads.
 
“What lovely flowers, James! I can’t think how you can do them without a copy.”
 
“No more I could, Miss Carry. Father knows one of the men in the flower shop just as you get into Hans Place from Sloane Street, and he often brings me one, and I copy it at once and put it by till I want to make some of that sort.”
 
“It must be very interesting work, James, especially when you get to make them as beautifully as you do. What a lovely spray of roses and buds that is!”
 
“Do you think so, Miss Carry? Yes, they are very pretty. It is a copy of a bunch my friend the gardener brought me in last summer, and I liked it so much that I copied them just as they were. Will you accept that one, Miss Carry?” he said timidly; “I should be so glad if you would.”
 
134“Oh, I could not think of it, James; it must have taken you an immense time.”
 
“My time is of no great value,” the lad said rather sadly; “besides, it does not take nearly as long as it looks. I cut all the petals out with stamps. Please take it, Miss Carry. It would give me so much pleasure if you would.”
 
“Well, if it would, James, I will certainly accept your offer, and thank you very much for them. They are really lovely. I have got a little Parian marble vase under a glass shade, father bought me my last birthday; they will keep under that beautifully.”
 
The lad took a sheet of silver paper from a drawer of the table, and watched her with a pleased face as she very carefully enveloped them in it.
 
“When I think how slowly the days used to pass,” he said, “I don’t know what I should have done without my flower making, I had nothing to do but to sit here, and hear the people walking past, and the children at play, and wonder why it should be that I was to be cut off from playing or walking as long as my life should last, and be a helpless burden upon other people all my 135life. I shall never forget what I felt, when your father said to me one day, ‘I wonder you don’t try and do something, James.’ Although I might have known that he was the last man to hurt any one’s feelings, Miss Carry, for a moment I did think that what he said was without thought. The tears came up into my eyes, and I said, I dare say bitterly enough, ‘God knows I should be only too glad, Mr. Walker, but what can I do?’
 
“‘Do,’ said your father, ‘plenty of things; make wax flowers, for instance.’
 
“‘Oh, I should be so glad, but how am I to learn?’
 
“‘I’ll tell you what, James,’ your father said. ‘I will get you a book to teach you all about it, and all the things you will want. You must get some flowers to copy—easy ones to begin with, and if you are sharp, you will find in a very short time you will be able to earn money, besides keeping yourself employed. I will lay out a pound, James, in the materials, and you shall pay it out of your first earnings.’ That’s three years back now, Miss Carry, and I was not much more than fourteen. But I had thought a good deal, through sitting here all day with nothing to do, 136but to think, think all the long hours, and I had read a great deal too, for Mr. Walker has always lent me what books I liked. But, boy as I was, my heart was too full of delight and hope to say one word. To think that I was not to be all my life without an occupation or an aim, that I was not always to be a burden to others! It was almost too much; for now for the first time your father’s words seem to point out that it might be so different to what I had thought. I have read in books, Miss Carry, of what a man condemned to death feels when he is reprieved upon the scaffold, but I am sure he could not feel more than I did. I had so often wished to die, and had thought it would be so much better for me, so much happier than my life could be, that it seemed as if more than fresh life was given me. Oh, how anxious I was till your father brought the things, how I learnt the book by heart before I ventured to begin, how nervous I was with my first attempt, and, above all, what joy I felt when mother took out a box of my flowers, and brought me back far more than I had ever dreamt they would have fetched, and the news that at the shop where she had sold them, they had said 137they would take as many more as I could make. I soon paid your father back his pound, Miss Carry; but as long as I live I can never repay him for the benefit he did me. What a different life mine has been since—always busy and happy, with a feeling that I am no longer a burden but a help to father and mother; and all this I owe to your father.”
 
“Dear father,” Carry said softly, “he is always good and kind. That puts me in mind that he is all alone in the shop, and that I must be going home, to see after the dinner. Good bye, James, and thank you for your flowers.”
 
“Good bye, Miss Carry, you are heartily welcome to them.”
 
And so shaking hands cordially with the crippled lad, and kissing the children, Carry went back to relieve her father in the shop; while James’s studies at his algebra made but small progress that morning. For a bright face, which certainly Colenso never thought of inserting there, would keep intruding itself between the figures and his eyes, and making a terrible confusion of + and - and of “a’s” and “x’s.”
CHAPTER VII. A STARTLING SUGGESTION.
 Frank Maynard, on his return from the Continent, had taken rooms close to those occupied by Arthur Prescott, in the Temple. An arrangement, which although in itself very pleasant for both, by no means conduced to the promotion of the latter’s legal studies; for Arthur had been lately called to the bar, and was working really very hard at his profession. For the first week after his friend came back to town, he had put by his books, and given up his time to him entirely, but after that he had been obliged to enter into a compact with him. First, that Frank should on no pretence whatever come to his rooms before one o’clock; and second, that although he might pass the afternoon with him, he should be bound to occupy himself in reading, and was on no account to enter into 139long conversations. After four o’clock, Prescott put aside his law books, and was at his friend’s service for the rest of the day.
 
The first part of the condition Frank found it easy enough to observe. He did not rise until late; and after he had finished breakfast, the “Times” occupied him pretty well till it was the hour for going into Prescott’s. After lunch he would take up a novel, light his pipe, make himself comfortable, and read for an hour or so. But presently he would put his book down, and begin to ask Prescott questions, and to entrap him into lengthy conversations, till Arthur became quite desperate; when Frank would leave him and sally out to make a round of calls, returning at six to go out to dinner with his friend. In the evening, Prescott was safe from interruption, as Frank was almost always out at dances and balls at the houses of the numerous friends he had met during his travels.
 
It was a week after the party at the Holls’. The frost had broken up, but the weather was raw and cold. Arthur Prescott was studying, and occasionally looking over, with a rather amused glance, at his friend. Frank having in vain 140tried to interest himself in his novel, had thrown it down in disgust, and was gazing disconsolately out of the window, upon the green lawn below, and at the leaden-coloured river beyond, with its black drifting barges, and its busy little steamers hurrying past.
 
“By Jove, Prescott,” he broke out at last, “this is a beastly climate of ours.”
 
“As how, Frank?” Prescott asked quietly.
 
“As how?” Frank repeated irritably. “Why in its wind, and its rain; and its damp, and its cold. It’s detestable. Last winter I was in Rome.”
 
“Ah, and were you there in summer, Frank?”
 
“Of course not, Prescott. One might as well live in an oven, with an air blowing in from a fever-den.”
 
“Quite so, Frank. You see other places have their detestable points as well as ours.”
 
Frank Maynard gave a grunt of discontent, and again looked out of the window. At last he turned round again.
 
“What on earth am I to do with myself, Prescott?”
 
“My dear Frank, I am afraid that question is 141likely to bring on a long discussion; but in consideration of the day, and the more especially as I see you do not mean to let me read, I will put away my books for the afternoon.”
 
“There’s a good fellow,” Frank said, brightening up greatly, and wheeling the fellow arm-chair of the one he had been sitting in, up to the fire, while Prescott put his books back into their places on the shelves. That done, he opened a bottle of beer, poured it into a large tankard—a college trophy of his prowess in boating—and lit his pipe.
 
“There, that’s comfortable,” Frank said. “The climate has its advantages after all. Now let us talk seriously. What in the world am I to do? Here have I been back in England little more than three months, two of which I have spent shooting, and now after a month in London, I am bored out of my life.”
 
“It is a hard case, Frank; a man with eight hundred a year, and nothing to do but to spend it; and you are out nearly every evening, too.”
 
“That’s all well enough for the evening, Prescott, but I can’t spend the day thinking 142whom I am going to meet in the evening; and whether the pretty girl I danced with the night before will be there, and so on.”
 
“Why not join a club, Frank?”
 
“I am down for the ‘Travellers,’ but it may be years before I am elected, and I don’t believe I shall care for it when I am. I have been into several clubs with men I know, and they seem to me the slowest places going. Men look in, and moon about the room, and take up a paper, and then throw it down again, and go and look out of the window, and then order their dinner, and grumble over it when they have got it. My dear fellow, it’s well enough for old fogies, but I can see no pull in it at all. Of course, in the evening one can play billiards, but as I am out nearly every night, I don’t see that I shall gain much by that.”
 
“Why don’t you keep a horse, Frank?”
 
“Well, I might do that, Prescott; but I don’t think I should ever go out on the beggar if I had one. I don’t care much for riding at the best of times; and as to going up and down Rotten Row, it would drive me out of my mind in a week. No; when summer comes I shall 143buy a yacht of about twenty tons, and cruise about; but the question is the winter.”
 
“Well, Frank, as you do not care, I have heard you say, for country sports, I really think it would be worth your while to think seriously of entering yourself at the bar, or of taking to literary work; or in fact making some sort of aim for yourself. I confess that, as a busy man myself, I can hardly conceive a man having the whole day on his hands, with nothing definite before him.”
 
“My dear fellow,” Frank said despondently; “what on earth would be the good of my entering at the bar? I should never read—you know that as well as I do; and consequently I should have no more to do than I have now, with the additional disadvantage of being obliged to dine so often in Hall, instead of being able to get my dinner where I like. As to literary work, the thing’s simply absurd; what on earth should I write about? And when I had fixed on a subject, what in the name of goodness should I have to say about it? Upon my word, Prescott, your suggestions are positively childish.”
 
Prescott shrugged his shoulders, and smoked 144for some time in silence. Presently he took his pipe from his mouth, and asked suddenly—
 
“Why don’t you get married, Frank?”
 
“Married! My dear Prescott, I wish you would not talk in that light way of such a serious business. I should as soon think of flying up to the moon. Besides, whom in the world should I marry? I go out to parties and balls, and flirt with dozens of girls, but I never think any more of them, nor do they of me. Just imagine one of their faces, if I were to say, ‘Madam, your obedient servant is on the look-out for a wife; will you supply the deficiency?’”
 
Frank laughed loudly; Prescott smiled, and then was quiet for some time. At last he said, with a sort of effort—
 
“There is one young lady with whom you are at any rate on intimate terms. I mean, of course, Miss Heathcote.”
 
“Alice!” Frank exclaimed in great surprise; “now that is about the very last suggestion I should have expected to hear from you; for, upon my word, in the three or four times we have been down there together, since I came back, you were so quiet, and—you know what I 145mean—that I had a sort of suspicion that you were spoony there yourself!”
 
Prescott coloured up hotly. “My dear Frank,” he said, gravely, “I have a very great esteem for Miss Heathcote; I think her a very loveable woman, but had I any deeper feeling for her, I should only endeavour to lay it aside as quickly as possible, because I know that I should not have the remotest chance in the world.”
 
“Upon my word now, Prescott, I don’t see why; Alice is an heiress, but I don’t know that her money would be a serious obstacle. She has no one to consult but herself, and if she fancies you, why should she not have you?”
 
“I am not speaking of money, Frank. If Miss Heathcote loved me, she would think nothing of her money; and I—although I would far rather bring wealth to my wife than that she should to me, still that would be no great obstacle. I am speaking of herself. I know that she would never care for me. So please do not let us discuss that part of the question. We were speaking of her in reference to yourself. Unless I am greatly mistaken, your uncle would be very 146pleased if you were to marry her. Why should you not do so?”
 
“Well, he has thrown out some hints, but I only laughed, thinking it was a joke. Upon my word now, Prescott, this is too bad!” Frank went on with an air of great perplexity, “It seems to me that my uncle and you have entered into a sort of plot to marry me to Alice. Thank goodness, though,” he said, cheering up, “Alice is not in it, for she has quite changed since I came back again. We were awful friends formerly, I used to kiss her regularly, and we were as jolly together as possible. When I came back from abroad, after being away two years, of course I kissed her when we met, but next time I offered to do so, she would not have it, and said that she was a great deal too old for that sort of thing. I said that we were cousins, and therefore it was all right and proper, but she answered quite sharply, that we were, indeed, nothing of the sort. Altogether she has been at times quite stiff and formal, and not a bit like what she was before I went away to the Continent. No, no, she is not in the conspiracy. Upon my word, Prescott, you quite frightened me. We like each 147other very well—very much perhaps, but there is not the slightest risk of either of us going further.”
 
Prescott shrugged his shoulders with an irritable impatience which was very unusual to him. He was angry with Frank for his careless indifference, and yet, although he told himself over and over again that he was sorry to see that his friend was so blind, how could he help being glad? To him this was no new subject. He had thought it over and over till his head ached with the thought many a time. He had seen, years before, how the girl had looked up to Frank, had listened to his schoolboy stories, and his college tales, how she had submitted to all his boy’s humours, and had made a hero of him to herself. He had noticed in the last year before Frank went abroad, how the girl’s feeling had grown and intensified with her own growth towards womanhood; how she flushed up when Frank paid her little attentions; and how quickly she resented it whenever he still treated her as a child. He had noticed how eagerly she listened to all that was said about Frank when he was away, and, at the same time, how she shrank 148from appearing to pay any but the most ordinary attention. And more than ever, since Frank’s return, was Prescott sure that Alice Heathcote loved him. Another, a less close and less obtrusive watcher, would not have seen all this, but Prescott had a deep stake in the matter. He knew that he loved Alice with the whole strength of his nature. Had he believed that he had the slightest chance of success, he would have yielded no point of vantage, even to his friend Frank. Had both entered for the prize, and had Alice been neutral, Prescott would have told his friend frankly that they were rivals, and fought the matter out to the last. But here he could do nothing. The prize was given away, and the winner was too indifferent to stretch out his hand for it. True, he did not know that it might be had for the asking, and Prescott, as he sat quietly for a few minutes after Frank had spoken, was thinking very deeply with himself whether he ought to tell his friend that he was sure that he was mistaken. He was interrupted by Frank’s saying irritably, “I wish to goodness, Prescott, you had never put such a notion into my head. I was comfortable and at home with 149Alice before, as I had no more idea of marrying her than I had of flying, and now I shall never get the idea out of my head. I wonder whether my uncle has ever thrown out any hints of his idea to Alice. I should not be surprised if he has. That would account for what I was saying about her being cold and stiff to me; naturally she supposes that I want to make love to her, and she tries as plainly as she can to show me that she will have nothing to say to me. I tell you what, Prescott, you and my uncle, with your plans and ideas, will end by making Alice and me hate each other.”
 
Frank got up, and walked up and down the room, smoking his pipe in short puffs, with an air of extreme vexation. Prescott said nothing in reply. He was actually far more irritated and much more puzzled than Frank himself was, but he could show neither his irritation nor the conflict of thoughts and feelings which was agitating him. Presently Frank stopped and said, “There is only one thing in the world I do think would induce me to marry Alice.”
 
“What is that, Frank?” Prescott asked, looking anxiously up at him.
 
150“I would marry her rather than that she should marry Fred Bingham. He is constantly there, and I think he is trying to make up to her.”
 
“I do not think that he has any chance whatever,” Prescott said quietly; “but you were always an upholder of your cousin—what has changed your opinion of him?”
 
“I don’t think that anything has changed it as far as I am concerned, Prescott,” Frank said, sitting down again; “you know he is not my sort of man. I believe just as much as I did that he is not a bad-hearted fellow—far from it; that is, I have no reason for believing otherwise. But you see I have been away for some time, and his cantankerous way comes upon me fresh. I never know whether he is making fun of me or not, and he does try my temper, which is, you know, none of the best, most amazingly. Although I know it is only prejudice, I own I do not like to see him hanging over Alice, turning over the leaves of her music for her, and that sort of thing; it makes me somehow feel cold and uncomfortable all over, and as I have said, rather than that he should marry her, I would save her 151from it by marrying her myself. Of course supposing that she would have me.”
 
“There is no fear, Frank, that you will be called upon to sacrifice yourself to prevent that contingency happening. Whatever Miss Heathcote may do, be assured she will never fall in love with Fred Bingham. As for what you say about your feelings towards him, it is not a prejudice against which you are struggling, it is a natural antipathy; one of those instincts which nature gives us against what is dangerous and bad. You know what we all felt about him at Cambridge; you would not agree with us, you fought against the idea, but your instinct is too strong for you, and you will end by thinking like the rest of us.”
 
“No, no, Prescott, I will not allow that; I grant that he irritates me more than he did, and that somehow, although I have no idea why, I should not like to see Alice marry him; but I have not the least reason for changing my opinion that he is a good fellow at heart.”
 
“He is a bad egg,” Prescott said, dogmatically. “A bad egg, Frank; do what you will with him, he is bad to the core. His shell is 152white enough, but some day when you crack it, and find what a rotten inside it’s got, you will regret deeply enough that you ever took it in your hand.”
 
“You are a prejudiced beggar, Prescott,” Frank said, laughing; “but I know it is no use my arguing the point with you. Time will show which is right.”
 
Prescott nodded, and there was a short silence, when Frank rose.
 
“The sun is shining, Prescott, the afternoon is quite changed; suppose we go out. Oh, nonsense, you said you would give me the afternoon. Where shall we go?”
 
“It’s all the same to me, Frank.”
 
“I wish to goodness it was not, Prescott; you give me all the trouble of thinking—there now, I’ve got another idea—let’s go and see the boy that picked the dog out of the Serpentine.”
 
“What are you going to say to him when you do see him, Frank?”
 
“In the first place I’m going to give him the sovereign Uncle Harry gave me for him; and in the next place—what a fellow you are, Prescott, in the next place—well, I suppose I shall tell him 153he is a fine little chap. No, I’ve another idea. By Jove, I will make a Buttons of him.”
 
“But what on earth do you want a Buttons for, Frank?” Prescott said, laughing.
 
“Oh, hundreds of things. He will be very useful in my chambers, go messages, and all sorts of things. I never can find that old bed maker of mine. My dear fellow, I can’t make out how I have done without one so long. A Buttons will be just the thing; besides, if I get a horse, look how useful he would be. I will make him cabin boy on board the yacht—hundreds of things; my dear fellow, my ideas come so fast, I think I shall take up the literary line, after all. There, get your hat and coat on, Prescott, and we will charter a cab, and be off at once to get Buttons.”
 
The afternoon had come out clear and fine; so they went out through Essex Street into the Strand, and took a cab, which soon set them down at the end of Sloane Street. Here they discharged it; and inquiring of a policeman where Moor Street was, received the intelligence that it lay down behind, but that they had better take the first turning to the right, and then inquire again. 154Accordingly they turned off from Sloane Street and entered the network of small lanes lying between Hans Place and Knightsbridge. Densely populated as the neighbourhood was, there were few signs of business, or the bustle of every day life. The place seemed entirely deserted by grown up people, and handed over bodily to children. The fathers were away at work, the mothers busy within the houses, but children swarmed everywhere; boys and girls of all ages and sizes, from the little baby set down upon a door step—sitting contentedly there, sucking a piece of rag, and gazing with a quiet old-fashioned look at the world around it, while its elder sister, a staid little woman of some seven years old, gossipped with another of the same standing—to lazy, hulking fellows of sixteen or seventeen, lounging idly at the corners of streets, smoking. Everywhere children engaged in every game which the youthful mind was capable of devising from the very limited materials at hand. Boys playing at hop-scotch, and tip-cat, and ball, with much shouting and rushing about, and danger to passers-by; boys playing at marbles, and games with buttons, and flat stones, and halfpence. 155These amusements constantly gave rise to great squabbling and disputes, in which one of the great idle fellows before mentioned was usually called in as umpire, although like umpires in general, he always failed signally in giving satisfaction to either party. Girls sitting on door steps working; girls playing at shuttlecock; little things of five or six years old in strange garments and vast bonnets, staggering along with babies nearly as big as themselves; grave little parties of nurses sitting on door steps—while the babies under their charge made dirt pies—and amusing themselves relating stories to each other,—not fanciful Arabian nights’ tales, but real histories of life:—“How father had come in on Saturday night drunk, and when mother had asked for money, how he had knocked she down.” Or, “how put about father was when he came home last night, to find that mother had been and pawned his Sunday clothes, and got drunk on it.” Many a similar tale do these little people relate gravely to each other. Poor little prematurely-old things, with their babies under their charge, and their cares already sitting heavily on their young shoulders, and such a life before them!
 
156Sometimes, but not often, a cart comes along, and the games are stopped, and the marbles scattered, and the little nurses snatch up their charges; doors open hastily, and women rush out into the road and seize their little ones by their dress, or an arm, or a leg, or anything that comes handy, and carry them off into their houses, with much shaking and scolding, and through the closed doors come out sounds of slapping and cries.
 
Through all this, Frank Maynard and his friend make their way. They easily find Moor Street, but, not knowing the number, have some difficulty in discovering the Holls’ abode. However, after inquiring of some twenty children, they light upon one who is able to point out the house. Mrs. Holl herself opens the door in answer to their knock. Mrs. Holl is engaged in washing, and her arms to the elbows are white with soap-suds. Greatly surprised is she at seeing two gentlemen standing at the door. Finding however, by their inquiry if she is Mrs. Holl, that there is no mistake, she wipes her arms hastily with her apron, and asks them to walk in, apologizing as she does for the state of the room. 157There was no occasion for that, for it was beautifully clean. The washing-tub stood upon a low bench in one corner; there were some cords stretched across the ceiling, but the clothes were not yet suspended upon them, and except that there was a warm steam in the room, which made everything look clammy and moist, it was neat and tidy as usual. Mrs. Holl placed two chairs for her visitors, giving them a preliminary polish with her apron, and then waited in silence to hear the reason of their coming. But they were too much surprised at the conduct of the fourth inmate of the room to be able for a time to pay her any attention. He had at their entrance been sitting at work at his artificial flower making near the window. On seeing two gentlemen enter, and supposing that they wished to speak to Mrs. Holl, he had wheeled his box to its usual place by the fire, where there was a ladder fixed at a considerable angle and reaching to the ceiling. Under this he pushed his box, and then taking hold of its rungs he pulled himself up hand over hand to the ceiling, to the rafters of which were fixed a line of large open iron handles. Along these he swung himself to the staircase, and then away out 158of sight by similar handles; the whole being done apparently without the least effort, and as if it were a perfectly normal method of progression.
 
“By Jove!” Frank exclaimed, when he had disappeared up the stairs, “that’s wonderful. I am pretty good at gymnastics, but I could no more do that than I could fly, and it did not seem the least effort to him; and it is so much the more difficult that I see the poor fellow has lost the use of his legs.”
 
“James is wonderful strong, sir, in the arm,” Mrs. Holl said, “wonderful strong. He began that clambering work when he was about twelve year old. He was pale like and thin, and the doctor said he ought to go out in the air, and not always sit indoors. Well, sir, James he could not abear the thought of going out much, being drawed about in a cart, but he thought if father could put up a pole, across over his head, he might make a shift to draw himself up and down, and so exercise himself a bit. Well, sir, father he put up a pole, and in time James he got to be like a monkey, he could swing himself up with one arm and hang ever so long. After a bit, father he got the thought of setting some handles in the 159beams there, and the ladder to get up to them, and it were a great amusement for James; I have seen him go right round the room ten times; as for the stairs, that were James’s own idea. He were then about fifteen, and father used to carry him up to bed, and all at once it came to him, that if he had handles put on the top of the stairs and along his room, and then a ladder to get down by, he might make shift to go up and down of himself. Father went out that same night and got a blacksmith to make the handles, and that very night James went up to bed by himself. Lor, how pleased the poor lad were, to be sure. But I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for running on so—what can I do for you?”
 
“About ten days since, Mrs. Holl,” Frank said, “my friend and I were at the Serpentine, and your son—he said his name was Evan, I believe—went into the water to fetch out a dog.”
 
“He did, sir; are you the gentleman, sir, who was going in to fetch him out?”
 
“Just so, Mrs. Holl. Now I was very much pleased with him, and I have come here for two things to-day: the one to give him a sovereign which a friend of mine, to whom I was speaking of 160your boy’s pluck, gave me for him. Here it is; will you lay it out in something useful to him? The other reason was, I want a boy to be a general useful sort of lad—messenger or domestic, in fact for all sorts of things. Now it seems to me your son would be just the thing for me. I don’t of course know anything of him, but from what I have seen I have no doubt we should get on very well together, and I think he would be very comfortable with me.”
 
“I am sure you are very good, sir,” Mrs. Holl said, gratefully, “very good, and I should think Evan very lucky to get such a place. I can’t answer for him, sir, but I should say he would jump at it”
 
“Let him think it over, Mrs. Holl, and let him come up and see me any time before Thursday evening, when I may be going out of town for a week. Here is my card. By Jove! what beautiful wax flowers; look, Prescott, are they not exquisitely made?” and Frank went across the room to look at James Holl’s handiwork.
 
“They are beautifully made,” Prescott said, examining them; “I saw your son was at work at them when we came in.”
 
161“Yes, sir, he mostly is at work at them. He is very clever, James is, awful clever, and he earns a good deal of money at it too, besides its being a great amusement to him. Poor boy, it’s a heavy life, sir, always to sit in that box of his, with no hope of ever getting any better.”
 
“It must be, indeed, Mrs. Holl. Why, what is this—Colenso’s Algebra—does he read that?”
 
“He do, sir, while he is at work; and when he ain’t he never puts it down.”
 
“He must be fonder of it than I ever was,” Frank laughed. “But this is very interesting, Prescott, is it not?”
 
“If your son is so fond of study, Mrs. Holl,” Arthur said, “I have a number of my old college books. I shall never touch them again. They only block my place up, and he is perfectly welcome to them.”
 
“Lor, sir, it would be just a godsend to him.”
 
“I will look them out, Mrs. Holl, and send them down to-morrow.”
 
“I should take it very kind of you, sir—very kind; and James will be delighted.”
 
“And, Mrs. Holl, I should like some of those wax flowers amazingly; will you ask him to make 162me some?—a basket of them. Eh, Prescott, don’t you think a basket of wax flowers would be just the thing for my room?”
 
“I don’t know that they would be altogether in strict keeping with its general contents,” Prescott said, smiling, “but no doubt they would look very well.”
 
“Just so,” Frank said. “Will you ask your son to make me a basket, Mrs. Holl? I suppose he can buy a basket and a shade, and all that sort of thing? and you know I will pay him for it all when he sends it.”
 
“James will be very glad, sir; and thank’ee, but he is not my son.”
 
“Is he not, Mrs. Holl? If it is not an impertinent question, what relation is he of yours?”
 
“He ain’t no sort of relation, sir,” the woman said. The young men looked surprised, and Prescott asked—
 
“Then how did you come to bring him up, Mrs. Holl?”
 
“Well, sir, it was a very simple matter; but if so be as you care to hear it, I will tell you just how it happened;” and leaning against the mantelpiece, with the red light of the fire thrown 163up into her face, Mrs. Holl went on, very slowly, and speaking as though she almost saw what she was relating. “Well, sir, it were an evening in April—a cold, bitter day—I was sitting here between light and dark, drinking my tea with John, who had just come home from work—John is my husband, you see, sir—when we heard a noise outside in the street. We went out to see what was the matter, and we found a poor young creature, with a baby in her arms, had fallen down in a faint like. She was a pretty young thing, sir; and though her dress was poor and torn, she looked as if she had not been always so. Some one says, ‘Take them to the workhouse;’ ‘no,’ says I—for my heart yearned towards the poor young thing—‘bring her in here; mayn’t we, John?’ says I. Well, sir, John did not say nothing, but he took the baby out of her arms, and gived it to me, and then he upped and took the poor young creature—she were no great weight, sir—and carried her into the house, and laid her on the bed, as it might be by the window there. Well, gentlemen, that bed she never left; she came round a little, and lived some days, but her mind were never rightly itself 164again. She would lay there, with her baby beside her, and sing songs to herself, I don’t know what about, for it were some foreigner language. She were very gentle and quiet like, but I don’t think she ever knew where she was, or anything about it. She were very fond of baby, and would take it in her arms, and hush it and talk to it. She faded and faded away, and the doctor said nothing could be done for her. It made my heart ache, sir; and if you will believe me, I would go upstairs and cry by the hour. The thought of the little baby troubled me too. I had just lost my first little one, sir, and I could not abear the thought of the little thing going to a workhouse, so one day I says to John, ‘John, when that poor mother dies, for God’s sake, dont’ee send the little baby to the workhouse; He has taken away our own little one, and maybe He has sent this one for us to love in his place. Let us take him as our own.’ John, he did not say nothing, but he up and gived me a great kiss, and said, ‘Sairey, you’re a good woman;’ which of course, gentlemen,” Mrs. Holl put in apologetically, “is neither here nor there, for any mother would have done the 165same; but it’s John’s way when he’s pleased. That very same night the baby’s mother died.”
 
The young men listened in silence as Mrs. Holl told her story; standing, with her rough honest face lit up in the bright fire-glow, she related it simply, and as a matter of course, all unconscious of the good part she had taken in it, assuming no credit to herself, or seeing that she deserved any. When she had finished, there was a little silence; Frank passed his hand furtively across his eyes, and then Arthur sprang up and shook Mrs. Holl warmly by the hand, saying, “Your husband was right, Mrs. Holl; you are a good woman.”
 
Mrs. Holl looked completely amazed, and stammered out, “Lor bless you, sir, there weren’t nothing out of the way in what I did, and there’s scores and scores would do the like. Having just lost my own little one, my heart went out to the poor little thing, and it seemed sent natural like to fill the place of the little angel who was gone from us. Bless your heart, sir, there weren’t nothing out of the way in that; nothing at all; and we have never had cause to regret it. 166The boy’s a good boy, and a clever boy; and he is a comfort and a help to us. A better boy never lived; but we have always grieved sorely over his accident.”
 
“Then he was not originally lame, Mrs. Holl?” Prescott asked.
 
“Dear me, no sir, not till he were six year old. It happened this a way: I were laid up at the time; I was just confined of Mary—she’s my eldest girl—and somehow, James he were out in the streets playing; I don’t rightly know how it happened, but never shall I forget when they brought him in, and said that a cart had run over him. John, he was in, which was lucky, for I think I lost my head like, and went clean out of my mind for a bit, for I loved him just like my own. They did not think he would have lived at first, for the cart had gone over the lower part of his body, and broke one of his thigh bones, and the other leg up high. It was a light cart, I have heard tell, or it must have killed him. He were in bed for months; and if you will believe me, if ever there was a patient little angel on earth, it was surely James. He never complained; and his chief trouble was for my sake. At last 167he got well, but the doctors said that he would never walk again, for they thought there were some damage done to his spine; and sure enough he never has walked. He is always cheerful, only he never likes going out; and never would go at all, if we did not almost make him; he thinks folks look at him. Then he took to the climbing work, and that did him good; and the last three years he has taken to making them wax flowers; and it has been a wonderful thing for him, that has. He has always been given to reading. John made a shift to teach him his letters; and then the children of the neighbours, they lent him their school books, and taught him what they knew; and in a short time, bless you, sir, he knew more than them all. He would sit and read for hours together. He is wonderful clever, James is.”
 
“Well, Mrs. Holl,” Frank said, rising, “we are very much obliged to you for your story, but we must not keep you any longer. We will call again and arrange matters with you when Evan lets me know whether he accepts my offer.”
 
168“And I will be sure to forward the books to you to-morrow. Good bye.”
 
And greatly to Mrs. Holl’s astonishment, the two young men shook hands warmly with her, as they took their leave.
 
CHAPTER VIII. A SHATTERED HOME.
 “Bill, dear Bill, I do wish you would give up these Chartist goings on. No good will come of it.”
 
The speaker was a pretty young woman, who would have been prettier, had not premature care traced deep lines on her forehead, which Time, more gentle, would not have done for years to come yet. Her dress was very poor, and the scanty furniture of the attic in which she and her husband lived, and the small embers of the fire over which a few potatoes were boiling for their meal, seemed to say that want had helped care in its work.
 
Bessy White had been the belle of her native village down in quiet Hampshire. A wilful, merry, coquettish little beauty, knowing her power, and using it; with a bright, fresh colour, and a 170happy ringing laugh. It seemed hardly possible that four years could have changed her to the thin, pale, careworn woman she now was. Yet it was only four years since William Holl, a journeyman joiner, had on his wanderings passed through the village, and had stopped to do some work at the Squire’s, which had occupied him for several weeks. There he saw her, fell in love with her, and carried her off in triumph from his rustic rivals, who, with the village in general, had marvelled much what pretty Bessy White could see to fancy in the pale, quiet, young carpenter, when so many stout young fellows were laying their hearts at her feet. However, Bessy had laughed at their wonder and their warnings, had gaily married, and gone off with her husband to busy London. For the first two or three years of her marriage her life was as happy as she had hoped that it would be. About eighteen months after she had come up to London, she had a baby, which only lived a few weeks; but this had been the only cloud to her happiness. Her husband earned good wages, for he was a capital workman, and was sober and industrious. He loved his wife fondly, and was very proud of 171her, and of the prettily-furnished neat little rooms which constituted his home.
 
But after a while, strange murmurs of discontent buzzed about among the workpeople of the metropolis, and William Holl, with his talent and enthusiasm, threw himself heart and soul into the movement, and soon became one of its recognised heads.
 
Then came Bessy’s evil days. Her husband, who had been considered one of the best and steadiest hands at the shop where he worked, was now constantly away, and at last lost his place altogether. The pretty furniture they once had, had gone piece by piece. They had moved from the snug lodgings they formerly occupied into the bare garret they now lived in. The rent even of this was frequently in arrear, and a crust of dry bread was often all the food they had. William Holl was ready enough to work now, but he had great difficulty in getting employment. Good workman as he was, masters looked shy at a man whom they considered as a sort of firebrand among their men, and it was only now by doing jobs at home for other hands that he earned even the most scanty living. 172Still his heart was in the cause, and although he acutely felt his changed position, and his wife’s altered looks, he never wavered for an instant in his course. For himself, indeed, he hardly felt it; the applause which nightly greeted his impassioned speeches at the club to which he belonged, was enough for him, and he would return to his wretched home with a flushed cheek and a proud bearing. He was a pale, sickly-looking man, with a high intellectual forehead, and a clear and expressive eye. Few who saw him at ordinary times would have supposed him capable of filling a large hall with his voice, pouring out bursts of real eloquence, and moving hundreds with his impassioned utterances.
 
To his wife he answered with a faint smile, “It is too late, Bessy; it is too late, my girl. I must go through with it now; I cannot draw back, and I would not if I could. We have the right with us, Bessy, and we have the strength; we must triumph in the end and get our Charter.”
 
His wife shook her head sadly.
 
“My poor Bessy,” he went on, “my poor girl. It is hard on you, you had better have 173stayed down in Hampshire, quiet and happy. It was a sore day for you when ever I saw you. But yet, Bessy, I can’t help it. I must struggle for our rights even if I die for it. But I am sorry for your sake, Bessy, that I feel as I do.”
 
“Never mind me, Bill,” his wife said, “I can bear it if you can, but I am so afraid it will never come right. I do so fear the future—I am so frightened lest you should get yourself into trouble.”
 
“Never fear that, Bessy, we are sure to win. We must get our Charter, and then things will be all changed again, and we shall be better off than ever.”
 
Again his wife shook her head doubtingly.
 
“Ah, Bill, if they were all like you, I should not fear—no, not one bit—but they are not. Look at the men you take up with now—men you would have been ashamed to be seen walking with in the old days; men who spend half their time in the public-house, who are seen drunk in the middle of the day—men who beat their wives, and let their children go about in rags. Oh, Bill! with such men as these you will never make 174things better than they were before. I have no doubt you are right, Bill, and that things ought to be changed, but, for my part, it seems to me we were very happy as we were before, when we never thought that we were, as you say, only slaves.”
 
“You women don’t understand these things, Bessy,” her husband said, a little impatiently; and then, with a slight shade on his face, went on, “I know that the men I work with are not the sort I should choose, but for a cause like ours we must work with the tools which come to hand. The better sort will soon come. Let them only hear the truth, and they will join us. They are doing so now—every day we get stronger, the Charter receives thousands of fresh signatures, and the Government, which grinds us down, trembles. Yes, Bessy, we are sure to succeed, and then, my poor girl, your troubles will be over. But it is nearly time for me to be off, let us have our potatoes. I must not miss our meeting to-night, for I expect we shall have an important discussion.”
 
The scanty meal was eaten in silence, for William Holl could not help comparing it in his 175mind with the snug, cheerful tea which he had always found waiting for him at the end of his day’s work in the old times.
 
When he had gone out his wife sighed heavily, and then continued the work at which she was engaged, and on which indeed their scanty living at present greatly depended.
 
William Holl lodged in a small street in Pimlico, close to Vauxhall Bridge, across which his shortest route lay. But a penny now was a serious matter, and he accordingly kept along Millbank, in front of the maze of scaffolding of the new Houses of Parliament, and over Westminster Bridge, straight on to the Elephant and Castle. Then turning off from the bustle and roar of traffic in Newington Causeway, he passed into the heart of Bermondsey.
 
At first his way was through narrow streets inhabited entirely by the working classes. The clocks have just struck six, and the men are turning out from the neighbouring tan-yards and skinneries. Women are standing in front of their houses talking to each other, and looking out for their husbands’ return, and through the open doors can be seen the tables laid with white 176cloths, and the little trays with the tea-things standing there, and the bright fires with the kettles singing upon them. The men come trooping along boldly, and lustily whistling snatches of popular airs, laughing and joking together. All is bustle and cheerfulness. Now William Holl has turned off into a narrow lane, and has at once entered another atmosphere. There is no sound of whistling and light laughter here. Heavy surly men lean against door-posts and look sullenly out—men with heavy eyebrows and low foreheads, square jawbones and bull-necks—men on whom crime seems to have set a stamp, and whom instinct would lead you to avoid as you would a wolf or a tiger. Through some of the windows come sounds of quarrelling and blows, and foul imprecations of unspeakable horror, but no one heeds this; the men at the doorways do not even turn their heads to listen. The few women who are about, have for the most part an air of boldness and degradation indescribable. They are dressed in dirty tawdry garments, their faces show deep marks caused by misery and drink; whilst their mouths are full of language even fouler and more horrible than 177that of the men. The men seemed all of one stamp, but of the women there were two distinctly marked classes. A few were very different from those just described. Poor creatures, timid and shrinking; wretched worn-out women, who only a few years before had been bright happy girls in some quiet country village far from the misery and crime of London. They had seen their husbands, originally perhaps honest and industrious, go with rapid steps down the social ladder, beginning with drink and ending in a life passed in violence and crime. Through all this the wives had never once thought of leaving them, but had clung to them through good report and evil report, through curses and blows, through desertion and shame, through want and misery. These women looked with trembling and horror upon the life they were bound to. To them death would have been a relief, oh, how welcome! Their early life seemed to them now a glimpse of some far off, long lost Paradise upon which they hardly dared even to cast a thought back.
 
There were a few children, precocious and old-looking, treading rapidly in their father’s steps, born to people these wretched dens, and to fill 178the reformatories and gaols of their native land. These nests of crime, these social ulcers, which eat into the heart of this London of ours, defy alike the efforts of benevolence and the sword of the law to cure or eradicate them. But one hope, one resource remains—to cut off the springs by which they are fed, to send the children to schools and reformatories before they are utterly hardened and debased, to make them useful, industrious men, and to show them the happiness of honest labour, and the inevitable misery of crime. Thus, and thus only, can the evil be reached. For the men, reformation is hopeless. They must be treated as savage beasts, and caged as such. And that not merely till the first paroxysm of rage and evil is past, to be then turned loose under the protection of a ticket-of-leave, to prey upon society. The tiger who appears to sleep in his cage, with his glossy paw extended and these terrible claws folded up, is the same tiger who in his native wilds slew men and beasts and drank their blood. Who would think of letting him loose again, to range with unrestrained freedom? Why, then, should these men-tigers be permitted to work their savage 179wills? Should they not rather, when once, by repeated crimes, they have shown that their nature is thoroughly evil, be taken for ever from the world, of which they are scourges, not to be confined for life in a cell, but only until they learn that labour is a boon. Then they should be put to pass their lives in labouring for the good of that society to whom their existence has hitherto been a curse.
 
Through this den William Holl went. Beyond it the dwellings became, scarcer; but the lanes were bounded by high walls, or large rambling buildings, the odour of tan and hide from which sufficiently indicated the trade carried on within them.
 
In a lonely corner of one of these lanes stood a public-house. It seemed at first sight a strange position for it, but doubtless the landlord knew his own business. It was a quiet out-of-the-way spot for men who did not care to enter the full light of more-frequented houses; besides, being in the midst of the tan-yards and skinneries, it obtained a fair share of custom from the men working in them. When William Holl passed the door he glanced in. A solitary gaslight was burning in the bar, but the place seemed entirely empty and 180deserted, and no lights in the upper windows betrayed any signs of life and activity. There was a small court by the side of the house; down this he turned, stopped at a door, and knocked in a quiet and peculiar way. The door was opened a little, and some one behind it asked, “Who knocks?” to which he answered, “The People and their Charter.” The door was then opened wide enough for him to enter, and he passed through into a small court behind the public-house. This he crossed, lifted the latch of a door, and went into a small passage with a staircase leading up from it. He mounted this and knocked at a door, and the same question and answer were exchanged before it was opened for his admission.
 
The room which William Holl entered was a large one, and had probably been used at one time for a penny concert room or singing hall, for at the end was a sort of raised platform. The roof was black from the smoke of years, and from it hung two chandeliers for gas. Neither of these however was now in use, as the room was lit by some candles fastened to a hoop hanging immediately over the table, at which fourteen 181men were seated. The shutters were closed, and strips of paper pasted over the cracks to prevent the light within being seen from the street. To these men there was an indescribable charm in all this mystery, in these closed windows and secret passwords, this obscure meeting place, and this rough illumination. It seemed to raise them to the grandeur of conspirators. They pleased themselves by imagining themselves watched and tracked by the agents and spies of Government. While Government, secure of the unanimous assistance of the middle classes and the fidelity of the troops, troubled itself little with the ramifications of the plot, although it looked with some little anxiety upon the increasing murmurs and disaffection of the working classes, stirred up as they were by the violent orations of their demagogue leaders. These men, for their own selfish aims and ends, assured them that they were down-trodden slaves, pointed to the scenes then enacting on the other side of the water, and called upon them to make one united effort for their freedom.
 
The present meeting was composed of some of the most influential and violent of the agitators of 182the time, being, some of them, members of the central committee, the rest delegates from various parts of London. They were, as in the French Revolution they aspired to imitate, divided into two distinct classes. A small minority were men like William Holl, intelligent and enthusiastic, to a certain extent theorists and dreamers, but actuated only by a sincere desire of ameliorating and raising the condition of their fellow-workmen—men with pale faces and lustrous eyes, animated with ardent hopes and pure intentions. But the vast majority, had very different aims and notions. They desired in the first place to pull down all above them, under the conviction that, in the confusion and anarchy which would follow the carrying out of their plans, they would somehow or other better their own condition. These men cared but little for the nominal objects of their schemes, but to secure their personal aggrandizement would not have hesitated at a reign of terror. They hated work, and, lived upon the contributions wrung from their dupes, and took up politics simply because they were selfish and indolent. The general end for which all alike professed to 183be agitating was manhood suffrage and political equality; their secret hopes and wishes differed greatly. Some would have been satisfied with a change of Government, and a House of Commons in which the democratic element thoroughly preponderated; others would have abolished the House of Peers, and have ruled only by an assembly chosen from the people; some, again, openly advocated the establishment of a republic; while a few went in for universal equality and a community of goods. The men present were composed principally of the working classes, but there were some few who by their attire belonged to a higher class, clerks and small tradesmen, who, either from interest or ambition, had joined the movement.
 
The chairman was evidently a man of a considerably higher social grade than most of his associates, and was elevated to the position he at present occupied for that reason, and not for any mental superiority. Indeed, among all the faces present, his was the most strikingly distinguished for an entire absence of any intellectual expression. An elderly man, with white hair, whiskers, and hair under his chin, with a look of self-importance 184which was laughable in its inordinate vanity. He was a bad speaker, and delivered his harangues with an exaggeration of attitude, and an inflated pomposity of manner, at which even his associates had difficulty in restraining their laughter. And yet their chairman was a useful man to them, and the LL.D. after his name threw a sort of halo of respectability over the cause. Next to him sat a man who differed in appearance yet more strongly from the remainder of those present. He was a tall man, very carefully dressed, and with a military bearing. Captain Thornton had been an officer in the army, but had been put upon half-pay, and considered himself hardly used. He resembled the chairman, only in being inordinately and absurdly vain. His personal vanity it was which had urged him to take part in the present movement, and made him delight to march at the head even of a mob from St. Giles’s. He was one of those men who would fain be king, but would otherwise be content to act the part of king’s fool, as being the next most conspicuous personage. He loved being looked up to as a man of consequence by the mechanics and roughs with whom he was 185associated. It tickled his consuming vanity, when he was saluted in the streets with the cry of “Bravo, Thornton!” To obtain popularity, even among the lowest class, he would have done anything, short of disturbing the set of his coat or the arrangement of his hair. Had there been no other way of making himself conspicuous, he would have done it by wearing a feather in his hat, or painting his boots scarlet. Not the least gratification which Captain Thornton derived from his prominent position in the ranks of the Chartists was the belief that he was revenging himself upon the authorities for the manner in which they had treated him. He was a more dangerous man than the chairman, for although equally vain, he was not equally weak, and would have gone any lengths, even to deluging England with blood, if he could have increased the notoriety of his name by so doing.
 
Such were some of the nominal leaders of the Chartist movement of ‘48. William Holl took his place at the lower end of the table by the side of a few others who were, like himself, animated by a really disinterested and lofty spirit. A whispered conversation was kept up for a few 186minutes, and then the chairman rose. He accompanied his speech by swaying his body backwards and forwards, and by striking one hand in the palm of the other. He spoke very slowly in broken sentences, pausing between each, as if he expected applause to follow every utterance.
 
“My friends, the glorious moment when we shall shake off the yoke under which we have for a thousand years groaned, is at hand. The aristocracy, who batten on your sweat and blood, tremble. The Government are preparing for flight. The great cause gains ground daily. Ten thousand signatures have been added to the Charter of the people during the last three days. The moment of freedom is at hand! We agreed, at our last meeting, that we would this evening discuss what our course of proceeding shall be, when the Charter of the people is presented to the House of Commons. In that House we have no confidence; it is composed of the enemies of the people,—of the very men who are the worst oppressors,—who lay the taxation of the nation on the shoulders of the working men, while they enjoy their iniquitous wealth scot-free! They are the ravening lions who lay wait to devour 187the poor! Yet to them must we, in the first place, submit our cause. We have now to consider what is the course it behoves us to adopt.”
 
There was a slight silence, and then William Holl said, “It appears to me that the question resolves itself into two sides. If the House receive our petition, and act in accordance with it, our object will have been gained, and our course then will be to strain every nerve throughout the country to return men of our own views. Every working man in the kingdom must be pledged to vote only for the members selected for them by a central committee, and as we shall be in a majority of twenty to one everywhere, we shall return exactly such a House as we desire, and can pass laws which will put an end to the injustice and anomalies of which we complain. But this is for after consideration, and the machinery can be arranged at a future time. The other alternative is, if the House refuse to receive our petition, or if they accept it, to carry it into force. The question then arises, and should now be determined upon, what shall be our course? Shall we submit to the refusal, or use force?”
 
188Each man looked at the other. This was palpably the question upon which the whole of their plans depended, and although nearly all were of one opinion on it, none liked to be the first to propose violence. At last Captain Thornton said:
 
“It appears to me, gentlemen, that we must be all of one opinion. The voice of the people is the voice of God; we must compel the Houses of Parliament to pass our Charter. We compelled them in ‘32 to pass the Reform Bill, and the same means must be used now; but if those means fail, we must follow the example of the people of Paris. We must march our tens of thousands down from Manchester, and the manufacturing towns. We must fill the galleries of the House; we must compel them to sit until they have passed it; we must awe them into submission.”
 
“Right, Thornton,” another said. “We must render refusal out of the question; we must make them carry our wishes into effect.”
 
“But force will be opposed to us,” one of the others remarked, doubtingly.
 
“Then,” William Holl said, resolutely, “it must be met by force. Are we greater cowards 189than the working men of the other capitals of Europe? and yet in the last month or two we have seen them carry their way against Despots, with armies of ten times the force of ours to back them. Are we greater cowards than the French, who in ‘87, in ‘30, and again now, have insisted on their will being respected? The working men of London may be put down at five hundred thousand; and to oppose us, are only the handful of troops now in it; for none will be spared from other parts. Manchester, Birmingham, Sheffield, Leeds, all the great manufacturing towns are with us, and there are not thirty thousand troops in England, and these are of ourselves. Let us always, when interrupted by the police, beat them off. When the soldiers come against us, cheer them and fraternise with them. If the worst comes to the worst, let us defy them.”
 
There was a general sound of applause when he ceased.
 
“But,” said the man who had before objected, “we are not in the same position the French people were; we are quite unarmed.”
 
“You are always timid, Wilkins,” one of the 190others said; “and timid counsels have had their way long enough; it is the time now for action. At any rate there are paving-stones, and a good supply of paving-stones on the tops of the houses make a street nasty walking for the best soldiers in the world. Besides, there are the gunsmiths’ shops; our first move will, of course, be to possess ourselves of the contents of them, and then to take possession of the arsenal in the Tower; it is not half so strong as the Bastile was.”
 
“Woe be to London if they try and oppose us by force,” a man at the other end of the table said. “We shall only have to call for our friend Turner’s lambs; and it will take more troops than London can bring to keep down St. Giles’s and Westminster.”
 
The man to whom he alluded was a powerful man, with a ruddy face, a low forehead, overhanging eyebrows, and a coarse sensual mouth; he was a butcher of Clare Market, and might have been well drawn for his prototype the famous butcher Lepelletier, the leader of the faubourgs of the French Revolution. He smiled significantly.
 
191“Ay, ay,” he said, “if you once let my lambs loose, the devil himself would not chain them up, as long as there is a shop ungutted in London.”
 
William Holl, and several others of the same class, made a movement of disgust and dissent.
 
“I trust to God it will never come to that.”
 
“I hope not, too,” another speaker said, “but we must not blink the fact; we must let those who would keep us down know, that we have it in our power to compel them to assent to the popular will; and that unless they obey it we will use that power. By so doing we shall gain the support to a certain extent of all the shop-keepers, who are at heart our most bitter opponents, for, rather than have their shops sacked, they will be glad enough to help us to put a pressure upon the Houses to do us justice.”
 
“I agree with you there,” William Holl said; “as a threat they will be useful, but I for one will never consent to invoking riot and robbery for our aid. In the French Revolution, anyone caught with plunder about him was hung up instantly, and I should vote that we did the same; as far as ourselves go, I should not 192hesitate, if necessary, to resort to arms, and would fight to the last with my fellow-workmen in an effort for liberty, but not by the side of St. Giles’s. But I do hope, and I believe, that it will never come to that. I trust that Parliament will quietly yield to the wishes of the nation.”
 
A significant look passed between two or three of the more advanced party. A peaceful solution would have ill suited their plans and schemes; and had William Holl’s wishes been carried into effect, he would have found, as his predecessors, the Girondists, had done, another Mountain to oppose him, and perhaps met with such a fate as them in the end.
 
“I should say,” another man said, “that the whole of the working classes in London—every man—should be agreed to meet at three or four centres, such as Primrose Hill, Hyde Park, and Kennington Common, and that they should go in procession to Westminster to present our petition, and should call upon the House to name an early day for its consideration. That on that day we should again assemble, and march to the House; that we should fill the galleries, and sit 193there till it had passed. That we should have everything prepared in case of refusal; the men all told off in companies under officers, and their work given to each; so many to the gunsmiths’ shops, so many to the Tower; the rest to throw up barricades. That an agreement should be made with the northern towns to rise simultaneously; and that we should then as a people declare Parliament dissolved, and proclaim a Republic. That we should disarm the troops when they did not resist us, annihilate them when they did, and then proceed all over the country to elect a house of representatives by universal suffrage.”
 
The speech was received with loud applause, and they proceeded to discuss the details of the undertaking. Many of the speeches were really brilliant, and the assembly was perfectly in accord on the main points. It was nearly one o’clock when they separated. As they were breaking up, Thornton spoke aside to a small malignant-looking man, who had taken a very prominent part in the debates. This man was the editor of an obscure paper, which pandered to the passions of its readers, by pouring out 194the foulest abuse on all who were above them,—
 
“Everything goes on well, Hausford; don’t forget your part of the work. We depend greatly upon you, you know. Be sure you keep them up to boiling point.”
 
The man replied by a meaning nod, and then quietly one by one, to avoid attracting attention, the council took their departure.
CHAPTER IX. WHAT WILL IT LEAD TO.
 At about seven o’clock on the next evening, Arthur Prescott was sitting smoking in his friend’s room, which was immediately under his own. The two apartments were similar in size, but this was the only resemblance that existed between them. Arthur’s was strictly a student’s room, plain and neat, half office, half sitting room, with a few bookshelves filled with plain, legal-looking volumes. Stiff dining-room chairs with leather-covered seats, a horsehair sofa at the hardness of which Frank was constantly grumbling, and two easy chairs of questionable comfort, nearly made up the inventory of the contents. Frank’s room was in strong contrast to this; it was handsomely, indeed luxuriously, furnished. The walls were wainscoted with dark, or rather black oak, on the panels of which hung 196a few really good pictures, which Frank had purchased during his rambles in Spain. The curtains were green, and the floor covered with a rich Turkey carpet, in which the same colour predominated. In the centre of the mantelpiece stood a bronze statue from Herculaneum, flanked by two real Etruscan vases, and a pair of magnificent Venetian goblets. Crossed above these upon the wall were two long Turkish jasmine pipe-stems, with their red bowls and amber mouth-pieces; and higher still, two swords, Toledo and Damascene, bought in the countries where they were manufactured. On brackets round the room were a few Parian marble statuettes. On a small round table stood a large Turkish narghile, with its long tube of green and gold coiled round it like a glistening snake. In the recess on one side of the fire-place was a really good library of choice standard works; in the other was a perfect confusion of boxing-gloves, single-sticks, foils, masks, heavy clubs, and dumb-bells, with which, as Frank said, he kept his hand in for a quarter of an hour before breakfast. The chairs were covered with furniture to match the hangings, but this was their 197only point of mutual resemblance. They were all of different shapes; most of them being of the sort coming under the general term of easy, while the two large ones by the fire, in which the occupants of the room were seated, were of a particularly comfortable and luxurious appearance. It was about these very chairs that the young men were speaking.
 
“It is quite a treat to sit in them,” Prescott said.
 
“Yes,” Frank answered, puffing out his smoke with an air of extreme contentment. “I flatter myself that they approach as nearly to perfect comfort as it is possible for anything earthly to do. I do love an easy chair. I remember when I was a child I used to be tortured, not as a punishment, mind, but as a regular thing—tortured by having to sit on a high-legged, straight-backed chair, with a seat no bigger than a cheese-plate, so that you could neither lean forward nor backward. How my unfortunate little back used to ache! I really wonder that my spine ever grew straight. At other times, when not in that terrible little chair, I had to sit bolt upright, and it was a penal offence to loll, as my grandmother 198called it, or in any way to approach a comfortable attitude.”
 
“It was nearly as bad in my case, Frank,” Prescott said. “I believe our fathers had a vague idea that unless we sat perfectly upright, our spine would become irretrievably crooked, whereas I really believe the reverse to be nearer the fact. I feel certain that many a man and woman with a curved spine and broken health has nothing but those atrocious chairs and the miserable stiff attitudes they had to sit in as children to thank for their misfortunes.”
 
“If our ancestors had but used their common sense,” Frank said, “which with respect to the treatment of their children they never seem to have done, they would have seen that the straightest and best formed people in the world, the Arabs of the Desert, and I may add the North American Indians—as they used to be, before they were improved off the face of the earth—never sat on a chair in their lives, but always either lay at full length, or squatted on the ground with their backs in a bow.
 
“Halloa!” he broke off; “there’s a single knock at the door; I wonder who that can 199be, I have not ordered anything that I know of.”
 
So saying he got up and went to the outer door. A boy was standing there.
 
“Please, sir, I want to see Mr. Maynard.”
 
“I am Mr. Maynard,” Frank said; “what do you want?”
 
“Please, sir, my name is Evan Holl.”
 
“Oh, is it you, Evan? Come in, it is so dark out here I did not know you again. I am glad you have come.”
 
Frank led the way back again into the sitting-room, followed by Evan, greatly abashed at the splendour of its belongings.
 
“Well, Evan, my lad,” Frank said, leaning against the mantel, “I suppose your mother has told you what I said to her. Mr. Prescott here and I were so much pleased with your pluck the other day at the Serpentine, that I thought we should get on together capitally, for if there’s one thing more than another I like, it is pluck. What do think of it; would you like to come?”
 
“Please, sir, I should like it very much.”
 
“That’s right, Evan. Now you understand you are to be my man of all work—errand-boy, 200footman, valet, groom, coachman, gardener, butler, sailor, steward and cook—in fact, general factotum.”
 
Prescott laughed, and Evan opened his eyes in astonishment.
 
“Lor’ bless you, sir, I don’t know nothing about driving coaches, or gardening, or cooking.”
 
“No!” Frank said in a tone of great surprise. “Of course in that case I shall not be able to trust either my coach or my garden into your charge at present. As to cooking, I should advise you to commence as soon as possible; and I should recommend you to go through a course of study: begin, say, by boiling a potato in its skin; next endeavour to reach perfection with an egg; proceed gradually to a rasher of bacon; and after that, master the intricacies of chops and steaks. I think that will do for the present; my little favourite dishes I will myself instruct you in afterwards.”
 
“What nonsense you do talk, Frank!” Prescott said, laughing; “the boy does not know whether you are in earnest or not.”
 
Which, indeed, was the truth, for Evan was standing shifting uneasily from one foot to the 201other, and twirling his cap between his hands with a look of considerable embarrassment.
 
“Well, Evan,” Frank went on, “as Mr. Prescott seems to think that at present we had better leave these matters alone, I suppose we must postpone the cooking part of the business, as well as the driving and gardening, and hope that it will all come in time. And now, Prescott, about his dress; what do you say to a neat thing in green, picked out with scarlet?”
 
“Nonsense, Frank! I don’t see that you want to put him in livery at all.”
 
“My dear Prescott,” Frank said, plaintively, “you have no idea of the fitness of things. You destroy all my illusions. I did think that green picked out with scarlet would have harmonised well with the room. Do you not agree with me, now, that a Turkish dress with a fez, and especial instruction as to cleaning and lighting pipes and making black coffee, would have a good effect;—a sort of Nubian slave attire, only he would have to black his face to be in keeping? You would not mind that, Evan, would you?”
 
Evan had by this time an idea that his new master was only joking, so he answered more 202briskly, “I don’t know that I should mind it much, sir.”
 
“That is right,” Frank said, approvingly; “but I foresee a difficulty in the matter. You see, Prescott, if he blacks his face, of course his hands must be blacked, too, and that would be disagreeable, for it would be sure to come off. I wonder, now, whether I could get a good receipt anywhere. I should say that a gipsy would be a likely person to apply to. They say, you know, that they steal children and dye them brown, and perhaps they could do rather a darker shade if they liked. However, till I find a gipsy the matter must stand over.”
 
“There, Frank, do stop talking nonsense, and let the boy go.”
 
“Very well, Evan, that will do for to-night. You understand, there will not be much for you to do for the present. Keep yourself clean and tidy; lose no time when I send you on messages; and, above all—and this I feel sure I may trust you in from what your mother says of you—above all, never tell me a lie; whatever may happen, tell me exactly the truth, and I have no question that we shall get on capitally together. I will 203give you a line to my tailor, and tell him to fit you out with a suit of plain undress livery. And now, here are three sovereigns, take them to your mother, and ask her to get you shoes and everything you may want, and then you will start fair. I have arranged nothing about your wages, but we shall not differ about that. There, good night, Evan; go with the note at once to the tailor’s; I have told him to get, at any rate, some of your things ready by the day after to-morrow, and when you have got them come here at once. You will sleep in the little room off the passage. I will get a bed and things for you to-morrow. Good-night.”
 
Evan took his leave, highly contented with his visit, and went home in great spirits, and related to his brothers and sisters what had taken place at the interview. The little ones were so amused at the idea of Evan dressed up as a black boy, and having his face painted, that Mrs. Holl had the greatest difficulty in getting them off to sleep, their laughter bursting out afresh again and again; so that at last father himself had to halloa at the foot of the stairs, that if they were not quiet he should have to come 204up to them, a threat which they knew meant something, whereas all mother’s scolding went for nothing.
 
After Evan had left, Prescott announced his intention of going up to read, and asked Frank what he intended to do with himself.
 
“What time is it now?—half-past seven. Tomorrow evening I am engaged out. I think I shall go down and see my uncle.”
 
Frank, in accordance with this intention, proceeded to change his coat, Prescott waiting while he did so. He took a quantity of letters from his pocket.
 
“How terribly letters do accumulate, and I am afraid that most of them want answering. Put me in mind of it to-morrow morning, Prescott, and I will do a regular batch of letter writing. What’s this? Ah! Stephen Walker—by the way I promised to look him up, and see how he is after his shaking. It is somewhere down Knightsbridge way, so I may as well do it while I think of it. As he is a tobacconist, I will go in and get a cigar, and if he recognises me, well and good; if not, I shall not introduce myself. Good-bye, old man, take care of yourself. 205Mind, you breakfast with me in the morning.”
 
Frank Maynard found the shop of Stephen Walker without much difficulty. The solitary candle burnt on the counter, but no one was in the shop. However, on hearing the door open, Carry came out of the back room, where she had been sitting reading, bringing another lighted candle in her hand. Frank, who had fully expected to see an elderly man make his appearance, was not a little surprised at seeing such a remarkably pretty girl come out. He asked for some tobacco, which Carry, who had noticed at the first glance that he was not a regular customer, gave him in silence; for, indeed, at the moment he entered, she had been engaged in a most interesting chapter of her book, and she was longing to get back to it again.
 
“Have you any good cigars?” Frank asked.
 
Almost mechanically she drew back the glasses from above the cigars upon the counter. Frank glanced at them.
 
“No, thank you,” he said. “I mean, have you any really good ones?”
 
206Carry looked fairly up at Frank for the first time.
 
“Come, now,” he urged, “I have no doubt but that you have a box of good ones which you keep for your favoured customers.”
 
Carry smiled, and brought out the box which was usually reserved for Fred Bingham’s smoking. “I believe these are good, sir.”
 
“Yes,” Frank said, examining them, “these look the right thing, I will take half a dozen.”
 
Now Frank had entered the shop with his mind perfectly made up, that unless he was recognised, he should go out again without saying who he was; but Carry looked so very pretty and bright, that he thought it would be very pleasant to sit down and have a chat with her, and to do so there was no other way than to say who he was. So he began,—
 
“Mr. Walker—your father I presume—has he quite recovered from the fright and the shock he got the other day?”
 
The bright eyes glanced up inquiringly at him now, and a flash of eager colour came across her face.
 
207“How did you know my father was hurt, sir?”
 
“I saw him fall,” Frank said; “indeed I was fortunately close to him at the time, and helped him to pick himself up.”
 
“Did you indeed, sir?” Carry asked earnestly, “and was it you really who saved his life?”
 
“I do not know that I actually saved his life,” Frank said, smiling, “but I certainly helped him up.”
 
“Father! father!” Carry cried, flying into the next room and calling up the stairs. “Come down, come down at once; here is the gentleman who saved your life.” Then she rushed back into the shop, but this time to the same side of the counter as that on which Frank was standing, seized his hand in hers, and looked up into his face with those large eyes of hers. “Oh, I am so glad you have come, I wanted so much to thank you; so, so much. Father has told me all about it, and I know that I owe his life to you.”
 
“Don’t say anything more about it,” Frank said; “I saved your father’s life by the simple accident that I happened to be close to him when 208he fell, and fortunately having my wits about me, picked him up in time.”
 
“It is very well for you to say so, sir,” Carry said, “but you will never make me feel differently towards you; you saved father’s life at the risk of your own, and how can I ever thank you enough?” And Carry looked up so gratefully and earnestly, that Frank did as most other young fellows would have done in his place, bent down and kissed the bright face lifted up to his. Carry returned the kiss as an impulsive child might have done; it was the saviour of her father’s life that she thanked, not a good-looking young man, and flushed and excited as she was, the colour hardly deepened upon her cheek.
 
“There, we are quits now,” Frank said, “so the burden is off your mind.”
 
At this moment Stephen Walker entered. He was evidently even more nervous and embarrassed than usual.
 
“Oh, sir,” he began, when Frank interrupted,—
 
“Pray say no more about it, Mr. Walker. I was lucky enough to be close to you, and did what any one else would have done under the circumstances. Your daughter has already thanked me 209most amply for you both,” and he glanced for a moment at Carry, who this time coloured up hotly; “so please let us say no more about it,” and he shook Stephen Walker warmly by the hand. As he did so, Stephen Walker, by a great effort, overcame his habitual nervousness, and said, quietly,
 
“My life, sir, is of no great value to myself or to any one else except to my daughter here, but for her sake I thank you very much for saving it. And now, sir, it is very long since any gentleman has honoured my roof with his presence, but if you will come in for half an hour, and smoke a cigar, I shall take it as a favour.”
 
Frank willingly accepted the invitation, and rather surprised at the manner in which it was given, went into the little parlour, Stephen Walker pausing for a moment to speak a word or two to his daughter. He then produced his best cigars, lit one himself instead of his usual pipe, and when Carry came in with two bottles of spirits, she was surprised to find her father and his guest talking together like old acquaintances.
 
Stephen Walker seemed for once to have laid aside that nervous timidity which had cost him 210so much during his life, and which had become almost a part of his nature; he chatted with Frank quietly and cheerfully, as one gentleman with another. The conversation turned upon travels, and Frank found to his astonishment that there was hardly a place he had visited in Europe that his host did not know as well as he did himself. As for Carry, she could hardly believe her senses. Was this her dear, nervous old father? She had heard him say incidentally that he had travelled when he was a young man, but she had had no idea of the extent of his journeyings. As the conversation went on, her blue eyes opened wider and wider, and at last she was so convinced that she must be dreaming, that she ran the needle, with which she was pretending to work, into her finger, to assure herself that she was awake. Frank remained for about an hour in conversation with Stephen Walker, and then took his leave, promising that he would call again. With Carry he had hardly exchanged a word after his first entrance; indeed he had been so much interested in his conversation with her father that he had quite forgotten the motive he had in first declaring himself. As for Carry, 211she was far too much surprised at her father’s change of manner, to think of speaking at all. After Frank had gone, Stephen Walker went back into the little parlour, while Carry locked the door and closed the shop for the night. When she had done this, she went into the other room, and found her father sitting in his chair with his head bent down, and his empty pipe, which he had mechanically taken down, lying across his knees. Carry paused a little, and then seeing that he did not raise his head, she went up to him, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said, “Who is this person? Have I been dreaming, or has this been my old father who has been talking here for the last hour?”
 
For more than a minute her father did not answer. His fingers played nervously, with his pipe; then he looked up and said, hurriedly,—
 
“No, Carry, no. It was not your old father who was speaking then. Not his real self, but quite another being. It was one who might have been me, but not myself as I am. No, no, child, don’t think it, don’t think it.” And he moved his hands nervously, as if to wipe away the thought.
 
“Don’t think what? pappy dear,” she said, 212coming closer to him and putting one arm round his neck, while with her other she stroked his thin grey hair. “I only am thinking what a bad naughty pappy it has been, when it could talk like that, and knew all these things, never to let poor little me know anything about it. To think that all these years this bad thing should have hidden what it really was, and let me have my own way, and be mistress, and scold it and talk to it as if it were a child, when it was all the time so clever and wise. Naughty, naughty pappy.” Carry talked playfully, but it was evident that she was very much in earnest, for the tears stood in her eyes.
 
“No, no, Carry, whatever you do, do not think that I was ever as I was to-night; do not think that the one you have always known is a pretence, and that this one was the real thing. I was never like that. Do not think that misfortune,—you know I was better off once—has so changed me that I have become what I am from that. I never was so, dear; I might have been so, but I never was. Had I always been as you just saw me we should not be here as we are now, and all would have been quite different; but that other 213nature went away when I was quite little, scared by harsh treatment, and never came back again except for a little little time till to-night. Why it did come back to-night I cannot say, only to raise doubts between my child and me,” and Stephen Walker wrung his hands in feeble despair.
 
“No, no, father dear,” Carry said, throwing her arms round his neck and kissing him, “not doubts. I was very pleased and proud, but very surprised too, to hear my old pappy talk like that, and a little ashamed when I thought how much I had underrated you. Not that I should have loved you more, had you been the cleverest man in the world, not one bit more; but I should have looked up to you more, and felt somehow differently towards you.”
 
“That is just it,” Stephen Walker said, helplessly; “she would have felt differently. She is not going to be my little Carry any more. That other one has come in between us, and frightened her away.”
 
“No, no, pappy,” Carry said coaxingly, and seating herself upon his knees, “this is your little Carry, is it not? There, look up, and don’t hang your naughty head down. Is not this 214little Carry? Come, speak, sir, or I shall scold you dreadfully.”
 
“Yes, yes, my darling,” the old man said, “you are my own little Carry. And now listen, dear, and I will tell you in a few words the story of my life. My father was a tradesman well to do, but he was a stern man, and took a mistaken view of his religious duties. I was a poor weakly delicate child; at school I was beaten and worried; at home lectured and preached at; my life was a misery and a burden; and even at that young age, all hope of my ever being what I otherwise might have been, had I been differently brought up, was lost. After some years I became my own master, but it was too late then, my child; too late. For awhile I travelled, as you have heard this evening. Then I married; things went badly with me. I am, as you know, from my nervous timidity, a poor hand at business. So I lost, as might have been expected, what little I had; and here I am a poor, but, I thank God, a far happier and more contented man than I had ever hoped or deserved to be. Happy in having enough to live upon without anxiety, and in having my own little Carry 215to love and pet. And now, Carry, light my pipe, and try and forget what has taken place to-night.”
 
Carry never spoke of it again, but she did think of it a good deal. Only to think that if that dear old father of hers had not lost his money, she should have been rich, and perhaps riding in a carriage instead of selling periodicals and cigars behind a counter. Her father had certainly spoken of losing what little he had, but that could only have been his way of talking; for did he not travel about everywhere, and did it not cost a good deal of money to travel; and was it not only rich people who travelled about in that way? Oh! he must have been rich; and how nice it would have been to be rich, and to do what one liked, and to buy beautiful dresses and things, instead of merely looking at them in the shop windows. And Carry pictured herself in all sorts of pretty dresses, and tasty little bonnets, and thought she should certainly look very nice. Then she sighed a little, and wondered whether she should ever be rich. Who could say? The gentlemen who came to the shop all paid her compliments, and some of them 216were real gentlemen, not mere clerks; and Carry resolved in her mind to be rather more distant in her manner to these last than had been her custom. Besides all this, she thought a good deal of Frank Maynard, so brave and strong and good-looking, but very impertinent—not, perhaps, that she liked him any the worse in her heart for that, girls seldom do—and to think of her kissing him, too. How could she have done such a thing? He must think her very bold and forward; and even when alone, Carry coloured up at the thought, as she had not done at the time when, in the fulness of her gratitude, she had kissed Frank Maynard.
 
That gentleman, after leaving the shop, had gone straight to Lowndes Square, where he found only his uncle at home, Alice having gone out, under the chaperonage of a neighbour, to a ball.
 
“Well, Frank, where do you come from? You do not often drop in so late as this.”
 
“No, uncle; but I have just been making a call.”
 
“Making a call, Frank? You have chosen rather a curious hour for visiting. Who is your friend?”
 
217“Stephen Walker, uncle.”
 
“Stephen Walker!” Captain Bradshaw said, in a puzzled tone. “I seem to remember the name, but damme if I can recollect who it is.”
 
“It is the man I picked up at the crossing last week, uncle Harry.”
 
“Ah, yes, I remember now,” Captain Bradshaw said, laughing; “periodicals punctually supplied. And how long did your visit last, Frank?”
 
“Better than an hour, uncle. I went into his room and smoked a pipe with him.”
 
“Oh, indeed. And has the excellent newsman any family, Frank?”
 
“He has one daughter, and she is without exception one of the very prettiest girls I ever saw.”
 
“Oh, indeed,” Captain Bradshaw said, drily; “that accounts for the length of your visit. I suppose she was very grateful to the preserver of her father’s life, and that sort of thing? I should not be surprised now if she threw herself into your arms and kissed you—eh, Frank?”
 
“Well, uncle,” Frank said, laughing, “I shall think you are a conjurer, for I confess that I did kiss her.”
 
218“Just what I guessed,” Captain Bradshaw said, even more drily. “And the father, Frank? I suppose he is a very superior sort of man?”
 
“Very much so, uncle; I can assure you, although you are laughing at me, he is quite a gentleman; has travelled all over Europe, and has evidently mixed in good society there.”
 
“Look here, Frank” Captain Bradshaw said, very gravely; “this is exactly the sort of thing which is sure to end badly. Here we have all the elements: father a decayed gentleman; daughter a lovely and accomplished girl, gushing over with gratitude to the preserver of her father’s life. I should advise you very seriously not to go there again. I have known these sort of things over and over again, scores of times, and they end in nine cases out of ten in a man’s making either a fool or a rascal of himself.”
 
“But, uncle,” Frank broke out hotly——
 
“Pooh, pooh! Frank, don’t tell me,” the captain said. “Damme, sir, do you think I have not heard it over and over again? Of course you have only been there once; you have found a pretty, grateful girl, and you have given her a kiss, as was only right and natural that you should 219do under the circumstances. There is no harm in these first meetings—there never is. A man seldom goes into these things with his eyes open—very few men are scoundrels enough deliberately to plan these things—but he calls again and again. He still finds her very pretty, and her gratitude gradually grows into a warmer feeling; he has kissed her once, and of course it would be absurd for her to make any objection when he does it the second time; and so these things go on, until the man, as I have said, either makes a fool of himself, and marries her, or makes a rascal of himself, and does worse. I know, Frank, that such an idea is at present as far from your head as it is from mine; but as a man of the world, I ask you, ask yourself, if you were to go there often—sometimes, of course, finding her father away, and having a half hour’s chat with her all to yourself—would you not end by feeling that you had very much better have left the matter alone? Honestly, now?”
 
“Well, uncle, honestly, now you put it in that light, very likely I should. But I think you know me well enough to feel——”
 
“Quite so, Frank,” the captain said, taking 220his hand; “quite so. I believe you to be an honourable, upright young fellow. I believe you to be more free than young men in general from this sort of thing, but for that very reason more likely to make a fool of yourself. Now you have my opinion of the affair. If you are wise you will take my advice, and not go there again.”
 
As Frank Maynard walked home that night, thinking over what had happened, he took his cigar from his mouth, and said to himself, “By Jove, uncle is right; she is a wonderfully pretty winning little thing; and if I were to go there often, and find, as he says, her father out, I should be very likely to get spoony, and make in the end, as he prophesies, either a fool or a rascal of myself; so I will take his advice, and go there no more. Prevention is better than cure.”
CHAPTER X. PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
 Mr. Barton is at breakfast in his snug little house down Brompton way. Mr. Barton enjoys his breakfast, and eats largely. Mrs. Barton does the same. It may be here observed that Mr. Barton enjoys all his meals, and that Mrs. Barton in this particular strictly follows his example. And yet there was nothing in Mr. Barton’s appearance to lead an observer to believe that he cared particularly for his meals or was a great eater. He was a large boned, ungainly, awkward man, with long ill-shaped limbs; he carried himself stiff and upright, and moved his head as if his gaunt long neck were encased in a stiff military stock. His hair had been black and bristly, but it was now thin and grey; his cheeks were closely shaved, and his face was hard and passionless. Altogether, Mr. 222Barton’s appearance was not prepossessing. He was a man whose age it would have been next to impossible to guess, but he really was about fifty-five. Mr. Barton was a Scotchman. He had come up to London young, and had, through the interest of some relations, obtained a situation in the Detective Police, at that time known as the Bow Street Runners; and a sharp, active, intelligent detective he turned out. The stiffness, which he had now so long put on that it had become a second nature to him, was originally assumed when engaged in London upon ordinary duties, in order to render detection the more difficult when he was in disguise. Although somewhat heavy and uncouth in appearance, he was a young man active and lissome, and, as he had shown on several occasions when he had been found out, and had been obliged to fight for his life, was possessed of great strength as well as activity. But situations like these were not Mr. Barton’s forte; he could, if necessary, fight desperately for his life, but he was by no means fond of putting himself into positions where such an eventuality was probable. The authorities at Bow Street were well aware of this 223weakness, and generally selected him in researches in which shrewdness and patience were required rather than courage. In these they knew he was to be thoroughly relied upon, and would hunt down his game with the unerring sagacity of a hound. Even here he failed sometimes, losing his clue unaccountably, and that just at a time when success seemed certain. The authorities happened upon one of these occasions to obtain proofs that it was not his sagacity but his honesty which had been at fault, and that a heavy purse had proved sufficient to render his eyesight temporarily defective. Thereupon Mr. Barton was dismissed the force in disgrace. This was fifteen years back; soon after that time he had married.
 
Mrs. Barton’s figure was in the strongest possible contrast to that of her husband. She was a large woman and enormously stout. Mrs. Barton was a Jewess, the widow of a Hebrew clothier in Houndsditch, who had left her a small fortune. She had been very handsome when young, but not the slightest trace of her good looks remained in her fat, coarse face. She was nearly as old as her husband, but there was 224not a white hair in the black bands on her low square forehead. What had induced Mrs. Barton to marry her present husband was a riddle which none of her friends could solve. It seemed, however, that he had been employed in some enquiry in which her late husband was interested, and she was a woman who could keenly appreciate the shrewdness and energy of the rather uncouth Scotchman. At any rate, when the days of mourning had expired, the widow signified her willingness to lay aside her weeds in his favour. As Robert Barton had just left the force, and was looking out for a fresh opening, he gladly accepted her offer, although even at that time, at five-and-thirty, the widow was, to say the least, large, and her good looks had completely flown. Indeed, he hesitated not a moment. He had saved up some money, and with that and the widow’s fortune and connection, he thought he saw his way very clearly before him. It is true that her friends were extremely angry with her for marrying a Christian; she became as it were excommunicate, and cut off from all participation in the service of the synagogue. This feeling, however, 225in no way interfered with their willingness to work with her in business, and as she had been a popular woman among her class during the lifetime of her first husband, her connections, with the exception of a few of the strictest set, soon forgave her her marriage out of the pale. A few weeks after his marriage Mr. Barton opened an office in the City, which he entitled “Barton’s Private Research and Detection Office.” In a very short time he began to do a good business, and once or twice made especially happy hits—succeeding in tracing stolen property, and in ferreting out an absconding clerk—when the regular detective force had given up the task in despair. After this his success was a certainty, and it was soon apparent that he had means of obtaining information altogether beyond the ordinary police sources of intelligence. Here it was that Mrs. Barton’s connection came into play. The whole of the agents he employed belonged to her persuasion, and so numerous and active were they, that scarce an attempt was made to pass a stolen note without Barton being informed of it. Even on the Continent, at Hamburg and other places where Jews congregate, 226he had numerous correspondents; and as most of the stolen property was likely, sooner or later, to find its way there, the information with which he was furnished enabled him frequently to make the most surprising captures in England. It must not be supposed that these men betrayed themselves or each other, or that they restored stolen property which they had purchased. They simply let him know that they had become possessors of it, and gave him such clues as would enable him to trace the thief. Besides this they arranged through him the terms for restoration of bills, and various other securities, and even for the recovery of bank-notes. There were, indeed, occasional murmurs heard against him. It seemed, men said, that although Barton was certain to bring the guilt home to the smaller class of delinquents, pilfering shop-boys, forgers for small amounts, or defaulting collectors, yet in cases of great importance, where perhaps the absconding clerk had made off with very large amounts, his zeal in following upon the scent, though apparently very great, was rewarded with singular ill-success.
 
Robert Barton’s business was not confined to 227the discovery of frauds; many of his researches were of a far more complex and delicate nature. Wives who sought missing husbands; broken-hearted fathers, missing daughters; claimants to property, who set him to work to find the lost link in their chain of evidence; husbands and wives who sought proofs of each other’s infidelity:—all came to Mr. Barton, and on the whole they were well satisfied with him. In these researches he seldom took any active part, contenting himself with sitting in the office, holding the threads of all the nets which his active subordinates were spreading round their victims. Occasionally, however, when the fit took him, or the affair was too important to be trusted to any hands but his own, he would put on a disguise, lay aside his stiff carriage, and transforming himself so completely that no one would recognise him, sally out upon his search.
 
“What have you got to-day, Barton—anything important?”
 
Robert Barton took out his pocket-book and examined the entries.
 
“Marriage certificate between John Rogers and Mary Hare, somewhere about 1792, probably in 228London. That’s a mere matter of sending circulars to all the parish clerks, offering a reward.—Register of baptism of William Pollard, 1822. Liverpool or Manchester.—Trace and recover notes and bills in Borough Bank robbery. That, of course, I cannot move in at present. It is a large sum, and I have no doubt, from the lot I believe are in it, that the notes will go over to Hamburg. I must write to Levy there to get hold of them and hold them for a time, and then I must find out how much they will give for them.—John Bell, cashier, Latham and Prodgers’, defaulter; determined to punish; offer ￡400. I shall soon lay him by the legs.—Evidence against Mr. Halfall, Bristol. That is rather a delicate matter. I must send Isaacs down, he is just the man for that; the fellow is so good-looking, he gets round the servant girls in no time. It is just nine, I must be off.”
 
“Mind, Barton, don’t forget sharp six is the dinner-hour; you were ten minutes late yesterday, and the joint was overdone.”
 
In a few minutes Mr. Barton was on the roof of his ‘bus on his way to the city. As he went 229along he sat grave and immoveable, scrutinizing the passers-by, as if he considered they all possessed secrets he might be some day called upon to investigate.
 
Mr. Barton’s office was in one of the narrow streets leading off Cheapside, and consisted of two rooms on the first floor, the one a general waiting-room, the other his private office. In the former two lads were at work at a desk, copying from the “Gazette” the bankrupt and insolvent list.
 
“Has any one been here?”
 
“One gentleman, sir; he left his card.”
 
Mr. Barton looked at it. “Did he say he would call again?”
 
“He left word would you go round directly you came in.”
 
The card was that of the manager of a large banking firm.
 
“Ask any one who calls to wait, I shall not be gone many minutes,” and Mr. Barton took his way to the Bank.
 
On his sending in his name, he was at once shown into the manager’s room. The manager, an elderly man with spectacles, was evidently at 230the present time considerably ruffled and put out.
 
“Take a seat, Mr. Barton. A very unpleasant business has taken place, very much so, indeed. One of our clerks has made away with a great deal of money; we do not yet know the particulars; we only found it out yesterday afternoon. We sent for one of the books which he kept, as we wished to compare it with another; on doing so we discovered some extraordinary discrepancies; we sent down to him, but he was gone—had left immediately the book was taken up to us. We sent up to his house, but of course he had been in and gone out again. We put the police on his scent last night, but as I was coming up to town this morning, I remembered that you knew his face, as he was several times at your office about that case of forgery you followed up for us; his name was Symes—David Symes.”
 
“I remember, sir, a fair young man.”
 
“Just so; we shall offer two hundred pounds reward for his capture.”
 
“Very well, sir,” Mr. Barton said, “I will lose no time. I will telegraph down to my 231agents in Liverpool and Southampton. The police are sure to watch Dover and Folkestone, and I will myself see about the London shipping. If he is still in the country, depend upon it we shall catch him, sir.”
 
“Reuben,” Mr. Barton said to one of the lads in his office, upon his return, “go at once and see Jonah Moss and Levi, and tell them to go to all the slop shops in Houndsditch and eastward, and find out if a young man of about thirty, fair, with bluish eyes, and very little whisker, looking like a gentleman, bought any sea clothes down there last night. If so, bring me a description.”
 
“You need not trouble yourself, Mr. Barton,” a man said, coming into the office. “Perhaps I can give you the information you want.”
 
Mr. Barton looked at him steadily, then opened the door leading into the inner office, motioned to the man to enter, followed him in, and closed the door carefully after him. He then took another steady observation of his visitor. He was dressed as a sailor, with a few little bits of finery, a chain and rings, such as foreign sailors affect. He was swarthy and dark, 232with black hair falling in little curls. He was the beau ideal of a sailor from the shores of the Mediterranean.
 
“A very good get-up, Mr. Symes,” Mr. Barton said quietly, “really very creditable; pass muster very well in the street, but would hardly deceive anyone on the watch for you. Don’t you think it is just the least bit rash for you to come here?”
 
“Rash! not a bit of it,” the man laughed; “the very best thing I could do.”
 
“I suppose you know I have just come from the Bank.”
 
“Quite so, Mr. Barton, I was watching for you. I felt sure they would put you after me, so I waited till you had been there and got instructions, and then I thought I would come in and hear all about it.”
 
“You are a cool hand, certainly,” Mr. Barton said, in a tone of admiration.
 
“Well, you see I have been for some time looking things in the face and making my calculations. I knew, of course, that it must come out, sooner or later, and I think I have made myself pretty well master of everything which 233could bear upon my chances. As I felt sure they would put you on me I inquired all about your way of doing business.”
 
“And what was the result of your investigation?” Mr. Barton asked, rather grimly.
 
“Why, you see,” the man said, carelessly, “here I am. And now to business. How much have they offered you?—a hundred pounds?”
 
“Two hundred,” Mr. Barton said.
 
“I am sure I feel it a compliment. Two hundred pounds! Well, now look here. I have taken a big sum altogether, but it has been over a long time, and has gone pretty nearly as fast as I got it. My luck on the turf has been really a caution. So I don’t get off with much in the end, only a few hundred pounds, but I tell you what, I will give you five hundred pounds to let me go.”
 
Mr. Barton hesitated, and sat thoughtfully for nearly a minute, and then he said, “The three hundred you offer me more than they do is not sufficient to cover the risk.”
 
“Nonsense, man, there is no risk in the matter, as you know as well as I do.”
 
234“But suppose, Mr. Symes, that the police catch you, how then?”
 
“Ah! but the police must not catch me. It’s precisely for that that you are going to take the extra three hundred. It will be your part of the business to throw them off the scent, you will find that an easy job enough.”
 
“How am I to be paid? that is, supposing I agree to this?”
 
“I will tell you. I have five hundred and fifty pounds standing as a deposit in the Joint Stock Bank, in the name of Rogers; here is the pass-book. When I paid it in, a year ago, I said that I should probably draw it out in a lump for investment. I have written a letter here to the manager, saying that I have given a cheque for five hundred—at least I have left the figures blank at present, and that I shall be obliged if he will fill up and return my pass-book, and let me know the amount remaining to my credit. So that he will be prepared for the cheque when it is presented. In what name shall I fill it in?”
 
Mr. Barton thought for a minute, and then said, “John Halfourd; he is a lawyer, it 235will be better through him, we do business together.”
 
David Symes filled up the cheque.
 
“I have dated it the day after to-morrow,” he said. “I sail to-morrow in the ‘Louisa,’ for America. She warps out of the docks this evening. Put the police on the track of the Australian ships. I depend on you to do this. If I am taken, I shall, of course, stop the payment of the cheque. Good-morning, Mr. Barton.”
 
“Good-morning, Mr. Symes, a pleasant voyage.”
 
And the ex-clerk went down the street, whistling gaily.
 
“That is a monstrous clever fellow,” Mr. Barton said, admiringly; “cool as a cucumber. It is as well, before I do anything else, to see if this money really is at the Bank. There, Reuben, run round with this pass-book to the Joint Stock, and ask them to be good enough to see if it is all right, and then bring it back here. Don’t say who you come from, but do it in a regular way of business.”
 
While the boy was gone, Mr. Barton sat thinking 236deeply, till he returned with the message that the book was correct with the exception of the interest, which could not be added unless the book was left.
 
“Is Aaron Solomons here, the man who came from Liverpool yesterday?”
 
“Yes, sir, he is in the outer office. And am I to see about what you told us before, about the buying the outfit?”
 
“No, Reuben, that matter is arranged. Tell Solomons to come in here.”
 
The man entered. He was a well-made, good looking fellow.
 
“Solomons, when are you thinking of going back to Liverpool?”
 
“To-night, Mr. Barton.”
 
“You have never been much in London before, have you?”
 
“No, sir, I only came up for a week at the time——”
 
“Yes, Solomons, at the time you assisted at that little affair at the goldsmith’s—there, don’t look nervous, man. I have kept your secret as long as this, and you may rely upon it, that as long as you remain faithful to my interests, I 237shall continue to do so. Then you are sure that the police don’t know you?”
 
“Quite sure.”
 
“Very well, then I will tell you what I want. Get yourself up as a gentleman; have you clothes?” The man nodded, and Mr. Barton went on. “Put on moustaches if you like; don’t put on any jewellery about you, but look plain and straightforward. Drive in a Hansom to Clinton’s Bank, and ask to see the manager. Introduce yourself as Mr. Herbert Parker, of 25, Sloane Street, Knightsbridge. The house is really empty at present, but I have got the name put into the red books; it is useful having a name or two which no one else can claim. Say to the manager that you have been intimate for some years with David Symes, a clerk in their Bank, and that some time since he borrowed a hundred pounds of you; mention that you called at his house this morning, and found him gone, and the place in confusion, and that you heard a rumour that he had absconded.”
 
The man had been taking notes as Mr. Barton went on. He asked now, “What was Symes’s address?—you have not told me.”
 
238“123, Brompton Square. Say you came down to the Bank at once, to inquire if anything was really wrong with Symes; mention that you have heard him say that he intended to go out some day to his friends in Australia. Do you quite understand all that, Solomons?”
 
“Quite,” the man said, repeating from his notes the instructions he had received. “After that?”
 
“After that, the manager is pretty certain to ask you if you would be so good as to go round to the police-station, and tell them what you think are the reasons why Symes will make for Australia. Get him to give you his card, and then go to the police-station, and tell them you have been to the Bank, and, at the manager’s request, came round to give them the information.”
 
“Is that all, Mr. Barton?”
 
“Yes, I think so, Solomons, except that you had best go off by the first train after you leave the police-station. Here are fifteen pounds for your trouble.”
 
The man hesitated a little. “One question, Mr. Barton. Does the man Symes really go to 239Australia?—I suppose you are working to get him away?”
 
“Why do you ask, Solomons?”
 
“I ask because, if he is not going to Australia, I do not think you have hit on the safest plan.”
 
“No, Solomons?—what is your idea? I know you are a sharp fellow, let me hear it, man.”
 
“Well, Mr. Barton, I should think that in any case the police are safe to have a strong suspicion that it is a plant. Now, if I just get up a little bit flashy—not too strong, you know—they will suspect it still more, and they will be sure to send down to Sloane Street, and find out that No. 25 is empty, and Mr. Herbert Parker is unknown. Now, where does Symes sail for—America?” Mr. Barton nodded. “Very well, if I go and tell the same story, only putting in America for Australia, they will be safe to think that it is a plant, and that I have been sent down to put them on to the American ship while he gets off in an Australian.”
 
“Very good, indeed, Solomons; very good. I shall double what I promised you, and make it thirty pounds, and if you are inclined in a month 240or so to come up here from Liverpool, I will promise you a good berth. But it is time for you to be at work. Remember, you are very likely to be closely watched when you leave the police-station, so take a four-wheel cab, and leave your bag in it, and change your things as you go to the station. Don’t take the cab all the way, but pay him beforehand, and tell him to stop whenever you get into a lock, so that you can slip out and join in the crowd without being noticed; then take another cab to the station, and take your ticket only as far as Crewe: get out there, and go on by the next train.”
 
Events turned out as Solomons had predicted. The police had been all day closely watching the ship “Louisa,” which, with several others, was lying in the stream ready for a start in the morning; but in the evening word came down that from information obtained during the day, there was no doubt that David Symes was not going to America, as had been supposed, but to Australia or some other part. Consequently, the sharp watch which had been kept up over the “Louisa” all day was relaxed, and the vigilance of the police was directed to the other vessels preparing 241for a start. The foreign sailor, therefore, who was going out as a passenger in her to New York to take command of a French vessel lying there, passed under their eyes almost unheeded, and by eight o’clock next morning, the “Louisa,” with all sail set, and a strong ebb tide underneath her, was running past Woolwich, to stop no more till she furled her sails in New York harbour.
 
Mr. Barton was very busy all day, sitting like a spider in his den, and throwing his threads skilfully abroad to entangle the human flies; which, some buzzing gaily in the sunshine unsuspicious of danger, some hiding in nooks and corners, were yet equally sure, sooner or later, to be caught in the meshes.
 
At a quarter to five Mr. Barton left his office and took his way homeward, in great content at the day’s proceedings.
 
“Rachel,” he said to his wife, on entering, “we will have a bottle of that old crusted port to-day.”
 
“That means you have done a good day’s work, Robert?”
 
“Yes, indeed; the best I have done this many a month. Five hundred pounds clear.”
 
242“That is good indeed, Robert. What was it—a cross, I suppose?”
 
“Just so, Rachel. One very seldom makes five hundred in a day’s work by working on the square.” And Mr. Barton told his wife with great glee the day’s incidents. “Four more years, Rachel, and we shall give it up. By the way, that puts me in mind of something,” and he consulted his pocket-book. “It is rather more than six months since I called to see that boy. I will go in there to-morrow night.”
 
“I suppose, Barton, you cannot do anything with him till he gets of age?”
 
“Nothing, Rachel; there are only four more years to wait now. That pulled off, we shall be able to retire comfortably.”
 
“We should not do badly if we gave it up now.”
 
“By no means, Rachel; but as he will be worth to us at least ten thousand pounds, it will pay very well to go on another four years. Of course I shall make my bargain with him, and get a deed drawn up and signed, before I tell him who he is, and I am sure he would give his ears to be a gentleman.”
 
243“It was certainly a good idea of yours, Robert, and does you great credit. Suppose, in honour of the occasion, we have two bottles of that old port, instead of one.”
CHAPTER XI. AN EVENING AT THE HOLLS’.
 It is evening at the Holls’. The children are in bed, the place is, as Mrs. Holl says, “tidied up,” and John is smoking his pipe with several visitors who have dropped in. There is policeman A 56, and Perkins; William Holl, and his wife too, have come over, for this does not happen to be one of his nights at the meeting. Lastly, there is Mr. Barton. That person, however, was certainly a less welcome guest than the others, for John Holl did not like the man; why he could hardly say, but he knew he did not, and was at no particular pains to conceal his aversion. Mr. Barton never seemed to notice John’s rebuffs, but periodically, perhaps once in six months, would come in and smoke a pipe with him. John Holl had very often asked his wife, on whose good sense he much relied, What that chap Barton meant by coming to see them? 245He seemed comfortably off, and why he should come in twice a year to smoke a pipe was a thing he could not understand. But for once, Sarah was quite unable to enlighten her husband. The matter had fairly puzzled both John and his wife. Many years had passed since John Holl first made Mr. Barton’s acquaintance. It happened thus: John had no children then, and was much younger and not quite so steady as he had since become. John’s temptations, too, were many; for in the discharge of his occupation as dustman, he had sundry mugs of beer offered to him in the course of the day. So it chanced that one particularly warm summer afternoon, being oppressed by the heat, John accepted several of these offerings, and had felt his thirst noways abated thereby. After his work was done, therefore, he went into a public-house, to endeavour still further to wash the dust from his throat. Here, somehow or other—he never could exactly recall the cause—he became involved in a fierce dispute with a man who was also engaged in quenching a devouring thirst. To settle this difference of opinion, they adjourned into the back-yard. The end of this 246was, that John Holl, who had drunk more than his opponent, got considerably the worst of it. The first thing he remembered afterwards was, that he was sitting on the ground, supported by Mr. Barton. This good Samaritan had entered the public-house just after John himself, had espoused his side in the argument with great zeal, and now sprinkled water in his face, and endeavoured to pour brandy down his throat. When he had partially recovered, Mr. Barton, in the kindest manner sent for a cab, drove John to his house, and there delivered him over to the tender care and pity, mingled with upbraidings, of his wife. After this he came in several times to see how John was getting on, but, when he had as it were got a footing in the house, his visits gradually became less frequent, and at last months passed by without their seeing him. Then, greatly to their astonishment, he had dropped in again; and from that time, every six months or so, Mr. Barton would pay them a visit; greet John and Sarah as if he had seen them only the day before; reach a long pipe down from the mantelpiece, seat himself in his usual place next to James, and begin 247to smoke tranquilly. Husband and wife had often wondered and discussed much what could be his possible motive in thus, for seventeen years, continuing his periodical visits. They did not like the man; still they had no reason for telling him so, more especially as he tried to make his visits as acceptable as possible, never failing to produce a small bottle of spirits, remarking—with an immovable face, which it was impossible to question—that he had in his pocket by accident, and to insist that it should be drunk then and there. For the children, too, he always brought a bag of cakes or lollipops, so that to them his visits were noteworthy affairs. Indeed they served Mrs. Holl as a species of calendar, and she reckoned the date of all her household events for years past by them. Baby had been born about a month before Barton’s fourth visit back. James had the measles just about the time of his sixth visit, and so on; and, indeed, Sarah would sometimes greatly mystify her neighbours by this method of reckoning. It was not till many years after the commencement of this disjointed intimacy that John Holl had found out who his visitor really 248was. He had always supposed him to be something in the city—for Barton occasionally mentioned his office—but he did not even know in what part of London he lived, and put him down as being a close man, not given to talking about his affairs. Four years ago, he had made the discovery in this wise. A 56 happened to be spending his evening with John when Mr. Barton had come in. A 56 had said rather respectfully, “Good evening, Mr. Barton,” and Mr. Barton had looked for a moment decidedly taken aback, but recovering himself had said, “We are both off duty together to-night, Brown;” Brown being the name by which A 56 was known in private life. After this Mr. Barton had sat smoking and talking for a time as usual, and when he was gone, A 56 told them that Mr. Barton was a sort of private detective, at which John and Sarah had been astonished, and indignant.
 
“What,” John said, “a detective! and what does he mean by coming spying here? I hain’t nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Brown; he may spy as much as he likes in my house, but he won’t find nothing but what is honestly paid for. I ain’t 249no thief, Mr. Brown. If I find anything in the bins—and many a silver spoon and fork, and all sorts have I found there in my time—when I finds them I gives them up. Why, Lor, what good would it be if I didn’t? Sairey would not so much as look at them. Next time Mr. Barton comes here he’ll see what he’ll get for his peeping and spying. Just to think of it, Sairey, to think that while I thought everyone knew John Holl was an honest man, that all this time I have had a policeman—no offence, Mr. Brown—but a private policeman a spying into my doings.”
 
“I don’t think—do you know, John,” A 56 said, after smoking meditatively for some time, “I don’t think you need trouble yourself about Barton’s suspicions of your honesty. If there had been any great robbery of plate, and they could not make out how the stuff had gone, and you had taken away the dust, say early in the morning, I don’t know that they might not suspect you, and keep you under their eye; but Lor bless you, it would not have lasted more than a few weeks at most. It ain’t nothing of that sort, you may take your solemn Davey. It 250is a rum start surely. I have often heard you talk about a Mr. Barton, who came in twice a year, but it never entered my head as how it were Barton the private detective.”
 
“Well, but what does he come here for, Mr. Brown? Just tell me that,” John Holl said, bringing his heavy hand down upon the table. “I’ll find out next time he comes, or my name’s not John Holl. I will punch his head for him, Mr. Brown, detective or no detective; there’s no law against that I expect, if he comes into my house without even saying by your leave.”
 
A 56 smoked thoughtfully, not paying much attention to what John Holl said; then he remarked, “It is certainly strange, John. Barton is a deep one, there’s no doubt of that, and not a bit the sort of chap to waste a minute of his time without some good reason for it, but I can’t see what his game is here.”
 
“What was this Mr. Barton?” Mr. Holl asked.
 
“He was a Bow Street runner,” A 56 said, “but he was turned out of the force some twelve years back. He calls himself a private detective 251now, and does all sorts of things in that way. They say he is as sharp as a needle. He’s got to the bottom of several jobs which have beaten our people, but I have heard, though I should not say so to every one, that he plays double sometime. But there, that mayn’t be true, and you see our people are rather jealous of him.”
 
“That’s right enough, Mr. Brown, but still I can’t see what he has been spying about here so long for—twelve years—no, more—nigh upon thirteen, it were just about the time when James and his poor mother came here.”
 
“Was it though?” the policeman said; “then you may take my word for it, John, he comes to keep his eye on the boy. I’d bet a gallon to a pint he knows who the boy is, and is paid by his friends to let him know if he’s alive, and how he is getting on; yes, you may depend upon it, that’s about the mark.”
 
John Holl and his wife looked at each other in astonishment. Sarah was the first to speak.
 
“That’s it, John, sure enough. Like enough he’ll turn out some rich man’s son, and get all his money yet.”
 
“I would not think that, Mrs. Holl; no, not if 252I was you,” policeman Brown said; “I should say his chance now is worse than it was before. Then some day, I don’t say it was likely, still there it was, it might have been found out by some accident who he was, but now it seems as if they must know where he is, and all about him, but don’t want to acknowledge or do anything for him.”
 
“Then they’re a bad, unnatural lot, whoever they are,” Mrs. Holl said, indignantly, “and the poor lad a cripple too. But any ways, John, if he comes to look after James, we must speak him fair, for who knows, perhaps some day when they are dying they may be sorry for what they have done all these years, and turn round and send for him.”
 
“That is so,” the policeman said; “let him come and go just as if you thought nothing more of him than before; if any good come of it, so much the better. If not, his visits won’t have done you any harm.”
 
And so it was settled. Since that conversation Mr. Barton had paid his seven visits with his usual punctuality—this was his eighth. No hint was ever given by John and Sarah that they 253suspected the cause of his coming, and to James they had never spoken of what had passed, for he had gone to bed at the time when their discovery of Mr. Barton’s occupation was made, and they agreed that it was much better to say nothing to him on the subject.
 
For some time the little party talked on indifferent matters, and then the cripple boy, who was rather fond of attacking William Holl, brought up the question of politics. James had read much, and variously. All these years that he had been crippled, he had had no other occupation, and he had thought as well as read; at ordinary times his diction, although better, still resembled that of those around him, but when he warmed into a subject he dropped this altogether, and spoke in the language of those in the world, of which he had seen so little and read so much. “Well, Uncle William, and how go on the Chartists?”
 
“The great cause goes on well, James, as well or better than we could hope. The working classes are everywhere moving, and a deep feeling of discontent at their condition is fast gaining ground among them.”
 
254“And a great pity too, William,” Sarah Holl said; “we have always done very well before we got these Chartist notions into our heads, and for my part I can’t see what we want with them, or what good they are to do us, when we do get them.”
 
William Holl smiled pityingly, his wife sadly.
 
“Sairey is right,” her husband said. “We have done very well, and I for one don’t want no change. I should like to own my horse and cart, but I don’t see that the charter is going to give it me. So let well alone, says I.”
 
“Anyhow, William,” Sarah said, “it has done neither you nor Bessy any good. When I think of what you both were two years ago, and what you are now, it makes me sick of the very name of the Charter.”
 
“The first disciples of a cause always suffer,” William Holl said earnestly, “and Bessy and I must be content to do the same. When we look back some day upon our success, we shall be rewarded.”
 
“The success you will have to look back upon some day, William Holl, if you don’t watch it,” A 56 said, “will be finding yourself 255some fine morning shut up between four walls.”
 
“The voice of the million cannot be put down!” William Holl said, sententiously.
 
“Yes, it can, Uncle William,” James said, “when the million don’t happen to be united, and the two or three hundred thousand who are their masters, and who have an armed force at their command, are perfectly unanimous.”
 
“The history of the world says otherwise.”
 
“In some cases, uncle, I grant you, where the million are really ground down, as you are so fond of saying, or are crying for bread, their voice is, I allow, irresistible, but unless their grievance is a real one, and their hearts are in it, it may be very loud, but no one cares for it. Your opponents have strength, and perfect unanimity; they have the law on their side, the troops and the police, and against all this your mere mob is a wave against a rock.”
 
“The French Revolution, James, has taught us the power of the people.”
 
“The French Revolution!” James laughed. “You will never play that game over here, nor is 256it the slightest criterion for you. The French people had reason on their side, they had justice if not law. The people were tyrannised over to an extent we can hardly understand; they groaned under an overbearing nobility with feudal power, who looked upon them as hardly human beings; their condition was dreadful, and they were nearly starving. They had something to fight for. But we are not mere slaves as they were, nor are we starving. The French people groaned under so terrible a tyranny, that the whole of the middle classes, the great proportion of the clergy, and a good many even of the nobles were at first with them—in fact were the Revolution, although in the end the people turned upon their benefactors, and destroyed nobility, clergy, and middle class. The people there were at the commencement united with the middle class, and at any rate knew what they were fighting for, and were sufficiently in earnest to be ready to give their lives for their cause. You stand alone; the middle classes are more bitterly opposed to you than even the upper, you have no unity among yourselves, and lastly, you are fighting for you know not what—for a chimera.”
 
257“I beg your pardon, James,” William Holl said, hotly, “it is no chimera. Universal suffrage is Nature’s law; every man has a right to a voice in the Government.”
 
“Now, my dear uncle, that is so like you. You see you get together, and you dogmatise, and agree with each other, till you lay down things as law, which have no existence except in your own brain. What do you mean by that great sounding phrase,—‘universal suffrage is Nature’s law.’ It sounds well, but what does it mean? Has it any meaning at all—and if so, is it true? Let us go back to a state of nature—savage nature, and what will you find? Chiefs or governors are elected to rule the nation; but I will venture to say, in no tribe or race of which there is any history, were they chosen by the vote of man, woman, and child; they were elected and are now elected among savage tribes by the wise men of the nation, the object being to choose the men most fitted for the place. And so with this Government of ours; when Parliament was established, it was proposed that the men most suited to rule the nation should be chosen. There were various ways in which this might have been done, 258but the way selected was that boroughs and counties should each send so many members, which members were in those days unquestionably selected by the leading men in such boroughs and counties. Since its foundation the number admitted to the privilege, or to speak more correctly, the number of those upon whom the responsibility of selecting the representatives devolves, has largely increased, until nearly every man of intelligence or energy, having a house, can vote. The object of it all is to obtain a good Government. Is not that object attained? Do you mean for an instant to say that a Parliament such as would be elected under a system of universal suffrage would be equal in intelligence, in character, or in any single point, with the present one? Failing to prove that, your whole argument falls to the ground. If under the present state of things you found Parliament legislating entirely for the benefit of the rich as against the poor, taking burdens off their own shoulders to lay them on yours, you might well complain. But it is not so. The burdens on property are very great, the burden on you very slight. Every question which comes before them 259which can in any way benefit the working classes has always its full share of attention. What reason therefore have you to complain? Of those who have the vote, not one half exercise the inestimable privilege you make so much fuss about; not one quarter would do so unless canvassed and worried and bribed. My dear uncle, as father says, we are very well as we are; let well alone.”
 
“There is something in what you say, James; but unquestionably a republic in which each man has a voice is the happiest form of government.”
 
“Theoretically it may be, uncle, although I should doubt it. The Jews tried it, and fell back upon a monarchy. The Athenians tried it, and there it lasted till the time of their fall; but you will find that the house of assembly, so to speak, in Athens, was chosen by a more limited proportion of the people than have the vote here; besides, if you read their domestic history, I don’t think you will conclude that it was a happy or reputable one. Rome tried it; but in her earlier history the real power was always in the hands of the patricians, who chose consuls, who were kings with another name. And in Rome, as the popular element became stronger, so was 260the government worse, until the nation took refuge under an emperor. England tried a revolution, and fell into the hands of Cromwell, who, although he ruled them wisely and well, was far more despotic in his power than any king who preceded him. France tried it, and you can’t say much for the conduct of King Mob there; and at last they came to the conclusion that an emperor was better than mob-law. Yes, I see, uncle, America. America is a young country. She has had, since her formation, no enemy near her to try her; she started with every advantage, and what is the result? She has pretty nearly universal suffrage—that is, every man has a vote—but what is the consequence? he finds it of no use voting independently, and he therefore binds himself to a party, and has a ticket given him with a list of names, which he is bound to vote for. Look at Congress, no sane man could compare it, either for intelligence, eloquence, statesmanship, or conduct, with our own House of Commons; besides, above all is the President, who is really very nearly independent of Congress, and is, indeed, as despotic as any European monarch.”
 
261While James had been speaking, the others had been smoking in silence. Mr. Barton was surprised, although he said nothing, and the others were accustomed to his talk, which was indeed far beyond his age and station. When he ceased there was a moment’s silence, and then John Holl said,—
 
“Well spoken, James, spoken out like a man, ay, and a clever man, too. I don’t quite know all you were saying, not having learning myself; but I am proud to hear you, James, and I feel more than repaid, if it were only to hear you talk like that, for any trouble we may have had with you, my boy. Now, brother Will, you ain’t got nothing to say to that; give it up, man, for Bessy’s sake if not your own; give it up, and go to work again like a man.”
 
“I have plenty to say against it if I choose, John,” William said. “James talks very well, looking at it in the light he does, and, I will say fairly, puts his side stronger than I ever heard it put before; but he talks from books, and not from real life. He does not know how we are put upon—how should he?”
 
“Ah, that’s what you always fall back upon, 262uncle,” James said, laughing. “You are put upon; it is very vague, and therefore, unsupported as it is by a single fact, very difficult to disprove. How I wish I was like other people. I should like to go to one of your meetings, and speak there. You get together, you are all the same side, and you talk and talk, and back each other up, till you think there is nothing to be said on the other side of the question.”
 
“Lor bless you,” Perkins said, “they wouldn’t let you speak; don’t you go to think that; if you didn’t agree with them they wouldn’t hear a word you had to say, and you might think yourself very lucky if you got out of the place as whole as you went in. I’ve been to some of these sort of places, but the more I find they talk about liberty, the less they will give it to any one else.”
 
“Do you know, Perkins, I should like to go to one of these Chartist meetings. I have heard James talk it over so often, that I think I could tell them a thing or two.”
 
“Look here, John,” the prize-fighter said, “I don’t like these things, but I should not mind it for once for a lark. So if you go, here’s one with you. What do you say, William, will you take us?”
 
263“I don’t know when there will be one,” William Holl said, evasively, glancing at A 56.
 
“You need not mind me, William Holl,” the policeman said; “we’ve no instructions about you yet. When we have, be as cunning as you like, we shall soon find out all about your goings on; but if you will take my advice, you will drop it. James has put it very straight and right, and I drink his health, and it would be better for some of you if you had a little of his sense. You will find yourself in the wrong box one of these days.”
 
William Holl only shook his head, and then rose, saying it was past nine and it was time to be off. So his wife put her bonnet on, and all took their leave, including Mr. Barton, who had, as was his wont, spoken very little, but who had listened attentively, especially when James was speaking, as if desirous of judging as far as possible of the lad’s character.
CHAPTER XII. THWARTED PLANS.
 Frank Maynard had by no means forgotten what his friend Prescott had said to him upon the subject of Alice Heathcote. He had thought it over constantly and with increasing annoyance, Frank could have been easily led to do almost anything, but he was one of the worst men in the world to drive, and this he considered to be an attempt to force him into a marriage for which he had not the least desire. He was the more annoyed because he was really very fond of Alice in a cousinly sort of way, and he felt that he could never again be upon the same pleasant footing with her as before. Had he believed for an instant that Alice regarded him in any other light than that in which he thought of her, he might have acted differently: but Frank had not the least personal vanity, and it never entered his mind 265that Alice ever thought of him except as a sort of brother. Altogether it was very unpleasant, and he consequently stayed several days away from Lowndes Square, instead of paying his almost daily visit. At last he felt that it would seem strange if he did not go, and so started with an uncomfortable feeling, and a dogged resolution that if he had the least opportunity he would enlighten his uncle as to what his own views upon the subject were; knowing Captain Bradshaw’s peppery disposition, however, he had no doubt that he would be exceedingly irritated at finding his wishes thwarted in a matter so very near his heart. On arriving at Lowndes Square he found his uncle alone in the drawing-room. It was a large room, with folding-doors. These on ordinary occasions stood open, but in cold weather were kept closed, as Captain Bradshaw said the large room made him cold. Alice, on her part, liked the arrangement, as the back drawing-room made a sort of snuggery, where she could work or paint undisturbed by visitors. In the front room Frank found his uncle.
 
“Well, Frank, I thought you were lost. Where 266have you been all this time? It is nearly a week since you were here.”
 
Frank said, rather confusedly, that he had been a good deal engaged.
 
“Nonsense, engaged! You may be out of an evening, but you could surely manage to run down some time in the day to see us.”
 
Frank knew that this was one of Captain Bradshaw’s weak points; that he liked attention, and could bear anything better than being neglected; so he said that he was sorry he had let so many days pass without calling, but would come oftener in future.
 
“That is right, Frank,” Captain Bradshaw said, mollified. “You know we don’t see many visitors here, and you brighten us up. It is not for myself, but for Alice’s sake, that I like you to come down often. You ought to be more attentive there.”
 
Frank thought that this was a good opportunity to express his opinion upon that point, and he said, rather coldly;—
 
“I really do not see, uncle, why I should be specially attentive to Alice. I do not think it 267likely that she interests herself in the slightest degree as to my comings and goings.”
 
Now Captain Bradshaw was just as anxious to have a talk with Frank upon this subject, as Frank was himself. For years this marriage between his nephew and niece had been his pet project. He had so thoroughly settled it in his own mind, that he believed they were equally agreed, and that although no actual love-making might have taken place, it was a sort of tacit engagement. He had often during Frank’s absence joked Alice about him, and the girl’s rising colour and evasive answers more than ever confirmed him in his opinion. Since Frank’s return, however, things had not gone quite as he had anticipated. It was not that he doubted in the least that all was right, for he was a good deal accustomed to have his own way, and had beside an old-fashioned idea that in these matters young people should do as their elders recommend. Still Frank was not so attentive as he ought to have been under the circumstances, and it was Captain Bradshaw’s opinion that now his nephew had had his fling, the sooner he settled down and married Alice Heathcote the better. He had 268therefore quite made up his mind to intimate his wishes to him upon the first opportunity.
 
“I hardly know what you mean, Frank. If I were a young man in your place, I should think that it would be only right and proper, under the circumstances, that she should take a good deal of interest in what I did.”
 
“What do you mean, uncle, by ‘under the circumstances?’” Frank asked, shortly.
 
“Mean, Frank? Damme, I mean, of course, in the relation in which you stand to each other.”
 
“I am your nephew, uncle Harry, and Alice is your niece; but I imagine that the relationship between us is something very slight.”
 
“Pooh! nonsense, man!” Captain Bradshaw said, irritably; “you know what I mean; but I will put it plainly for you, if you like. I think it natural that Alice should feel some interest in your goings-on, considering that you are some day going to be man and wife.”
 
“Man and wife, uncle? What are you thinking about? Alice and I have about as much idea of marrying each other as we have of flying.”
 
269“Damme, sir!” Captain Bradshaw commenced, fiercely; “but no, I will not get angry;” and then he continued, in a tone of concentrated rage, which showed far more than any gesticulation could have done, how angry he was: “Do you mean to tell me, seriously, Frank Maynard, that you do not intend to marry your cousin, Alice Heathcote?”
 
“Most distinctly and clearly, uncle, I do not. I like Alice exceedingly. I love her almost as a sister. She is a dear, good girl; but I have not, and never had, the slightest intention of marrying her.”
 
Captain Bradshaw sat down. He could not trust himself to speak for some time; he knew how passionate he was, and that he should be sure to say something which he would afterwards wish unsaid. At last, after a great struggle with himself, he said, quietly;—
 
“My dear Frank, you have upset me sadly. I always thought it was an understood thing between you, and I had set my mind on it. For years I have planned and hoped for this. What objection can you have? It would make me very happy. You are like a son to me, Alice like 270a daughter; why can you not come together?”
 
“My dear uncle,” Frank said, “there is hardly anything that I would not do to give you pleasure, but I can hardly change my present feeling for Alice into the love I should give to a wife. I am sorry, very sorry, that you are disappointed, but I never dreamed of such a thing. If you had spoken about it some years sooner, I might have got to look upon it in that way. But it is too late now.”
 
“But I always thought you did understand, Frank. I have watched you both closely, and I thought you loved Alice, and I was quite sure Alice——”
 
Captain Bradshaw did not finish his sentence, for the folding doors opened suddenly, and Alice Heathcote herself stood among them. Had not the light of the winter afternoon faded out,—the room being only lit by the deep red glow of the fire,—they would have seen that her face was very pale, and that her cheeks were still wet with tears. However, she gave them little time to notice this, for she moved hastily forward, and stood between them with her back to the fire, so that 271her face was in deep shadow. Then she said, trying to speak in a playful tone, but in a voice which shook and wavered a little as she began;—
 
“My dear uncle, if you gentlemen want to talk secrets you should not choose a room with folding doors, through which every word can be heard. Not that I am sorry I heard what you said, in the first place, because I have a right to have a voice in a matter in which I am so much interested; and in the second, because I am able to come in and join my voice to Frank’s in asking you to let us each go our own way. You see, uncle, we make very good cousins, but we have no inclination to exchange that relationship for a nearer one. Let us have our own way, uncle: you cannot make two people love each other who have no natural inclination that way, and we could not love you better if we were married than we do separately.”
 
Captain Bradshaw was silent for a moment in astonishment, and then broke out;—
 
“Damme, Alice, if I understand you at all. I always thought——”
 
Alice stepped forward, and laid her hands upon his shoulder, and murmured very low, so that 272only he could hear her, “Hush, uncle, for pity’s sake!” and then, more loudly, “you see, uncle, unfortunately, we have been playing at cross-purposes; Frank and I have been caring for each other in a brotherly and sisterly sort of way, and you, wanting it to be something else, have all along misinterpreted what you saw. Now, be a dear, kind uncle, as you always are, and let us have our own way.”
 
“Just so, uncle,” Frank put in; “you see it has all been a mistake, and I am very glad that Alice has overheard us, because she has been able to assure you that she agrees with me.”
 
Captain Bradshaw was silent for a moment, and then said softly to Alice as he kissed her cheek;—
 
“You are a darling, Alice; as for you, sir,” he said, turning fiercely upon Frank, “my opinion of you, sir, is, that you are a young fool. Yes, sir, damme, a thorough young fool,” and with this explosion of wrath, Captain Bradshaw strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
 
Frank gave a long whistle.
 
“Upon my word, Alice, this is too bad; Uncle 273Harry is turning a complete tyrant in his old age. The idea of getting into a passion because you and I, who have known each other for the last ten years, are not going to fall in love with each other all at once to please him. It is too absurd, upon my word.”
 
“Very absurd, Frank,” Alice said, quietly; “and now I think you had better go, and I will go down and pacify uncle.”
 
Frank took up his hat, but paused as he went towards the door, and said,—
 
“I hope I did not say anything rude about you, Alice? You know how much I like you as a sister; but I was obliged to protest against his making us man and wife, when I know that neither of us had such an idea in our heads. You are not vexed, Alice?”
 
“Not vexed at all, Frank,” she said, quietly; “now, please go.”
 
Frank went downstairs, and out into the chilly evening air, with a strong feeling of discontent at things in general. The whole thing was, he assured himself, too ridiculous; still, somehow or other, he did not feel as pleased as he had expected now that the affair was settled. By 274the time he reached the Temple, however, he had recovered his usual good temper; and going straight up into Prescott’s room, he sat down and gave his friend an exact account of what had passed. Prescott listened with great attention. When Frank came to the part where Alice appeared upon the scene, Prescott almost held his breath to catch every word, and murmured to himself,—
 
“Dear Alice; dear, brave girl.”
 
When Frank had done, he said,—
 
“Now, Prescott, just give me your opinion of it all; it is too bad, is it not?”
 
“Do you want my honest opinion, Frank?”
 
“Of course I do, Prescott.”
 
“Very well, Frank; then I will give it you. I agree entirely with your uncle. You are a fool, and a thorough fool.”
 
It would have been a very dangerous proceeding for anyone else than Prescott to have expressed this opinion of Frank to his face. As it was, Frank looked for a moment as if inclined to be exceedingly angry, but glancing at Prescott’s thoughtful face as he looked into the fire, his brow cleared again, and he said,—
 
275“At any rate, old man, I was a fool to ask your opinion, for I might have known beforehand what it would be. You had as good as said you were in the plot with uncle, and advised me to marry Alice, so you are put out by finding that you are ridiculously mistaken. I can only say, that as you would have doubtless acted so much more wisely in the matter than I have done, I wish you had been in my place.”
 
“I wish to heaven that I had been, Frank,” Prescott said, with an earnest sadness.
 
“Upon my word, I wish you had, Prescott, for I do believe that you love Alice; although why, if you do, you should have been urging me on to marry her, is more than I can make out.”
 
“I wished you to marry her, Frank, because, above all things, 1 should want to see her happy.”
 
“Then why in the name of fortune don’t you marry her, and make her happy yourself, Prescott?”
 
“Because she would not let me, Frank.”
 
“Pooh, nonsense, Prescott! we know very well that she does not care for me, thank goodness; 276and, therefore, it is all the more likely that she may for you.”
 
Prescott did not care to pursue the subject farther, for he did not wish his friend to see that he felt any serious interest in the matter.
 
When Frank Maynard had left the house in Lowndes Square, Alice Heathcote did not for some time carry out the intention she had expressed of going downstairs to pacify her uncle. As she sat in her low easy-chair before the fire, not leaning back, but with her figure bowed, her hands listlessly clasping each other, and a look of weary hopelessness upon her face, she needed comfort too much to be able to dispense it. Alice had suffered a severe shock; one of those shocks which cast a shade over the whole life. The pain of a rejection—or, perhaps, more properly speaking, the duration of that pain—is in almost exact proportion to the amount of hope which was previously entertained. Instances are not wanting, indeed, where a perfectly hopeless attachment has embittered a whole existence; but those who so suffered must have been endowed either with a peculiarly sensitive organisation, or an ill-regulated mind.
 
277It is the same thing in all relations of life. If a man hopes to attain a large fortune by the death of a relation, or by a fortunate speculation, or successful invention, he will form plans for the future, and build greatly upon his expectations. It will be a great shock, then, when he finds that the money is left to another, or the speculation or invention turns out a failure; but it will not rankle in his mind, will not permanently affect his whole career in life as it would do had a banker, with whom he had placed a similar sum of money, failed. It needs certainty, or that strong belief which is the same as certainty, to make the loss of a fortune, or the failure of a love-dream, cast a permanent blight over a life. Had Alice Heathcote doubted Frank’s feelings for her, she might still have loved him truly, she might have dreamed happy dreams, and built fairy castles of love and happiness. But she never would have quite given way to her love; she would have known that her dreams were but visions which might never come true, and that her castles were but baseless fabrics after all. Had she then found out that Frank did not love her, she would have felt it as 278a very great pain; she would have mourned over her vanished dreams, and her ruined castles, but the wound, deep as it might have been, would have healed over in time, and left but a slight scar. But she had believed, believed surely, that her love was returned, and so had given her whole heart, and nursed her love until it had become a part of her very being. Many things had assisted to cause this delusion. For so many years, almost ever since she could remember, she had looked up to him as her protector and adviser. He had always seemed fond of her, and, having no sister of his own, had petted and made very much of her; and Frank had a warm kindly way about his manner and talk which might very well deceive a young girl into the belief that his affection was love. While he was abroad, too, he had written so often and so affectionately, that, judging his feelings by her own, she had believed that he loved her. But most of all she had been deceived by her uncle’s manner and talk. The little hints and innuendos he frequently threw out, the way in which he had seemed to consider that it was a settled thing, had impressed 279her with the idea that Frank had spoken to him upon the subject before he left England, and was only waiting until his return to ask her formally. And so she had given her whole heart, trustingly and confidingly, and it was now a terrible shock to find that she had been mistaken after all. She could not blame him; she knew now that her eyes were opened, that he had never spoken or looked as a cousin, thrown with her as he had been, might not have done. Nor could she blame herself; for she felt that it would, under the circumstances, have been next to impossible for her not to have misinterpreted him. She could only lament her mistake, and feel with grief and bitterness, that her bright hopes and dreams had all faded away, that her castles which had seemed so solid had fallen, and that there was nothing to take their place; that dreaming and hoping were over for her, and the light of her life gone out for ever. So she sat there, and looked with a dull pain into the fire; the slight fingers twined in and out round each other, the lips, folded together to keep in the cry of grief she could hardly repress, yet quivering restlessly, while 280from time to time great tears rolled down from the long lashes. For a long while she sat thus; sometimes quite quiet, at others swaying herself backwards and forwards. At last, when the clock upon the mantel struck six, she roused herself with a weary sigh that was almost a wail, passed her hands slowly across her forehead and back over the hair by her temples, and then, dropping them listlessly by her side, passed out and up to her own room. She did not come downstairs until the dinner was announced; but when she did there were few signs upon her face of the hard struggle she had gone through. Captain Bradshaw, on the other hand, had by no means recovered the equability of his temper. He was throughout dinner in a state of explosion. He swore at the footman in an unusual way, and sent fiery messages to the cook, until she was, as she expressed it, so flustered she did not know what she was doing. Even the footman, accustomed as he was to his master’s outbreaks, felt aggrieved.
 
“He is just the very image of an Indian tiger, cook. I have been with him a good many years now, but I never did know him so awful cantankerous 281as he is to-day. He ain’t a bad master, the Captain, noways, but flesh and blood can’t put up with him; not white flesh and blood, black might; I shall tell him in the morning he must provide himself elsewhere.”
 
“Why didn’t you tell him now?” the cook asked sarcastically. “I would, right off.”
 
“I don’t think you would now, cook; I wouldn’t, no, not if he were to swear ten times wuss at me. He’s a regular old tiger, when his temper’s up, he is; and if any one were to say anything to him it would be a dreadful business; pretty nigh as much as one’s life were worth, I should say. Lor’ bless you, he would think nothing of taking up a poker or a candlestick, or a soup tureen, or anything which happened to come handy to him at the time.”
 
“And what does Miss Alice say to it all, James?”
 
“She is a right down good one, she is,” the footman said, admiringly; “she does all she can, but to-day he’s too fierce even for her. She ain’t looking quite herself neither. She did try once or twice to smooth him down a bit, but, 282bless you, when he’s in such a tantrum as he is to-day, nothing short of a strait-waistcoat and a cold bath would smooth him down.”
 
While this conversation was passing below, Alice Heathcote was having by no means a pleasant time of it upstairs. Captain Bradshaw had taken his usual place by the fire, with his port wine upon a small table beside him, while Alice sat down opposite, with a piece of fancy work in her hands as an excuse for idleness. For a little time after the servant had left the room, there was silence, and then Captain Bradshaw, after drinking off a glass of wine, and pouring himself out another, said, with great deliberation,—
 
“And now, Alice, I shall be glad if you will give me an explanation of all this; for, damme, if I can make head or tail of it.”
 
“My dear uncle,” Alice said, cheerfully, “I don’t know that there is anything to explain. You see, Frank and I do not want to marry each other, and although I believe that parents and guardians have a right to put a veto upon marriages of which they do not approve, I confess that I do not think their power extends to the 283point of compelling two strongly objecting parties to marry each other.”
 
Captain Bradshaw rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief, and then performed the same operation with great violence all over his head, brushing up his short grey hair into a state of the wildest and most aggressive looking confusion. It was not that he was actually hot, but it was a trick he had acquired in India, and was a certain sign, with him, of great irritation.
 
“But I always looked upon it as a settled thing, Alice; I have set my mind upon it for years, and I always felt sure that you were fond of him. I don’t know what to make of it; but if you do care for him, Alice, by Gad, he shall marry you, or, at any rate, he shall be made most thoroughly to understand that not one penny of my money shall he ever have if he does not.”
 
“Thank you very much, uncle,” Alice said, smiling quietly; “but you see I should not particularly care about being married to a man who only took me as an incumbrance with my money and yours.”
 
“But, Alice,” her uncle said impatiently, “I do not understand why you took his part to-day, 284and so rendered all I said of no avail. I was sure you cared for him. You never attempted to deny it when I spoke to you upon the subject, and now you upset all the force of my arguments, and confirm that young jackanapes in his refusal to listen to my wishes, by saying that you are mutually indifferent to each other.”
 
“My dear uncle,” Alice said, very gravely, “the whole of the unfortunate position has been brought about by your deceiving yourself in the first place; and in the second, by the very unfair and unjustifiable way in which you have deceived me.”
 
“Upon my word, Alice,” Captain Bradshaw said, astonished at this sudden attack upon himself, and replacing untasted upon the table the wine he was in the act of raising to his lips, “I do not understand what you mean.”
 
“This is what I mean, uncle. You all along thought and hoped that Frank and I would some day take a fancy to each other. About that I have no reason to complain, nor that you deceived yourself into believing that things were turning out as you wished. What you were wrong in, my dear uncle, was, to have spoken to me as you 285did about Frank. What could I think? I could not suppose it possible that you were doing so merely upon the strength of your hopes upon the subject. I naturally concluded that you were in his confidence, that you had talked the matter over before he left England, and that although he or you might have thought it wrong to ask me to enter upon an engagement at the age of eighteen, and just as he was leaving England for two or three years, still that he perfectly intended to propose for me upon his return. What else could I think, uncle?”
 
Captain Bradshaw was silent. He felt that he had been wrong, and that without sufficient cause he had led his niece to believe that Frank loved her, and had thus greatly endangered the happiness of his favourite. Once feeling himself to be wrong, no one could be more ready to admit it than Captain Bradshaw.
 
“Upon my word, Alice,” he said, earnestly, “I never looked upon it in that light. I see that what you say is true, and that I have behaved like an old fool, as I am, in the matter. But even now it may not be too late—even now I may be able to persuade Frank——”
 
286“My dear uncle, you forget that I could not accept him under such conditions, and beside that, few men are less likely to be persuaded or forced in a matter of this sort than Frank is. It would be folly upon my part to pretend that I do not like him very much. I always believed that he cared for me; and I daresay, had he been very attentive when he returned, and made pretty speeches, and behaved well, I should not have, thrown any serious obstacle in the way of the fulfilment of your pet project. As it is, I find now that I have been mistaken all along as to the whole affair, and all I have to do is, to make myself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.”
 
“I am afraid that I have done a great deal of harm,” the old man said, sadly, “and I can only say that I did not do it wilfully, for I certainly deceived myself as much as I did you; but that is a very poor consolation to me when I reflect that my thoughtless folly has made you miserable.”
 
“Not miserable, uncle,” Alice said, speaking as cheerfully as she could, though she had very hard work to prevent herself from breaking down and going off in a fit of crying. “Not quite so 287bad as that. It has been a little shock for me, but I shall soon get over that. But, please, do not speak about it any more. At any rate, Frank is not to blame in the matter. You could not renew it with him without letting out that we have both been deceiving ourselves about it; and it would, of course, be very painful for me to know that he even guessed that it was so.” So saying, Alice went across and kissed her uncle. “That is settled, then?”
 
“Ay, ay, Alice. I do not see that I can say no to you. I have made so much mischief that the least I can do is to let you have your own way now. As for Frank, I repeat what I told him to-day—that he is a thorough fool not to have fallen in love with the dearest and best girl in the world.”
 
Alice was satisfied, for she had gained more than she had anticipated, knowing well how obstinate her uncle was when he had once set his mind upon anything. Indeed, it was only the thought, that the pain he knew Alice must be feeling was caused by his own error, which made Captain Bradshaw, as a sort of reparation, give up his long-cherished plans and hopes.
 
288And so, as far as taking active measures were concerned, the matter dropped; but not from the thoughts of either. Captain Bradshaw could not forgive Frank all at once, for having thwarted his plans, and made Alice unhappy; nor could he forgive himself for the share he had taken in the affair. For although Alice tried hard to seem cheerful when with her uncle,—though she talked more, and smiled more frequently than had been her wont,—she could not deceive him, now that he was really watching her. Her voice was not always steady and under her command; she spoke in a forced way, very unlike her former merry talk; and above all, the smile never went farther than her lips—never lit up the rest of her face. Over that a cloud had fallen. It was difficult to say what the change was, but it was as if the light had suddenly gone out. Her uncle tried to be very kind to her, but at this time he did not make matters easy for her. The very tone of kindness and commiseration in which he spoke to her was in itself a trial; while with every one else he was so terribly bad tempered that he made the lives of all around him a burden to them.
 
289Frank called a few days afterwards, and Captain Bradshaw hardly spoke to him; but Frank had made up his mind that his uncle must be allowed time to work off his disappointment, and appeared to take no notice of this, but chatted with Alice as usual.
 
These first visits of Frank’s were a great trial to Alice, but she had at least the satisfaction of knowing that he did not even guess what the state of her heart was, and was therefore able to get on with him better than she had expected to have done. At first, too, Frank made his calls as short as possible, for with his uncle in a state of extreme irritation, they were by no means pleasant visits. After a fortnight or so Captain Bradshaw began to calm down, and things gradually resumed their old footing, except that Alice still looked pale and wan, and her voice was no longer to be heard singing snatches of old ballads as she moved about the house. But of this Frank knew nothing, and put down her altered looks partly to the annoyances he conceived that she had to bear from his uncle’s temper.
 
It was after one of these visits he said to Prescott,—
 
290“I think, Prescott, it would be a great thing if I were to go away for a little while. I have been thinking on my way back, that if I were to write to Teddy Drake, and offer to pay him a visit, it would be very good fun, and would give my uncle time to get into a better temper. As long as I am in town I must call regularly, and that keeps the sore open; whereas, if I go away only for a fortnight it will calm him down a little. I shall be very glad to see Teddy, too, for I have not seen him since I came back.”
 
“I think it is a very good plan, Frank. Do you know his address?”
 
“Oh, yes. Teddy and I exchange letters once a year or so. I will write at once, Prescott. I shall be very glad to get away for awhile, for I am heartily sick of this London life.”


END OF VOL. I.
ALL BUT LOST. CHAPTER I. WHO WILL WIN THEM?
 Teddy Drake' s answer to Frank's letter came by return of post, and Frank at once went up to Prescott's rooms in a state of some excitement to read him its contents. They were as follows:—
“My dear Frank,
“When I opened your letter and saw your signature I was so overwhelmed with astonishment and delight that I nearly upset the tea-tray, quite upset (I mean as regards temper) my respected father, who hates excitement; and the affair would probably have ended fatally, had [2] not the girls administered brandy in small doses. Seriously, Frank, I am truly glad to see your fist again, and still more so to hear that you will come down and see us, if invited. Please consider yourself invited hereby. We are all agreed, father, mother, and girls, that you will be received with open arms—that is by me. Fortunately, this is of all others just the time for you to come, for we are about to plunge into dissipation. My eldest sister, Margaret, is just going to be married. The event comes off on Thursday, and there are great killings of the fatted calf over the departure of the prodigal. Now a wedding in London is, I imagine, a serious, not to say heavy, business. Here it gives rise to no end of fun and excitement, and is wound up by a ball in the evening. You will be a great acquisition. Travelled swells are scarce in these parts, and as Shakespeare says, ‘homekeeping folks have ever homely wits.’ So great things will be expected of you. My people here know all about you, having heard me speak of you a thousand times. So lose no time, but put yourself into the train at twelve o'clock upon the day you receive this. I shall be at the station, [3] Stoke you know, at half-past five to meet you; so let there be no mistake about it. Shake old Prescott by the hand for me.—Yours very truly,
“Teddy Drake.
Prescott laughed over the letter.
“I suppose you mean to go, Frank?”
“Of course,” Frank said. “This is quite an excitement. A country wedding will be a relief indeed after these solemn London parties. Well, I have no time to lose, and must go and get gloves and things for the festive occasion. Keep your eye on Buttons, Prescott, and make him useful.”
It was nearly six o'clock, and already dark, when Frank arrived at the dingy little station of Stoke-on-Trent. Teddy Drake was upon the platform to meet him, and was perfectly uproarious in his greeting.
“And so am I to see you, Drake, very glad. You are not a bit altered.”
“You are, Frank, tremendously. I should hardly have known you with those big whiskers. [4] Is that portmanteau all you have? That is right. Here, porter, just put this portmanteau in my dog-cart.”
“This Trent valley of yours, Drake, is rather alarming to a weak-minded man. All these flaming forges and kilns certainly give one the idea that the crust of the earth must be of unusual thinness hereabouts, and the hot regions unpleasantly near. I do not feel singed yet, certainly, still one can't but think that facilis descensus averni. The question is, ‘shall I hence unscathed go?’”
Teddy laughed.
“To another man I should have said that the bright eyes of the Staffordshire girls were more dangerous than their fathers' fires; but you, who have seen the beauties of Spain, Italy, and the East, are not likely to be scorched by our lesser luminaries.”
“You see more pretty faces in a week in England than in a year abroad, Teddy. How far is your place?”
[5]
“Only another hundred yards or so. There, you can see the lights among the trees. Now, we are turning in at the gate. Mind your face, Frank: some of these shrubs want cutting. Here we are.”
The front-door was opened as the dog-cart drove up, and the bright light streamed cheerfully out into the damp evening. Mr. Drake was in the hall.
“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Maynard. We have heard so much of you from Teddy that we all feel as if you were quite an old friend.”
“Come along, Frank; I will show you your room. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, so you had better go up at once, and then I can introduce you to the womankind.”
The room was a small one, for which Teddy apologised.
“You must put up with a small room, Frank, for to-morrow we shall have no end of people here,—bridesmaids and aunts, and that sort of thing.”
“You need not apologise, Teddy. After knocking about Europe and the East for the last two years I am not likely to quarrel with such a room as this. Now, you go off and dress while I am unpacking, and come in again as soon as you can, and talk to me.”
[6]
Teddy was not long absent.
“Now, Teddy, sit down while I am dressing, and tell me about every one; give me the consigne, as it were.”
“The present occupants of the house,” Teddy Drake said, “are, first, my father, whom you have seen—a dacent man, though I say it myself—acting partner in the great house of Painter & Co., porcelain manufacturers; an Englishman, quiet and matter of fact; has not a keen appreciation of a joke. My mother is Irish to the backbone, and we all take after her. Indeed, we spend a good deal of our time over there with her relations, and the brogue comes natural to us. I always use it myself, especially when I am talking with ladies; one can venture upon a tinder sentiment in the brogue which one could never hazard in Saxon. The only son of the above-mentioned couple——”
“Spare me that, Teddy,” Frank laughed; “I know more of him than is to his advantage already.”
“Now I call that unkind, Frank; I was about to have said some neat things about Edward Drake, Esq. My elder sister Margaret is to be [7] married in two days, so you won't see much of her, and I need not bother you with a description. She is quiet, and takes after her father. Sarah is one of the jolliest girls you will meet in a day's journey, and Katie's a darling.”
“I remember your speaking of your two elder sisters at Cambridge, Teddy, but I do not think I heard you mention the youngest.”
“Oh, Katie is not a sister at all, Frank. She is a cousin—a downright Irish girl. She has lost her father and mother, and has been living with us for the last two years. Now, Frank, make haste with your dressing, and draw it as mild as you conveniently can, for the girls' sake. It is not fair, Frank; upon my life, it is not. I told them that you were really a good fellow, and they are prepared to like you upon my recommendation; but I said that, as far as looks went, you were nothing to speak of—in fact, rather the contrary—and now they'll think I've been humbugging them entirely.”
“I am very much obliged to you for your recommendation, Teddy,” Frank said, laughing.
[8]
“It's as true as the piper, Frank. You know you were not a bit good-looking—too thin and whipcordy; but now you have got so much broader, and those whiskers of yours alter your face altogether. Do you know, Frank,” Teddy said, critically, “you are really an uncommonly good-looking fellow.”
“Have you got any boxing-gloves in the house, Teddy?” Frank asked, laughing; “because, if so, we will put them on after breakfast to-morrow.”
“No, thank you, Frank, I know you of old; and at any rate no boxing for me till after the wedding. There, now you are ready; let's go downstairs. Dinner will be ready in three or four minutes.”
As Frank Maynard crossed the drawing-room, he came to the rapid conclusion that Teddy's sister Sarah was a tall, handsome girl, with good features, and a happy, good-natured expression like that of her brother. Katie was short and rather plump, with large eyes, which Frank noticed, with amusement, opened a little wider in surprise as he entered. Teddy had evidently drawn his portrait in most unflattering colours, for the introduction over, Sarah's first remark was,—
[9]
“I should not have known you in the least, Mr. Maynard, by Teddy's description. You are not one bit like it; is he, Katie?”
“No,” Katie said; “not in one bit. Teddy, what did you take us in that way at all for?”
“'Pon my life, Katie, it's as true as could be. It's the whiskers have made the difference to him.”
“Nonsense, Teddy. Don't believe him, Miss Drake; he has been making fun of you on purpose. Teddy was always great at romancing.”
“Don't you mind what these young people say, Mr. Maynard; they are very rude,” Mrs. Drake said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Drake, I am pretty well able to take care of myself, and I know Teddy of old.”
When they were fairly seated at dinner, Frank had time to examine his new acquaintances more accurately. Miss Drake was something like her sister Sarah in appearance, but was more quiet and subdued. Sarah, he thought, was really very pretty, and seemed as full of spirits and fun as her brother. Kate O'Byrne was, as has been [10] said, short and rather plump. Her hair was jet black, and her head set gracefully on to her neck. Her features were not particularly good, but her eyes were beautiful; large eyes of uncertain colour, now hazel, now grey, generally very soft and trusting in their expression, but frequently lighting up with an arch ripple of fun, and when indignant flashing out defiantly; eyes which in repose, shaded by the long black eyelashes, were soft and thoughtful, but which looked up so earnestly and straight for an answer, that he would have been a bold man who would have ventured upon an untruth to their owner. A soft, plump cheek, lips slightly parted, a pretty chin with a little double roll beneath it, a soft and very musical voice, a very small, well-shaped hand, and, as Frank afterwards noticed, tiny feet. Katie O'Byrne was not nearly so pretty, so far as prettiness went, as her cousin Sarah: hers was one of those faces which do not strike greatly at first sight, but grow gradually upon one. A face with a good deal of character and firmness; altogether, as Frank said to himself at the end of the evening, “a very loveable face.”
The conversation at dinner was sustained with [11] unflagging spirit, principally by Frank, Teddy Drake, and his sister Sarah. Miss O'Byrne did not talk much, and indeed, Frank found afterwards that she seldom took much share in general conversation.
Frank did not sit long over his wine, but soon joined the ladies in the drawing-room, and was speedily engaged in an animated skirmish with the two girls. Then they had some music, and Miss O'Byrne sang some Irish melodies in a pure, rich, contralto voice, which had been thoroughly trained, and with a feeling and expression which delighted Frank. The ladies retired early, as the next was to be a fatiguing day, and Frank and Teddy sat up smoking and talking of college days, until a very late hour indeed.
The next day the house filled with guests, and great were the preparations for the event of the day following. Frank and Teddy were in great request, and found full occupation in assisting the bridesmaids to fill the vases, &c., with flowers. Furniture, too, had to be moved, and many arrangements improvised, for the ball in the evening. Very gay was the wedding, and the whole town of Stoke made [12] holiday. The wedding festivities were followed by much general gaiety,—dinners, small dances, and balls. The Drakes' house continued full of guests, and Frank had great opportunities in the midst of all these gaieties to indulge in a very extensive amount of flirtation. After his long absence on the Continent, there was a great charm in the unrestrained and familiar intercourse with a number of young English girls as lively, innocent, and fearless as young fawns. But if he flirted, he flirted generally, dividing his attentions with perfect impartiality among the bridesmaids, and, with the assistance of Teddy Drake, keeping up a perpetual state of fun and laughter with them. Miss Drake and himself were great allies. After the first few days they had, by mutual consent, taken to call each other Frank and Sarah. With her cousin Frank never attempted a similar step, but addressed her as Miss O'Byrne, in a formal manner, and took excessive pleasure in teazing her in that and other small matters, especially in respect of her brogue, to her no small indignation. For Katie was a staid little person in her way, and stood rather on her dignity, and she [13] chafed not a little under the feeling that even when Frank was professing the utmost deference to her opinion, he was really quietly bantering her. One evening, when Frank had been there nearly three weeks, and was talking of leaving in a few days, he had been specially teazing. Katie had fought hard as usual, but had been conscious of being worsted, and when she went upstairs for the night, she said to her cousin,—
“I am really glad Mr. Maynard is going, Sarah. I begin almost to hate him.”
Sarah opened her eyes in astonishment.
“What nonsense, Katie. You don't mean it? Why I do think he is the very nicest fellow I ever met.”
“Yes, I suppose so, Sarah; and his opinion of you seems to be equally good.”
“I hope so,” Sarah said; “one always wishes to be liked by people as one likes them.”
“Stuff, Sarah! My opinion is,” Katie said, positively, “that we shall have another wedding here one of these days.”
“Perhaps so, Katie,” Sarah answered composedly; [14] “but I do not think we should name the same person if we were to guess.”
“Well, Sarah, I will bet you half-a-dozen pairs of kid gloves upon it.”
“Very well, Katie, I bet. Now who do you name?”
“Frank Maynard and you, of course.
“That's your idea, Katie, is it?” Sarah said, provokingly cool.
“Yes, it is, Sarah,” Katie said, sturdily. “Now, Sarah, you don't think you can deceive me. Never mind, dear, though he does make me mad with him, he's a very good fellow, and you have my full consent and approval.”
“Thank you, dear—wait till you're asked.”
“It won't be so very long, Sarah.”
“Yes, it will, Katie. Frank and I are the best friends in the world, but if he were stopping here for the next ten years we should never be anything more.”
“Now, Sarah, you name your couple. It must be one of the bridesmaids you know, or at any rate, some one down here.”
“It is one of the bridesmaids,” Sarah said quietly.
“Well, which?” Katie said, impatiently.
[15]
“Katie O'Byrne.”
A flush of colour came into Katie's face, and she said, indignantly,—
“Sarah, you're making fun of me!”
“No, I am not, my dear. That's the couple I name for six pair of kid gloves against the other.”
“Ah, well,” Katie said, “then if what you say about yourself is true, our bet will never be decided. He dislikes me, I'm sure of it, and certainly I dislike him. Why, he's always making fun of me. He never even says a civil word to me, and I'm sure I don't want him to.”
“My dear Katie, I don't say the affair is coming off at once. I don't even say that I believe, or rather that I have any reason to believe, that Frank is in love with you. I only say, as you challenged me to fix on one of the bridesmaids, I fix upon you. He makes no distinction between the others; he flirts with them miscellaneously. You are the only exception. He certainly does take pleasure in teazing you, and in making you indignant, but that shows at least that he thinks you worth the trouble of teazing. He almost always manages to get next to you [16] out walking and at meals, quite accidentally, Katie, or else wonderfully well managed.”
“Nonsense, Sarah; I never remarked it.”
“Very well, Katie; but it is so for all that.”
Her cousin thought a little, and then said,—
“Well, if he does, Sarah, it is only because he sees I would rather he didn't, and wants to bother me. No, no; you may not have to pay your gloves, but you will never win mine. I never heard a more ridiculous idea in my life.”
“Well, Katie, we shall see,” Sarah said. “Now I must be off to bed.”
The next day they were out in the garden, looking for violets, for it was now the end of March. Frank and Miss O'Bryne were a little apart from the others, and he had just made an attack upon Ireland. The girl turned round upon him, suddenly,—
“Why do you always treat me like a spoilt child, Mr. Maynard? Why are you always teazing me and making me mad?”
“Not always, I hope, Miss O'Byrne?” Frank said, seriously.
“Yes, you are,” Katie said, indignantly; “you are laughing at me now. Why do you do it?”
[17]
“Do you really wish me to tell you, Miss O'Byrne?”
“Oh, I suppose you are going to invent some ridiculous compliment, but I won't believe it, Mr. Maynard.”
“Are you quite sure, Miss O'Byrne?”
“Sure and sure,” Katie said, resolutely.
“Well, I shall try to convince you,” Frank said. “Do you like the sea?”
“I don't see what that has to do with the question, Mr. Maynard. But, yes, I do like it—I love it dearly.”
“So do I, Miss O'Byrne. Are you a good sailor?”
“Oh, yes,” Katie said; “I always lived near the sea, and used to go out in yachts. Yes, I am a very good sailor.”
“Then, of course, you enjoy rough weather, Miss O'Byrne? I like, above all things, to see a storm.”
“So do I,” she said, enthusiastically. “I love being out when it is really rough.”
“I suppose, then, you will agree with me, Miss O'Byrne, that no one who does not really love the sea could enjoy a gale.”
[18]
Katie thought the proposition over for a second.
“No, I suppose not,” she said. “But I really don't see that this has anything to do with what I asked you—why are you always teazing me?”
“I have been answering your question the whole time, Miss O'Byrne. You have only to suppose you are the sea.”
The girl thought a moment, and then looked up indignantly, with a heightened colour, as she saw the application.
“What nonsense you talk, Mr. Maynard. You will try to persuade me next that to knock a person down is a sign of friendship. I shall never believe you again,” she said, as she turned to join the others.
“Yes you will, some day, Katie,” Frank said, following her closely.
Miss O'Byrne did not appear to have heard, but she had. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name, and it sounded strangely to her from his lips. Katie could not help colouring, and was angry with herself for doing so, and still more angry when she saw [19] by a little quiet smile on Sarah's face that she noticed it. When she thought the matter over, she determined, on the first opportunity to tell Mr. Maynard she considered it to be a great liberty. But then she felt certain Frank would only laugh and say that he called her cousin “Sarah,” but that if Miss O'Byrne objected, he would apologise, and not repeat the offence. After all, too, there was no particular reason why she should object any more than Sarah. As to that talk about the sea, it was absurd.
“No one would care for a storm unless he loved the sea,” Katie said, thoughtfully; “and of course he meant me to suppose that he would not have cared about making me mad if he didn't—well, like me. What humbugs men are,” she exclaimed, indignantly; “I do think they imagine we girls are fools enough to believe any stuff they like to tell us.”
Frank Maynard did not repeat the offence of calling her by her Christian name until he said good-bye to her upon leaving.
“What impudence!” Katie said to herself, as she looked after the dog-cart; [20] “what impudence, to venture to squeeze my hand, as he certainly did, just as if he would persuade me that all his rudeness is to go for nothing. Well, men are humbugs! I wonder whether he will ever come back again.”
CHAPTER II. THE “LIVELY STUNNERS.”
 After the first greeting between Frank Maynard and his friend Prescott, upon the former's return from Staffordshire, and when they had fairly sat down in Frank's room for a talk, Prescott said,—
“Now, Frank, let me hear all about what you have been doing. Your letters were not long, and you seemed enjoying yourself down there, Frank. I suppose Teddy is just about the same as he used to be.”
“Just the same,” Frank laughed; [22] “he pretends to assist his father in the business, but I fancy the material advantage, derived by Painter and Co. from Teddy's services, is slight indeed. He went round the manufactory with me, and I find that his knowledge upon the subject of china is absolutely nil. I question if he would know the difference between Dresden and Sèvres, or between Limoges and Etruscan; and I should imagine his ideas on the subject of accounts, are, if possible, even more vague. No, he is just what he used to be—a careless, warm-hearted Irishman, and the best fellow in the world.”
“But Mr. Drake is not Irish, Frank?”
“Not the least in the world. A particularly practical, long-headed, sensible Englishman. His Celtic blood all comes from his mother. She is as Irish in her way as he is in his, and so is his sister.”
“Is Miss Drake pretty, Frank?”
“Yes,” Frank said, “very pretty; an awfully jolly girl, Prescott, not the least bit of nonsense about her—downright and straightforward, you know.”
Prescott glanced up. But he saw that Frank was too outspoken in his praise to be the least in love.
“Tall or short, Frank?”
“Tall,” Frank said; “a good deal like Teddy; fancy Teddy a pretty girl, and you've got Sarah.”
“And there was a cousin with an Irish name, [23] Frank, wasn't there? You mentioned her in your first letter, but you did not allude to her afterwards. What was she like?”
Frank was longer in giving his answer this time.
“Well,” he said, slowly, “Miss O'Byrne would hardly be considered very pretty, at least I don't think most people would call her so. No, I should say not. She was rather short; and, yes, I should say, and plump.”
Prescott glanced across again at Frank, and a little amused smile came across his face at the cautious way in which he had spoken. But Frank was looking thoughtfully into the fire, and did not notice it.
“There were other young ladies staying in the house you said, Frank. Was there anything special about any of them?”
“No,” Frank said, carelessly; “they were a very jolly lot of girls; I had great fun down there.”
“Lots of dancing, and music, and so on, I suppose, Frank?”
“No end,” Frank said.
“Any of the girls sing well?”
“Katie sang splendidly; one of the finest [24] voices I ever heard in my life,” Frank said, enthusiastically.
“Katie?” Prescott repeated questioningly.
“Miss OByrne,” Frank explained.
“Ah,” Prescott said, with a smile, “the stout little cousin.”
“Good heavens, Prescott,” Frank said, turning round with great indignation, “what are you talking about?—stout little—by Jove, what put such a ridiculous idea in your head?”
“Why, my dear Frank, you said she was rather short and plump.”
“Pooh, nonsense,” Frank said; “she is rather short, perhaps, but has a charming little figure; just a little plump; but—” and muttering the obnoxious word over to himself, he smoked away in short angry puffs.
Prescott could hardly help laughing aloud at the success which attended his ruse.
“So Miss O'Byrne is not to be talked of lightly, eh, Frank?”
“Oh, nonsense,” Frank said. [25] “Of course one doesn't like to hear a girl like Katie talked of as a stout little—but there, of course you couldn't tell.”
“And do you ever mean to repeat your visit, Frank?”
“Well, yes, Prescott, I expect I shall go down there again; at least I hope so.”
“And may I ask, Frank, if you have any intention of bringing Miss O'Byrne back with you?”
Frank put his pipe down, and looked at Prescott, who was evidently greatly amused; then, after a moment's pause, he said,—
“You have guessed it, Prescott, sure enough. If Katie will come, I will bring her up.”
“Really, Frank?”
“Really, old man. I should have told you sooner or later. I am quite in earnest. I will marry Katie O'Byrne if she will have me.”
“I am very glad, Frank, very glad indeed;” and Prescott shook his friend warmly by the hand. “I always hoped you would do it sooner or later, Frank. You are only leading an idle useless life, and a wife will be the making of you. Of course she is very nice, Frank.”
“My dear fellow,” Frank said, quite inclined to be communicative now that the ice was [26]pan> broken, “she is the most loveable girl in the world.”
Prescott laughed.
“But not pretty, eh, Frank?”
“Well, Prescott, I suppose most men wouldn't call her pretty at first; I don't think I did; but I think her so now. Not pretty, perhaps, but loveable; that's the only word that expresses it, Prescott; just loveable, with the most trusting eyes you ever saw. She is full of fun, Katie, and has got a very decided will of her own. Not a bit of a muff, you know, Prescott.”
“No, I don't think you would be likely to fall in love with a muff, Frank. Well, and what does the young lady think of you, Frank? Was it a very strong flirtation?”
Frank laughed.
[27]
“No, Prescott, not a bit of it. It was perpetual war. I am afraid I was very hard on her, but I did like teazing her, and making her indignant. Katie has rather a will of her own, you see, and can hit very hard when she likes; and she was immensely angry at being made fun of. I do think, sometimes, she almost hated me. I don't think she has the least idea I care for her; but I don't know, Prescott, I hope that in the end I shall win her.”
Prescott smiled at Frank's description of his love-making.
“Well, Frank, and what do you propose doing with yourself this evening?”
[28]
“I hardly know, Prescott. I feel too restless to sit still, and a theatre would be just as bad. What with drives, and dinners, and parties, and a constant state of light skirmishing when I was with Katie, and an extreme amount of thought and restlessness when I was alone, I have been kept in a state of constant excitement for the last three weeks. I was always wondering whether anything would come of it; whether it was a mere case of strong flirtation, such as I have been engaged in fifty times before, or whether I was seriously in earnest. And then at last I arrived at the fixed and settled determination that of all the women I ever met, Katie was the one most certain to make me perfectly happy. Altogether I have been regularly worked up, and it would be quite impossible for me to sit still. I want something to let off the steam. A row would suit me admirably. It would be an immense satisfaction to hit out from the shoulder. Suppose we go to the ‘Stunners.’ There is sure to be some sparring going on; and if there's no one else, I can put on the gloves with Perkins. What do you say, Prescott?”
“Anything you like, Frank, so that I am not called upon to bail you out.”
So after dinner they went up to the “Lively Stunners.” The “Stunners” was a public-house, situated in one of the small streets lying above the top of the Haymarket. Not an aristocratic neighbourhood, indeed the reverse; but the “Stunners” did a good business, as even Perkins was ready to allow. Perkins was behind the bar in his shirt-sleeves, and was very busy indeed when the young men entered.
“Ah, Mr. Maynard, I am glad to see you, sir.”
“How are you, Perkins? Anything going on upstairs?”
“Not much, sir. It's not the night for sparring. We've got harmony to-night, sir.”
[29]
“I want a set-to with the gloves, Perkins. What do you say?”
“Well, sir, I should be willing enough, but I am going out for a spree. Just the thing to suit you if you are in the humour.”
“What is it, Perkins?”
“Well, sir, you must keep it dark, or it wouldn't do me any good in my business; but the Slogger and I are going,”—and here he bent over the bar with an air of great mystery,—“we're going to a Chartist meeting to-night. The Slogger knows a fellow who is hot about it, and he's put him up to the pass-word. So we're going, and if you and Mr. Prescott are game, you can go with us. We can easily get up a row if we like, and it's hard if us four can't fight our way out of it.”
“The very thing, Perkins; as you say, it's hard if we can't get up a row somehow. What do you say, Prescott?”
“Anything you like, Frank. A black eye will not look strictly professional, but as I have no case on in court it won't much matter. I have not used my fists since that last town and gown row we were in together at Cambridge; and I have no objection to a row for once in a way.”
[30]
“Well, Mr. Maynard, we are not to start till half-past nine, it's no use getting there too early, so if you don't mind going upstairs for an hour, I will tell you when it is time to be off.”
“If there's no sparring going on, Perkins, I think we'll go out for a stroll, and come back at the time you name. I can't stand the bad tobacco smoke, and the bad singing.”
“Now, gentlemen, if you're ready,” Perkins said, when they returned, “I'm with you.”
They went into the bar-parlour, where the Slogger, a powerful man, with the unmistakeable look of a prize fighter, was awaiting them.
“You are not thinking of going like that?” he asked. “Lor', they'd never let you in, not if you'd twenty pass-words, and if they did, they'd pitch into us directly we were in the light. No; if you mean to go, you must go like working men.”
[31]
“Have you any clothes you could lend us, Perkins?”
“Well, sir, I've an old greatcoat which would cover you well enough, and I dare say I can rummage out something for Mr. Prescott. As for hats, your best way is to send out and buy a couple of cheap billycocks. You can pull them down over your eyes. I think that with that, and if you take off your collars, and put a black handkerchief or a bird's eye round your necks, you will pass well enough.”
The transformation was soon effected, and the two young men could not help laughing at each other's altered appearance.
“You'll pass very well for a bricklayer out of employ, Frank.”
“Well, Prescott,” Frank retorted, “I could swear to you as a disreputable-looking tailor anywhere.”
A cab was at the door, and the party were soon off.
“Now,” Perkins said, “if there is a shindy, we must all keep together, and then we shall be as right as ninepence, whatever comes of it. I'd back the Slogger and you and I, Mr. Maynard, to clear the roughs out of any room in London in about five minutes. Mr. Prescott's very handy with the gloves, but he hasn't weight, and in a close fight weight tells.”
“Where is the place, Perkins?”
“In the New Cut, sir. It's a penny gaff at ordinary times.”
Arrived at the New Cut, they discharged the [32] cab, and went on foot through the busy crowd with which that locality is always filled of a Saturday evening. Hundreds of men were standing about, their week's work finished, smoking and talking together. The women were busy shopping, and were engaged in examining the various goods before purchasing, and in chaffering with the shopmen and costermongers. The pleasure of shopping is by no means a monopoly of the rich, the poor enjoy it to at least an equal extent; and no lady can more carefully examine the texture of the silk dress which the shopman temptingly holds out before her, or turn over one article after another before making her selection, than does her poorer sister scrutinise the markings and colour of a piece of bacon, or turn over the heaps of cauliflowers and cabbages upon a costermonger's cart. Great is the noise. The touts at the second-hand furniture and Jew clothing shops, the butchers, and the itinerant vendors, vie with each other in their efforts to obtain customers. Half-price has just begun at the Victoria Theatre, which stands large and black at the corner of the New Cut, and numbers are flocking in to see the [33] tragedy of “The Hangman's Stepdaughter; or the Murdered Mother of the Blind Alley.” Views of this drama, of thrilling interest and in bright colours, are placed beside the doors, and, illuminated by the bright gaslight, exhibit scenes of bloodshed and murder, highly enticing to the frequenters of the threepenny gallery. A few policemen are scattered among the crowd, but their services are seldom required, except when some drunken man insists upon fighting everyone, and, refusing all persuasion to return home, has to be taken to the station-house, in spite of his struggles and shouts, by two policemen. In the discharge of this duty, although undertaken solely for the protection of the public, the police are greeted with much jeering and hooting on the part of that ungrateful body. And then all goes on quietly for a time. The gaslights shine brightly out from the gin-palaces, and great business is in course of being there carried on. Numbers go in and out, and the glass-doors are ever on the swing. Through these doors glimpses can be caught of crowds of men and women standing at the bar drinking, and waiting to be served; while through the open [34] windows of the room above sounds of singing and of violent thumping of pewter pots and glasses upon the table come out. Through all this the four companions slowly made their way, and presently stopped at the door of one of those establishments popularly known as a penny gaff,—theatres at which a suicide, three murders, four combats, two comic songs, and a ballet, are condensed into the space of a quarter of an hour, and are to be heard for the charge of a penny; dens in which a perspiring audience inhale a pestilential atmosphere and vicious ideas together, and which the strong arm of the legislature should either reform or sweep away altogether.
At present the establishment was apparently closed. The appalling pictures no longer stood before the doors. The illumination which usually blazed upon it was extinguished. No sound of music or laughter came through into the street. The doors were closed, and the whole place seemed deserted. Now and then, however, a man went up, knocked, and after a short parley was admitted, and then all was quiet again. At this door the party knocked. It was partially opened, and a voice said,—
[35]
“What do you want?”
“Universal suffrage,” the Slogger answered.
The door opened a little wider, and they all entered. They found themselves in perfect darkness, but the man who had let them in turned on the light of a bull's-eye lantern.
“You are late, mates,” he said, leading the way along the passage.
Opening a door, he admitted them into the main apartment, a sort of covered room or theatre. At one end was a raised stage, with the usual front and drop scene. The latter was now raised, however, and four or five chairs and a table were on the stage, and some ten or a dozen men were standing or sitting there. The aspect of the place was tawdry and dirty beyond description. The walls, originally white and decorated with flower wreaths, were now black with smoke and filth. What the ornamentation of the ceiling had once been, it was impossible to say. The place was lighted by two gas chandeliers, without glasses, and by a row of footlights in front of the stage. The room was full of men, who were mostly smoking short pipes, and the fog of tobacco smoke made it seem dingier and darker than it [36] really was, while the close, noxious atmosphere, and the entire absence of any ventilation whatever, rendered it difficult for any one unaccustomed to such noxious atmosphere to breathe at all.
The new comers took their stand close to the door where they entered, and the seats having been removed and everyone standing, their coming was altogether unnoticed by anyone.
“I say, Prescott, the air here is poisonous; it makes me feel quite faint.”
“So it does me, Frank. We'd better light our pipes; we shan't feel it so much.”
They accordingly followed the example of all around them, and began to smoke, but even then they found the atmosphere almost overpowering.
“We can't stand this long, Prescott. We'll just listen to a speech or two, and then we will have some fun.”
The meeting, they soon found, was principally held for the object of informing the people of the arrangements which had been made for the great meeting to take place in a few days. All in the hall were evidently in their way leaders, and the speakers urged them to bring up their forces to the appointed place, to keep them well in hand, [37] and to be prepared in case of resistance, for barricade fighting. Each was requested to notice particularly the addresses of the gunsmiths' shops, and even of second-hand dealers where a few firearms might be exhibited in the windows, and to tell off men upon whom they could rely to seize the arms. General instructions, too, were given as to forming barricades; and the noble example of the French was cited to them again and again.
“This is rather a serious business, Frank.”
“It's all talk, my dear fellow; an English mob has no idea of street fighting; a few hundred policemen would drive ten thousand of them.”
The speaker now finished amid a low murmur of applause. The man who followed him was of a less practical turn, and simply strove to excite his hearers by a speech calling upon them to strike for liberty, and to cut off the chains in which they were bound by a pampered aristocracy.
“Look out, Perkins, I'm going to begin,” Frank said; and then, at the top of his voice, he shouted out, “That's a lie!”
[38]
An immense confusion at once took place in the hall. There were shouts of “A spy!”—“Turn him out!”—“Hang him!”—“Lock the doors!” But those nearest who turned to carry these threats into execution, hesitated a moment at the sight of the three powerful men who guarded the door, which Prescott, as previously agreed, had opened, to prevent the man in the passage locking it on the other side. The hesitation was momentary, and then a tremendous rush was made by the exasperated crowd. Those in front, however, as speedily recoiled, or were beaten back by the tremendous blows of Frank Maynard and the two prizefighters. The assault of the Slogger, however, was not in the first place directed against those who attacked him, but against a man who was standing in front of him, and who had evinced no intention of taking part in the fray. He was a tall man, dressed as a bricklayer, with large whiskers and black hair. Soon after he had entered, the Slogger had noticed with surprise that these whiskers were false, for the upper part of one of them, owing probably to the heat of the room, had become detached from his face. The [39] Slogger would not have thought much of this, as he supposed at first it was some one who had disguised himself, and come merely from curiosity, as he had himself, but something in the man's figure, and in his peculiar way of holding his head, reminded him of a man against whom he had a particular grudge, for having, only the week before, been the means of transporting the Slogger's brother. He determined immediately the fray began to find out if his suspicions were correct. Accordingly, the instant the rush was made, he commenced the assault, by striking the unsuspecting man in front of him a violent blow on the ear, which would have sent him to the ground had not he been kept on his feet by the crowd around him. His false whiskers, however, fell off, and the smoothly shaven cheeks were visible.
“Ha! Mr. Barton,” the Slogger shouted, as he dealt tremendous blows right and left at the assailants who rushed at him, “it's my turn now. You shan't go out from here with a whole skin. A spy!—a spy!” he shouted; but the tumult was too great for his voice to be heard. For some little time the three men had easily [40] beaten off their assailants, but matters were momentarily becoming more serious. The men on the platform were breaking up the chairs and tables, while others tore down portions of the woodwork to form weapons. These now pressed forward through the crowd as they fell back in dismay from their formidable opponents.
“I think it's about time to make a bolt, sir.”
“All right, Perkins,—come along.”
In the meantime, Prescott had had a quiet encounter of his own with the door-keeper—who had been signally worsted, and had run out into the street—and was now holding the door ready to close it as the others retreated. After a rush upon the assailants, in order to drive them back, and gain time for the man?uvre, the three men made a hasty retreat through the door, which Prescott instantly closed and locked behind them, and in another instant they were out in the New Cut.
“Come the other way, sir,” Perkins said, “there's a cab-stand under the railway-arch, and if them fellows get out and find us, they'd be as likely to knife us as not.”
In another minute they were in the cab.
[41]
“That was a sharp fight, Perkins.”
“And no mistake, sir. As good a turn-up as I've had for a long time. There'll be some smartish black eyes in the morning.”
“Do you think there is really going to be a row with these Chartists, Perkins?”
“I don't think so, sir. They don't mind the bobbies, but they'll never stand against the red coats. I'm going to-morrow to get sworn in as a special. I ain't going to have them coming in to the ‘Stunners’ to help themselves without pay. I don't know, and I don't care, a rap about the charter, and I don't believe one in fifty of them knows theirselves. What they want isn't the charter so much as their neighbour's goods. Well, they won't get my beer till some of 'em have gone down. They'll find that they have to pay for it one way or the other. Here we are, sir, and I ain't sorry, for I don't know that I was ever so dry in my life.”
“So am I, Perkins; the heat and stench in that place was tremendous. The fighting, too, was warm while it lasted. I don't think any of us got hit.”
“Hit!” said Perkins, contemptuously; “no, [42] nor we shouldn't have been if we had stopped there all night. Not as long as we could have kept them at arm's length. The worst of that sort of row is, that the fellows who are behind always want to get close, and they push the chaps in front on so that at last one gets jammed up into a heap, and can't use one's arms. No, I think we just stopped long enough. The leg of a table is a nasty sort of thing to come down on your guard. Now then, sir, what's your liquor?”
CHAPTER III. A SLAP IN THE FACE.
 Frank Maynard's departure for the country had been a relief both to Captain Bradshaw and Alice, and when he returned they were able to start anew upon something like their old footing. He was not at the house, however, as much as he had before been, for the London season was now beginning in earnest, and he was out nearly every night. Captain Bradshaw and Alice too were a good deal out, for although the old man would have greatly preferred to remain quietly at home, yet for Alice's sake he went into society, and when there enjoyed it perhaps more than she did. He would have a quiet rubber for a while, and would then go into the dancing room and look on with pleasure at the admiration which Alice attracted. And, indeed, Alice had many admirers, for she was a strikingly elegant girl, and an [44] heiress, and not a few of the government clerks, who form so large a proportion of the dancing men of London, would have willingly enough exchanged their arduous duties of copying and endorsing letters, for the charge of Alice Heathcote and her fortune. But Alice gave but slight encouragement to any of them. She was one of those girls with whom a partner very soon gets upon pleasant terms. She was perfectly natural, straightforward, and unaffected; sensible herself, and expecting some amount of sense from others, the sort of girl with whom a flirtation is next to impossible. Nor upon those evenings, when they had no engagements, were Captain Bradshaw and Alice often alone; for in proportion as the visits of Frank had decreased in frequency during the last three months, those of Fred Bingham had increased. Very pleasant did he make himself upon these evenings; full of amusing anecdotes, and rattling on with a constant stream of fun and nonsense, he aroused Alice, and kept Captain Bradshaw in a state of good temper. Indeed Alice felt really grateful to Fred Bingham, for she rather dreaded these evenings alone with her uncle. He amused and [45] interested her too with his talk, for Fred was undoubtedly clever; and yet, she could hardly explain to herself why, she did not like him. It was partly an old standing feeling. From the day when he had first come to the house, a lad of sixteen, she, a child of twelve, had felt a sort of jealousy of him for her playfellow Frank's sake, which Frank had never felt for his own. Either from some passing remark she had heard from a servant, or from some other reason, she had come to entertain the feeling that he had interfered with Frank's position. Children are keenly jealous. She had always looked upon Frank as her guardian's son and heir, and she considered this new comer to be a rival of Frank's. All along she had cherished this impression, all along had thought that Fred was trying to supplant his cousin in Captain Bradshaw's affection. She could scarcely have given a reason for her belief. It was not what he actually said or did, it was his way. True Fred Bingham never spoke ill of his cousin in any way; on the contrary, he frequently praised him; but in Alice's jealous ears there was a current of implied blame in the very praise; she would rather that he had [46] abused Frank openly to his uncle than praise him as he did. Then too, he was always fond of drawing Frank into an argument when his uncle was present, and Frank never showed to advantage in these wordy conflicts. He was greatly deficient in quiet suavity; he could not hear views which he considered vicious expressed, and either hold his peace or dissent quietly. Frank gave his opinion with energy and heartiness, even with vehemence. He plunged into an argument as if he were personally aggrieved by the opinions stated upon the other side. He denounced and scouted them as heresies dangerous to mankind. A strong conservative, he hated radicalism with a personal hatred. He would willingly have buckled on armour and have settled the matter by a combat to the death between himself and the champion of the other party. In these conflicts then, which Fred was constantly provoking, Fred with his quiet sneering manner would greatly gain the advantage. His straight thrusts would be too fine and delicate for his cousin's slashing two-handed blows, and they not unfrequently ended by Frank's losing his temper.
[47]
During Frank's absence abroad Fred had been a great deal at Lowndes Square, and had, at least so Alice thought, tried hard to gain the place of first favourite with Captain Bradshaw. In this he had not succeeded. At present, however, while his uncle was still smarting under the overthrow of his pet plans, Alice had fears that Fred Bingham's attention and adroit flatteries were attaining their effect. Indeed, for the time being, he became prime favourite with his uncle, and in his absence Captain Bradshaw would sound his praises loudly to his ward, generally coupling them with disparaging remarks of the disgraced Frank. At first Alice had listened in silence, but finding that it was becoming a favourite theme with her uncle, she spoke out warmly in Franks defence, declaring roundly that there was more truth and honesty in his little finger than in his cousin's whole composition. Her uncle, as was his wont, although nowise convinced, was yet fain to let the matter drop for the present. In addition to her championship of Frank, Alice had another reason for speaking out so decidedly. She had for some time felt that Fred was endeavouring to make [48] himself specially agreeable to her, and she now thought that her uncle was inclined to favour his efforts. Now Alice had, as has been said, a positive dislike to Fred Bingham, and although she could not help being amused by his talk, she yet believed that all this jesting and fun was a mere cloak which concealed a scheming and crafty disposition. After all these years of careful watching, she was convinced he was playing a deep game for his uncle's fortune, and she now saw at once that in the same way he was wishing to add her fortune to his pile. That he cared in the slightest degree for herself she did not for a moment believe.
Now of all these thoughts, suspicions, and opinions on the part of Alice Heathcote, Fred Bingham had not the remotest conception. Shrewd as he was, keenly alive to everything which concerned his own interests, he was yet completely in the dark as to Alice Heathcote's sentiments regarding him. Women in general he knew but little of, and understood even less: beside this he was intensely vain. He had been made a little god of at home, his mother and sisters looked up to him as the best of human [49] beings, and were never tired of doing him homage. Over and over again his mother had said in his hearing that Freddy ought to marry well, for that any girl must feel flattered by his attentions, and Fred's own experience when he did go into society was that girls were amused by his fun and caustic humour. He was profoundly ignorant of the fact that girls very seldom do fall in love with men who amuse them.
Fred Bingham then had long looked upon his success with Alice Heathcote as a certainty, only awaiting his making up his mind. Before Frank had left England, indeed, Fred had rather doubted whether Alice Heathcote did not prefer his cousin to himself, but he believed that his long absence had quite put him beyond the pale as a rival; and when, upon Frank's return, he had observed that there was a sort of reserve on Alice's part towards him, and that this reserve apparently increased rather than lessened with time, he considered his own success as secured. Then, too, with great pleasure he had seen that Frank was somehow in disgrace, and took the opportunity of his absence to make the greatest progress possible. What was the cause [50] of Frank's disgrace, Fred was ignorant, as Captain Bradshaw had upon no occasion even hinted the cause of his displeasure. Had he done so, Fred would have done all in his power to keep them apart: as it was, he was obliged to let matters take their course. The sole reason why Fred Bingham had not long before proposed to Alice Heathcote, was because he was doubtful about himself. Not doubtful as to whether he loved her, for upon that point he had no question at all; indeed, he had no belief whatever in love, and looked upon it as an absurdity quite out of place in business. If two people liked each other, and could get on well together, and the match was mutually advantageous, what more could be desired? The question in his mind was, should he get on well with Alice Heathcote? He liked her well enough, yes, he really liked her very much, and the match would be an advantageous one, but he was not quite so easy in his mind as to whether he should get on well with her. Now Fred's idea of a wife who would get on well with him was a woman who would do just as she was told, who would never set up her opinion against his, who would [51] in fact be a species of bond slave to his will. Now he had great doubts whether Alice Heathcote would do all this. He was in fact a little afraid of her. There was a quiet decision and firmness about her which made him feel uncomfortably that the combat between them would be a hard fought one; then too she was tall, and Fred did not like tall women. He fancied sometimes that if he got into a passion with her—and he allowed himself that he had a hasty temper—she would look down coldly contemptuous at him. There was another difficulty which presented itself, and which had for some time kept Fred Bingham in a state of uncertainty. Alice Heathcote's fortune was he knew about ￡50,000, and also that it was her own absolutely, and Fred felt certain that Captain Bradshaw would see that the greater part, if not the whole of it, were settled upon herself at her marriage. Now Fred Bingham was very much pressed for ready money; he was embarking with his father in several extensive affairs in which capital was all-essential. More than once his thoughts had turned to a young lady he had met near Manchester, who had lost her father, whose mother was old [52] and weak, and who had a fortune of about half the amount of that of Alice Heathcote at her own disposal. Miss Farrer was pretty, but with a weak prettiness which would not stand time. Her appearance did not belie her character; she was an affectionate and amiable, but weak girl. Fred had been very attentive to her, and had completely won her mother's heart by playing many games of cribbage with her, and losing almost invariably. So that altogether he felt sure of his ground there. It was not that he had actually any idea of marrying Miss Farrer, he felt too sure of success with Alice to think seriously of the other; but he was a cautious man, and liked to have a second string to his bow in case of accidents.
It was one morning after breakfast, about three weeks after Frank's return from the country, that Fred Bingham made up his mind to propose formally to Alice. He had been chatting with his father as to a contract, concerning which they were in treaty.
[53]
“The margin of profit is not as large as we could wish, Fred. If we were working with our own capital it would be different, but all this discount and advance work makes a large hole in the margin of profit.”
“I should think it did,” Fred said, shortly, “it is not to-day that we have found that out.”
“I think, Fred, that if I were you I should bring your affair with Miss Heathcote to a head. You have been going there now for a very long time; you tell me that you think you are pretty safe, and even if you do not touch any of her fortune, you would be able to borrow upon better terms as the husband of a rich woman; and, however things went, you would fall upon your feet. Besides, as the husband of Miss Heathcote, you would stand better with Captain Bradshaw.”
“Yes, that's all true enough,” Fred said, “and I've thought it all over a thousand times. I suppose it ought to be done, but I would rather remain as I am. However, needs must, I won't put it off any longer. I will settle it this afternoon. There, don't talk about it, it's bad enough to have to do it.”
Half an hour afterwards Fred Bingham went out. First down to New Street, where he bought some cigars, as usual, and stayed for some time [54] in the shop smoking and talking with Carry. Then he went out and turned towards Knightsbridge. “She is an awfully nice child,” he thought to himself. “I wish to goodness she was in Alice's place, and Alice in hers. I shouldn't mind even if she had that girl Farrer's money, I would marry her to-morrow. I wish I had never seen her, it would have been better for both of us. Well, it's no use thinking of that now, I must go through with this other business. The old man will have gone up to his club by this time. The sooner it is over the better.” And so he went on to the house in Lowndes Square, where, as he expected, he found Alice Heathcote alone.
“Good morning, Alice, I have not gone up to town to-day, so I thought I would come in for a chat. You are not looking very well this morning. I miss the usual roses—I do not mean that lilies are less becoming—I only notice the change of flowers.”
“My uncle is out,” Alice said, ignoring the compliment. “He started for the club rather earlier than usual.”
[55]
“I rather hoped he would be gone, Alice, for I was anxious to see you alone.”
Alice saw what was coming, but her mind being fully made up upon the subject, she felt no nervousness, as she would have felt had she had the slightest belief that he really cared for her.
“The fact is, Alice, I want to ask you to marry me. I don't know how it's usually done, but that's what it comes to whichever way it's put. I have liked you very much for years now, I am sure we should suit each other very well, and I don't think the old gentleman would make any objection. What do you say, Alice?”
Fred Bingham had spoken in his usual off-hand way, but there was a little nervousness in his tone which showed that he felt distrust as to the result of his question.
“You put it in a very straightforward way, Fred,” Alice said quietly, but with a little tinge of sarcasm; “and I am glad that you do so, as it makes it easier for me to say that I differ from you entirely as to our mutual suitability; and, therefore, must decline the honour you propose doing me.”
[56]
“But I am quite in earnest, Alice; it is only my way, you know.”
“I suppose you are in earnest, Fred, and I can assure you that I am at least equally so.”
Fred Bingham paused for a moment, and then said, much more earnestly than he had spoken before,—
“I am afraid, Alice, that I am not going the right way about this. I love you very much, and have done so for years. You must have seen it. I know that usually men put all this in a sentimental sort of way, but that is quite out of my line. But I am not the less in earnest. I do love you very much, Alice. I always thought you knew it.”
[57]
“I will be as frank with you, Fred, as you are with me. I have had an idea for some time past that you intended some day or other to make me an offer. Had you made love to me in the usual sort of way I should assuredly at once have shown you by my manner that the thing was out of the question. But you have never done so. You have been very often here. You have been very chatty and amusing. I could not show you that I did not wish you to come so often. I was obliged to wait. Had I believed, or did I now believe that you loved me, I should feel very great pain in refusing you; but, although I did, and do believe that you wish to marry me, I do not believe that you have the slightest love for me in the real meaning of the word any more than I have for you.”
Fred coloured up deeply now, and looked mortified and angry.
“But I tell you I do love you, Alice, and I suppose I know my own heart.”
A little scornful smile crossed Alice's face.
“You may think you do, Fred. If it is so I am sorry; but I do not think that your heart has taken any share whatever in the proceeding. Neither of our hearts are in the slightest degree affected in the question, and there is, therefore, no occasion for me to feel sorrow, or for you to feel pain. It is a simple matter of opinion. You are of opinion that we should suit each other well, and that a marriage between us would be for our mutual benefit and gratification. I differ from you entirely upon both these points.”
Alice was so perfectly cool and composed that Fred felt that any further urging would be useless. His rage and mortification were excessive, and he was far more angry at having been so completely read and seen through by Alice, [58] when he had believed himself so safe, than at the overthrow of his plans.
“May I ask,” he said, bitterly, “if you have any other reasons beyond those you have given?”
“You certainly may not,” Alice said, with spirit. “I have already given you for answer that I do not love you, and I conceive that to be quite sufficient answer for any gentleman.”
Fred Bingham stood irresolute for a moment, and then turned to go; but his temper got the better of him, and he said, with a sneer,—
“I was a fool to have asked for the reason, Alice, when I know it as well as you do yourself. If it had been Frank——”
He did not continue, for Alice Heathcote leaped from her seat as if she had been struck with a blow, her cheeks flushed with a sudden flame of colour and her eyes flashing, but before she could speak Fred Bingham was gone. His last hit had been almost a random one, for he had never really suspected Alice of caring for Frank. He had been too well satisfied with his own chance to imagine that he had a serious rival in Frank. Even now he was not sure. Alice's indignant look might be explained by her natural [59] anger at his own taunt. “I was a fool to let my beastly temper get the better of me,” he said to himself; “the matter was bad enough as it stood without making an enemy of her. Not that she'll do me any harm. She can't well go and tell my uncle what I said. However, it was a foolish thing to do. It's been a nice morning's work altogether. To think she should have been all this time laughing at me. Evidently I don't understand women. I believe she cares for Frank. That's another notch to your score, Master Frank. If I ever get a chance to wipe them out, look out, that's all.”
It was with bitter mortification and anger that Fred Bingham returned to Hans Place, and briefly told his father that Alice Heathcote had refused him. He gave no details, nor did Mr. Bingham ask for any, for he saw that Fred was in one of those moods when he was better left alone.
CHAPTER III. A SLAP IN THE FACE.
 Frank Maynard's departure for the country had been a relief both to Captain Bradshaw and Alice, and when he returned they were able to start anew upon something like their old footing. He was not at the house, however, as much as he had before been, for the London season was now beginning in earnest, and he was out nearly every night. Captain Bradshaw and Alice too were a good deal out, for although the old man would have greatly preferred to remain quietly at home, yet for Alice's sake he went into society, and when there enjoyed it perhaps more than she did. He would have a quiet rubber for a while, and would then go into the dancing room and look on with pleasure at the admiration which Alice attracted. And, indeed, Alice had many admirers, for she was a strikingly elegant girl, and an [44] heiress, and not a few of the government clerks, who form so large a proportion of the dancing men of London, would have willingly enough exchanged their arduous duties of copying and endorsing letters, for the charge of Alice Heathcote and her fortune. But Alice gave but slight encouragement to any of them. She was one of those girls with whom a partner very soon gets upon pleasant terms. She was perfectly natural, straightforward, and unaffected; sensible herself, and expecting some amount of sense from others, the sort of girl with whom a flirtation is next to impossible. Nor upon those evenings, when they had no engagements, were Captain Bradshaw and Alice often alone; for in proportion as the visits of Frank had decreased in frequency during the last three months, those of Fred Bingham had increased. Very pleasant did he make himself upon these evenings; full of amusing anecdotes, and rattling on with a constant stream of fun and nonsense, he aroused Alice, and kept Captain Bradshaw in a state of good temper. Indeed Alice felt really grateful to Fred Bingham, for she rather dreaded these evenings alone with her uncle. He amused and [45] interested her too with his talk, for Fred was undoubtedly clever; and yet, she could hardly explain to herself why, she did not like him. It was partly an old standing feeling. From the day when he had first come to the house, a lad of sixteen, she, a child of twelve, had felt a sort of jealousy of him for her playfellow Frank's sake, which Frank had never felt for his own. Either from some passing remark she had heard from a servant, or from some other reason, she had come to entertain the feeling that he had interfered with Frank's position. Children are keenly jealous. She had always looked upon Frank as her guardian's son and heir, and she considered this new comer to be a rival of Frank's. All along she had cherished this impression, all along had thought that Fred was trying to supplant his cousin in Captain Bradshaw's affection. She could scarcely have given a reason for her belief. It was not what he actually said or did, it was his way. True Fred Bingham never spoke ill of his cousin in any way; on the contrary, he frequently praised him; but in Alice's jealous ears there was a current of implied blame in the very praise; she would rather that he had [46] abused Frank openly to his uncle than praise him as he did. Then too, he was always fond of drawing Frank into an argument when his uncle was present, and Frank never showed to advantage in these wordy conflicts. He was greatly deficient in quiet suavity; he could not hear views which he considered vicious expressed, and either hold his peace or dissent quietly. Frank gave his opinion with energy and heartiness, even with vehemence. He plunged into an argument as if he were personally aggrieved by the opinions stated upon the other side. He denounced and scouted them as heresies dangerous to mankind. A strong conservative, he hated radicalism with a personal hatred. He would willingly have buckled on armour and have settled the matter by a combat to the death between himself and the champion of the other party. In these conflicts then, which Fred was constantly provoking, Fred with his quiet sneering manner would greatly gain the advantage. His straight thrusts would be too fine and delicate for his cousin's slashing two-handed blows, and they not unfrequently ended by Frank's losing his temper.
[47]
During Frank's absence abroad Fred had been a great deal at Lowndes Square, and had, at least so Alice thought, tried hard to gain the place of first favourite with Captain Bradshaw. In this he had not succeeded. At present, however, while his uncle was still smarting under the overthrow of his pet plans, Alice had fears that Fred Bingham's attention and adroit flatteries were attaining their effect. Indeed, for the time being, he became prime favourite with his uncle, and in his absence Captain Bradshaw would sound his praises loudly to his ward, generally coupling them with disparaging remarks of the disgraced Frank. At first Alice had listened in silence, but finding that it was becoming a favourite theme with her uncle, she spoke out warmly in Franks defence, declaring roundly that there was more truth and honesty in his little finger than in his cousin's whole composition. Her uncle, as was his wont, although nowise convinced, was yet fain to let the matter drop for the present. In addition to her championship of Frank, Alice had another reason for speaking out so decidedly. She had for some time felt that Fred was endeavouring to make [48] himself specially agreeable to her, and she now thought that her uncle was inclined to favour his efforts. Now Alice had, as has been said, a positive dislike to Fred Bingham, and although she could not help being amused by his talk, she yet believed that all this jesting and fun was a mere cloak which concealed a scheming and crafty disposition. After all these years of careful watching, she was convinced he was playing a deep game for his uncle's fortune, and she now saw at once that in the same way he was wishing to add her fortune to his pile. That he cared in the slightest degree for herself she did not for a moment believe.
Now of all these thoughts, suspicions, and opinions on the part of Alice Heathcote, Fred Bingham had not the remotest conception. Shrewd as he was, keenly alive to everything which concerned his own interests, he was yet completely in the dark as to Alice Heathcote's sentiments regarding him. Women in general he knew but little of, and understood even less: beside this he was intensely vain. He had been made a little god of at home, his mother and sisters looked up to him as the best of human [49] beings, and were never tired of doing him homage. Over and over again his mother had said in his hearing that Freddy ought to marry well, for that any girl must feel flattered by his attentions, and Fred's own experience when he did go into society was that girls were amused by his fun and caustic humour. He was profoundly ignorant of the fact that girls very seldom do fall in love with men who amuse them.
Fred Bingham then had long looked upon his success with Alice Heathcote as a certainty, only awaiting his making up his mind. Before Frank had left England, indeed, Fred had rather doubted whether Alice Heathcote did not prefer his cousin to himself, but he believed that his long absence had quite put him beyond the pale as a rival; and when, upon Frank's return, he had observed that there was a sort of reserve on Alice's part towards him, and that this reserve apparently increased rather than lessened with time, he considered his own success as secured. Then, too, with great pleasure he had seen that Frank was somehow in disgrace, and took the opportunity of his absence to make the greatest progress possible. What was the cause [50] of Frank's disgrace, Fred was ignorant, as Captain Bradshaw had upon no occasion even hinted the cause of his displeasure. Had he done so, Fred would have done all in his power to keep them apart: as it was, he was obliged to let matters take their course. The sole reason why Fred Bingham had not long before proposed to Alice Heathcote, was because he was doubtful about himself. Not doubtful as to whether he loved her, for upon that point he had no question at all; indeed, he had no belief whatever in love, and looked upon it as an absurdity quite out of place in business. If two people liked each other, and could get on well together, and the match was mutually advantageous, what more could be desired? The question in his mind was, should he get on well with Alice Heathcote? He liked her well enough, yes, he really liked her very much, and the match would be an advantageous one, but he was not quite so easy in his mind as to whether he should get on well with her. Now Fred's idea of a wife who would get on well with him was a woman who would do just as she was told, who would never set up her opinion against his, who would [51] in fact be a species of bond slave to his will. Now he had great doubts whether Alice Heathcote would do all this. He was in fact a little afraid of her. There was a quiet decision and firmness about her which made him feel uncomfortably that the combat between them would be a hard fought one; then too she was tall, and Fred did not like tall women. He fancied sometimes that if he got into a passion with her—and he allowed himself that he had a hasty temper—she would look down coldly contemptuous at him. There was another difficulty which presented itself, and which had for some time kept Fred Bingham in a state of uncertainty. Alice Heathcote's fortune was he knew about ￡50,000, and also that it was her own absolutely, and Fred felt certain that Captain Bradshaw would see that the greater part, if not the whole of it, were settled upon herself at her marriage. Now Fred Bingham was very much pressed for ready money; he was embarking with his father in several extensive affairs in which capital was all-essential. More than once his thoughts had turned to a young lady he had met near Manchester, who had lost her father, whose mother was old [52] and weak, and who had a fortune of about half the amount of that of Alice Heathcote at her own disposal. Miss Farrer was pretty, but with a weak prettiness which would not stand time. Her appearance did not belie her character; she was an affectionate and amiable, but weak girl. Fred had been very attentive to her, and had completely won her mother's heart by playing many games of cribbage with her, and losing almost invariably. So that altogether he felt sure of his ground there. It was not that he had actually any idea of marrying Miss Farrer, he felt too sure of success with Alice to think seriously of the other; but he was a cautious man, and liked to have a second string to his bow in case of accidents.
It was one morning after breakfast, about three weeks after Frank's return from the country, that Fred Bingham made up his mind to propose formally to Alice. He had been chatting with his father as to a contract, concerning which they were in treaty.
[53]
“The margin of profit is not as large as we could wish, Fred. If we were working with our own capital it would be different, but all this discount and advance work makes a large hole in the margin of profit.”
“I should think it did,” Fred said, shortly, “it is not to-day that we have found that out.”
“I think, Fred, that if I were you I should bring your affair with Miss Heathcote to a head. You have been going there now for a very long time; you tell me that you think you are pretty safe, and even if you do not touch any of her fortune, you would be able to borrow upon better terms as the husband of a rich woman; and, however things went, you would fall upon your feet. Besides, as the husband of Miss Heathcote, you would stand better with Captain Bradshaw.”
“Yes, that's all true enough,” Fred said, “and I've thought it all over a thousand times. I suppose it ought to be done, but I would rather remain as I am. However, needs must, I won't put it off any longer. I will settle it this afternoon. There, don't talk about it, it's bad enough to have to do it.”
Half an hour afterwards Fred Bingham went out. First down to New Street, where he bought some cigars, as usual, and stayed for some time [54] in the shop smoking and talking with Carry. Then he went out and turned towards Knightsbridge. “She is an awfully nice child,” he thought to himself. “I wish to goodness she was in Alice's place, and Alice in hers. I shouldn't mind even if she had that girl Farrer's money, I would marry her to-morrow. I wish I had never seen her, it would have been better for both of us. Well, it's no use thinking of that now, I must go through with this other business. The old man will have gone up to his club by this time. The sooner it is over the better.” And so he went on to the house in Lowndes Square, where, as he expected, he found Alice Heathcote alone.
“Good morning, Alice, I have not gone up to town to-day, so I thought I would come in for a chat. You are not looking very well this morning. I miss the usual roses—I do not mean that lilies are less becoming—I only notice the change of flowers.”
“My uncle is out,” Alice said, ignoring the compliment. “He started for the club rather earlier than usual.”
[55]
“I rather hoped he would be gone, Alice, for I was anxious to see you alone.”
Alice saw what was coming, but her mind being fully made up upon the subject, she felt no nervousness, as she would have felt had she had the slightest belief that he really cared for her.
“The fact is, Alice, I want to ask you to marry me. I don't know how it's usually done, but that's what it comes to whichever way it's put. I have liked you very much for years now, I am sure we should suit each other very well, and I don't think the old gentleman would make any objection. What do you say, Alice?”
Fred Bingham had spoken in his usual off-hand way, but there was a little nervousness in his tone which showed that he felt distrust as to the result of his question.
“You put it in a very straightforward way, Fred,” Alice said quietly, but with a little tinge of sarcasm; “and I am glad that you do so, as it makes it easier for me to say that I differ from you entirely as to our mutual suitability; and, therefore, must decline the honour you propose doing me.”
[56]
“But I am quite in earnest, Alice; it is only my way, you know.”
“I suppose you are in earnest, Fred, and I can assure you that I am at least equally so.”
Fred Bingham paused for a moment, and then said, much more earnestly than he had spoken before,—
“I am afraid, Alice, that I am not going the right way about this. I love you very much, and have done so for years. You must have seen it. I know that usually men put all this in a sentimental sort of way, but that is quite out of my line. But I am not the less in earnest. I do love you very much, Alice. I always thought you knew it.”
[57]
“I will be as frank with you, Fred, as you are with me. I have had an idea for some time past that you intended some day or other to make me an offer. Had you made love to me in the usual sort of way I should assuredly at once have shown you by my manner that the thing was out of the question. But you have never done so. You have been very often here. You have been very chatty and amusing. I could not show you that I did not wish you to come so often. I was obliged to wait. Had I believed, or did I now believe that you loved me, I should feel very great pain in refusing you; but, although I did, and do believe that you wish to marry me, I do not believe that you have the slightest love for me in the real meaning of the word any more than I have for you.”
Fred coloured up deeply now, and looked mortified and angry.
“But I tell you I do love you, Alice, and I suppose I know my own heart.”
A little scornful smile crossed Alice's face.
“You may think you do, Fred. If it is so I am sorry; but I do not think that your heart has taken any share whatever in the proceeding. Neither of our hearts are in the slightest degree affected in the question, and there is, therefore, no occasion for me to feel sorrow, or for you to feel pain. It is a simple matter of opinion. You are of opinion that we should suit each other well, and that a marriage between us would be for our mutual benefit and gratification. I differ from you entirely upon both these points.”
Alice was so perfectly cool and composed that Fred felt that any further urging would be useless. His rage and mortification were excessive, and he was far more angry at having been so completely read and seen through by Alice, [58] when he had believed himself so safe, than at the overthrow of his plans.
“May I ask,” he said, bitterly, “if you have any other reasons beyond those you have given?”
“You certainly may not,” Alice said, with spirit. “I have already given you for answer that I do not love you, and I conceive that to be quite sufficient answer for any gentleman.”
Fred Bingham stood irresolute for a moment, and then turned to go; but his temper got the better of him, and he said, with a sneer,—
“I was a fool to have asked for the reason, Alice, when I know it as well as you do yourself. If it had been Frank——”
He did not continue, for Alice Heathcote leaped from her seat as if she had been struck with a blow, her cheeks flushed with a sudden flame of colour and her eyes flashing, but before she could speak Fred Bingham was gone. His last hit had been almost a random one, for he had never really suspected Alice of caring for Frank. He had been too well satisfied with his own chance to imagine that he had a serious rival in Frank. Even now he was not sure. Alice's indignant look might be explained by her natural [59] anger at his own taunt. “I was a fool to let my beastly temper get the better of me,” he said to himself; “the matter was bad enough as it stood without making an enemy of her. Not that she'll do me any harm. She can't well go and tell my uncle what I said. However, it was a foolish thing to do. It's been a nice morning's work altogether. To think she should have been all this time laughing at me. Evidently I don't understand women. I believe she cares for Frank. That's another notch to your score, Master Frank. If I ever get a chance to wipe them out, look out, that's all.”
It was with bitter mortification and anger that Fred Bingham returned to Hans Place, and briefly told his father that Alice Heathcote had refused him. He gave no details, nor did Mr. Bingham ask for any, for he saw that Fred was in one of those moods when he was better left alone.
CHAPTER IV. A LIGHT IN THE GLOOM.
 The great bubble had burst at last. Those who blew it had worked so hard, and had blown up such a bulky affair that they had really forgotten that it was all wind and suds, a mere baseless fabric which would burst and leave nothing behind it at the first resistance of a solid substance. But so it was. The great Chartist conspiracy had swelled and swelled, unmolested by Government, until, relying upon its bulk, it sought to assert itself. Government stood firm, and the bubble collapsed. The affair, however, had been of too serious dimensions to be altogether passed over, and a few of the most conspicuous among the Chartist leaders were taken, tried, and condemned to transportation. At their trial they found, as conspirators have almost always done, that there had been a traitor in [61] their midst, that the whole details of their intended movements were as well known to the Government as to themselves. Who the traitor was they did not discover. The evidence was ample without calling him personally, but many and deep were the vows of vengeance sworn against him should he ever be discovered. Among the condemned was William Holl, who was sentenced to seven years' transportation.
Evan Holl learnt the news one afternoon when he had asked leave to go down to Knightsbridge. He came back before the hour at which he usually returned from his father's. Frank himself let him in.
“You are early, Evan.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frank noticed that the boy did not speak in his usual cheery tone.
“Anything the matter, lad?”
“Yes, sir; there is a terrible upset at home. Mother's crying, and Aunt Bessy's crying fit to break her heart, and everything is upside down.”
“That sounds bad, Evan; come into my room and tell me what is the matter.”
[62]
Prescott was there, as was his custom in the evening, when Frank was at home.
“Now, Evan, tell us all about it.”
“If you please, sir, Uncle Will has got transported.”
“Got transported, Evan! Why, what has your Uncle Will been doing?”
“Please, sir, he's been going and being a Chartist.”
“Oh, is the Holl who was tried to-day your uncle, Evan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whew,” whistled Frank, “that is a bad business; how the deuce could the man have made such a fool of himself?”
“Please, sir, I don't know,” Evan answered, taking Frank's ejaculation as a direct question addressed to himself.
“No, I don't suppose you do, Evan, and I don't suppose he does himself, which is more to the point. The question is, what is to be done?”
There was silence for a moment, and then Evan said, hesitatingly,—
[63]
“You don't think you could get him off, sir, do you? It will break Aunt Bessy's heart.”
“No, Evan, that is quite out of the question; your uncle is a fool, and must pay for his folly. I could do nothing for him if I wished it ever so much, and I am not sure that I do wish it at all. I have neither patience with nor pity for these men. It is the wife I am thinking of, as he ought to have been, before he ran his head against a wall. Something might be done for her, though I don't plainly see what. There, Evan, go off to bed, I will talk it over with Mr. Prescott.”
The result of the talk was that the friends drove down the following morning to Knightsbridge. Mrs. Holl—her honest face swollen and red from crying—was, as usual, washing. Her sister-in-law sat by the fire in an apathy of sorrow. She could cry no more, and, worn out by her grief, looked the image of despondency. When the young men entered she did not even look up or appear to notice their presence.
“Evan has been telling us, Mrs. Holl,” Frank began, “about this bad affair of your husband's brother. Of course nothing can be done in his case, but we came to ask what his wife intends to do.”
[64]
“Bless the poor creature,” Mrs. Holl said, “she ain't even thought about it. She is grieving too much over that husband of hers. There, I have no patience with him, though he be my John's brother. To think what a tidy chap he were, and what a steady good workman, before he took up with these Chartist goings-on.”
“Yes,” Bessy Holl said, speaking suddenly, and almost startling her listeners, for she had appeared lost in her own thoughts, as indeed she was, having probably but a vague idea of what was being said; “yes, Bill was that; there was not his equal, I've heard say, at planing and grooving, and moulding and tongueing. But there,” and here she broke into a sort of hysterical laughter, “it's the tongueing that's done it, and I knew it would all along. God forgive me!” she again broke out after a pause, “I don't know what I am talking about,” and then she began to cry quietly again, rocking herself to and fro.
[65]
“I will tell you what I thought, Mrs. Holl. You see, when a convict first goes out he is put to work upon the roads. After he has been at that for some time, in proportion to the length of his sentence, he is hired out to one of the farmers, and a year or two afterwards, if his conduct continues good, he gets a ticket-of-leave, and does as he pleases. Now, in the present case, as the sentence is only for seven years, it is probable that your brother will not be kept more than a year upon public work, and will then be hired to a farmer. No disgrace will attach to him afterwards for having been a convict for his political opinions, and he may yet live to make an honest name and a fair position in Australia. Now, my idea is that his wife should sail a year after him and join him there; it is probable that she would find no difficulty in getting employment about the house or dairy wherever he may be. Women are scarce there. The passage money out is about twenty-five pounds, and say another ten pounds for expenses out there until she is settled—thirty-five pounds. Now, Mrs. Holl, I have plenty of money and I don't see that I can do better with it than to lend this money [66] to your sister-in-law. I am a very unsettled man and do not know where I may be at the end of some months, so I have handed over the money to Mr. Prescott here, and at the end of a year, if Mrs. Holl is ready to start to join her husband, he will give it to her.”
As he finished, Bessy Holl rose from her chair and tottered three steps forward, and then fell upon her knees. Then she tried to speak, but tears and sobs choked her, and she could only gasp out, “God bless you! God bless you! to think, only a year—my William, my William!” and she went off in violent hysterics.
The young men assisted Mrs. Holl to raise her, and to carry her into the next room and lay her upon a bed, and then Frank said, “We had better leave her to you, Mrs. Holl; she will soon be better.”
Mrs. Holl turned to him and took his hand, “Young gentleman,” she said, solemnly, “the [67] thought of that poor child's joyful cry will ring in your ears and gladden your heart may be for many a year to come. You will have your reward, as the good book says. I am a rough woman, sir, and can no more thank you than that poor creature there, but my prayers can do you no harm, and you will have them, sir. May God in heaven bless you, sir, and make you a very happy man, as you deserve to be!”
It was two days later that Sarah and Bessy Holl were shown into the waiting-room of the prison where William Holl was confined. He was to be taken to Portland, whence he was in a short time to be shipped for Australia. It was a small room, and after they were ushered into it they sat for nearly five minutes in silence before the door was opened. Bessy was calm and composed now; her face was sad but no longer hopeless; perhaps, indeed, if she could have read her own heart she would have found that she was really happier than she had been for months past. Her life, indeed, had lately been one long anxiety and care. She had seen ruin gradually coming upon them; her husband, from being one of the best of workmen and the most cheerful of husbands, had become an idle, moody man; her home had been broken up, and she herself had suffered the actual pangs of hunger. And never for a [68] moment had Bessy believed in her husband's schemes and aspirations, but had all along had a prison, or perhaps a gallows, before her eyes as the end which must sooner or later befall him. Now all this weary strain of thought and care was over. Her husband would, indeed, be separated from her for a year—but what was a year? At the end of that time there was a future before them, a fresh home in a new country, honest labour and contentment and happiness, and William would yet again be the William she had loved and married.
Thoughts something like these were running in her mind, when the door opened and her husband entered. He was already in convict attire, and all Bessy's glad thoughts faded, and she gave a little cry as she looked at his pale, haggard face. She tottered forward and fell half fainting on his neck.
“My poor girl,” he said, softly, “my poor girl, and I have brought you to this; this is the end of all my hopes and plans.”
Sarah Holl went to the barred window and looked out into the narrow court. She so pitied Bessy, and was so out of all patience, as she [69] said herself, with her husband that she could not bring herself to speak kindly to him. Yet, for Bessy's sake, she would not embitter their last meeting. So she looked steadily out of the window, and stood there alternating between anger and pity, now longing to turn round and upbraid William Holl for his madness and folly, now crying quietly to herself in relenting sorrow.
William Holl placed his wife in a chair and then knelt down beside her.
“Oh Bessy, Bessy! what can I say, how can I ask you to forgive me? I have destroyed your life, Bessy, and yet I would have given mine to make you happy. When I think, Bessy, how happy we were, how bright and gay you were only a year ago and see what I have brought you to, I could die, Bessy—oh! how gladly—if I could recall the past and have never seen you. I see now how right you were, and how mad I have been—how miserably mad—to think that all the idle hands who were willing to spend their time in talking and drinking, and making speeches, were patriots ready to die for the cause of freedom. I have been a fool, Bessy, but, oh, [70] that I could have my punishment alone! Why must I drag you down to misery too? Even had things been as I thought them, what right had I to devote myself, as I thought, to my country, and to sacrifice my wife? Oh, Bessy! you may forgive me, but I never can forgive myself.”
Bessy, up to this time, had not spoken a word. Sometimes she had tried to stop her husband, but her own sobs had prevented her.
“I do forgive you with all my heart, William. You did what you thought was right; you never meant to make me unhappy, you never thought——” and here she broke down again.
“No, Bessy,” he said, sadly, “I never did think, but I ought to have thought. I was a dreamer, and I wilfully blinded myself. I have not even the satisfaction of knowing that I was ignorant. I knew you suffered, I knew you wanted bread, but I went on. Oh Bessy, Bessy! I have gone all wrong, but it is hard upon you. I was born to be a blight and a curse to you.”
“No, no, William!” the wife broke out; “no, no, not that.”
“Yes, Bessy, it is so. I know my brother and his wife are good people. They will take care of [71] you, dear. I shall never see you again. Hear me out, darling. I only hope that it will not be for long. I am not strong, and I do not think I shall last many months. I hope not, I pray to God not. It is all I can do for you now, Bessy; to die and set you free. But you will think of me kindly, dear: think of me as I used to be before I went mad, as the William who courted you long ago. Will you promise me this, Bessy?”
Bessy was crying too much to speak.
“Oh! William,” she sobbed out at last; “you must not talk so, you will kill me. We are going to be happy yet. Yes, yes,” she said, as he shook his head in sad denial; “you don't know, you have not heard what I have to tell you. I am coming out to you, dear. In a little time, they tell me, they will let you out of prison to work with a farmer, and in a year I am to start to you; only a year, William, think of that. Mr. Maynard, God bless him, has given me the money, and in a year after you get out I shall be by your side. Think of it, William. And he said, too, there was no disgrace in being sent out for politics, and that some day you would get on and be well thought of again. [72] Yes, it is all true, William, I am only come to say good-bye for a year.”
William Holl had listened at first with incredulity, then with a flash of joyful hope, and then with the deep silent thankfulness of conviction. Then he got up and held his wife to his heart.
“Yes, yes, I feel it is true,” he said; “my own Bessy, once again my own, we shall be happy yet.” Then again releasing her, he said solemnly: “Let us kneel down, Bessy, and thank God together, and let us pray Him to bless the man who has thus, in the time of our misery, given us new life and hope.” Bessy knelt in silence beside her husband, and in a voice broken by deep emotion he went on: “Thou merciful God, I thank thee that in our hour of misery Thou has had mercy upon us. Grant us a re-union in the land to which I go; and enable me, by a life of earnest toil, to atone for my error here, and to console my wife for the grief I have caused her. And, O God, bless, I pray thee, our benefactor, and shower blessings and mercies upon him, as he has blessed and been merciful to us, Amen.”
[73]
And the sobbing women repeated “Amen” after him.
The remaining quarter of an hour of the time allotted for the visit was spent in discussing arrangements, and in drawing happy pictures of the future, and when the turnkey opened the door and said that time was up, they parted with tears indeed, but with hearts full of anticipation of re-union and a happy future.
CHAPTER V. SPRET? INJURIA FORM?.
 During the time which had intervened between William Holl's arrest and his trial, and during the anxious time of the trial itself, Carry Walker had called in nearly every day to comfort Mrs. Holl. When the trial was over, however, she had, for a few days, ceased her visits, for she felt that she could do or say nothing to alleviate Bessy's distress. Upon her first visit she was surprised to find Bessy sitting at her needlework with a look of absolute contentment upon her face; while Mrs. Holl was, as usual, engaged in washing.
“How are you, Mrs. Holl? I am glad to see your sister-in-law is looking better. How are you, Bessy?”
“Oh! I am quite well, Miss Walker, and so happy now.”
[75]
Carry looked surprised.
“Happy!” she repeated. “Has your husband been pardoned?”
“No, miss; but haven't you heard?”
“No,” Carry said, “I have heard nothing. I have not been in for the last few days because I was afraid of being in the way. What has happened?”
“Why, Miss Carry,” Sarah Holl broke out, “you'd hardly believe it, but it's true; a gentleman, God bless him, has offered to pay Bessy's passage out to Australia to join William there, and in another year she'll be starting.”
“That is very kind of him, Mrs. Holl. Who is he?”
“His name is Maynard, him as our Evan is with.”
James was watching Carry's face, and saw a sudden rush of colour come up into it at the name. To tell the truth, Carry had thought a good deal of Frank Maynard since that solitary visit of his. His having saved her father's life had endowed him in her eyes with all the qualities of a hero of romance. She had thought over that interview very many times, and never without [76] blushing at the thoughts of the kiss she had given him. He had said he would come again, and very eagerly had she looked forward to his next visit, but as days and weeks had passed on without his coming, she felt both very resentful and hurt. Did he think her so forward that he would not come again? Or did he not think them worth another visit? Her only consolation had been that perhaps he was out of town all this time. And now this hope was dispelled, and Carry blushed even deeper than before with pique and wounded pride.
“Is it the Mr. Maynard who lives in the Temple?” she asked, clinging to a last hope.
“Yes, Miss Carry. Do you know him?”
“A little,” Carry said, coldly; “he picked my father up one evening last winter when he had slipped down in Knightsbridge.”
The cripple lad noticed all this—the first sudden blush at his name, then the coldness of manner and the slighting way in which she spoke of a service which, he remembered well, she had described in such enthusiastic terms not long before. What could this mean? Carry afterwards was rather ashamed of her little fit of [77] petulance, and listened with great interest to the account of Bessy Holl's hopes and plans for the future. Then, after a few words to James, she took her leave.
Very often afterwards James pondered the matter over in his mind, while his fingers almost mechanically worked at his wax flowers. “Why should Carry have blushed so deeply upon hearing Mr. Maynard's name suddenly mentioned, and why should she have spoken so coldly of him when she had formerly been so enthusiastic in his praises as the preserver of her father's life?” All this was utterly beyond James's comprehension. His knowledge of the world was completely confined to what he had learned from books, and he owned with a sigh that his books were of no assistance whatever to him in the present case. All that, after great thought, he arrived at satisfactorily, or rather unsatisfactorily, to himself was, that there was some mystery or other, although of what nature he could not even guess, between Carry Walker and Mr. Maynard.
Carry Walker was a spoilt child. She had managed her father from the day when she was able to climb upon his knee, and insist, with [78] much coaxing certainly and patting of his cheeks, and other pretty ways, but insisting nevertheless, upon having her own way. Very spoilt she had grown up, with no mother to control or check her, and with a father who allowed her to do in every respect as she pleased. Very spoilt had she afterwards been—for all the admiration and flattery she had received during the last two years was enough to have turned the heads of half-a-dozen girls. She had never had a mother's care or advice, or the healthy society of girls of her own age. The chances had been all against her, and she was little to be blamed in that she had grown up somewhat vain and flighty. Carry was indignant all that afternoon, and was angry with herself for being so. During that time she had no opportunity of speaking to her father, and it was not until she eat down to tea that she had an opportunity of doing so.
“I was in at the Holls' this afternoon, father.”
“And how is that unfortunate woman, my dear? Dear me, dear me, I cannot understand why men will neglect their business and go about talking about affairs which don't concern them. [79] I cannot see, Carry, upon my life I cannot, what good can possibly come of it. I told William Holl so. I cautioned him that he would find out his mistake too late. But there, I might as well have talked to the wind. These all but uneducated young fellows have an idea that the whole wisdom of the nation is centred in their heads. All the questions which have occupied and puzzled the wisest men of the nation, who have given their whole attention to them, these young fellows solve in the twinkling of an eye to their own perfect satisfaction. And now what has come of it? He has got transported, and upon my life I don't pity him at all. But there's his poor wife left behind to shift for herself. I am very sorry for her. But for the matter of that, she will do as well without him as with him. He has been a world of trouble to her, and I believe he has done no work at all for the last four or five months; talk, talk, talk, nothing but talk, my dear. It won't keep the pot boiling. Still it is sad for her, for I believe she loves him, idle scamp as he is. I wonder what will become of her?”
“That is just what I am going to tell you, [80] father, when you give me a chance,” Carry, who had been quietly continuing her tea, said. “I am only waiting till you give me an opportunity of slipping in a word. It seems that the gentleman, Evan Holl is with as a servant, has heard of William Holl's sentence to transportation, and of his leaving a wife behind him, and he has offered to pay Bessy's expenses out to join him. It seems that in a year or so he can get a ticket-of-leave, and then she can be with him.”
“That is very good of him, Carry.”
“It is Mr. Maynard, father, the gentleman who picked you up when you slipped down in Knightsbridge that night, you know.”
“You don't say so, Carry? How extraordinary. I remember now John Holl telling me his boy had gone out to service with a gentleman named Maynard, but I didn't know, it never struck me, as being the same. Dear me, what a kind-hearted young man, to be sure.”
Carry was silent a moment, and then said pettishly, “Of course he is very kind-hearted, father; but I think he might have come again. I call it downright rude.”
Stephen Walker paused in his tea in utter [81] astonishment. He had never given the matter a thought since the evening of Frank Maynard's visit, and this displeasure on the part of his daughter was to him singular and unreasonable in the extreme.
“Bless me, Carry,” he said, “you surprise me. Why should Mr. Maynard come again? He came over to see after me, and I was very glad that he did come that we might thank him; but why, in the name of goodness, should he come again?”
Carry had no particular reason to give, so she only said generally that she “thought he would come again.”
“Now, Carry, that is not at all like you. I call that unreasonable. Why, because Mr. Maynard saved my life, and afterwards took the trouble to come down to see me, he should be bound to come again to a place like this to talk to people like ourselves, I really can't conceive. No, Carry, for once in your life you are wrong, and I am sure you will own it.”
Carry did not own it, but tossed her head a little in dissent at the light in which her father put it.
[82]
“But, father, I am sure Mr. Maynard was pleased with you, very pleased; you chatted together like friends, upon travels and all sorts of things, and I am sure he did not look down upon you at all.”
“Not for the time being, Carry,” Stephen Walker said gravely; “Mr. Maynard was a gentleman and treated me under my own roof as a gentleman. He found that we had topics upon which we could discourse in common. He was no doubt surprised, and perhaps, as you say, pleased; but, Carry, there are thousands of men of his own class in life with whom he has not only that but a hundred other topics in common, and why should he come down here to talk to me? No, Carry, you are really not reasonable.”
Carry was silent. She could not explain that she was angry that Frank Maynard had not come down to see her, and was therefore obliged to let the matter drop. Still, upon subsequent reflection, Carry did not feel the less piqued. She was hurt, and was angry with herself for being so.
If he did not care to see her, she certainly [83] did not care for seeing him. There were plenty of other gentlemen, the same as he was, who could appreciate her and were eager enough to talk with her. If Mr. Maynard came again she would take care to let him know that there were other people, just as good as he was, who were not too high and mighty to admire her. There was Mr. Bingham, for instance, he was always there, always kind and pleasant and cheerful. Evidently he cared for her. Here Carry's thoughts wandered off: “Yes, it would be very nice to be a lady, no more living in a little shop and selling newspapers and tobacco, but a real lady, with nice dresses and servants, and, perhaps, carriages, and above all a home for dear old father after all his troubles and cares. Oh! how nice that would be, how very happy!” And Carry's thoughts, which had been gloomy enough at the commencement of her reverie, ended by drawing a very bright picture indeed.
Carry's thoughts once fairly directed to this subject they returned again to it very frequently. By what her father had said she would have been a lady had he not been [84] unfortunate, and why should she not regain the position for herself and him? Indeed, she had felt strongly attracted by Fred Bingham. She liked the merry, good tempered, cheerful young fellow; he was so attentive, so evidently fond of her. Indeed, it was only the strong influence which the one visit of Frank Maynard had exercised over her which had hitherto kept this feeling in check. Now, smarting with pique and resentment against Frank, the feeling returned with redoubled force. Why, she asked herself, should she throw away an honest love for a chimera? Why should she not make herself happy with Fred Bingham? And so from this time she relaxed in her stiffness with him, and his visits to the tobacconist's became longer and more frequent, the conversations between them more interesting and confidential, and there was less of badinage now, and more of blushing on her part.
Carry was a very simple, innocent girl. Brought up under her father's wing, she had absolutely no thought of evil. As soon as she really felt Fred Bingham loved her, she had little hesitation in giving her whole heart to [85] him, and in feeling very happy in so doing. And so time went on, and the gossips of the street began to remark how very often that fair young gentleman was in at Walker's shop, and the ill-natured ones soon began to shake their heads and to say, it was a pity Carry Walker had not a mother to look after her. Which, indeed, it was. She was ignorant and unsuspicious of harm as Una herself, only, unfortunately, she had no lion to protect her. A mother would have told her that even if she considered herself engaged to Fred Bingham, as in another two or three months she did, it would yet be much wiser not to meet him accidentally so often during the walks, which, at her father's wish, she was in the habit of taking daily. But Carry had no such adviser, and never dreamt on the edge of what a precipice she was walking.
CHAPTER VI. LOSING THE GLOVES.
 “I tell you what, Frank, you are getting extremely snappish and disagreeable,” Prescott said one day to his friend, “the sooner you go out of town the better.”
“Do you know, Prescott, I quite agree with you. I am. I am sick of this sort of life, and I want a change.”
“You were talking of buying a yacht, Frank. We are in June now. If you really mean to do anything in that way this year, it is time to be seeing about it.”
“Pooh! nonsense, man. You know what I mean. I want to go down into Staffordshire again, but I don't see what excuse to make.”
“I suppose the proper thing to do, Frank, is to write to Mr. Drake to ask his permission to pay your addresses to his niece.”
[87]
“What a fellow you are, Prescott! You do make the most ridiculous propositions of any man I ever met.”
“It is a pity you did not ask her before you came away, Frank,” Prescott said, after a pause.
“How could I, man?” Frank said irritably. “I was there little over three weeks, and I was not sure about myself for the first fortnight. If it had been summer, and we had had picnics and all that sort of thing, where you can manage to get alone with a girl and make your running, it would have been different; but in a house full of people I had no opportunities whatever. It was only that last week too that I had quite made up my own mind about it. You don't suppose a woman is like a peach, and that you only have to open your mouth for her to fall into it. Katie is a good deal too great a prize to jump at the first bait. Besides Katie and I fought so, and, I confess, I teazed her so much, that she got to look upon everything I said as chaff, and if I had told her I loved her, the chance was she would have laughed in my face, and serve me right too. [88] I don't think she had any idea I really cared for her, and I believe, upon my word, that at one time she positively disliked me. At any rate it was altogether out of the question my speaking at the time, and it would be just as absurd my writing to her now. Besides, writing about those sort of affairs is a mistake. Things that sound real and earnest enough when you say them, look mere sentimental bosh when they're put down on paper. No, upon my word, I don't see my way. It's little over two months since I left, and I can't offer to go down again, especially in June—there is no excuse that I can see. There is no hunting or shooting, if I did either, which I don't. What the deuce could I want to go down into Staffordshire in June for?” And Frank, in extreme perplexity, looked at Prescott for assistance.
“You have quite made up your mind, Frank?”
“Of course, my dear fellow, am I not telling you so?”
“Well, Frank, in that case what I should recommend is this. I should really write to Mr. Drake, not a formal letter, you know, but [89] a friendly straightforward one, say that you are desirous of paying your addresses to his niece, that in the confusion and the number of people in the house you had not the opportunity of doing so before. That you are perfectly unaware of her feelings towards you, and that you are desirous of being a short time in her society again before you speak to her, and you therefore ask him if he will again extend his hospitality to you. I think that is about the way to put it. You might ask him to say nothing to Miss O'Byrne respecting your visit, as it might cause an awkwardness between you.”
“By Jove, yes!” Frank said, “I would as soon do battle with a lioness as meet Katie O'Byrne, after our late encounters, if she knew for certain that I had come down to make formal love to her. No, no, Prescott, it would destroy my chance altogether. I must request absolutely that Katie shall know nothing about it. She may guess what she likes. She can't take a high ground because she guesses, but if she were officially informed of it, I should no more be able to hold my own with her than I should to fly. Altogether I think it is a very good [90] idea. Yes, I will write at once. Now, Prescott, you dictate it, you have a legal mind, you know, and I will write. But what do you say to writing to Teddy instead of to Mr. Drake? I can ask him to put it to his father, you know, and it will be less formal—eh?”
Prescott said that he saw no objection, and in that case he did not think he need dictate the letter. To this Frank agreed, and wrote as follows:—
“My dear Teddy,
“I dare say what I am going to tell you will surprise you; but, the fact is, I have really fallen awfully in love with Katie O'Byrne. Now, you see, last time I was down there I had not time to make my running. There was too much going on, you see, and too many people about. Now I do think, Teddy, I could make her happy if she could care for me. I want you to give me a chance. Will you speak to your father and mother and tell them what I wish, and ask them to allow me to try to make Katie in love with me. You can mention that, so far as means are concerned, I [91] have eight hundred a-year of my own, and Uncle Harry, you know Captain Bradshaw, has always treated me as his son, and no doubt at his death I shall come into a considerable fortune. Should they offer no objection, will you write and ask me to come down again for a fortnight, but above all, Teddy, do not let a word be said to either your sister or Kate. If Sarah knows it Katie is certain to find it out, and I could no more face her in that formal sort of way than I could fly. It would knock any chance I might have completely on head. Write soon, Teddy, for I shall be in an awfully nervous state till I hear from you. Be sure and keep it dark as to what I am coming down for—say you have asked me down to do some hunting, or something of that sort.
“Yours ever,
“Frank Maynard.”
Teddy Drake received this epistle at breakfast, and its contents threw him into a state of profound astonishment. He had not had the slightest idea of Frank's feelings towards Katie, and when he recovered from his astonishment [92] was most delighted. He had given one long whistle of surprise when he had arrived at the second line, but had read on to the end in silence without heeding the questions of the girls as to what was the matter with him.
“Now, Teddy, what is it?” Sarah asked as he finished. “What does Frank say, to surprise you so?” for Teddy had apprised them who his correspondent was before he had begun to read.
“Is it what does he say?” Teddy repeated, in order to gain time to invent an answer.
“Yes, of course, Teddy, how tiresome you are.”
“Frank is thinking of becoming a monk and joining a holy community.”
“No, don't be talking nonsense, Teddy.”
“Well, Sarah, he's talking of going out to Arabia and becoming a dancing dervish.”
“Don't ask him, Sarah,” Katie said indignantly; “if he doesn't choose to tell us, sure and we don't want to know. Come along, we will go and practise our duet.”
When they had left the room Teddy turned to his father and mother: “Frank has written to ask me to ask you to let him run down again, to make love to Katie.”
[93]
“Really, Teddy, you talk so much nonsense I do not know when you are speaking the truth,” Mr. Drake said, while Mrs. Drake uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“I am as serious as possible this time,” Teddy said, and he read out a portion of Frank's letter.
“I am very glad,” Mrs. Drake said, “and to think I had never guessed it. I am so glad, he is such a nice fellow, and it will be a very good thing for Katie. Don't you think so, Robert?”
“Yes, my dear, I do not see any objection in any way. Mr. Maynard is a little too rackety to suit me, but I do not know that that will be any objection in Katie's eyes. By all means, Teddy, write and ask him to come down; and try and don't do anything foolish, if you can help it, or speak about his coming. If you had not made a sort of mystery about his letter this morning we could have mentioned naturally enough that he was coming down for a short time for change of air, or we could have made some excuse or other. As it is it will be better to say nothing about it, and leave him to [94] explain matters for himself as best he can. Ask him to come down, say on Tuesday. There is the gig at the door, are you ready, Teddy?”
Upon reaching his office, Teddy Drake sat down to write to Frank Maynard.
“My dear Frank,
“I am delighted at hearing that you are smitten by the archer boy (isn't that the delicate way of putting it?) and especially that the person by whom you are so smitten is my cousin Katie. By the way, according to that way of putting it, Katie would be the archer boy, which is absurd. So my metaphor is wrong somewhere, but after reading it over several times, I can't for the life of me see where. However you see what I mean, and Katie and the archer boy have both somehow had to do with the business, but they've got mixed up together till I can't tell which is which. Seriously I am awfully glad, Frank. To think of your falling in love with Katie! I never dreamt of such a thing, and the elders are equally surprised. Now that you have told me about it, I fancy that Sarah may have [95] had some suspicion that there was a weakness somewhere, for sometimes when your name has been mentioned, she has been rather inclined to chaff Katie, which Katie has resented very seriously. My father sends word that he shall be very glad if you will come down and stay with us again, and named next Tuesday. Come by the ten o'clock train in the morning, it gets here at three. I will meet you at the station. I have read as much of your letter as was necessary to the elders, and they as well as myself are pleased at the thought of you and Katie coming together. We shall strictly obey your injunction, and say nothing to the girls about the object of your coming. Indeed we shall not say you are coming at all, for I was too surprised when I got your letter to invent any excuse at the time, and if I were to say anything about it now, they would think it was odd I did not mention it at the time, and would suspect something was up. If, however, you would rather not take them by surprise, write a line by return of post, and then I will say that you have written to say you are coming for a few days, on your way, say to Ireland. On reading over this letter I find it is barely [96] coherent, but I dare say you will understand it.
“Yours very truly,
“E. Drake.”
Katie O'Byrne had thought more often during these two months of Frank Maynard than was at all satisfactory to herself. She had so repeatedly asserted that she did not like him, that her assurances lost power even with herself. At last, however, she could no longer shut her eyes to the fact, but was forced to own that she had been deceiving herself all along, and that she did like, yes, like Frank Maynard very much. It was with deep mortification that Katie made this confession even to herself, because, in spite of what Sarah had said, she did not believe that Frank had ever thought of her, and because he had so teazed and made fun of her, that she told herself she ought to hate him. Still when she thought over that sentence about the sea, and the quiet tone in which he had said, “Yes, Katie, you will believe me some day,” the colour would mount up into her cheeks, and she would think that perhaps after all he did care for her. But [97] although Miss O'Byrne came at last to own to herself that she had been wrong, and that she liked Frank Maynard very, very much, she was by no means disposed to make the same concession to Sarah. So, whenever her cousin turned the conversation to the subject, said how she missed Frank, and wondered whether he would ever come again, Katie manifested such perfect indifference upon both points, that Sarah at last came to the conclusion that she had made a mistake, and that there was no chance of her ever winning the gloves.
On the Tuesday afternoon, the girls were together in the drawing-room, which looked over the lawn.
“Teddy has gone down to the station has he not?” Katie asked.
“Yes, he ordered the dog-cart to be at the office at three, in time to take him to meet the train. I wonder what he can be up to, for when he said so, he winked at mamma, and she shook her head and frowned, but smiled too; I wonder what it can be about?”
“Indeed and I don't know,” Katie said, “and I [98] don't suppose it's worth guessing about.”
“I don't know,” Sarah said, “there has been something going on for the last two or three days between Teddy and mamma, some quiet joke, and I am not sure papa is not in it too, for I have seen him smiling two or three times to himself, when there was nothing going on to smile at; and do you know, Katie, I have half an idea that it's something about you.”
“Faith, and I'm not curious, Sarah,” Katie said composedly, “Teddy will be back in a few minutes, and the secret will keep till then.”
Presently they heard the sound of wheels in the drive, and Sarah said, “Come along, Katie, we'll catch him in the hall, and see what he's brought,” and she went out followed by her cousin.
As they went into the large hall, the front door was opened, and Teddy entered followed by Frank Maynard. Sarah uttered an exclamation of surprise, and hurried forward to meet him; as she did so, Katie whispered indignantly, “Sarah, I hate you; I'll never forgive you.”
“Why, Frank,” Sarah said warmly, “this is a surprise, I am glad to see you again.”
“And I'm glad to be back again, Sarah.” Then [99] Frank turned to Katie, who was coming forward slowly, and rather reluctantly, for she felt that her cheeks were telling unmistakably that she was not uninterested in this unexpected arrival. Frank greeted her with, “How are you, Miss O'Byrne?—but I need not ask, it's charming you're looking any way.”
“Don't flatter yourself that it's from pleasure at seeing you again, Mr. Maynard.”
“Don't say that, Miss O'Byrne, it's downright cruel; I've been picturing you to myself sitting with your watch in your hand, counting the minutes to my arrival.”
“You are wrong, anyhow,” Katie said with indignant triumph, “for I did not even know you were coming. Teddy,” she said, turning to her cousin, “why did you not tell me Mr. Maynard was coming down?”
“I asked him not to say anything about it, Miss O'Byrne,” Frank said, seeing Katie was really indignant, “either to you or his sister, I thought it would be a surprise, and I hoped a pleasant one.”
“And really and truly did not you know, Sarah?” Katie asked, for up to this time she [100] believed that it had been a plot on the part of all the others to keep her in the dark, and that Sarah especially had endeavoured to surprise her by bringing her suddenly upon Frank.
“Really and truly, Katie, I had no more idea than you had.”
“Well,” Katie said, mollified, “in that case I forgive you, Teddy, I thought you were all tricking me. I didn't mean to be cross, Mr. Maynard,” she said frankly, “only I thought I was being made a fool of, and I hate that,” and she shook hands with him again and looked up unflinchingly at him with her honest eyes.
It was not until evening that, when Sarah was playing, Frank had an opportunity of speaking alone to Katie, “I am sorry I vexed you, Miss O'Byrne.”
“It was stupid of me to be vexed,” Katie said, “but I always hate surprises, and I thought Sarah had known it all along, and was trying to make me look ridiculous. I am sorry for it, Mr. Maynard.”
“Then you were not really sorry to see me again, Katie, it was not that?”
“No,” Katie said gently, “it was not that.”
[101]
“I have been looking forward so much to seeing you again,” Frank said.
“Oh, yes,” the girl answered, “I suppose you wanted some one to plague.”
“Do you really dislike being plagued, Katie, honestly now? I won't do it any more if you do.”
She was silent awhile, and then said, “I did not like it at first, but now I begin to understand you I don't mind; only I can't help being vexed, and then I am ashamed afterwards.”
“Yes, Katie,” Frank said, “I know I used to teaze you abominably; but you remember what I told you about the sea?”
“Well, Mr. Maynard, you talked so much nonsense, that I can hardly remember one part more than another.” Katie rose to go to the piano, but Frank could see by her face that she did remember it for all that.
Katie did not go into Sarah's room that night, but kissed her at the door. Sarah said, “Katie, dear, the kid gloves will be mine after all.” The cousin did not answer, but went on into her room and shut the door. She was happy, and felt that she need not check herself. Now [102] she really had cause to think that Frank loved her—and although she had laughingly turned off his words, she felt he was in earnest—she no longer struggled with her feelings, but acknowledged to herself, that all along she had loved him.
The next week passed very quietly. Frank still teazed Katie, and Katie fought sturdily, but she felt the battle was lost. There was no mistaking the quiet tone in which he sometimes spoke to her, so different from his general strain of light jesting with her, and the way in which he spoke to others. She fought because it was her nature to fight, but she was no longer indignant at his sallies—fought as a beaten enemy, surrounded and outnumbered fights, as a matter of honour and not of hope. She resisted occasionally, and tried to struggle against the influence he exerted over her. But the bird was in the net and knew it. She beat her wings and fluttered in vain; and ere the fortnight was over, Frank held her to his heart and her struggles were over. She was content to nestle there quietly, and answered as he wished to the question, “And do you believe me at last, dear Katie?”
CHAPTER VII. GATHERING CLOUDS.
 A cloud has fallen upon the little shop in New Street. Stephen Walker is restless and anxious, for he feels that something is going wrong. Carry has changed so much during the last three months that he cannot but notice it. Her bright colour has quite gone now, and only comes back in sudden starts and flushes. Her manner, too, has altered even more than her appearance. She, who used to be so lively and gay, who was always humming scraps of song over her work, has now become silent and abstracted. If she noticed that her father was watching her she would break out in a burst of fitful merriment, talking and laughing in a forced, unnatural way, which was even more painful than her silence. Stephen Walker was a long time before he arrived reluctantly at the conclusion that [104] there was something wrong with Carry. At first he tried hard to persuade himself that the change existed only in his own imagination—that she was a little poorly, perhaps, nothing more; but at last he could no longer deceive himself, there was evidently something mentally, or physically, altogether wrong with her. Very sadly the old man pondered over the matter, and wearied himself with conjectures as to what could be the cause. She had no bodily ill, and quite repudiated any suggestion he made to that effect. She was perfectly well, she said, and Stephen Walker at last came to the conclusion it must be upon her mind. It was evident that nothing could make her unhappy except some love affair; and if so, with whom could Carry be in love? When this question was once fairly raised in Stephen Walker's mind he set himself to watch; but it was a long time after he did so before he came to any conclusion upon the subject, still longer before he could make up his mind to speak to her about it. One day, however, when he came into the shop after a short absence on business, he found the gentleman he suspected leaning on the counter talking confidentially with [105] Carry. At the sight of her father she started and coloured painfully, while the gentleman rose hastily, saying,—
“I have a holiday you see, Mr. Walker.”
Mr. Walker made some general answer and passed into the inner room. The gentleman left almost immediately; but Carry did not, as was her custom, come into the parlour, but remained in the shop all the afternoon. It was not until the shop was closed for the evening, and Carry had taken her work and sat down, that father and daughter were together alone. Even then Stephen Walker had difficulty in approaching the subject, for Carry seemed to feel instinctively what he wished to speak of, and endeavoured, by talking forcedly upon all sorts of topics, to keep him from approaching it. At last he took advantage of a momentary pause in her talk to begin.
“My dear Carry, you know very well that I love you dearly. I am a poor, nervous creature, my dear, but I cannot but see that you are not the same as you used to be.”
Carry, with a very pale face, laid down her work when her father commenced, and she now [106] interposed with a faint protest that she was quite well.
“My dear Carry, I am not quite sure that I would not rather know that you are not quite well. You may be, as you say, quite well bodily; that is, you may be free from any actual illness, but you are unquestionably changed, you are pale, and nervous, and out of spirits; it follows then that your illness must be mental. Now, my dear Carry, if you had a mother you would tell her, and she would advise you and talk to you as I cannot do. You are very unfortunately placed, dear—unfortunate in being so much alone, very unfortunate that the only person upon whom you can rely is a poor nervous man like myself. But do not think of this, Carry, only think that your old father loves you with all his heart, only think that your happiness is his only object in life, and open your heart to him, dear, as you would to a mother.”
Carry was crying now, kneeling at her father's knees.
“Can't you tell me, Carry?”
She shook her head.
[107]
“Perhaps I can guess, dear. I have noticed for months how often Mr. Bingham comes here, and I have seen you change colour when he comes in. Is it he, Carry? Do you love him, my child?”
Carry was still crying, but after a pause she said, very low,
“I promised not to tell you, father, but as you have guessed, I can speak. But please, please, do not let him see that you know. Yes, father, I do love Mr. Bingham, and he loves me. He has told me so, but he does not want anyone to know it, because he has no money of his own, and we must wait. He has a very rich uncle, a Captain Bradshaw, who lives in Lowndes Square, and who is going to leave Mr. Bingham a great deal of money, but he dares not offend him by marrying. He is very old, so we are going to wait. But I promised not to tell you about it, father. Please do not let him know.”
Stephen Walker was silent for a little time, and then said,
[108]
“I wish, Carry, I had known it before. I should have warned—no, not warned you, dear, but advised you against it before it was too late.
I do not like these long engagements, Carry. They seldom come to anything. I know the world better than you do, my child. I have not used my knowledge to much purpose as far as I myself am concerned, still I can see clearly enough in your case. I had rather it had been some young clerk, ay, Carry, or even an honest mechanic or small tradesman that had asked for you. Still, dear, I do not wish to blight your hopes, but do not build too much upon it; these things seldom come off.”
“Oh, father,” Carry said, “would you not like to see me a lady, in a house of my own, where you would always live with us, and have no more care and trouble? Oh, father, I have thought of that so much. And this, father, is quite, quite certain to come off.”
[109]
“Yes, my child, we always think so, and the disappointment is in proportion to the hope. No, Carry, a long engagement is always bad; but when the parties are in different stations of life the chances of its being broken off are tenfold. However, Carry, we will hope for the best. But be careful, my child, you know nothing of the world. Do not encourage him to be here too much. Neighbours will get to talk of it, and a good name is easily lost; and, although I know my little Carry too well not to be able to trust her as well, ay, and very much better, than myself, still, dear, you don't know the world and cannot be too careful. If you had only had a mother——”
And here Stephen Walker's warnings were put a stop to, for Carry's face, which had been bent down while he had been speaking, had become deadly white; her hand was pressed against her heart, and with a half sob, half cry, she leant forward; and her father, on stooping down, found that she was insensible. Very poignant were Stephen Walker's self-reproaches as he ran to get some water and endeavoured to bring her round.
“That is just like me,” he muttered to himself, “frightening the poor child, and telling her her love affair would come to nothing. As if I could not see that she worried enough about it without my making her worse. What an old fool I am, to be sure. And to think of her fainting, too—dear, dear.”
And so he wandered on, until, to his intense [110] relief, he saw her open her eyes. She looked round in a frightened way.
“There, there, my dear; don't worry yourself, Carry. It is all right now. I have been wrong to frighten you, Carry, very wrong, and I have no doubt it will all come right. Why shouldn't it? A man who has once fallen in love with my Carry would not be likely to draw back. No, no, indeed. I thought I was talking wisdom, Carry, and I was an old fool after all.”
Carry smiled feebly, and stroked her father's hair as he bent over her.
“I am better now, father, but I am not very strong. You are quite right in what you say, as you always are, dear, dear, old father. But oh, I wish, oh I wish you had spoken before.” Then, after a pause, she said, “How foolish of me to faint! But I am better now. Kiss me, father, I will go up to bed.”
After Carry had gone upstairs, Stephen Walker sat for a long time in the parlour. His thoughts were not pleasant.
“Poor child, poor child!” he said, “I would [111] have given all the little I have in the world to have saved her this. Why did she not fall in love with some one of her own station, some one who would have been proud of my bright, pretty Carry, who would have shown her to his friends with pleasure and pride? Carry would have been very happy in such a home as that. And now she must wait for years; and perhaps, after all, be deserted. For when the time comes friends will step in and dissuade him, and he will begin to think himself that he might choose a wife better suited to him than out of a tobacconist's shop. I hope he is not lying to her. He would, indeed, be a scoundrel who would lie to such an innocent child as Carry. But, at any rate, I will see if there is any Captain Bradshaw lives in Lowndes Square; and will find out, if I can, if he is really Mr. Bingham's uncle. If so, I shall feel more comfortable, and can wait. Perhaps, after waiting a bit, Carry too may get tired of it, and may not take it to heart if it is broken off at last. So, perhaps, no very great harm may come of it. But I am sorry, I am very sorry.”
If Stephen Walker could have looked into the room where Carry was lying on the bed, crying passionately, he would have been even more sorry than he was. For the next two or three days [112] after this talk Stephen Walker was but little at home; for, having found out by a Directory Captain Bradshaw's address in Lowndes Square, he watched there for hours, until, on the third evening, he saw Fred Bingham enter. Having thus, found out that his story was true so far, he went home more satisfied.
There was another who was watching Carry as closely and as anxiously as did her father. She had been very restless lately, and had very often gone into Mrs. Holl's for a chat. Mrs. Holl was frequently out, and even when she was at home the conversation was principally between Carry and the cripple lad. To him Carry was as an angel of light. He almost worshipped her, and she knew it. Carry liked being admired, it was her nature; she turned as naturally for admiration as a flower for light. Besides, she pitied James. Had he been other than he was, a helpless cripple, Carry might have tossed her head a little loftily at the idea of an admirer who was an inmate of John Holl's cottage. As it was, she knew that his feeling had no idea of self in it, that it was as disinterested an attachment as that of a brother for a sister. Accordingly, she [113] was very kind to the poor lad; and, indeed, enjoyed a chat with him greatly. He had read so much, and his whole current of thought and his earnest talk were so different from anything she ever met with elsewhere, that she could have listened to him for hours with pleasure.
The cripple had noticed a change in Carry long before it had been visible to her father, almost before she had become conscious of it herself. At first it had been merely an occasional absent manner while talking to him, a kindling of the eye, a little flush of colour, as if she were thinking of some pleasant thing. Then James had sighed deeply, for he felt that she was in love. It was a pain to him to know that. He knew she could not be for him, he had never thought it. But as long as she remained as she was he had at least the pleasure of seeing her often, of knowing that she liked him very much, that she pitied him, and accepted the homage which he paid her. If she married, all this would be over. She would be no longer able to come to see him; the visits which were the great happiness of his life would cease, and in the love of a husband she would soon forget the poor cripple, [114] who would have gladly laid down his life to save her a pang. But, as time went on, the change in Carry had deepened and altered, and the lad saw that she was anxious and unhappy. James in vain tried to find some solution of this. The wax-flowers made but small progress, and the books on mathematics were laid aside. That Carry should love anyone and not be loved in return seemed to him impossible. She was so perfectly different from the few women he had ever seen that he thought every one must see Carry in the light of an exceptional being, as he did himself. What then could it be which could make her unhappy?
A few days after her conversation with her father Carry went into the Holls'. Mother was out, and the children were all away. Carry drew up a chair to the side of the cripple's table, and, after the first greeting, sat silently watching him as he worked. James broke the silence by putting down his work and saying suddenly,—
“Oh, Miss Carry, I do so grieve to see that you are not happy.”
“Not happy, James!” Carry said, starting from her reverie and colouring deeply; “not happy! [115] What makes you think such an extraordinary thing as that?”
“There is no thinking about it, Miss Carry,” the boy said, sadly; “I am as sure of it as I am that I am sitting here. I have watched your face for so many years that I can read it as I can an open book. Oh, Miss Carry, I am miserable to see that you are sad, and that I can do nothing. Had I been like other men I might perhaps have made you happy. I would have made a place and a name for myself, and I would have loved you so much that you could not have helped loving me a little in return. But that was not to be. I am a cripple, and my love for you is as the love I might have for a dear sister. It is hard on me then, to know that you are not happy, and to be able to do nothing but sit here helpless, when I would so willingly give my life if it could do you good.”
Carry had sat pale and quiet while he was speaking. Then she took his hand, and said,
[116]
“It is better as it is, James. I should never have made such a wife as you ought to have had. I have always known that you loved me, always, James, and as a brother I shall always love you. But had you been a brother, had you been well and strong, you could have done no good here, James. But you must not think I am unhappy,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully; “I am rather worried, but it will soon be over now, and then I shall be very happy. I will tell you then, James; you shall be one of the first to hear it. You will always love me, James, whatever comes, won't you?” she asked, wistfully, as she rose.
“Always, Carry, till I die.”
“You will never judge me harshly, whatever people say, James?”
“Never, Carry; as God hears me, nothing will ever change me.”
“Thank you, James,” she said, “I believe you. God grant you may never be put to the test.”
And then, leaning over him, she kissed him quietly, and without a word went out from the cottage.
The next morning Stephen Walker was in the shop with Carry when Fred Bingham came in for his paper, but he was busy arranging his books, and did not hear Carry's whispered sentence, [117] “At the old place, this evening at five.” And then, as he seemed to hesitate, she added in such an agonised whisper, “You must, you must,” that he nodded assent as he went out of the shop.
“I wonder what she wants,” he said moodily to himself as he waited at the end of the street for an omnibus; “the same thing as usual, I suppose. Bah, I begin to think I have made a fool of myself.”
At the appointed time Carry was walking restlessly backwards and forwards in a retired part of Kensington Gardens. There the trees grew thick and close, and through them the Long water could be seen, with groups of children playing about and throwing food to the waterfowl. Away to the right the band was playing, and through the vista of the trees crowds of fashionably-dressed people could be seen moving slowly to and fro. For some time no one came near the solitary, restless figure. At last a man approached, whom she recognised as far as she could see him. Then she stopped walking and leaned against a tree, with her hand pressed upon her heart as if to still its beating.
[118]
“You're early, Carry. It wants five minutes to the hour. Is anything the matter?”
“Oh, Fred,” the girl panted out. “Father begins to suspect something; he has been asking me questions about you, and he sees I am ill. Oh, Fred, keep your promise to me. You know you swore it, swore it on the Bible. You said that if your uncle lived, so that you could not marry me publicly, you would marry me privately in a month. It is three months now, Fred. Oh, dear, dear Fred, don't put me off any longer!”
[119]
“No, Carry, I will not; but you see I have not been able to arrange matters. You see I never thought the old man would have held on so long, and then we could have done it publicly; but, as it is, I will see about getting it done privately.”
“You are not deceiving me, Fred? You have disappointed me so often. Oh, Fred! if it is found out, what shall I do, what shall I do? I would much rather die—oh, how much rather. Oh, Fred! marry me in some out of the way chapel, anywhere. I swear to you that I will never tell anyone but father till you give me leave, and we will go away and live anywhere, so that it can never be found out. Only marry me, Fred, so that I may be able to tell him I am a wife. If not, it will kill him! Oh, Fred! dear, dear Fred, have pity upon me!”
“Now, my dear Carry, don't be unreasonable. You know how fond I am of you, and you may be sure that I will keep my word and make it all right. There, I promise you I will see about it at once, and in a few days I will write and tell you what the arrangements are. It is no use your fretting so, Carry, you only make yourself pale and ill.”
“I try not to, Fred; but oh, I am so, so miserable. I have to try to talk and laugh, and to seem careless and happy, when God knows I am wishing I was dead. I am obliged to listen and smile when my father talks to me, and when every kind word hurts me so that I can hardly help screaming out. I shall go mad, Fred, if it goes on much longer. You have disappointed me week after week, and month after month; and though I know so well how you love me, and that you are only detained for a while from marrying me, still I can't help being very miserable. But you will not this time, will you? You [120] won't put me off any more?” she said pleadingly.
“No, no, Carry, I mean what I say. But you don't make allowance enough for me. I am so harassed, and I have so much to do, and have been disappointed in—but there, it will all be right now, and before very long you shall hear from me. I am going into the country on business, but will make all my arrangements for the affair to come off as soon as I get back. There, good-bye, Carry, do not fret, child, it will be all right soon.”
So he kissed her and walked off hastily before she could say anything more. When he looked round and saw that she was going away in the opposite direction, he sat down on a bench by the water, and, picking up some small stones, threw them viciously at the ducks who swam up to his feet for crumbs. “It is a great annoyance,” he said, “and the deuce of it is the worst [121] has not come yet. I have a good mind to take her to some out of the way place and get married and send her away, as she proposes, into the country, where I could run down and see her sometimes. I have no doubt she would live quietly enough for years, and her old fool of a father with her. The betting is ten to one it would never come out, and would be pleasant enough. But then it is a nasty risk. Bigamy does not sound well—case of imprisonment. Still it might be managed somehow, of course after the other. I might get some one to manage it—get some fellow to act as a registrar, and do a civil marriage.” And he laughed unpleasantly as he hit a duck upon the head. “It's lucky her old father is such an arrant idiot. But there, I can think it over while I am away. I shan't be gone more than a fortnight, and I will carry out this little drama somehow a day or two after I get back. I know a billiard marker who would do well enough, and then all I have got to do is to get them away from that den into the country. She will never know of the other affair. They know no one, and she never reads the papers. At any rate it need not come out for years. Still it is rather a nuisance altogether. Take that, you little brute.”
The last observation was addressed to a child who had bowled his hoop against the speaker's legs. Fred Bingham accompanied the words by [122] taking the hoop and throwing it far out into the middle of the Long water; and then, with his unpleasant laugh, he strolled off, pursued by the loud roaring of the child and the indignant scoldings and threatenings of its nurse.
CHAPTER VIII. THE ANNOUNCEMENT IN THE “TIMES.”
 Captain Bradshaw had not at first received the news which Frank, on his return from his second visit to Staffordshire, had given him of his engagement, with equanimity. Although he had outwardly resigned himself to the failure of his favourite plan, he had never quite given up hope that some day or other matters might come right. Frank's engagement put an end to all this, and he could hardly conceal his disappointment. Frank had, however, anticipated something of this, and passed over the scarcely veiled ill-humour with which his uncle had greeted the announcement that he was engaged to a young lady down in Staffordshire. Frank had turned to Alice, secure that there at least he should find a sympathising listener; and although Alice had spoken but [124] little at first, she presently became as interested as Frank could have wished, and asked very many questions as to her future cousin.
“And what may Miss O'Byrne's fortune be, Frank?” Captain Bradshaw asked, rather grimly.
“‘Her face is her fortune, sir, she said,’” Frank laughed.
“I thought so,” Captain Bradshaw said. “That is just like you, Frank—I could have sworn it. The present generation are going to the deuce, I think. I married well, so did my father, and my grandfather, and so on as far back as history tells us anything about it. Here you are—a good-looking fellow, with every advantage—marrying a young lady, of whom I will accept your description as to her personal advantages, but altogether, as I understand you, without fortune.”
“It's very sad, uncle,” Frank said with comic humility, “but you see we can't get all our [125] wants. If Katie had been worth ten thousand a year, perhaps she would have been married a year ago.”
“I don't think money has much to do with happiness,” Alice said.
“Pooh, nonsense, stuff,” Captain Bradshaw said irritably. “What do you know about it, Alice?”
Alice had no answer ready, and, after a short pause, Captain Bradshaw went on—
“There, Frank, I don't want to damp your ardour. I don't like it, and it's no use pretending I do; but I dare say I shall like your Kate very much when I see her, so you had better tell her to make up her mind to like me. You have been very troublesome lately, Frank, but I wish you every happiness, my boy.”
And so time had gone on, the four months the engagement lasted had passed, and Frank went down to be married, taking Prescott with him, to support him upon that arduous occasion.
It was three days later that Alice saluted her uncle on his coming down to breakfast with,
“There is an announcement in the ‘Times’ of to-day which will astonish you, uncle.”
[126]
“What is it, Alice?”
“Well, to begin with, uncle, here's Frank's marriage in—not that that is astonishing. But what do you think of the one under it? 'On Wednesday, at St. Peter's, Manchester, Frederick Bingham, of Hans Place, London, to Margaret, only daughter of the late Charles Farrer, Esq., of Oldham.'”
“Nonsense, Alice, you are joking.”
“It is a fact, uncle; here is the paper, look for yourself.”
“What the deuce does he mean by it, Alice? How dare he marry without speaking to me first?”
“I don't know, I am sure, uncle, it seems strange, but there is a letter on the table for you, and I think it is in his handwriting.”
Captain Bradshaw opened the letter.
“Yes, it is from him.”
“My dear Uncle,—
You will, I am sure, be surprised at the news that I am married. Indeed, I am almost surprised myself. It has indeed been rather a sudden affair at the end, although I have been attached to the young lady for a considerable time.” (Captain Bradshaw did not notice the [127] little look of amused contempt upon his niece's face.) “I should have spoken to you on the subject, but I hate fuss, and I think one marriage in a family is quite enough at a time. I did not, therefore, wish to bore you with my domestic affairs. You will, I feel sure, uncle, excuse any apparent disrespect in my not mentioning the matter to you, but I did not even tell my father until two days ago. My wife is just twenty-one years of age, is pretty, at least I suppose I ought to think so, and has a snug little fortune, which, to a man fighting his way in life, is of importance; and I cannot, like my cousin Frank, afford to be romantic. I trust, my dear uncle, that when I inform you of the particulars, and present my wife to you, you will approve of the step I have taken.
“Your affectionate nephew,
“Fred Bingham.”
“He is a strange young fellow, Alice. Never does anything like anyone else. It is just as well though; as he says, two marriages on the cards would have been rather overpowering.”
[128]
“It is all a matter of opinion, uncle. I should not like a husband of mine to marry me in that sort of way, as if he were ashamed of the whole affair.”
“I don't suppose he's ashamed, Alice. I am afraid though, very much afraid by the name, Oldham you see, that he has married into the cotton mills. It doesn't matter much in his case. He's a railway contractor, and I suppose not particular. Had it been Frank, it would have been a serious matter. I shouldn't like to think of a cotton spinner's daughter at Wyvern Hall. As it is, her money—you see he says she has a snug fortune—will be very useful to him. There's no romance about Fred.”
“I should think not,” Alice said scornfully.
“No,” her uncle went on, unheeding the tone, “not a bit. He's wide awake, is Master Fred. You see she's no father, is just twenty-one, and he married her suddenly. I shouldn't be at all surprised,” and he laughed, “if there was no time to have settlements drawn out.”
“Oh, uncle,” Alice said impetuously, “how can you laugh? to me all this is shocking.”
[129]
“Well, my dear, frankly it's not nice; and as I said, if Fred were going to have Wyvern Hall, I shouldn't like it at all. Still, Alice, I think you are inclined to be a little too hard upon Fred. He is a shrewd man of the world, no doubt, but you see you don't know anything about men of the world, and so these things go a little against your grain. I like Fred Bingham very much; he's a pleasant, amiable, chatty young fellow, although he has not been brought up, so to speak, in the traditions of a gentleman. I like him, but I don't do more. I shall, of course, leave him some money when I die, but I confess I should never really care for him as I do for Frank, with all his headstrong ways and the annoyance he has given me.”
Alice felt pleased.
“Thank you, uncle. There is, in my opinion, no more comparison between my two cousins than between light and dark.”
“Yes, Alice, I know your opinions on the subject, but as I said, you are not an impartial judge. Women never are when it is between a man of birth who has a fortune and no work to do, and one who has to fight his way.”
“But, my dear uncle, my cousins are equally well born, and equally well educated; I do not [130] see why there should be any difference between them.”
“Yes, my dear, there is a very great difference,” Captain Bradshaw said positively. “Frank was brought up with the idea that he should never have to work for his living. Therefore he has no notion whatever of business, is romantic in his ideas, would not do a mean thing to save his life, and refused, even at the risk of losing my favour, to do as I wanted him—in fact, is a gentleman. Fred has been brought up in a different school. He was educated at some private school or other; his father is, I have always heard—for I never saw the man, and never want to—is a sharp man of business, and married my silly sister for her money, and Fred has had it instilled into him that money-making is the great end of life. He is a good-tempered, off-hand young fellow, and this has not done him so much harm as it would do most lads. He has been to college, certainly, but that has not done him as much good as it should have done. He has turned out a man of the world, and as such, though I like him very well, I could never love him as I do Frank. You see the difference of their marriages. Frank marries a little Irish girl without a halfpenny. She, I have no doubt, to use his own expression, a most loveable little woman; and he is as proud of his marriage as if he had made the best match conceivable. Fred, on the other hand, without a tithe of Frank's natural advantages, marries a girl with a fortune, and without a father to look after her. I shall be interested, Alice, in watching the different way in which the young couples will go on.”
“I know which will be the happiest, uncle.”
“You think you know, Alice, because you have not got rid of your romance yet. From what I know of my two nephews, I should say they would both make very good husbands in a different [131] sort of way.”
Alice dissented very strongly from her uncle, but as she could not have said so without adducing reasons which would have shaken what belief her uncle had in Fred Bingham, which she was determined not to do, she was silent.
CHAPTER IX. GONE.
 Carry was in unusually low spirits. She had that morning received a letter from Fred Bingham, written from the country. In it he told her that he feared he should be detained three weeks, but that he would make arrangements for the marriage to take place immediately he returned; but that it must be done quietly before a registrar. Carry quite believed that it would be as he said, still she was sick and low at the thought that another month of this wearying deception and secrecy must take place. After the shop was closed for the night, she took a piece of work as usual, but finding that it was in vain to endeavour to keep her attention fixed, and that now and then a tear would fall upon it, she put her work down and took up the “Times,” not for the sake of reading it, but to screen her face from her father.
[133]
Stephen Walker was smoking his pipe quietly, and was thinking sadly to himself how greatly Carry had changed in the three months, when he was startled by a sharp cry of pain from her, and looking up saw the paper fall from her hands. She had risen to her feet, her eyes stared wildly, and her face was deadly pale. For a moment she stood immoveable, then she tottered, and with a low gasping cry sank back upon the seat, and Stephen Walker was just in time to support her as she fainted. Terribly alarmed at this sudden attack, her father laid her upon the little sofa, and hurried to fetch water to sprinkle her forehead, but it was a long time before there were any signs of returning animation. Then she opened her eyes and looked round wildly, then with a shuddering sigh closed them again, and remained for some time without speaking. At last, in answer to her father's earnest entreaties to speak, she rose into a sitting position, and said, faintly,—
“I am better again now, father; I will go up to bed.”
She was so weak, however, that she had to accept her father's assistance, and having seen [134] her to her door, the old man returned sadly downstairs.
“Poor child, poor child!” he said to himself, as he sat down again and mechanically refilled his pipe, “what a change! She is evidently unhappy, evidently begins to doubt him already. I am afraid he is a rascal; if so, the sooner she knows it the better. What ought I to do?” and he thought deeply for a while. “Yes, that is the only plan; next time he comes I will follow him out and talk to him myself. I will tell him that I can see that he is here too often for Carry's peace of mind. I will ask him as a man to keep away altogether if he is only playing with my child's affections. If he repeats to me what he has told her, I will ask him at any rate to stay away until he is in a position to make her his wife. In the meantime, if I could but get her away from him, the change would strengthen her. Why should I not?” he went on more briskly. [135] “I have two or three hundred pounds at the bank, why should I not put some one in charge of the shop and go away for a month to the seaside? It would be the very thing for her. Yes, yes, if I had Carry all to myself at the seaside, I should soon get her round again. I wish I had thought of it before. I will see about getting some one to-morrow. I will take Carry to a doctor, too; he shall give her some tonics.”
Stephen Walker went up to bed and felt quite relieved at the thoughts of his plans for Carry's benefit. He woke up, however, in the night with a vague idea that some one had been kissing and crying over him. As he fairly roused himself and sat up, he fancied he heard his door close softly, but was not sure that it was not imagination. He spoke, and there was no answer, and after a thought of the pleasant surprise he had in store for Carry in the morning, he fell asleep again. In the morning when Stephen Walker came downstairs he found that, contrary to custom, he was the first up.
“Poor child,” he said to himself, “she is tired, I dare say, after fainting last night. Well, a good long sleep will do her good,” and so Stephen Walker bustled about, folded the newspapers, and served the customers, sending round Tom Holl before he started on his rounds, to ask his mother to come in for half-an-hour, if she [136] could spare time. Mrs. Holl soon came round, laid and lit the fire, and prepared breakfast. It was by this time half-past nine, and the regular customers were all served.
“Now, Mrs. Holl, I will go up and call Carry. How astonished she will be when I tell her its half-past nine, and breakfast's ready!”
Stephen Walker was away two or three minutes and then returned, looking white and scared. He sat down in a chair, trembling in every limb.
“What is the matter, Mr. Walker?”
“I don't know, Mrs. Holl; I have knocked, and knocked, and I cannot make her hear.”
“I dare say she's sleeping sound,” Mrs. Holl said; “she's not been looking well of late; shall I go up and wake her?”
Stephen Walker made a gesture of assent, and Mrs. Holl went upstairs to Carry's room. She knocked at first gently, and then more loudly. There was no answer. Mrs. Holl was not a nervous woman, but she felt frightened—she did not know of what. The fear of Stephen Walker had infected her, and this strange silence made her as timid as he had been. She tried the handle to see if the door was locked. It was [137] not; the door yielded to her touch, but it was with a nervous trembling that Mrs. Holl pushed the door open, and entered. What she had expected to see—what she was afraid of—she knew not, but no sight could have affected her so much, not even the sight of the girl dead in her bed, as did that deserted room, that unused bed, that letter lying upon the table. Mrs. Holl saw the truth at once, and as she thought of Carry, thought of the old man downstairs, she sat down, and began to cry. Presently she heard a step on the stairs. What should she say? how should she break it to him? She hurried out and met him outside the door.
“Don't go in, don't go in; come downstairs, and I will tell you all about it.”
“Is she——?”
He did not finish the question—indeed he had scarcely uttered the words, but Mrs. Holl guessed them by the movement of his lips.
“No, she's not dead; she's not, indeed. Please, go down——”
But Stephen Walker pushed past her, and stood in the empty room. A low cry broke from him, then his eye caught the letter on the table; [138] it was addressed to himself. He could not stand to read it; he sank down in a chair. He opened the letter with trembling hands, but the trembling ceased, and his figure seemed to stiffen into stone as he read on—
“Father, father, what can I say to you—how can I write it? He has married another; I saw it in the paper this evening; yet he promised, promised over and over again to marry me. Only this morning I had a letter from him saying he would marry me in three weeks, and when he was writing it he must have been married already. I leave his letter that you may see that I spoke truly when I said he promised to marry me, and oh, father, I believed him so; I thought him true and honourable, and oh, father, forgive me, forgive me, for I have disgraced you. I cannot live, father, I cannot live with this shame. When you receive this, Carry and her sins will be over. Oh, father, forgive me. I know you will, and then God will forgive, too. I have suffered so much, surely He will have pity on me. Father, do not think of me as I have been for the last month. Try and think that I died young; think of me as the little Carry who loved you so, so [139] much, and never remember the miserable girl who has brought shame upon herself and you.”
Mrs. Holl was frightened at the ghastly pallor and the set rigid expression which grew upon the old man's face as he read on. There he sat still and immovable. When he had finished, his lips were livid, and his eyes fixed.
“Don't take on so, now don't, there's a good creature,” Mrs. Holl said, soothingly; “she will come back again safe enough; don't take on so.”
But Mrs. Holl's words were addressed to deaf ears, and seeing that he paid no attention to her, she came close to him and touched him. Then a sharp contraction passed over his face, and in another moment he lay on the ground in a violent fit. Mrs. Holl was a strong woman, and accustomed to hard work, but it needed all her strength to hold the old man during the first paroxysm of the attack. She was unwilling to call for assistance, as she wished to hide what had happened from the neighbours until, at any rate, she knew what the father might determine upon doing. When she saw that the paroxysm was over, the kind hearted woman, wishing to spare him the sight of his daughter's empty room, took [140] the still insensible man up in her strong arms and carried him down to the parlour. Presently he opened his eyes, then putting his hand over his face, remained immovable.
“Please put up the shutters, and close the shop,” he said at length.
Mrs. Holl hesitated.
“I wouldn't do that, Mr. Walker, not if I were you; it would tell all the neighbours something wrong had taken place. If you bear up, and give out she's gone away on a visit, no one will be any the wiser, when she comes back, which she's sure to do sooner or later; and you may be sure I would bite my tongue out before I would speak a word. You must not be hard on her, Mr. Walker. Poor young thing, she has had no mother to advise her right, and young girls, if they ain't looked after, are as certain to go wrong as a horse is to go to water. You won't be hard on her now, Mr. Walker; you'll forgive her when she comes back?” Mrs. Holl said pleadingly.
“She will never come back,” the old man said hoarsely, “never. He has married some one [141] else, and she could not bear the disgrace. She is dead now.”
Mrs. Holl sat down in sudden horror. She had not for a moment suspected this. She had only thought that Carry had eloped with some one, and that the letter was to tell her father of it and to beg for forgiveness. This was too dreadful, and as Mrs. Holl thought of the girl she had known so long and seen so lately, now lying dead, or perhaps being swept along by the cold river, she put her apron over her head and cried unrestrainedly. Stephen Walker shed no tears. He sat immovable, crushed and hopeless. When Mrs. Holl recovered, she went outside and put up the shutters, and then closing the door, went back into the parlour.
“Don't take on so, there's a dearie; let me pour you out a little tea. You must not give way. If it is true, poor child, she's happy now. Whatever has happened, she was as good a girl as ever lived, and if she has sinned, she has suffered.” The old man did not seem to hear that he was spoken to; and Mrs. Holl, feeling powerless before this great grief, prepared to leave him to himself. First, however, she reached down a Bible from the shelf, and placed it before him. Then she said, “I will come in [142] again this afternoon and see if I can do anything for you. Keep your heart up, there's a dearie; do try and think she was always a good girl, and that she is happy now, and please try and read the good book; I've heard them say in church that it binds up the bleeding heart.”
As Mrs. Holl turned to leave, Mr. Walker roused himself a little, “Thank you,” he said, faintly; “Thank you, you are very good; will you send the Policeman, the one I have met at your house, here? I want him to search—,” and here he stopped. But Mrs. Holl understood him; he wanted him to search for the body, and with a nod of assent, for she could not speak, she turned and left him to his great sorrow.
Mrs. Holl hurried home, and then sitting down before the fire, and covering her head again with her apron, she gave way to a great fit of crying, to the astonishment and alarm of the cripple lad who was the only inmate of the house.
“What is the matter, mother! what is the matter? Is anything wrong with father or the children?”
Mrs. Holl shook her head, but continued to [143] cry, silently rocking herself backwards and forwards in her chair.
The cripple hastily wheeled his box to her side. “What is it, mother? you frighten me.”
“Oh James!” she sobbed, finding words at last; “Carry Walker, poor girl!”
“Yes mother, yes; what of her?” the cripple panted out.
“She has been deceived, my boy, by some villain, and has drowned herself.”
The cripple gave a cry as of sharp pain. His mother looked round, and read his secret in his face.
“Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!” she cried, kneeling by his box, and putting her arm round him. “To think of this. But it could not have been, James; she never could have been for you. Don't take on, my poor lad.”
“Oh mother, I never thought it!” he cried; “I never thought it; but I loved her so, loved her with all my life, and to think—oh Carry, Carry!” he broke out wildly; “oh that I who loved you so, was helpless to protect you! oh that I must sit here and be able to do nothing to avenge you—to think that you, so good, so kind, [144] so gentle, are gone—oh mother, mother! I shall go mad!”
In vain Mrs. Holl endeavoured to calm the lad; his wild excitement, his grief, and his sense of helplessness, turned his brain; hour after hour he raved, and before night was in a state of raging fever. Mrs. Holl sent a neighbour off for a doctor, who ordered his hair to be cut off, and ice to be placed on his temples, but for the next few days his life was despaired of, and John was obliged to stay at home to assist Sarah with the delirious lad, and enable her to slip away for half an hour three times a day to the broken-hearted old man in New Street.
CHAPTER X. WHO WAS IT?
 The shop in New Street is shut up, and has been so for the last ten days. Two days after Carry's disappearance, an enterprising young rival a few doors off made an arrangement through Mrs. Holl with Stephen Walker, to take the business off his hands, and to supply his customers with newspapers. There was an hour's bustle as the books and stock were taken across the road in a hand cart, and then the shutters were put up, a notice affixed stating that the business was transferred to No. 27 over the way, and Stephen Walker remained alone by his deserted hearth. Great was the excitement and talk in New Street upon those first few days. Not a little was the matter discussed upon the top of the Brompton 'busses by the young clerks who had so long bought their morning papers and [146] tobacco at the shop of Stephen Walker, when they first heard of the reason of its sudden closing, at the new establishment at No. 27. For a few days indeed the matter was talked over almost to the exclusion of every other topic. Men's comments upon an affair of this sort are very different from those of women. Women discuss it quite theoretically. Comparatively few women ever are greatly tempted, and they can therefore neither understand nor make allowance for those who are so tried. Their blame thus falls almost wholly upon the woman. Upon her they are pitiless. She becomes as one who is dead, and her name is no more to be spoken by pure lips. To the man they are very lenient. There may be a little coolness, but it soon passes over, and in a short time they will again feast him at their tables, and offer him their lambs in marriage. Men, upon the other hand, reason from what they know. In these matters they live altogether in a different atmosphere to that which women inhabit. They can understand the old sad story of temptation and weakness, of loving trust, and broken promises, and their censure falls wholly upon the man. There was [147]> no word of blame for poor Carry on the lips of those by whom the matter was discussed upon the top of the Brompton 'busses. For her there was pity and even sorrow; while had his name been known, he would have fared but badly at the hands of more than one of the young fellows who had once hoped to win the pretty tobacconist's daughter for their wife.
In the meantime Stephen Walker sat alone in the little parlour behind the empty shop, like one stunned, crouching silently by the fire;—for although the autumn sun shone warm and bright, he was chilled to the bone: so he sat from morning to night. He seldom moved; he never spoke; he hardly even thought. He sat there in an apathy of despair. Everything around remained as it had been left. There was Carry's workbox. There in the window hung her birdcage, with the canary, to which she would chirrup and sing, and which would reply in such loud jubilant carollings; but the bird, missing its mistress's presence and attention, had ceased to sing, and sat silent upon its perch, a mere ball of rough disordered yellow feathers. There at his feet was the stool upon which Carry was [148] so fond of sitting. Everything reminded him of her, but yet he could hardly think of the past. He was too utterly crushed and hopeless to rouse himself into active thought, but sat there hour after hour and day after day, with the one despairing cry,—where was she, where was she? That question to which no answer came.
Many of the neighbours would have gladly done any kind offices for the old man in his trouble, but he would admit two only. One was Mrs. Holl, who brought him in his meals, and stopped to see him eat them—which he would not otherwise have done—talking to him in the meantime, and trying, as she said, to comfort him up a bit. The talking, however, was all upon her side, for Stephen Walker sat as if he did not hear her, as if he was scarcely aware that she was in the room. His only other visitor was A 56. These interviews were not long ones. As the Policeman entered Stephen Walker would look up with blood-shot eyes, and trembling lips, which could hardly frame the words, “No news?” and would pause with almost more of fear than of hope for an answer. But day after [149] day A 56, with his usually set face softened before this great sorrow, could only shake his head. “No news to-day, Mr. Walker, and no news, you know, is good news;” and then, after a few more cheery words which the bent-down figure before him seemed not to hear, the Policeman would turn quietly, and go off to his duty. But one day the Policeman's step was less firm than usual, and his face was very grave and serious. Almost before he entered the room Stephen Walker felt instinctively that this time there was something to tell. He rose from his chair, made a step forward, leaned one hand upon the table for support, and held the other before him as if to ward off a blow.
“What is it?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Now don't you go and distress yourself, Mr. Walker,” the Policeman said, soothingly. “Don't you flurry yourself. There ain't nothing certain, nothing at all. It is just this, it may be, or it may not be, more likely, not. If it weren't that I had promised to let you know directly I heard of anything which might, so to say, bear upon it, I wouldn't have spoken to you at all about it; leastways not till I had been down myself and [150] seen about it. Yes, I am coming to it,” he said, answering the appealing look of the old man; “Yes, but don't you frighten yourself; it may not turn out as you are afraid, not at all. Well, according as you asked me, I sent round to all the Police Stations down the river, but I have heard of nothing that seemed at all likely, not till this morning. But this morning I got word—now don't you frighten yourself, Mr. Walker, it may not have, and I don't suppose it has anything to do with us at all—but this morning I got word that down Gravesend way they have picked something up. There is nothing whatever to identify it by, but it seems, they say, to have been a young woman, and fair. That's all I've heard.”
Stephen Walker did not speak, but motioned with his hand towards his hat.
“Yes, we'll go, Mr. Walker, but just sit down a few minutes first,” the Policeman said, soothingly. “You had better take a nip of something before you start. If you haven't got it in the house, I'll fetch it for you.”
Stephen Walker sank down into his chair again, and pointed to a cupboard, saying, “Brandy.”
[151]
The Policeman opened it, took out a bottle of brandy, and poured a glassful into a tumbler, added a little water to it, and gave it to the old man. “There, Mr. Walker, drink that down.” Then the Policeman mixed a glass for himself; for, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, and misery, he felt nervous at the thought of the scene he had to go through.
Stephen Walker drank the brandy, holding the tumbler to his lips with both his trembling hands. When he had finished it, the Policeman said, “Now, Mr. Walker, we will start if you like. I've got leave off duty to go down with you, and I've got a cab at the door. You take my arm, sir. That's right,” and so they went out and got into the cab.
During the drive to London Bridge not a word was spoken. Upon the journey by rail down to Gravesend, the Policeman spoke two or three times to his companion, but received no answer, and did not even know whether he was heard. Stephen Walker sat in a stupor of despondency and dread, from which the Policeman had to touch him to arouse him upon arriving at their journey's end. Outside the Station A 56 again [152] took a cab, for Stephen Walker had scarcely strength to stand. They were soon at the Police Office.
“I will go in first, Mr. Walker, you sit here for a minute or two; it may be that I may be able at once to tell you that it is not as you fear, and thus you will be saved the pain of such a sight.”
Stephen Walker made a gesture of assent, he was too sick and faint with dread to speak.
The Policeman was away about three minutes, which seemed an age to the watcher in the cab. Then he came again to the door. Stephen Walker gazed at the grave face as if to read his sentence there. “I can tell you nothing, sir, it has been ten days in the water, and ten days in the Thames alters one beyond all knowing. I have asked about the clothes, and there were none on to speak of, and the marks have been torn off what there were, either before on purpose, or accidentally, it looks as if on purpose. You will not know more than I do when you see it, but I suppose you had better, though it is a pitiful sight.” He opened the door as he spoke, and [153] assisted Stephen Walker to get out. The old man followed him into the station-house with a firmer step; it was a relief at any rate that it was not certain that it was she. Besides, the very extent of his dread took away all hesitation or nervousness. There were two or three policemen in the office which they passed through. An inspector was sitting in a sort of railed off den writing, the others were standing about talking in a low voice. They ceased speaking as Stephen Walker passed through with his conductor. A 56 paused for a moment to take up a tumbler of water which had been placed in readiness, and then, accompanied by the inspector, led the way through the office into a yard, in one corner of which was a small outhouse. A policeman was standing at the door; he opened it and they passed into a small room, bare and whitewashed, with a brick paving. The shed was unceiled, and the roof was of slates supported by light rafters. Opposite the door upon some boards and tressels, and covered with a sheet, lay the body of the dead girl. A 56 closed the door, and the inspector moved forward to turn down the sheet from her face. But Stephen [154] Walker motioned him back, and with a steady step approached. His face was hard set; he was strung up to a point now, when even the dreadful spectacle which met his gaze, and which few strong men could have viewed without shuddering and turning faint, had no effect on him. He looked steadily at it, every thought was absorbed by the question, “Had it been Carry?” He could not say. No one could say now. It was past all recognition. Only the hair remained intact, and although it was fair and long, even that was changed; the sheen and the glossy brightness were gone, and in the tangled skein were pieces of straw and wood and river drift. Even the hair was scarcely a guide. He took it in his hands, as if he would fain tell by touch whether it was the same hair he had so often tenderly stroked and played with. A thousand memories rushed upon him as he did so, the golden haired child who had climbed upon his knee and stroked his face and called him daddy, the bright merry girl whose laugh had cheered him in his darkest days, the graceful woman he had been so proud and fond of; and then a mist swam before his eyes, the room reeled round, [155] and he felt himself grasped by the strong arms of the inspector and A 56. When he recovered he was lying upon a bed, and the inspector and policeman were standing by him. His shirt was open and wet, and a glass of brandy was upon a table near. As soon as they saw that he was reviving they raised him up, and held the spirits to his lips. In a few minutes he was able to sit up.
“Do you feel better now, sir?”
“Yes,” he said, “I am better now.” In a short time he was able to walk.
“Before you go, sir,” the inspector said, “I must ask you if you identify the body you have seen as being that of your daughter?”
“I do not,” Stephen Walker said firmly. “It may be; I do not know; God alone can answer. Her hair is of the same colour, but that is not sufficient for me to say. Please put down that I do not identify the body.” This denial upon Stephen Walkers part was in obedience to a suggestion which A 56 had thrown out upon their way down. This, although he had at the time made no reply, and had not apparently even heard it, now recurred to him. The Policeman had said,—
[156]
“Unless you are sure, Mr. Walker, quite sure, don't swear to it, else the name might get into the paper, and be put into the registries, and come out at the coroner's inquest, and all sorts of painful inquiries would be made. Don't you identify, Mr. Walker, unless you are quite certain.”
“At the same time,” Stephen Walker continued to the inspector, “although I do not recognise the body, it is possible that it may be hers, and I should wish to pay the funeral expenses. I should not like her to lie in a parish grave.”
“The coroner and jury will see it this afternoon,” the inspector said, quite understanding Stephen Walker's feelings, “and I will tell them that the body is not identified. Of course an open verdict will be found, and I will speak to the parish people; they will offer no objection to the expenses being saved. I shall go off duty this afternoon myself, and if you like, sir, will make all the necessary arrangements for you. The funeral must take place to-morrow morning.”
“Thank you very much,” Stephen Walker said, “you are very good. I will be down here at ten o'clock.”
CHAPTER XI. STEPHEN WALKER DOES HIS WORST.
 On the return journey from Gravesend, the Policeman could not but remark that a great change had taken place in his companion. It was not that he spoke more than he had done before, for he did not exchange a single word with him; but the whole expression of his face, and even of his figure, had changed. On his way down he had cowered in a corner, his face generally buried in his hands; when he had looked up it was with an expression of utter hopelessness, mingled with a certain anxious dread; his fingers had twitched nervously, he clasped and unclasped his hands, and rocked his body to and fro. Now, all this was changed. He was another man. He sat upright, almost stiffly so. There was a patch of colour in each cheek, his face was set and hard, his lips pressed closely together, he seemed [158] unconscious of where he was, but looked straight in the distance. His hands no longer lay nerveless, but were tightly compressed in a fierce clench. Sometimes his lips moved, but his companion could not hear that he spoke. People got in and out at the various stations, but Stephen Walker never noticed them, and was unconscious of their presence, much less of the curiosity and comment of which he was the subject. His appearance was far too wild and strange, not to be instantly remarked, and this, coupled with the fact of the Policeman being seated opposite to him, awakened great suspicion, not to say alarm. One or two people whispered to A 56, to inquire if it was a case of murder; and one old lady expressed her opinion audibly, that “it was shameful taking such a character as that in a railway-carriage without so much as a handcuff on.” The Policeman, not being able to enter into explanations, answered only by a general nod, as much as to show he knew what he was about, and then tapped his forehead mysteriously. This had the effect he desired of inducing a belief that Stephen Walker was an escaped lunatic, and of clearing the carriage of its occupants at the next [159] station. Complaints were evidently made to the guard of the train on the subject, for just before it moved on, he came to the window, and exchanged a few words with the Policeman. Being informed of the real state of the case, he said, “poor old gentleman!” in a tone of great sympathy, and locked the carriage-door, so that no other passenger got in until the end of the journey.
A 56's own impression for a while was that Stephen Walker's brain had given way under the crushing blow he had suffered. This demeanour was so utterly unlike the ordinary nervousness of the man that the Policeman watched with some anxiety to see that his companion made no sudden movement to open the door and leap out when the train was in full motion. After a time he abandoned this idea. There was none of the changing light of insanity in Stephen Walker's eye. There was an air of stern determination about him, which the Policeman felt boded ill for some one.
The return journey passed without a word being exchanged; and not, indeed, until they got out of the cab at New Street, was the silence [160] broken. Then Stephen Walker turned to the Policeman—
“Thank you very much for what you have done for me. To-morrow I shall go down to the funeral of my child, for although as you advised, I declined to identify her, I have no doubt it is her. To-night I have other things to do.”
The Policeman did not turn off at the door, as Stephen Walker evidently expected and wished him to do, but followed him into the house.
“Excuse me, Mr. Walker, excuse what I am going to say, but from what I have seen of you on the way up, I am afraid you are going to do something rash. Now, don't you go to do it, sir. I ain't talking as a policeman now, I am talking as a man. Don't make matters worse by doing anything rash. I know what you are thinking of—you are thinking of him. He's a bad un, whoever he is; and hanging would be too good for him; but don't you touch him, sir. Think it over—don't do anything rash.”
“You think I am going to kill him?” Stephen Walker asked.
“I don't think, and I don't want to know,” the [161] Policeman said. “I am your friend now, and am off duty; I may have my own opinion as to what would serve him right, but don't tell me. They know I've been down with you, and I don't want to have to answer awkward questions. I only say to you, as a friend now, think it over,—don't do anything rash. It can't set things right and it will only cause trouble. Don't you think of it, Mr. Walker.”
“I am not thinking of it,” Stephen Walker said. “If I were younger I should. I am an old man now, and a feeble one, although I don't feel feeble at present. No, I do not think of killing him. If I knew I could I would; ay, as truly as I stand here; but I am nervous and feeble, and I might fail, and then he would escape to enjoy the triumph of another victim. No, I will strike him with a surer hand than that. Thank God, I know who he is, and I think and hope I can ruin him, upset all his hopes and plans, and embitter his life; and I will do it. You look surprised, Policeman, and well you may. He thought Carry had no friends—no protector; and well he might. I was a feeble, nervous old man. I could not save her, but I am not nervous [162] now; I am a desperate old man, and I will avenge her. Good evening.”
The Policeman shook Stephen Walker's hand, and went away. Even had he wished it, he could have urged nothing which would have availed with the old man; and, indeed, relieved from his fears of bloodshed, he was glad to hear that justice of some kind was to be done.
That evening, after dinner, Captain Bradshaw was still sitting in the dining-room with Alice, when he heard a ring at the bell. After a short conversation in the hall, the servant entered the room.
“If you please, sir, there is a man in the hall wants to speak to you particular.”
“What sort of man, James?”
“Well, sir, a decent-looking man—an old man, sir—not a gentleman—but he looks strange; rather, I should say, as if he had been drinking. Wild about the eyes, you know, sir.”
“And he won't say what he wants, James?”
“No, sir; all he will say is that his name is Stephen Walker.”
“Stephen Walker?” Captain Bradshaw repeated to himself once or twice. “Stephen [163] Walker? I seem to know the name; yes, I remember, now. Stephen Walker, tobacconist. The man Frank picked up—the broken-down gentleman with the pretty daughter. What the deuce can he want?” Then aloud, for this had been muttered to himself, “Show him into the library, James. You may as well wait here till I come back, Alice; I don't suppose I shall be a minute.”
“If the man is drunk, Uncle, had you not better tell James to wait at the door?”
“Pooh! my dear,” the old officer laughed. “I fancy he's nearly as old as I am. If I want James, I can ring the bell.”
Then he rose and went into the library, into which the visitor had already been ushered.
Stephen Walker was standing by the table. He was silent for a minute after the door was shut, looking steadily at Captain Bradshaw, as if to read his character. Captain Bradshaw, in return, looked at him. He saw at once that the footman's surmise was unfounded, but he saw too by the compressed lips and flashing eye that the man was from some cause in a state of extreme agitation and fury; indeed for a moment the thought occurred to him that his [164] visitor was mad. This idea was at once dismissed when Stephen Walker began to speak.
“Captain Bradshaw, I have come to tell you a story. It is a sad one, sir, but not an uncommon one—not an uncommon one. I, such as you see me, was once a gentleman. My circumstances changed, and I took a very small shop in New Street, where I sold tobacco. I was not, as you see me now, a determined man—perhaps even a dangerous one. I was a broken-down, nervous old man, with only one stay, one hope, one pleasure in the world. I had a daughter, sir; a bright, happy, innocent girl. A man came to us, over and over again, and he won her heart. The old story, Captain Bradshaw, of love and trust. He promised her marriage—over and over again he promised it. But he had an uncle”—Captain Bradshaw started violently; he saw what was coming now. He remembered the conversation he had had with Frank upon this very subject of the tobacconist's daughter. He remembered the warning he had given, and Frank's promise not to go there again, and he grew very pale and faint as his visitor went on—“he had an uncle, sir—an uncle [165] from whom he expected to inherit great wealth—and he dared not risk his anger by an open marriage with my child. He told her that the uncle could not live long, that at his death he would marry her openly, but that if he lived he would at any hazard marry her privately in a short time. Accidentally I gained her secret, and to test the truth of the story I watched for days outside that uncle's door, until I saw the man enter there; then, seeing that the story was true so far, I hoped for the best. You see what a poor, nervous, simple man I was. Even then he had ruined her. I never dreamt of it, or I, old and feeble as I am, would have killed him. A fortnight since, my child saw in the paper the marriage of this man with another. To-day, Captain Bradshaw, I have been down to Gravesend to identify the body of what was once my child. Were I a young man, I would take vengeance with my own hands; but I am old and helpless, and I call on you to give me justice. That man is your nephew, and he is a damned scoundrel!”
Captain Bradshaw sat for a minute or two as if stunned. The old soldier, though passionate and hot tempered, was a man with a great heart, and this sin was one he held in extreme horror. The [166] story of the man who stood before him would, under any circumstances, have greatly moved him—would have filled him with burning indignation. As it was, the blow fell upon him almost as heavily as upon Stephen Walker. He had lost a son as entirely and finally as the other had lost a daughter. For he loved Frank Maynard as a father might do. True, he had for a few months past treated him with some coolness, but his affection had been unshaken, and he had fully resolved that upon his return from his wedding tour he would take him thoroughly into favour again. To hear now that he was a cruel and cold-blooded seducer, to know that he was utterly worthless, this was to lose him for ever. He hid his face in his hands and groaned. Then with a quick movement, as one determined to throw aside all regrets, he rose to his feet and took Stephen Walker's hand.
“Mr. Walker,” he said, “may God help us both! for we suffer nearly equally. I loved that boy as you loved your daughter. He was my heir and the hope of my old age. But what you have told me separates him from me as completely as if he were dead. You ask me for [167]> justice,” and here the old man's voice grew sharp and clear, “and justice you shall have. From this hour he is dead to me. Not one farthing of my money shall he ever have. Never again will I speak to him. There, sir, you have my word for it.”
“I thank you, sir. As you said, God help us both!” And without another word Stephen Walker turned and left the room.
Alice Heathcote had been rather alarmed by what the servant had said, and had listened with some anxiety for the departure of the strange visitor. Presently she heard his step come along the passage from the study, and then the closing of the front door as he let himself out. She waited two or three minutes, but heard no sound of her uncle coming from his study. Becoming alarmed she went to the door, knocked, and opened it. The old man was still sitting in the chair into which he had sunk while Stephen Walker was telling his story. His hands lay listless beside him, but there was a quick, nervous movement of the fingers. His face was sad and very pale, a grief all the more painful to see that it was tearless. Alice saw at [168] once that something very serious had happened, the nature of which she could not even guess. Her uncle did not look up at her entrance, and alarmed at this terrible depression, this silence so different from the fits of impatient anger to which Captain Bradshaw was given when put out, she went up to him, took one of his hands in hers, and laid her other upon his shoulder.
“My dear uncle, what is the matter?”
It was only upon the question being repeated, that he looked up.
“Poor Alice!” he said, “you will feel it as much as I do.”
More and more alarmed, Alice knelt down by the old man's side.
“What is it, uncle? Please tell me.”
“I would keep it from you if I could, Alice; but you must know it. I am grieving, Alice, because I have lost a son. Yes, Alice, it is so,” he went on, sadly, in answer to Alice's look of surprise. “I loved him as a son. I looked upon him as my heir, and now he is lost to me for ever.”
“Frank!” Alice gasped, with a feeling of sickening dread.
[169]
“Yes, my dear,—Frank. He is alive, Alice; alive and well, as far as I know,” he said, quickly, for by the ashen pallor of her face he saw that she imagined that he had heard of Frank's death; “but I would far rather have heard of his death. From this moment he is dead to me,—worse than dead. Had he been really dead, I could have mourned him, as a father might mourn the dear child of his old age; better, far better that, than to know that he is a base, dishonourable scoundrel.”
As Captain Bradshaw finished, Alice Heathcote leapt to her feet with a start, as rapid as if she had been struck. Her blood rushed to her cheeks, her eyes flashed, and she exclaimed, vehemently,—
“It is false, uncle!—it is false! I would stake my life on Frank's honour! Who dares to say that of him? Frank a base, dishonourable scoundrel! And you believe it? Oh, uncle! uncle! after all these years, to doubt Frank!”
“I would have spoken as confidently and as warmly as you do, Alice, ten minutes ago; but I can do so no longer. There is no doubt now in my mind, none at all. I must tell you the story, [170] Alice,—you have a right to know it. Sit down, dear, by me, and listen quietly.”
Alice, secure as she felt in Frank's honour and faith, yet felt a cold chill creep over her, at this tone of quiet conviction upon the part of her uncle. Had he been in a passion she would not have believed what he said, but the tone of deep, quiet sorrow frightened her. She put a stool by his chair, and sat down on it, looking up into his face as he spoke, every vestige of colour fading out of her own as he went on with his story.
“You may remember, Alice, last winter Frank and Mr. Prescott coming in here, and our hearing that Frank had picked a man up from almost underneath the wheels of an omnibus, at the risk of his own life. The man gave Frank one of his cards, which he showed to us. His name was Stephen Walker, tobacconist.”
Alice made a slight sign of assent. She remembered the circumstance well.
“A fortnight or so afterwards, my dear, Frank came in here and told me, laughing, that he had been to see this man; that he had apparently been once a gentleman; and that he had a [171] very pretty daughter, who was, of course, very grateful to Frank for having saved her father's life.”
Alice felt what was coming now, and a feeling of almost terror crept over her.
“As a man of the world, my dear, I spoke to Frank about it. I warned him that he had better not go there again. The girl was very pretty, he said, and very grateful. If he went again, mischief might come of it. My words to him were, if I remember rightly,—‘In these cases, nothing but harm can come: a man either makes a fool of himself and marries the girl, or he makes a rascal of himself and does worse.’ Frank did not like what I said, at first, but finally agreed in its justice, and promised to go no more. So you see, Alice, he was warned; after that there could be no accident—it was done deliberately. I never heard or thought any more of it until I came into this room this evening. Then when I saw the state of terrible agitation he was in I guessed the truth. He came to call for justice. Frank had won her under promise of marriage. He had said that I was very old, and that he could not [172] marry her openly until my death; but he promised a secret marriage.”
“No, no, uncle,” Alice said, vehemently, “I will not believe that; I will not believe it. It is not true. Frank might, though I do not think it, have done what the man accuses him of, but I feel sure he did not. But, uncle, Frank is not mercenary. He never built on your death. No, no, uncle; nothing in the world will make me believe it of him. I am as certain as I am of my own life that he did not.”
“My dear Alice,” the old man said, sadly, “do you think I should be apt to believe anything against Frank rashly? But there can be no question here. Do you think a man would come from the side of his dead daughter to tell me lies?”
“Oh, uncle! uncle!” Alice cried, pitifully.
“Yes, Alice, it is too true. I must tell you, Alice—you must know it all now, that you may agree with me that we must never speak of him again. So it went on, Alice, until the poor girl read in the papers the announcement of his marriage. Then she left her home suddenly, and her father came to-night to tell me that [173] he had been to see her body to-day, at Gravesend.”
Alice gave a little sob of horror, and hid her face on her uncle's knees.
“Oh, uncle, it is too dreadful—it cannot be true!” she cried at last.
“There can be no doubt, no hope, Alice. The man's story is too clear, and he was too terribly in earnest to doubt him for a moment. It seems that he found out something of it, and watched to see if Frank came here in order to test the truth of that part of the story, and he saw him come in. My dear, there is no doubt. Frank is guilty—guilty of a deliberate act of baseness, done under the worst possible circumstances. From this moment he must be to us as if he were dead. We have been utterly deceived in him. Now we really know him, there is an end of all communication between us.”
“But how is it possible, uncle,” Alice pleaded, “that Frank, who has always been so true, and straightforward, and honourable, could have done it? It does not seem possible, uncle.”
“My dear, all things are possible,” the old man said, sadly. “You were reading to me last [174] week a book where a man, seemingly as open and popular and straightforward as Frank, did the same thing, and you did not see any impossibility in it then. Steerforth was just such another as Frank—he treated little Emily just as Frank has treated this poor girl.”
“Oh, uncle, I can't believe it—I can't believe it!” Alice wailed.
Captain Bradshaw was silent. Presently he said,—
“Although there can be no doubt as to the circumstances, Alice, still of course we have only heard one side. Frank may have something to urge in his defence—something which may mitigate, although nothing could possibly excuse, the terrible fault he has committed. I shall write to him to-morrow. If he has anything to urge in his defence, he will do so. I trust that he will. I can never know him again; never. But I should be glad, if possible, to think that he has not been such a cold-blooded rascal as he appears to have been. There, Alice, don't cry any more, dear. Think that it is worse for me than it is for you. You are young, and will make fresh loves, fresh friends. I am old. For me there is [175] no future hope. I have lost my son. I find that my confidence and love have been misplaced. I cannot begin again. You are all I have in the world now, Alice; for although I like him, I can never love the man who must now be my heir.”
CHAPTER XII. FOLLOWING IT UP.
 Stephen Walker turned away from Lowndes Square with a feeling of stern satisfaction. At least, the destroyer of his daughter would not go unpunished. He should pay with the loss of his expected fortune for the damage he had wrought. So far, Stephen Walker thought that his success had been all that he could have wished for; but his task was but begun yet. He had resolved upon blighting his enemy's prospects through life. He had determined that he would devote his whole life to this purpose; that he would everywhere dog his footsteps; that wherever he went, whatever he did, he would follow him, and tell the tale to all who would listen to him. Fred Bingham's friends, his work-people, everyone with whom he associated, should know that the pleasant, laughing young gentleman was a [177] heartless scoundrel. “No doubt he had imagined that there was nothing to fear from Carry's father, that the nervous old man would do him no harm, would give him no trouble. Ha, ha!—we shall see.” And Stephen Walker laughed fiercely aloud, and shook his clenched fists as he strode along across Sloane Street into Hans Place. With the dignity of a great passion in him, he felt, and was, more of a man than he had ever before been during his life. He stopped at Mr. Bingham's house and rang, sent in his name, and was shown into the study, where Mr. Bingham was engaged upon some plans. He looked up.
“Ah, Mr. Walker; is it you? Haven't I paid your last quarter's account for newspapers?”
“I do not come about bills, Mr. Bingham; I come upon a very different matter.”
“Ah, indeed; and what may that be?” Mr. Bingham asked, looking up keenly at his visitor, for he saw at once, by his manner, that he had come upon no ordinary business.
“I will tell you, Mr. Bingham,” the man said, shortly.
[178]
“Will you take a seat?” Mr. Bingham put in, more and more surprised, but still bland and tranquil in his manner.
“I will not,” Stephen Walker said; “no—not if I never sit down again.”
Mr. Bingham said nothing; he still preserved his bland smile, but he felt that it was something very serious now.
“You have been to my shop, sir, and you have seen my daughter.”
Mr. Bingham made an assenting gesture; but the smile left his face. He guessed somewhat of what was coming.
“She was all I had to love in the world, and I did love her with all my heart and soul. She had grown up all I could wish her—tender, loving, happy, and bright. A villain came to the shop—a smiling, smooth-tongued villain—who told her that he loved her, promised to marry her, and who deceived and ruined her; her, so innocent of the world; her, who trusted him as she trusted her God. He married another, and she read it in the paper and went mad—went mad, and even doubted my forgiveness! I, who would have taken her to my heart [179] and comforted her, and pitied her. She went mad, sir; and her body was picked up in the Thames yesterday! The scoundrel who did it was your son, Frederick Bingham!”
Mr. Bingham had listened throughout without moving, without changing a muscle. The bland expression had died out from his face; otherwise he manifested no emotion. But all the time Stephen Walker had been speaking his brain had been busily at work. Mr. Bingham was not a very hard-hearted man, but his susceptibilities had been much blunted with long contact with the world; and he was accustomed in his business to what the world calls sharp practice. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have been greatly shocked at the story he had just heard. Perhaps he was now, but the feeling was merged in the more pressing one of actual danger. This man was dangerous. In his present state he was capable of doing any mischief. But what could he do? How would he act? And how could he be met?
These thoughts passed rapidly through his mind during the few seconds Stephen Walker was speaking; nor had he determined what [180] course to take, when he was unexpectedly relieved by the entrance of Mrs. Bingham, who, not knowing that her husband was engaged, had opened the door and entered in time to hear the closing sentence of Stephen Walker's speech. As a hen will defend her young ones when attacked by a hawk, so did Mrs. Bingham blaze out in defence of her son.
“Oh, you wicked—wicked man! Oh, you bad, abominable person! To come here to say such things against my Freddy, the dearest and best fellow in the world. What does he mean, Richard?” She turned to her husband. “Why don't you give him in charge of the police?”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Mr. Bingham said, testily, although he really felt grateful for the opportune interference of his wife. “Do be quiet and reasonable. This is Mr. Walker. A very sad business has taken place: his daughter has made away with herself, and he accuses Fred of having seduced her under promise of marriage.”
“Oh, you villain!” Mrs. Bingham said, turning again upon Stephen Walker, as he stood impassive before her. “Oh, you bad, story-telling [181] man! My Freddy, indeed! who would not hurt a fly, to be accused of doing such wicked things as this. Richard, go out directly and get a policeman. I am ashamed of you, sitting there doing nothing. Why don't you knock him down, or kick him, or do something?”
And then, from indignation and helplessness, Mrs. Bingham sat down and began to cry. By this time Mr. Bingham was sufficiently recovered from his first shock to continue the conversation.
“I suppose, Mr. Walker, before you came here to bring forward such a serious accusation as this, you were quite sure of what you are stating?”
“Quite,” Stephen Walker said, gravely.
“I am heartily sorry, Mr. Walker—more sorry than I can say. Unfortunately, there is nothing that I can say or do to alleviate your distress. Is there anything you can possibly suggest that would afford you any satisfaction?”
Stephen Walker waved his hand scornfully.
“I called, Mr. Bingham, to tell you this history—to let you know what this son of yours really is. Will you tell him, from me, that I pray God to curse him for the ruin he has [182] brought upon my house. Tell him that, although I am an old, feeble man, unable to save my daughter, I will devote the rest of my life to avenge her. That wherever he goes, with whomsoever he associates, I will take care to let them know this story. The men who work for him I will see; the men he does business with I will write to. He thought me harmless and helpless; he thought me incapable alike of protecting Carry, or of avenging her. He will find out his error. This is the second visit I have paid this morning. I have been to Lowndes Square, and have seen Captain Bradshaw, and your son one day will find that he has paid very, very dear for his frolic.”
Thus saying, and without waiting for any reply whatever from Mr. Bingham, Stephen Walker left the room. Mr. Bingham sat in a blank stupor of dismay.
“I have been to Captain Bradshaw,” he repeated; “and your son will some day find that he has paid very, very dear for his frolic.”
There was no mistaking the meaning of that. As far as his uncle was concerned, Fred was ruined. A splendid fortune was lost in one [183] stroke, and beside this, there was to be a perpetual persecution and scandal. The madman had said that he would follow Fred everywhere, and denounce him to all. This was terrible, and Mr. Bingham leaned back in his chair with a positive groan of dismay. In the meantime Mrs. Bingham continued to cry hysterically.
“What a shameful, vile man,” she sobbed at last, “to go about telling stories about poor dear Freddy—the kindest and best fellow in the world. He would not have harmed a worm. If he did do it, I am quite sure it was not his fault. He must have been led on by that shameless, wicked hussy. It was very wrong of him, of course, very wicked and sinful. But not, my dear——”
Mr. Bingham broke in,
“Nonsense, wicked. If it had been fifty times as wicked I should not have minded; but it was madness, sheer madness.”
“Richard, I am shocked at you,” Mrs. Bingham began in a tone of absolute horror.
“Well, well, my dear, you know I do not mean that; but I am almost beside myself to think of Fred's madness.”
[184]
“Ay, madness, indeed,” Mrs. Bingham said; “it must have been just that, Richard, a sudden madness which made him fall into——”
“There, there, my dear,” Mr. Bingham said, “that is quite enough for the present; do go away, and let me think over this affair. It is enough to drive me out of my senses. Do go up to your own room and compose yourself. There is no occasion to tell the girls, and the servants, and everyone else about it.”
“As if I were a fool, Richard!” Mrs. Bingham began indignantly; but Mr. Bingham waved his hand so impatiently, that she said no more, but rising with an extremely injured air, left the room.
As for Mr. Bingham, he walked backwards and forwards on the hearthrug, with the air of a man astounded. Once or twice he sat down at his desk, took up his pen, and then throwing it down with a gesture of almost despair, renewed his walk. As has been said, Mr. Bingham was not a really hard-hearted man. He had very frequently interposed in favour of defaulting tenants, and had endeavoured to mitigate the severe measures Fred was disposed to put in force [185] against them. At any other time he would have been greatly shocked at the news he had heard. Now he quite lost sight of the heartlessness and cruelty of Fred's conduct in the imminence of the danger. His whole thoughts were devoted to the consideration of the best course to be pursued under the circumstances. He could arrive at no conclusion however, except that he had better summon Fred back to town at once. At last, therefore, he sat down in earnest to write, saying, solemnly, as he did so, “Well, after this, I will believe anything. To think that my son, Fred Bingham, could have acted in such an insane way as this—with a girl, too, in his own neighbourhood—and, above all, should have allowed his connection with Captain Bradshaw to be known to her. It is beyond all human comprehension.” With this reflection he drew some paper towards him, and wrote, in his beautifully neat handwriting, in which no one could have detected the least sign of haste or agitation, as follows:—
“My dear Fred,
“If anyone had asked me an hour [186] ago whether I considered you capable of acting like a fool, or a madman, I should have given them one answer; if I were asked now I should give altogether another one. Mr. Walker has been here, having previously visited Captain Bradshaw, to whom he mentioned that his daughter had drowned herself in the Thames, and that you were not altogether unconnected with the circumstance. To me he announced his intention of devoting the rest of his life to the occupation of keeping your friends, acquaintances, and work-people, au fait in the matter. I should say that he is likely to carry out that intention. I make no comment whatever, but should suggest your early return.
“Your affectionate father,
“R. Bingham.”
Not a pleasant letter for a man to receive with his breakfast within a fortnight of his wedding-day. Fred Bingham was staying at Cromer when the letter reached him. He was laughing and talking to his young wife as he opened his father's letter; and the first glance at its contents, froze the words on his lips. He never [187] had any colour to speak of, but his face turned a ghastly pallor. The first thought that shot through him was horror at the news of Carry's death. The second was consternation at its consequences to himself. His wife was startled and alarmed at his face; but he made a gesture to her not to mind him, and even in the short fortnight which had elapsed since her marriage, she had learnt that he must be obeyed. Fred Bingham rose from the table and walked to the window; then he came back again, and said,—
“I have got some troublesome news from town, Margaret; I shall go out for a walk and think it over. You take your breakfast. I shall have mine when I come back.”
For an hour Fred Bingham paced up and down upon the sands. Here were all his plans and hopes destroyed, and all by his own carelessness. How could he have been fool enough to tell Carry Walker about his uncle? Still she had promised not to tell her father, and even had he supposed that her father might have found it out, who could have dreamt that that old imbecile would have ever turned round and become dangerous. Everything had turned out [188] unfortunate. There was Carry. Well, yes, he was very sorry for her, very sorry indeed. But what did she do it for? It really looked as if it was just out of perverseness, when he had intended to have acted kindly to her, and made her comfortable, thus to upset everything, drive her father into a sort of madness, and destroy all his chances in life. It was too provoking. However, one thing was evident, he must take his father's advice, and go up at once to London. He must see Captain Bradshaw—of course it would be a most terrible interview—but it must be got through. Perhaps after a time he might be able to put matters in a better light. Of course any promise of marriage must be denied. There were no proofs whatever of that, except that last letter of his, and any assertion Carry might have made. He should of course plead temptation. Yes, it was a terribly bad business, but something might be got out of the fire. Thus thinking, he at last went back to his hotel, ate a hearty breakfast, and told his wife that he must go up to London on imperative business for twenty-four hours. He said that she must stay where she was, for the house would not be ready [189] for them for another week, and she would only be in the way. He should be back the next evening without fail. So, after breakfast, he went up to London.
CHAPTER XIII. A DESPERATE GAME.
 Fred Bingham, on his arrival in town, drove to the office where he had telegraphed to his father to meet him. The Binghams' office was in Salisbury Street, Strand. There they had two rooms on the ground floor. The one behind was occupied by two articled pupils and a clerk, whose business it was to draw the details of plans and designs, and to make calculations as to quantities and estimates. The front room was a comfortable office. Here was a large drawing table, where Mr. Bingham designed and drew plans. Here was his writing table piled with engineering works. Upon the walls hung architectural and engineering plans of all sorts, fa?ades of churches, plans of hospitals, railway bridges, viaducts, and many other things. Here, too, piled on shelves or leaning against the walls, [191] were plaster friezes, drain pipes, encaustic tiles, valves, short sections of railway rails, models of bridges and tunnels, and many other engineering odds and ends. Mr. Bingham was standing in his favourite position on the hearthrug, with his back to the empty fireplace, when Fred entered.
“Well, Fred, I must congratulate you on having made as nice a mess of your affairs as could well be imagined.”
“There, it's too late to talk about that now,” Fred said, shortly. “I've made a fool of myself, and you can't tell me that more strongly than I feel it myself. The question is, what is to be done? My own idea is, that I had better go and see Captain Bradshaw at once—of course knowing nothing about what has taken place. He will do the indignant, and I must be penitent; then, of course, I shall urge youth, inexperience, artful woman, crafty old father, and so on; create as good an impression as I can, profess regret for loss of his good opinion more than that of future fortune; take my leave much depressed, and leave things alone for a few weeks before I approach him again. I suppose that is about the line you recommend?”
[192]
“Yes, Fred; I don't know that you want much advice from me,” his father said, dryly. “By the way, you must say the same sort of thing to your mother when you see her. She was in the room, and heard it all, and has been terribly put out, but of course she does not blame you.”
Fred looked annoyed.
“I am sorry the old lady heard it. We must talk over the best way to shut that madman's mouth. Well, I shall go and get the business over at once. I will come in to Hans Place after I leave him, and let you know the result.”
It was not with very comfortable feelings that Fred Bingham knocked at Captain Bradshaw's door, for he felt that it was by no means improbable that orders might have been given that he was not to be admitted. The footman, however, opened the door and admitted him as usual.
“How are you, James? My uncle in?”
“Yes, sir, he's in; but he's not well—something wrong, sir,” he added, with the privileged loquacity of an old domestic.
“Oh, indeed!” Fred said, carelessly. “And [193] Miss Heathcote, is she in?”
“She is in, but you won't see her, sir; she's poorly too—kept her room all yesterday and to-day. Master is in his study, sir.”
Fred Bingham braced himself up for a scene as he followed the footman to the study. The servant opened the door, and announced “Mr. Bingham.” Fred entered.
Captain Bradshaw appeared to have been dozing in his easy chair. He looked up, and to Fred's astonishment, instead of saluting him with a torrent of invective, he merely said,—
“Why, Fred, you are soon back again in town. Tired of your honeymoon already?”
Fred was too much surprised to answer at once, and was rapidly revolving in his mind whether this manner was a mere mask assumed by his uncle. However, after a moment's pause, he answered,—
“Not tired at all, uncle; but I had to run up to town for a day on business. I go down to Cromer to-morrow again.”
“I think you might have told me you were going to be married, Fred.”
“Well, uncle, I hate a fuss about these things, [194] and we were married as quietly as possible; so I thought I would say nothing about it until I could tell you that it was all over.”
“Well, well, every one to his taste, every one to his taste,” Captain Bradshaw said, evidently thinking of something else, and then sat in moody thought.
Fred Bingham looked at him in astonishment. What could this mean? Did his uncle intend to keep him in ignorance of his knowledge of the affair of Carry, or was it possible that he did not know after all—that Stephen Walker had only intended to frighten him, and had not been to Captain Bradshaw at all? This hope was dispelled by the old man's next remark.
“The fact is, Fred, I am out of sorts. I have heard a piece of news which has upset me terribly.”
“Indeed, uncle?” was all Fred could say.
“Yes, Fred, a very bad affair; so bad that I can hardly realise it.”
He paused again.
“What is it, uncle?” Fred asked, with an effort; for he was far more alarmed at this tone of quiet sadness on the part of his uncle than he [195] would have been at the most furious burst of passion.
“Yes, Fred; I will tell you the circumstances. An old man called upon me the night before last. He was half beside himself with grief and anger. The man's name was Walker—Stephen Walker. I remembered the name, because I had heard it before under peculiar circumstances. One day last winter, it seems he slipped down in Knightsbridge, and your cousin Frank picked him up just as an omnibus was going to run over him. Perhaps you remember hearing of it?”
Fred could only nod. His uncle had mentioned the fact to him with great glee at the time, but had not mentioned the name, and he was until now ignorant that it was Stephen Walker whom Frank had rescued. He did not, however, speak; he was too anxiously preparing for the blow which he felt sure his uncle was reserving as the climax for this prolix story.
“Some little time afterwards, Frank came in one evening, and told me he had been to see this man, and that he had a pretty daughter—a very pretty daughter. I told Frank he had better not go there again—it was dangerous—and [196] Frank saw it, and promised not to go again.”
The drops of perspiration stood on Fred Bingham's forehead as his uncle went on. This slow approaching to catastrophe was almost more than he could bear, and he had a great mind to throw himself at his uncle's feet and cry for mercy; but before he could determine upon the expediency of such a move, his uncle went on.
“The night before last, as I told you, this man came here to cry for justice and vengeance. He had just come up from Gravesend, where he had been to see the body of his daughter, who had drowned herself in the Thames, and who had been seduced under promise of marriage by that infernal scoundrel, Frank Maynard!”
Fred Bingham had half risen from his seat with the intention of throwing himself at his uncle's knees, when the substitution of Frank's name for his own astonished him into a sharp cry of surprise.
“Frank Maynard!”
“Ah, you may well be astonished, Fred. I would not have believed it—no, I would not have [197] believed it possible. But there was no doubting the man; he was too terribly in earnest.”
Fred Bingham sat in stupified astonishment. The shock was too great and too sudden for even his constitutional coolness. His first thought, when he did think, was,—was this a mere ruse on the part of his uncle, or was he really deceived? As he looked at the old man's serious face, and remembered his perfect simple-mindedness and frankness, he saw at once that his uncle was acting no double part—that he really believed it was Frank, and not himself, who had been the offender. Fred remembered, too, that the servant had said Alice was ill and keeping her room, and he was very certain that the news of his own downfall would not so affect her. It was evident that Frank was really looked upon as the offender. Once conscious of this, a whirl of thought flashed through his brain. How could this extraordinary mistake have occurred?—and, more important still, should he profit by it and keep up the error, or should he confess the fault was his own, and throw himself on his uncle's mercy? While he was yet debating the question, Captain Bradshaw went on.
[198]
“The old man asked for justice and punishment on the destroyer of his child, and he shall have it. Until now, Fred, I tell you fairly, Frank has been my favourite nephew. From the time he was a child, I have looked upon him as my son and heir, and I had left him two-thirds of all my property, the remainder to yourself. I yesterday wrote to my solicitor, requesting him to draw out a new will, leaving everything to yourself.”
Fred was decided now. He would risk it. It was evident that if he confessed the fault, he should get nothing; if he could keep up this extraordinary mistake, he should get all; and he really risked nothing, for if he were found out, he should be no worse off then than if he confessed now. It was worth trying for, at any rate. A host of dangers rose up before him, but he put them aside to consider and meet them as they might occur. It was a great stake he was playing for. The whole of Mr. Bradshaw's estates, or nothing; for if he confessed, he should certainly get nothing. He spoke coolly and collectedly.
“I thank you for your kind intentions, uncle, but I can hardly think of this now, I am so [199]> surprised, so shocked at this terrible story. I could not have believed that Frank would do such a thing. I knew he was rash and headstrong. I heard, indeed, some stories whispered about him at Cambridge, but I could never—no, not for a moment—have believed him capable of such a cold-blooded villany as this seems to have been. Oh, uncle, there must surely be some mistake.”
“No, Fred; there is no mistake. It is too true. There was no mistaking the man's manner. He was terribly in earnest.”
Fred Bingham said no more for a while, but sat thinking deeply on the course to pursue. At last he said,—
“And what do you mean to do about Frank, uncle? Do you mean to write and tell him what you have discovered?”
“I have been writing this afternoon: I have not sealed the letter. There, you can read what I have said. If he has any excuse to offer for himself—not that he can possibly have any—he will write and urge it.”
Fred Bingham took the letter and read it through very slowly, in order to give himself the more time to think. The letter recapitulated the [200] incidents connected with Frank's first knowledge of the tobacconist, recalled the warning given to him respecting the pretty daughter, and his promise not to call there again, and then recited Stephen Walker's visit, and the terrible charge brought against him. It concluded by cutting off all connection whatever with him, and forbidding him ever to speak to his uncle again.
Fred saw at once that Frank, upon the receipt of this letter, would insist upon an explanation, would go to the tobacconist and bring him round in triumph to prove his innocence, and that his own guilt would infallibly appear.
“Well, Fred, what do you think of that letter?” his uncle asked at last. “It is conclusive, is it not?”
“Quite so, uncle. Nothing could be better. But——”
“But what, Fred?” Captain Bradshaw asked.
“Well, uncle, I agree with you, of course, that nothing can be more base and heartless than Frank's conduct; but still—still, you see, he has only just married. I am not attempting, much as I wish I could do so, to urge any point in Frank's favour. At the same time, uncle, think [201] of the misery of his wife, if he gets that letter the first day he returns home, and opens it before her. He might, for instance, laughingly ask her to open his letters, and tell him what they were about; your letter especially, knowing your handwriting, he would suppose could contain nothing she might not read. Imagine the poor girl's feelings. Her happiness would be destroyed for life. Surely, uncle, Frank's punishment would be too severe. Now, if you were to write a letter, using any language you like towards him—abusing him as much as you please, telling him he has forfeited all place in your esteem, and is henceforth to be a stranger—such a letter would not have the same effect upon her. No doubt he would be able to make some excuse which would satisfy her, and at the same time his conscience would tell him the cause of your indignation, and he would be able to write and make any excuses he could for his conduct. If he did not write, you would know it was because he had nothing whatever to urge in palliation.”
“Very right, and very kindly thought of, my boy,” Captain Bradshaw said, warmly. “God [202] knows, there has been mischief enough done already. I do not wish to wreck another young creature's life. Yes, I will write exactly as you advise. As you say, it will leave it open for him to make any plausible explanation he likes to her, and his own conscience will tell him what it means. As for his making any excuses to me, I am afraid that is altogether out of his power.” And the old man sighed deeply.
“It is, indeed, a most distressing affair, uncle, and I am indeed sorry for your sake, and for that of Alice also, for I know she was very fond of Frank. Does she know of the sad business?”
“Yes, Fred; I was obliged to tell her. She must have been informed why all connection with Frank is to cease. She is terribly cut up, but clings to the hope that Frank may have some sort of apology or explanation to make. I confess I don't see that it is possible.”
“We must hope that he will, uncle. It is a sad business, and I am truly sorry for your sake. Good-night, now. I shall be up again in a week or so, and will then bring my wife to see you.”
“Do, Fred, do; I shall be very glad to see my new niece.”
[203]
Fred Bingham did not go straight to Hans Place, but walked several times round Lowndes Square, thinking deeply over this new and unexpected state of affairs. There was no doubt he had a difficult and dangerous game to play. He would not have willingly embarked upon it, but it had been in a way forced upon him, and he accepted the risks without flinching. He had every confidence in himself, and the excitement and intrigue exactly suited him. The stakes were worth playing for, and had a double value in his eyes, in that they were to be won at the expense of Frank. At any rate he had the consolation that if he were beaten he would be no worse off than if he had thrown up the cards as hopeless at first. His uncle would have cast him off at once, and he could do no more if he ever found out the truth. There could be no doubt, then, that he had chosen the only possible course. To think that this affair which had seemed destruction to his hopes, should now turn out to have established him as his uncle's sole heir, whereas he was previously to have had only a third. It seemed almost too good to be true. How that blundering old idiot, Walker, could have made [204] such a mistake, Fred could not at first imagine; but he came to the correct conclusion that he must have said nephew only, without mentioning names, and that Captain Bradshaw had jumped to the conclusion that the nephew was Frank. Now as to the future. There were two risks—the one from Frank, the other from Stephen Walker. As to Frank, he had already achieved the great point of having the letter worded ambiguously; and if Frank wrote to demand an explanation, he must somehow intercept the letter, and prevent it reaching Captain Bradshaw. Then he must himself see Frank, and do what he could to keep them asunder. Then, as to this madman, Walker. He would not be likely to go again to Captain Bradshaw. That was most unlikely. Nor would Captain Bradshaw be likely to go to him. As to his threat to dog him, and tell everyone about the affair, that was unpleasant—very unpleasant—and must, if possible, be put a stop to; but at any rate, it would not be likely to come to Captain Bradshaw's ears. None of Fred's friends were acquainted with his uncle; and if Walker were to see them all, and tell his story, his uncle would not come to hear of it from [205] them. What other danger was there?—Alice? Yes, Alice was certainly a danger. He did not exactly see how. But she disliked him, and was very fond of Frank. She was a thoughtful, earnest girl, and would be very likely to take some steps to inquire further. It was even possible that she might go and see Stephen Walker himself.
“Yes,” he thought, “Alice is quite capable of that; and if she does so, it is all up with me.”
Fred stopped in his walk at this new thought. This was, indeed, a danger—a danger against which he saw no prevention. In vain did he think over every possible plan, but nothing satisfactory could be imagined.
“No,” he said at last, as he walked on again; “if she does that I am lost. My only hope is to get him out of the way: and how that is to be done, I don't see.”
CHAPTER XIV. A SHOP TO LET.
 One thing Fred Bingham quite settled in his mind as he walked slowly in the direction of Hans Place, and that was that he would on no account tell his father of the mistake which had occurred. Mr. Bingham might be a sharp practitioner, but Fred felt that even to shield him it was possible that his father might refuse to have anything to do with this scheme of laying the blame upon Frank Maynard's shoulders. Even should he consent to conceal the truth, the hold which the knowledge of such a secret as this would give him, would be most unpleasant. It was quite possible that he and his father might not always get on well together, for the latter, Fred thought, was hardly sharp enough for the times, and might become a drag. No, certainly, Mr. Bingham must not be told.
[207]
“Well, Fred, what news?” Mr. Bingham asked, as Fred went into his study.
“Better than I could have expected,” Fred said, cheerfully. “The old gentleman, of course, did the savage, but I was extremely penitent, and made an impression on him. Of course he gave me a long lecture upon the heinousness of the offence, but we parted pretty good friends, and I fancy it will all come right in the long run.”
“Perhaps he may seem friends, Fred, but when he dies you may find he has left every penny to Frank.”
“Perhaps so,” Fred said, in a thoughtful voice. “I dare say he would if he were to die to-morrow; but now I have once made my footing good, I think I shall be able to work myself into my old place in time. From some hints he threw out, too, I believe, he is not satisfied with Frank. He's angry, I fancy, because Frank did not marry Alice Heathcote. At any rate, there's a coolness, which makes him the less disposed to be severe with me. No, I think it will all come right in the end.”
There was a silence for a minute or two, Mr. Bingham being greatly surprised at Fred's easy [208] escape, for he remembered how vindictive and unforgiving Captain Bradshaw had been in his wife's case. Presently Fred spoke again.
“Don't you think something could be done to stop that madman's mouth? He has done mischief enough already; but if he is to go about as he threatened, telling this story to every one, it will be a horrible nuisance.”
Mr. Bingham thought for a time, and then shook his head.
“He is very much in earnest, Fred. He meant every word he said. There is no offering him money—it would make him worse.”
Fred thought for a time.
“One could not begin by offering money; still, he's poor, and money must be an object to him. Look here, father, you must see what you can do. You go round to him in the morning, and try and talk him over. Put to him the misery he has caused me in my own family; you can pitch it in strong, you know, about the old lady. Point out that I am punished besides by losing any hope of my uncle's money. Then talk about my wife; say she's very delicate, and that if this comes to her ears, the consequence will be most serious. [209] Ask him if he wishes to destroy the happiness of an innocent creature? Beg him to be content with punishing me, as he has already done. Then, if he gives way at all, offer him a thousand pounds—I would willingly pay that—to leave at once, and go right away, and live quietly somewhere else, where the business will not be known.”
“I am afraid, Fred, it will be of no use. He's been hit too hard.”
“Oh, nonsense, father! You can do it if you take it in hand. Pitch it in strong, you know, about my wife. Tell him that for him to destroy the happiness of an innocent woman, would be as bad as what I have done. Say how devilishly sorry I am. You know the line to take.”
“It's a very unpleasant business, Fred, but if you think any good can come of it, I will try.”
“Thank you,” Fred said, “and be sure to insist upon his leaving his place at once. I don't want to have any risk of his meeting my uncle again, and stirring him up afresh.”
The next morning, accordingly, Mr. Bingham started for New Street. Upon arriving at the shop, he was astonished at finding it closed, and [210] a bill upon the shutter—“This house and shop to be let or sold, enquire of Mr. Thompson, House Agent, Brompton Row.” In spite of this notice, he rang at the bell. There was no answer; and a neighbour, seeing Mr. Bingham standing at the door, came out and volunteered the information that Stephen Walker was gone.
“He went off yesterday at twelve o'clock, with his boxes, in a cab.”
“Am I likely to be able to find out where he has gone to?” Mr. Bingham asked; “I owe him an account for newspapers.”
“I can't say, sir; if anyone knows, it's Mrs. Holl. She's an old friend of his, and has been doing for him lately; she lives in Moor Street, No. 18.”
Mr. Bingham went off to Moor Street. He knocked at the door. Mrs. Holl came to it. On seeing a gentleman, she curtseyed.
“Do you want me, sir? I can't ask you to walk in, for I've a boy here down with fever.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Bingham said; “I called this morning to pay my newsagent, Mr. Walker, a little account I owe him, and I find his place [211] shut up. I was directed to you as the most likely person to tell me of his whereabouts.”
“I know no more, sir, than a new-born child. I only hope he hasn't done anything with his-self. I saw him the day afore yesterday, when he came back after burying his daughter; and when I went yesterday morning he was out. When I went again in the afternoon, I found the bill up, and heard he had gone off with his things. I went to the house people, but they could tell me nothing about it. They said that Mr. Walker, who they knew before, from his having bought the house through them, had come to them, all of a sudden, at nine o'clock. He had told them to let the house at once, or to sell it if they got an offer, and pay the amount into a bank for him. He seemed, they said, a good deal flurried, and in a great hurry. They are to send a cart to-day for his furniture, and are to send it to a sale-room. They are to give notice to his tenants, in the upper part of the house, to leave. The news was all so sudden, it has put me quite in a fluster, like; but I don't think he can be going to do any harm to himself, else he [212] wouldn't have taken his boxes. Do you think so, sir?”
“No, I should think not, Mrs. Holl. He is probably leaving in this sudden and secret way, because he does not like to say good-bye to his friends, and intends to go to some fresh place where no one will know him, or this sad story I have heard of. Good morning, I am much obliged to you for your information.”
So saying, Mr. Bingham went back to his son, expecting that the latter would consider this news to be bad. For it was probable that Stephen Walker had left to carry out his plan of vengeance, and was not improbably gone down to the neighbourhood of some of the works upon which they were engaged. To Mr. Bingham's surprise, Fred was excessively pleased.
“So that he's gone, I am contented. Down in the country I don't care a snap what people may say; but as long as he stayed here, there was always a chance of his meeting my uncle again, or of my uncle going to see him. You see, father, I was obliged to put things in the best light possible, and I should not at all like to have Walker referred to again.”
[213]
“Ah, I see, Fred. I thought you must have made rather a strong case for yourself with the old man, or he would never have come round so easily. When you said you would give a thousand pounds to him to go away at once, I had an idea you must be mightily afraid of his meeting Captain Bradshaw again. Well, Fred, you have saved your thousand pounds, but you'll hear more of him yet before he's done, or I am mistaken.”
“It is a respite at any rate,” Fred said. “If he comes and bothers me in the country, I'll get him shut up as a lunatic. It won't cost a thousand pounds to do that,” and he laughed unpleasantly.
“I shall go back to Cromer by the twelve o'clock train. I shall be up in a week at the latest. I suppose there is nothing particular you want to speak to me about before I go? I have not above a quarter of an hour to spare.”
The quarter of an hour was spent in conversation upon business matters, and then Fred Bingham started again for Cromer, in very much higher spirits than he had felt on his journey up the day before.
[214]
Fred Bingham had not calculated erroneously when he considered Alice Heathcote to be his most dangerous enemy. At first she had been completely stunned by the blow, and upon leaving her uncle, had gone up to her own room had thrown herself upon her bed, too bewildered, too stricken down even to cry, and lay there quiet and white, with her hand pressed to her forehead. “Frank, wicked! Frank, a scoundrel! It could not be, it could not be.” And yet her uncle who knew far more of the world than she did, and who had loved Frank too, seemed to have no doubt, no question upon the subject; nor, as she thought it over and over, did a single ray of hope present itself to her. That she had loved in vain, that he had married another, had been hard to bear, but that was as nothing to this. To know that the man in whom she had put all her faith, and trust, and love, was, after all, a bad, base man, was almost bewildering. If he were false, who could be true? And yet, although she in vain tried to find any solution—any escape—from this dreadful accusation, she did not really believe it. Her instinct seemed to tell her that [215] Frank could never have acted altogether in this way. He might have been wicked and wrong—she feared there could be no doubt about that—but he never could have been so deliberately base as they said. Yet there was but one explanation which could in any way lessen his offence, an explanation which involved a grievous suspicion of another, and that other now lying dead. Still, Alice did not know her, and she believed even now that she knew something of Frank, and, woman like, was disposed to throw the blame anywhere so that the weight upon him might be lightened. She repeated to herself, woman's usual cry under the circumstances, it must have been her fault; Frank may have been wrong, and foolish, and weak, but he never, never, could be so deliberately wicked as they say he is.
“Poor thing!” Alice thought; “it is very sad to think such a thing now she is dead; but she must have been partly to blame, and to shield herself, she has invented this story of Frank promising to marry her at his uncle's death.”
This story Alice elaborated gradually in the intervals of throbbing pain in her temples, and having once elaborated clung to. Not, as she [216] told herself, that it could make any difference to her. He was married, and she should never see him again, for she was certain that her uncle would keep his word. Still, now she might think of him sometimes, with sorrow and regret and pain, but without absolute horror. Her idol was terribly cracked and flawed, indeed, but it had not absolutely fallen to pieces. And having at last persuaded herself that it must be so, she fell asleep just as morning was breaking. For the next three days Alice kept her room, completely prostrated with headache, and feeling altogether unequal to going downstairs to talk upon different matters with her uncle. Still she clung to the belief that the version of the story she had imagined to herself, would turn out to be correct, and that Frank could not have been to blame as her uncle believed. The more she thought of his character ever since she had known him, the more positive she felt of his, at any rate, comparative innocence. Oh, if she could but find out the truth! and to do this there was but one way,—namely, to see Stephen Walker himself. She might then find out what foundation he had for his charges, whether he [217] had absolute proof that Frank had promised to marry his daughter, or whether it was merely the poor girl's own assertion.
It was a strange step, perhaps, for her to take, but Alice rather despised conventionalities, and determined that she would not allow Frank to rest under this dreadful accusation, if she could clear it up. Besides, it would be another fortnight before Frank could arrive, and have an opportunity of clearing himself, and Alice, in her state of restless anxiety, felt that she could not wait for another fortnight. She resolved upon saying nothing to her uncle; so after he had gone to his club, she went up and put on her things, and telling the footman to follow her, started for New Street. Greatly disappointed was she upon finding the shop shut up; but being told that Mrs. Holl of 18, Moor Street, was likely to know Stephen Walker's address, she went there, followed in some wonderment by her attendant.
Mrs. Holl was, as usual, at home, but was unable to give Alice any intelligence as to Stephen Walker.
“Can I come in, Mrs. Holl? I want very much to ask you a question or two.”
[218]
“Yes, ma'am, and welcome; but the place is all in a litter, for it's my washing day, and I've been thrown a little back, for my eldest boy's had a sort of fever. He's better to-day, though, and the doctor says there's nothing fectious in it.”
So saying, Mrs. Holl showed Alice into the room, which was filled with a warm, soapy steam.
“Thank you; I will not sit down,” Alice said, as Mrs. Holl began to polish the seat of one of the chairs with her apron. “I have called to ask you about a very sad and distressing affair. I mean about Mr. Walker's daughter. As you know him well, of course you are aware of the circumstances.”
“Yes, poor young thing!” Mrs. Holl said; “I know as much as anyone knows, except her father. Leastways, we know she's dead and buried.”
“Mrs. Holl, it is a terrible thing to say, but a very great friend of mine—I may almost say a brother—has been accused by Mr. Walker of having been the cause of this. I need not say how distressed we all are, and how anxious to know something of this unfortunate girl.”
[219]
“He must be a very bad man, ma'am, saving your presence; but I don't want to speak badly of anyone. It's not my business, and the Almighty knows how to punish.”
“What I want to ask you, Mrs. Holl—and I am sure, now you know how greatly I am interested in the matter, you will frankly tell me the truth—was this unfortunate girl a good girl? was she always looked upon before this as a good, innocent girl, because we have only heard of it from her father?”
“Yes, miss. Carry Walker was one of the best of girls; one of the kindest, best-hearted, innocentest, brightest girls you'd ever see. Every one spoke well of her. She was one of the best of girls.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Holl,” Alice said, sadly; “that is all I wanted to know. Good morning.”
And Alice, with a very sad heart, went back to Lowndes Square. She had nothing to do now but to wait for Frank's answer, and she could derive even less hope than before from this.
CHAPTER XV. WHAT CAN IT MEAN?
 It was evening when Frank Maynard arrived home from his honeymoon with his wife. He had taken a house in the then new neighbourhood, Thurloe Square, Brompton; and Katie, despite the fatigue of the journey from Paris, insisted on immediately going over it all, and in admiring all its arrangements. Very proud was the young husband of the trim little figure, as it tripped through the rooms.
“You are a dear, dear thoughtful old boy,” she said when, her survey completed, she returned again to the dining-room, and took her seat in all the state and dignity of her young matronhood, to make tea for the first time. “Everything is very nice, Frank, and my little special den is charming; I will give you another kiss for it presently; but there are too many [221] rooms, Frank, and I shall feel quite lost.” Frank smiled, and Katie, catching his look as she glanced up from her tea making, changed the subject of the conversation hastily. “Sure, Frank, and what a pile of letters there are on the mantel, don't read them all to-night.”
“No, Katie, I won't even look at one of them, this first night at home I don't want to think of anyone or anything, but you and my happiness.” And so it was not until the next morning after breakfast that Frank set to to examine the pile of letters which had accumulated during his absence. His wife sat down close to him, and listened on amused while he read out an epitome of each communication. Those first opened could be classified under two heads. Letters of congratulation and cards from friends, and the circulars of advertising tradesmen. Presently, however, he came upon a letter with a stiff precise handwriting, and sealed with a coat of arms. “This is from my uncle Bradshaw,” he said, “I wonder whether he is in town?” Frank opened the letter, and the careless expression of his face changed, as he read the first line, into [222] intense astonishment, which deepened into anger as he went on.
His wife, who was watching him, noticed the change in his face, and when she saw he had read it through, asked, “What is the matter, Frank?”
“Wait, dear,” Frank said, and again read the letter carefully through. “Either he has gone mad, or I am dreaming,” he said at last.
“May I see, Frank?” Katie said, coming across and putting her hand upon his shoulder.
Frank hesitated. “Well, Katie, perhaps better not; it is some extraordinary mistake, and would only worry you.” Katie went back to her seat without a word. “Here, darling,” Frank said, after a moment's thought, “I wish to have no secrets from you, I only hesitated because I did not wish to worry you; come and sit down on my knee and read this.”
Katie sprang over gladly, and took her seat. Frank gave her over the letter, which she, as he had done, read carefully twice through before she spoke. Frank watched her face closely, at first it expressed indignant anger only, then the [223] colour faded a little, and a pained thoughtful look came into it. The letter was as follows:—
“Frank Maynard, I have loved you from a boy, and would have wagered my life upon your honour. I find that you are a dishonourable scoundrel. You see I don't mince matters with you, I don't give it mild names, I leave the matter to your own conscience. When you learn what has happened, you will, unless you are even more heartless than I even now take you to be, bitterly regret your conduct. Palliation or excuse for you there is none. You were warned, but you shut your ears to the warning. As for me I have done with you. I never will see you again; you have disappointed all my hopes; you have turned out a heartless reprobate; and I have done with you for ever.
“Your indignant uncle,
“Richard Bradshaw.”
Frank spoke first. “It seems to me, Katie, that the old gentleman has gone out of his mind. What he means I have not the remotest idea. I am awfully sorry, Katie, for I like my uncle very [224] much, he has been the kindest friend to me. As for his money, I have enough for us, dear, and he may do what he likes with it; but I am awfully sorry that he has gone out of his mind. I can only suppose he has been thinking over that Alice Heathcote affair, which I told you about, Katie, till he has fairly gone cranky.”
Katie was silent still, then she rose quietly from her husband's knee, and looked him fully in the face with those clear honest eyes of hers. “Frank, dear, you are my husband now, and I know you love me very truly, whatever you may once have done any other. Frank, dear, I am not a child, I know men—do things—before they are married—you know what I mean, Frank? Don't speak, please, or I can't go on. Now, Frank, if you have done any wrong thing—there can be no mistake what your uncle means—if you have deceived, it is no use mincing words, Frank, some one who had loved and trusted you, please tell me. I shall be sorry, Frank, very, very sorry. You will not be quite the same to me; I cannot think of you as I have thought of you before, but I can quite forgive you, because I know you love me now. But, Frank, I must have [225] it from your own lips. I am your wife now, Frank, and nothing you did before you married me can make me cease to love you, if you only trust in me and tell me. But if I have it from other lips, Frank, if I find you deceive me, I must go away, Frank, even if it break my heart.” Katie's voice trembled now, and her eyes filled with tears.
Frank had once or twice tried to interrupt her, had tried to draw her towards him, but there was a sad dignity about the little figure which checked him until she finished.
“Now, Frank, tell me the truth, you may trust me, dear, to hear it, I am your wife.”
“My own darling Katie,” Frank said, rising and standing before her, “my own loving little wife, how dare you doubt your husband?”
Katie felt at once by the tone of his voice that her suspicions were groundless, and stopped him by falling crying upon his neck, “Oh, forgive me, Frank, forgive me, for doubting you. I was wicked and wrong, Frank. Oh, my husband, how could I doubt you? Don't say a word more, Frank, please, please don't; I never should have dreamed it, only I have heard that men look [226] at these things in a different way to what we do. Say you are not angry, Frank, say you quite forgive me for doubting you.”
“You silly little darling,” Frank said, putting her back on her old place upon his knee, “there is nothing to forgive. It was natural enough for you to suppose that my crazy uncle must have had some reason for writing such an epistle as that. But it is not so, pet. I give you my word and honour that I have got into no scrape whatever, and that I have not the remotest conception in the world what he means or alludes to, except that absurd Alice Heathcote business. Are you quite satisfied?”
“Yes, yes, Frank, only I am so ashamed of myself for having doubted you.”
Katie required a good deal of petting before she could be reconciled to herself, and it was some time before the conversation again came round to the subject of the letter.
“It is really a very serious business, Katie. I never built upon Uncle Bradshaw's money, although if I had been asked, I should certainly have answered that I expected him to leave me, at any rate, half. Well, four or five thousand a year is [227] no trifle, Katie. We have enough to live upon, darling, but for the sake of our heirs we must regret it.”
“If you talk nonsense, Frank, I shan't listen to you.”
“I did not know I was talking nonsense, Katie; a man surely may talk of his heirs. Well then, for their sake one naturally does not care suddenly to lose all chance of a fine fortune simply because one's uncle has gone out of his mind.”
“And you can't think, Frank, that he has made a mistake about anything else? I mean that it may be something else besides this Miss Heathcote, whom I cannot but think you must have behaved shamefully to, sir; yes, you may shake your head and say no indeed, but I am sure you must have done.”
“No, Katie, I cannot think of anything else; and you need not be jealous of Alice Heathcote, I never cared for her, that is not to love her, for a moment. The whole thing was exactly as I told you, a mere crotchet of Captain Bradshaw's.”
“Well, Frank, if he is not really out of his [228] mind, he must be a very wicked old man to write such a letter to you.”
“No, Katie, he certainly is not a wicked old man at all. He is a passionate old gentleman if you like, but he is as good-hearted a man as you will meet with in all the course of your life. I tell you what, Katie, this afternoon I will put on my hat and go down to my club, I am sure to meet someone there who will tell me whether it is publicly known that the poor old man has gone out of his mind. I can't go to his house to call after such a letter as that.”
“I should think not, Frank,” Katie said indignantly.
Frank went up to town in the afternoon, and came back to dinner, looking vexed and annoyed.
“Well, Frank, what news?”
“I can't make head or tail of it, Katie. Captain Bradshaw is, as far as I can hear, as sensible as either you or I. Several of the men I spoke to had met him within the last day or two, and they said he seemed as usual, except, perhaps, that he had not been very lively lately. They were perfectly astounded when I asked whether anyone had noticed anything queer about him, and [229] evidently thought I must be mad myself to ask such a thing. No, he seems all right enough, and that makes the whole affair more strange than ever. What is to be done, Katie? What do you advise?”
“I should say, Frank, that you can do nothing. If he is not mad, how dare he write to you in that way? It is infamous,” Katie said, very indignantly, “and I would not condescend to take any notice of it.”
“No, Katie, I can't do that. Captain Bradshaw has always been a very kind friend to me. He is an old man, dear, and I can't put up with such an accusation, and with the loss of his affection, without making at least an effort to clear up the mystery. I will write and say I have received his letter, that I really cannot conceive what he means, and that I must insist upon his explaining himself, as I have a right at least to know what my accusation is. Now, Katie, don't let us worry ourselves about it any more, it is time to dress for dinner. I will write the letter this evening, and post it in the morning. I have half a mind to go down and see him myself; but he is so awfully passionate, and my temper is not of the best, that I believe [230] if he went on again about that absurd Alice business, which I suppose is somehow at the bottom of it all, I should say things which would make a quarrel we should never make up. No, I think writing will be the best, Katie; don't you?”
“Yes, I think so, Frank; besides you know much better what your uncle is like than I can; I know I should not keep my temper with him.”
“I don't think you would, Katie,” Frank laughed, “I always said you were a terrible little spitfire, you know.”
CHAPTER XVI. THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.
 The house in Lowndes Square was hardly a pleasant abode about this time. Captain Bradshaw was irritable beyond measure. The servants led a dreadful life with him, and even Alice Heathcote had to take refuge in her own room, for Alice herself was scarcely able to withstand the excessive fractiousness and ill-temper of her uncle. She was looking very ill, and was really unhappy. Alice had truly ceased to love Frank Maynard. From the day when she had heard from his own lips that he did not love her she had striven hard against her own feelings, but it was not until she knew that he was engaged to another that she was able to quite win a victory over herself. She had been mercilessly severe with herself. She had pictured Frank as sharing his home and his love with another, [232] and had insisted upon rejoicing over his happiness; she had herself frequently brought the subject round in her conversation with Frank. And so it was, that by joining in her cousin's talk as to his future plans, and by entering into his happy anticipations, Alice gradually conquered herself and came to feel that she could look upon Frank quite as a brother, and rejoice in seeing him happy with another. As she thus gradually conquered her love she became more as she was before the first destruction of her hopes; she grew calm and self-possessed again, her step regained its elasticity, and her eye its steady light.
When Frank had come to say good-bye before going down to his wedding, she almost regretted that she had refused his earnest request to be one of the bridesmaids, for she felt that she could now have seen him married with hardly a pang. But this new trial had once again broken her down. She could not bear to think that Frank, who had been her idol, whom she had looked up to as a model of all that was good and honest and honourable, could have done this thing. She did not think it. [233] She clung to the belief that he would clear it all up on his return; at any rate, only from Frank's own lips, or from Frank's own handwriting, would she believe it, and she counted the days to his return, when he would get her uncle's letter, and would, she was sure, repel the accusation.
Captain Bradshaw, too, was longing for Frank's return. Not that he doubted the facts. These, to his mind, were clearly established; but he hoped that Frank might be able to offer some sort of palliation or excuse; might somehow put his conduct in a more favourable light; might plead guilty to imprudence, but deny evil intention even when confessing the fault; might, in fact, in some way or other, enable him to forgive him, and after a due amount of scolding and lecturing, to restore him to at least a portion of his old share of his affection.
Fred Bingham, too, grew nervously anxious as the time for Frank's return approached. He came back to town a few days before Frank was expected, but he only called once upon his uncle; he felt that it would look better if he were not to seem too anxious to step into the [234] place of favourite, and had been very careful during that one visit to say nothing against Frank. He knew that his cousin had not yet received Captain Bradshaw's letter, for he had said on leaving that he should give no address upon the Continent, for that he did not know where he should go, and did not mean to be bothered with letter-writing while he was away. There was, therefore, no danger until Frank's return, and then Fred knew he would at once write to demand an explanation. He felt sure that his uncle's letter contained no direct allusion to the circumstances of which Frank was accused, and that therefore he could produce no proofs of his innocence, which, indeed, now that Stephen Walker had left New Street, was impossible. The great step then was to prevent Captain Bradshaw from receiving Frank's letter demanding an explanation. That once done Fred Bingham felt certain of his ground. He was playing a difficult game for high stakes, but he felt pretty confident in his own skill. His one fear was that Frank, in his indignation, might rush down to Lowndes Square and personally demand an explanation from his [235] uncle; but the letter had been so extremely offensive, that Fred Bingham hoped and believed that Frank would write. On the day upon which he knew Frank was to return, Fred Bingham called in Lowndes Square, at a time when his uncle would be from home.
“Is Miss Heathcote in?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; she is up in her own room. Shall I tell her you are here?”
“No, James, it is hardly worth while. I could only stay a few minutes. By the way, just step in here, I want to speak to you.” He went into the dining-room and the servant followed and closed the door. “You must have had rather a hard time with your master lately, James.”
“Awful, sir; I can't stand it much longer. Flesh and blood can't put up beyond a certain point, you know, sir. Do what I will, nothing pleases him. He does swear sometimes really awful to hear; but there, sir, I need not tell you; you know what master is.”
“Well, James, he has been a good deal put out lately. There is a man who fancies he has some claim upon my uncle, and he writes to him and threatens to make public some old [236] story which your master does not want talked about. Now, I am on this man's track, and I fancy I shall be able to find him in a day or two and put an end to all this. I expect he will be writing to-day or to-morrow to my uncle again, and I know it will make him so furious that he will be doing something rash. Now, I wish to prevent that letter reaching him until I have seen this man who is annoying him. I want you, therefore, to show me all the letters that come for the next day or two. I will come over twice a-day, so you will only have to keep them back one post. I only want to save him annoyance, and I can see he is quite wearing Miss Heathcote out. I will give you a five pound note if you will manage this, and you will be doing your master a real service. I know I can rely upon your holding your tongue. What do you say, James?”
“Lor' yes, sir, I would do anything to save master from annoyance. He is a real good master on the whole, though he is awful, sir. I can assure you he is downright awful when he is put out.”
“I am sure he must be very difficult to [237] manage, James. The best way to arrange this will be for me to call each day at nine o'clock in the morning and at three in the afternoon. He never comes down to breakfast until ten, and Miss Heathcote does not come down till half-past nine, so there is no chance of his knowing that I have come; you can be looking out of the hall window and can open the door when you see me. I will call again at three, after he has gone out, and I will get you to put on your hat and run round to Hans Place of an evening with any letter which may come by a late post. You understand, James?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Bingham! I will see to it. It is only for two or three days you say.”
The next day there was no letter from Frank Maynard, nor was there on the following morning; but when Fred Bingham called at three o'clock there was a letter, the handwriting of which he at once recognised.
“Ah! this is the letter, James. I am very glad I have stopped it, especially as I expect to see the man this evening and to put a stop to his annoying my uncle. Here is what I promised you, James. I need not tell you to [238] say nothing about it, for my uncle would not be pleased if he knew I was interfering in his affairs even for his own good.”
“You may be sure I won't say a word, sir, I do think master has been expecting the letter, for he has been very anxious about letters the last day or two, and savage, sir, that savage that one daren't as much as look at him. If he goes on like this I must make a change, sir. I can't stand it much longer.”
“I dare say he will be better, James, when, this annoyance is removed. I will go into the dining-room for a few minutes, I have a letter to write which I forgot before I started.”
Once in the dining-room Fred Bingham took the inkstand and writing materials from the side-table, and then produced from a large pocket-book an envelope upon which he had written Frank Maynard's name and address in a very accurate imitation of the peculiar hand of Captain Bradshaw. In this he enclosed Frank's letter, and, lighting the taper, sealed it with a small seal which was in the drawer of the inkstand, and which bore the three-fingered hand, the crest of the Bradshaws.
[239]
“There,” he said, with his unpleasant smile, “if that won't keep you apart, Master Frank, I am mistaken; you are a very fine fellow, no doubt, and Alice Heathcote liked you better than she did me; but I don't think you will have much reason to boast in the end. Now, if the old man does but go away for the winter, as he talks about, there is no fear of their coming together again, and he is too proud and too passionate, and Frank is too hot-headed and mighty ever to condescend to make the first advances. I don't think the old boy can live long.”
So, putting on his hat he went out, down into Knightsbridge and up the hill, dropping the letter into the post-office at the corner of Wilton Place. Then he sauntered on, smiling pleasantly as he went, and meditating not unflattering thoughts of himself.
“Yes, Fred Bingham,” he concluded, “deuced few fellows would have got, as you have, out of about as nasty a scrape as a man could want to get into. Made it turn out all to my advantage; why, I might have tried, and schemed, and flattered the old man, and listened to his endless stories about India, and at most I should only [240] have shared with Frank. Now I am as good as certain of it all. I am a lucky fellow,”—and here he gave a penny to a beggar-woman, who looked after him and blessed him for a pleasant-looking young gentleman—“very lucky; to think of old Walker never mentioning my name! That was a fluke indeed! Savage old brute, who would have thought it of him? Poor Carry.” And here the smile passed away from his face, and he went on angrily, “A little idiot, I would have made her comfortable, and settled her in some snug little place, and she upsets the whole thing. She must have known I never meant to marry her, and why the deuce she could not have done as other girls do, and made the best of it, I can't make out. Instead of that she nearly ruins me. Bah! what fools women are,” and he gave a savage cut with his cane at a dog who was asleep by the railings by the side of the footway. The dog leapt up with a sharp yell, and Fred Bingham went on relieved, and rather liking than otherwise the curses and threats which the dog's master, a little boy with matches, shouted after him.
The letter was delivered to Frank as he was sitting with his wife after dinner.
[241]
“Here is the answer, Katie, sealed with the family crest in due form,” and he tore the paper so as not to destroy the seal, with the intention of showing the crest to her. “By Jove!” he exclaimed, angrily, “this is too bad, Katie; he has sent back my letter unopened, without a word.”
Katie's face flushed up, and she was about to burst out indignantly, but seeing by her husband's face that he was grieved as well as angry, she only said,—
“Never mind, Frank, it is no use our worrying ourselves about it; you can do nothing more after this refusal to hear you. We have a good conscience, dear, and can afford to wait. As you said at first, Frank, there can be no doubt that your uncle has worried himself so much about the upset of his plans for you to marry that Miss Heathcote, that he has really gone a little out of his mind about it. Perhaps it is a pity you did not do as he wanted you to,” and she looked up maliciously at Frank.
The attack had the effect she desired, and in administering what he called punishment [242] Frank soon forgot the annoyance of the letter.
It was not, indeed, until they rose to go upstairs to tea, that the subject was renewed; then Frank put the letter into its envelope, opened his desk, and threw it in.
“There,” he said, “we won't talk about it any more, Katie. It is a great annoyance, but it can't be helped. It is no use crying over spilt milk.”
The next day Katie sat up in state, and many of Frank's acquaintances or friends called, and also friends of the Drakes. Frank, of course, stayed at home to help his wife through the ordeal. Among the callers was Fred Bingham. After the first introduction and greetings were over, Frank said to him aside,—
“Look here, Fred, I want to have a talk with you about a most unpleasant business, which I can't for the life of me understand. I can't talk now before all these people. Come, like a good fellow, to dinner this evening. We shall be alone, and then I can tell you all about it.”
“Very well, Frank, I will come.”
[243]
Fred then turned to Katie, and was very chatty and amusing, as he could be when he chose. He stayed some little time, and helped Frank much in smoothing away the stiffness, and in filling up the occasional pauses which are incidental to ceremonies of this kind.
He came again to dinner, and was still in high spirits, paying Katie many hyperbolical compliments, which she laughed at, telling him that he was not an Irishman, and that no one but Irishmen had a right to talk outrageous nonsense.
Soon after the dessert was placed upon the table, Frank said to his wife,—
“There, Katie, I want to talk to Fred, so go upstairs like a good girl, and make tea for us.” Then, when he was with his cousin, he went on, “Now, Fred, I want to talk to you. I have had a most extraordinary letter from my uncle, accusing me of unheard-of wickedness, and breaking-off all acquaintance and connection with me. There it is, read it through, and tell me what it means.”
Fred Bingham read Captain Bradshaw's letter through.
[244]
“Extraordinary,” he said; “but I am really hardly surprised. He has spoken to me in a rambling, excited way about you, and I really am afraid that he is going a little out of his mind.”
Frank looked at the table gloomily.
“I have written to him to demand an explanation, and he has returned the letter unopened.” His cousin looked grieved rather than surprised. “It is abominable,” Frank went on, warmly; “the only possible reason I can see is that I refused to marry Alice Heathcote, when he had set his mind upon it.”
Fred Bingham had long suspected that such had been Captain Bradshaw's wish, and he now took advantage of the knowledge.
“Yes,” he said, “absurd as it is, Frank, from a few words he let drop when he was in one of his passions the other day, I supposed it was that. He said something about all his plans thwarted—infamous scoundrel—break Alice's heart—have nothing to do with him.”
“Yes,” Frank said, “I can quite fancy him. But he must be mad, Fred. It was all his own hatching up. Alice and I never cared a scrap [245] for each other. Sisterly, and so on, but nothing else.”
Fred Bingham was silent.
“Don't you believe me, Fred?” Frank asked, warmly.
“Well, Frank, I don't question what you say about your own feelings, and I am sure that you are the last fellow to intend to trifle with any girl's affections; but, if you frankly wish my opinion, I tell you honestly I have no question that Alice Heathcote did love you.”
“Nonsense, man!” Frank said, very angrily, “Alice never cared a scrap for me; she told me so herself.”
“Did you ask her then, Frank?” Fred said, pointedly.
“No, I did not,” Frank said, still more indignant; “have I not told you I never thought of such a thing. Uncle and I were having a row. He was insisting on my marrying her, I was saying I would not, because I did not love her—well, she was in the next room and heard it all, and came in and told her uncle that it was out of the question, for that I did not love her and she did not love me.”
[246]
Fred looked up almost contemptuously. How stupid this big strong man was to be sure.
“And what do you suppose she could have said, Frank? She had just heard you say you did not love her, and would not marry her; and do you think that a girl like Alice Heathcote could have done anything else under the circumstances? Do you think she could have burst out crying and told you she loved you and prayed you to marry her?”
Frank sat down in his chair in sheer dismay.
“How long was this ago, Frank? Six months?”
Frank nodded.
“Just as I thought—just the time Alice got ill and low-spirited. I saw it all along. I was certain that she loved you, and I thought you loved her. I always looked upon it as a settled thing; and, indeed, it is hardly likely your uncle would have gone so far as he did, if he had not been sure Alice's happiness was concerned.”
Frank sat petrified; at last he said,—
“And upon your soul and honour, Fred, do you believe she loved me?”
[247]
“Upon my soul and honour I do, Frank.”
And for once Fred Bingham spoke the truth.
Frank absolutely groaned.
“Poor Alice! poor Alice! and I never dreamt of it, never once. This is worse than the other. To think of my having made her unhappy. No wonder my uncle is so angry, and that it has worked on his brain. What is to be done? I can't write to her and explain matters.”
“I should think not,” Fred Bingham said dryly. “In the first place your letter would be returned, for I know that uncle has made her promise not to communicate with you in any way, and not even to speak if she meets you accidentally. And in the next place Alice Heathcote is hardly the sort of girl to accept condolences from a man who has slighted her affection.”
Frank looked furiously at the speaker, but he felt that the remark was true.
“Well,” he said, at last, “this is a nice thing to meet a man on his return from his honeymoon—the girl he cared for most in the world, next to his wife, made unhappy—my uncle [248] altogether estranged, and in fact carrying the matter to a point of lunacy; and nothing possible to be done.”
“I dare say matters will right themselves in time, Frank. Our uncle talks about travelling, and the change will, no doubt, do him good, and set Alice up; and, seeing that, he will get over his great hallucination.”
“And if he does not,” Frank said, rather bitterly, “I suppose I may wish you joy of being sole inheritor of Wyvern Park?”
“Frank, that is not like you,” Fred said, reproachfully. “I should have thought you would have known me better than to suppose me capable of taking advantage of it, even if Captain Bradshaw did, in his present state, pass you over in his will. No, Frank.”
“I beg your pardon, Fred,” Frank broke in; “upon my word, I beg your pardon. I did not mean what I said for a moment. I know you are the best-hearted fellow in the world, and have always said so. No, no, old man, I have no jealousy of you, I give you my word.” And he shook Fred Bingham's hand warmly. “And now, Fred, I won't ask you to go upstairs [249] to-night. I am really upset, and I must tell Katie about this miserable business, and I suppose she can hardly be expected to see it quite in the right light. Good-night, old fellow! Come again soon.”
CHAPTER XVII. WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
 “Has he gone, Frank?” Katie asked, as her husband entered the drawing-room alone.
“Yes, pet, I wanted to have you all to myself.”
Katie was standing with her elbow on the mantel, her smooth forehead was knitted up into a frown, and she looked a very thoughtful little personage indeed.
“So that is the Fred Bingham I have often heard you speak of, Frank?”
Frank nodded.
“And you really like him, Frank, really think him honest and true?”
“I don't like him so very much, Katie, but I think he is a thoroughly good-hearted fellow.”
“Frank, I would not trust him as far as I could see him.”
[251]
“No, Katie!” Frank said, half amused, half vexed at finding his wife thus early set against the friend for whom he had already fought so many hard battles. “Don't you like him, then?”
“He is amusing,” Katie said, indifferently, “but oh, Frank! he is so false. My flesh crept all over when he shook hands with me this morning.”
“Now, that's not like you, Katie; I am sure he made himself very agreeable. I don't like you to take prejudices against men I have so long known.”
“I am sorry, Frank,” she said, simply, “but I can't help myself. A man I don't like at first sight I never like. A man I do like, I like very much; and I always find I am right. It is an instinct, or a prejudice, if you like, Frank, but in some things instinct is stronger than reason.”
Frank was vexed, but he only said, “Well, Katie, one can't argue against a prejudice. Only, remember I like Fred Bingham, and have always found him a very good fellow, and I have known him for many years. Besides, [252] Katie, you know your prejudices are sometimes erroneous.”
His wife made a gesture of dissent.
“Come, Katie, you know you almost hated me at first, and yet I think you like me a little now.”
Katie coloured. “You silly boy, you know that was a different thing; you know why I hated you.”
“No, really, Katie; why?”
But this was a secret Katie could only tell when she had nestled close up to her husband, and his arm was round her waist. Then she looked up in his face, and said, “I hated you, Frank, because you were making me love you before I thought you loved me.”
“And now, Katie,” Frank said presently, “I must tell you what I have learned from Fred Bingham, and it has affected me very much, dear.”
Katie was all attention now, and took her stand by her husband's chair, so that she could pet him if such a step were necessary.
“It is rather a difficult thing for a man to say, Katie, and it is only because I was really [253] ignorant and wholly innocent in the affair that I can tell you at all. I am very much afraid that, without the slightest intention on my part, I have made a very dear, good girl unhappy.”
Katie drew a little farther off now.
“Alice Heathcote?”
“Yes, dear, Alice Heathcote; Fred says, and he was certainly quite in earnest about it, that my uncle's anger is caused by his disappointment at my not marrying Alice. He says my uncle has harped upon the subject until he thinks with me that his brain has gone a little wrong. But the worst of it is, he is convinced that Alice—well, it seems absurd, Katie—did love me, and that my uncle's indignation and anger are upon her account.”
“You are sure, quite sure, Frank, that you never made love to her?”
“Quite sure, you jealous little thing. I always liked her, Kate, just as I might like a sister. I never had the slightest idea of making love to her. I would tell you if I had, dear, for I do not want to have any secrets from you. She, [254] no doubt, misinterpreted my manner, and her uncle having made up his mind I was to marry her, led her into the mistake. She has been poorly for some time, Katie, and I am really afraid it is from that. It is very absurd, of course.”
“I am really very sorry, Frank,” Katie said, feeling that Frank was speaking the whole truth, and that she could afford to be magnanimous, “but what is to be done? I am afraid it is too late for me to give you up now.”
“You are a goose, Katie. But be serious, and give me your opinion. What is to be done?”
“The only thing which I can suggest, Frank, is for me to go to her and say that I am sorry the mistake has occurred, and that I will go back to Staffordshire again, and let you do as you like.”
Katie had never seen Miss Heathcote; nevertheless, from what Frank had told her of their early life together, she had somehow intuitively felt her to be a rival, and now, like a true woman, could not help a little enjoyment of her triumph.
[255]
“Very well, Katie, if that is the way you look upon it, we will not discuss the matter any farther.”
Frank was really hurt, and he spoke coldly, as he had never spoken to his wife before.
“No, no, Frank!” she said, throwing her arm round his neck as he was rising from his chair. “I am wrong, dear, I am very wrong; but you know I am a wild little thing; don't be angry with me, darling. It was natural, you know, that I should be a little jealous of other people loving my Frank as I love him. But I quite believe what you say, and am really very sorry for Miss Heathcote. I can fancy how unhappy she must be. She is very nice, isn't she?”
“She is very nice, Katie, and most men would have loved her very much. She is not my style, you know; I like something I can pet and love; she was too tall and stately, not a bit like you, Katie; as nice in her way as you are in yours, but then her way was not my way, and I suppose yours is.”
Katie was quite mollified now.
[256]
“Poor Alice!” she said, “I wish I had known her.”
“I can't quite make it all out,” Frank said thoughtfully. “Alice certainly was quiet, and looked ill for some time after that row I had with Captain Bradshaw. But she was looking better and brighter again lately, and since I have been engaged to you she has been more natural and affectionate again with me. Whatever she may have felt, I am certain that she will be as sorry for this insane conduct of my uncle's as I am. I wish I could see her and have a chat with her; but Fred tells me that my uncle has made her give him a solemn promise not to meet me, or even to speak to me if she accidentally comes across me. So you see, Katie, there is nothing to be done but to take matters quietly, and to trust in their coming right in the end.”
His wife was silent for some time. Presently she said, “You won't be vexed at my asking you a question, Frank?”
“No, Katie.”
“You promise?”
Frank nodded.
[257]
“You and Mr. Bingham are the two nearest relations to Captain Bradshaw, are you not?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Then, in the event of your uncle permanently quarrelling with you, I suppose Fred Bingham will be his heir?”
“Most likely, Katie.”
“Now, Frank, don't be vexed, but I won't talk of it again. I own I do not see how he could have done you any harm in this matter, but I feel sure he would if he could. Please, please, Frank, don't trust him. He is not good, I am sure of it.”
“There, Katie, I won't be vexed because I promised. But you are wrong, dear. However, right or wrong, Fred can do me no harm. If my uncle comes to his senses again, I am sure he will be heartily sorry for what he has done, and I know Alice will bring things round if she can. At the same time I do not deceive myself. Harry Bradshaw is not a man very easily to get an idea out of his head. He is a most kind-hearted man, but as obstinate as a mule. He has never spoken to his sister since she married Mr. [258] Bingham. Did I ever tell you about his only daughter, Katie?”
“No, Frank, I did not even know he had any children.”
Hereupon Frank told what he knew about Captain Bradshaw's daughter having made some low marriage, of his having sent her off, and of her having, as Frank had heard from his parents, died somewhere in great poverty. And Katie, after hearing it, made up her own mind that Captain Bradshaw must be a very cruel man; and that, except as to the money, the loss of his acquaintance was no great matter. As for Alice Heathcote, of course she was very sorry for her; but perhaps on the whole it was just as well—of course, for her sake—that she and Frank were not to meet again. These opinions, however, Katie wisely kept to herself.
These three days had passed very slowly to the inhabitants of Lowndes Square. The first day Captain Bradshaw had sworn more violently than ever; the second day he was more quiet; and the third day he was very sad. Alice, too, had suffered terribly, her eyes were swollen with [259] crying, and the colour faded altogether out from her cheeks. On that day, after dinner, he said suddenly, after a long silence,—
“It is no use waiting any longer, Alice. Let us go away for a bit.”
Alice's eyes filled with tears. Neither she nor her guardian had ever spoken of Frank's fault since that first day, but each perfectly understood the other's thoughts; both knew how they had longed for Frank's return, and how they had hoped that he would offer some protest against his sentence, would urge some point in mitigation of his offence; that, at least, he would have cried, “I have sinned, and I am deeply punished; have pity upon me.” Alice then knew what her uncle meant. It was no use waiting any more. Frank had nothing to say, nothing to urge; he would not even write to express sorrow. He was separated from her for ever, more than time or place, more even than death could have divided them. Her tears fell fast, but she tried to speak steadily.
“Yes, uncle, please let us go abroad.”
“Yes, Alice,” and his voice too shook as he [260] spoke; “suppose we go to Rome for the winter. I have often thought of taking you; and then next spring, you know, we can go to Jerusalem, and the Nile, and all sorts of places. We can be away as long as we like, my dear, no one will miss us here.”
Alice was kneeling by his side now, crying unrestrainedly.
“Poor child!” he said, stroking her hair. “I have been a downright brute lately, but I could not help it; we shall get on better again after a while. To think how all my plans and schemes have gone wrong. How I loved that boy, and trusted him and believed in him. How I have gladdened my heart to think that after I was gone you would be standing together in the old hall of Wyvern. And how he has turned out——”
“No, no, uncle!” Alice burst out, “don't say anything against him—I can't bear it, I can't bear it! I know it is so; but even now, though I know it, though he says not a word, I don't believe it in my heart. The Frank I loved—for I did love him, [261] uncle—could not have done it, I know he could not. You tell me he has. He does not answer. He tells me so himself. Still I say he could not. Please don't speak against him, uncle—please never mention him again. Let us think he is dead; we can forgive the dead, you know. Let us think he died a month ago when he said good-bye.”
“Ah, that mistake of mine,” the old man began, when Alice interrupted him,—
“No, uncle, you must not think that—that pain is over long ago. I did love him once, dearly, and I suffered, yes, I own I suffered, when I found out I had deceived myself, but I had got over that. He could never be anything to me, and I had taught myself to look upon him as a dear friend, a brother. No, uncle, it is not the man I had loved, but the brother I esteemed and trusted and believed in, whom I am grieving for now.”
“It shall be as you like, dear,” her uncle said, kissing her. “And now, when will you be ready to start?”
“The sooner the better, uncle. I have nothing [262] to do but to pack up. By the day after to-morrow I shall be quite ready.”
And so, in two more days, the house at Lowndes Square was shut up, and the old captain was missed from his well known seat at his club.
CHAPTER XVIII. A CUT DIRECT.
 It is now eighteen months since Frank Maynard's marriage, and has been a very quiet happy time to him. Not many incidents have occurred; the most important by far having been the birth of a son about a month back. Katie is of course very proud of it, and is a little disappointed that her husband does not consider it the finest boy in the world. Frank, however, pleads that he has no doubt that if she says so she is correct, but that for his part he can really see no difference between one baby and another—they are all queer little animals, till they begin to look about and know people. Frank has entered at the bar, and is reading to a greater extent than either he or Prescott, who had advised the step, had expected. But, indeed, Frank had found that he was only in Katie's way staying at [264] home all day, and that the long days with nothing to do really hung heavy upon his hands. Complaining of this to Prescott, the latter had renewed his former suggestion, that his friend should enter at the bar, and Frank had willingly accepted the idea, and had established himself in a room adjoining his friend's. Unfortunately it had happened that Prescott had been away on circuit at the time of the Maynards' return from their wedding-tour, and Frank had not therefore had the benefit of his advice as to the best course of action to be pursued in reference to Captain Bradshaw's extraordinary conduct. Upon Prescott's hearing of this, he had been as much puzzled as Frank himself. He, like Katie, had at first suspected that Fred Bingham must have had some hand in it; but Frank pointed out that he had seen his uncle only the day before he had gone down into Staffordshire to be married, and that he was then friendly enough. Fred Bingham was then out of town, and had not returned from his wedding-tour until after Captain Bradshaw's letter would have been written, he could therefore in no way have influenced his uncle's proceedings. This [265] was so evident, that Prescott had abandoned his idea, and had been obliged to fall back upon Frank's notion that the old man's head must have turned a little at the failure of his favourite plan. He said, that had he been in town, he should have advised Frank, upon the receipt of his uncle's unaccountable letter, to have called upon him in person. He could not, however, but acknowledge that the fact of Captain Bradshaw's returning the letter unopened, was evident proof that he would not have seen his nephew, and that even had he done so, a quarrel might have taken place, which would have rendered any future reconciliation impossible. To Prescott, as well as to Frank, this breach in the friendly relations was a trial. Prescott had never even hoped to win Alice Heathcote as long as Frank had remained unmarried, but he had a faint hope that after Frank's marriage he might some day succeed in gaining her love. Now this hope was lost; for, unless this inexplicable quarrel was made up, Prescott felt that he as Frank's friend could no longer visit at Lowndes Square. Both had hoped that Captain Bradshaw would return in an altered state of mind from his long [266] tour. He had now, however, been back in England nearly a month, and Frank had received no communication from him. This hope then was lost, for it was evident that the old man was as determined as ever that the estrangement should be final. During these eighteen months the cousins had seen but little of each other. Their respective wives had called upon each other, and each had dined at the other's home; but Fred was a good deal away from town, and Mrs. Frank, having in no way altered her first conceived opinion of him, the intercourse between Thurloe Square and Harley Street was not of a very cordial nature.
Captain Bradshaw had returned very little altered by his long ramble abroad. He was as hearty and as cheery as of old, before his dearest wishes about his ward's marriage had been thwarted. His journey had altogether done him good. It had been a complete change of life to him, and he had greatly enjoyed it. Of course he had grumbled, and had sworn terribly at Italians, Egyptians, Arabs, and many other people; but he had enjoyed it, and had confessed as much to Alice. At the same time he was very glad to be back again in Lowndes Square, [267] and to go off as of old to his club. For Alice's sake, too, he had determined to go out more into society. They had made a great many friends and acquaintances abroad, and the Captain inaugurated his return by a series of dinner-parties. Alice, too, had benefited greatly by the change of scene. She was essentially a girl of a healthy organization, and had resolutely exerted herself to shake off the depression which had weighed upon her when she started. The constant change of scene and the desire to amuse her uncle had aided her efforts, and in a few months from the time of her leaving England, the tone of her mind was completely restored. Very much was Alice Heathcote admired in the English circle at Rome. She was very quiet, very unaffected, and somewhat stately. Several of her countrymen had tried their best to win the prize of the season, but Alice gave no encouragement to any of them, and went away quite heartwhole in the Spring with her uncle. Another year's wandering had quite completed her cure, and she could now think sadly, but without deep pain, of the forfeiture by Frank Maynard of her esteem as well as of her love.
[268]
For now that she could think calmly over it, she could not but allow that there was no doubt of his unworthiness.
Once only in the month which had passed since their return to London had she seen him; for Frank had from the first gradually dropped the acquaintance of those few friends at whose houses he would be likely to meet his uncle on his return.
Alice was walking down Knightsbridge with her uncle, when they came upon a tall gentleman with a lady on his arm. Alice and her uncle recognised them at the same moment, and each could feel the other start slightly. Alice grew very pale, but looked straight forward, as did her uncle. Frank coloured with indignation, but he, too, gave no sign of recognition. Katie felt her husband draw himself up stiffly, and looked up in his face. Then she glanced at the passers. Their faces, as well as her husband's, told her who they were.
“Is that your uncle, Frank?”
“Yes, Katie,” Frank said. “Those are my uncle and Alice Heathcote. Is it not too bad, Katie? He must be as much out of his mind as [269] ever. And I suppose Alice dared not notice me.”
“I don't quite think that she wished to speak any more than he did, Frank. She looked very cold and proud. Never mind, dear. We can do very well without them.”
“Very well, Katie, I don't absolutely care a bit, only the utter injustice and absurdity of the thing make me angry. No, dear, I am perfectly happy as I am.”
Katie was rather pleased, too, and comparing the stately Miss Heathcote to herself, she said, “After all, I do think I can make Frank happier than she would ever have done.” A thought when they were alone she confided to her husband, who said he had never doubted the fact for a moment.
CHAPTER XIX. A CHANGE OF PLAN.
 John Holl's habitation had not changed very greatly since the night that Frank Maynard had gone there with his friend Prescott to help Bessy Holl in her time of trouble. Bessy had long since started to join her husband—sooner, indeed, than she had ever hoped to do—for eight months after he had sailed, a letter arrived from him, with good news for his anxious wife. He told her that at first his life on board ship had been very miserable. His companions were principally ruffians of the lowest class, but it happened that the officer in command wanted a clerk, and had employed him for some hours each day in writing. This officer had taken a liking to him, and had granted him the great indulgence of sleeping apart from the general herd of convicts, who had before made his life [271] miserable by their perpetual blasphemies and disputes. When the voyage was half over they had attempted a rising, with the object of murdering the warders and seizing the ship. In the short fray which followed he had been able to be of some assistance, and had received a severe blow, intended for the commanding officer, from a belaying pin, which had laid him up for some time. Upon landing, the officer had reported so strongly in favour of his conduct, that the governor of the establishment had written to the home authorities in mitigation of his sentence, and had promised him a ticket of leave at the end of six months, employing him in the meantime in the office. He therefore told Bessy she could at once sail for Adelaide; he would be able to join her upon her arrival.
Frank had been down staying at the Drakes' with his wife, and therefore did not see the grateful woman before she started. With this exception, things went on as before. The only change was in the cripple. He had altered greatly. He still worked at his wax-flower making, and studied at his books, but it was no [272] longer with the keen interest with which he had formerly worked. He was no longer cheerful and even gay, but would sit at his work for hours without speaking. He was much thinner than he had been, and his face had the expression of great suffering, which is often to be seen in deformed people. He could no longer swing himself upstairs to his bedroom, but slept in the little room on the ground-floor, which John Holl and his wife had resigned to him. Sarah Holl grieved sadly over the change; she loved the lad more than her own children; for had she not done more for him? Palpably, James was fading. He was not dying of a broken heart, but he was giving up life because he no longer cared about living. He had loved Carry, as an ordinary man could not have loved her. Other men would have their pursuits and their pleasures, and their duties; he had only her. He knew that she was not for him. He never dreamt of her in that way. It was a devotion such as a Parsee might pay to his great god of heat and light. She was as far out of his reach, and yet she lighted and gladdened his life. With her loss all its light had gone out. It never [273] entered his thought to blame her. The fire worshipper would as soon blame the sun-god when a cloud has passed between him and the earth. He cursed her destroyer; cursed him with all the intense bitterness of impotence, for none knew who was this man who had brought ruin to the quiet home in New Street. And so all his life changed to bitterness. Why was he ever born? he asked himself, over and over again; why was he sent into the earth to be a mere weight upon other people? Oh, that he was strong, if only for a little time; if only for long enough to find out and to kill this man who had murdered Carry. He could die then; die quietly and happily; ay, even upon a gallows, with the world jeering at him and cursing him. But he was a cripple, and helpless; he had nothing to do but to die; after that it might be different. He would not be a cripple then; all his trouble would be over. Yes, the sooner he died the better.
With this feeling in his heart, it is little wonder that the cripple faded fast, and that the medicine which Sarah Holl insisted upon his taking had no salutary effect. With his adopted [274] parents he was always gentle and affectionate. He was as ready to help the children as formerly, as thoughtful and as unselfish, but the bright smile was gone; and Sarah Holl, as she looked up from her washing-tub at the quiet figure, with his work before him—but with his nimble fingers sometimes pausing awhile, while his thoughts were far away—would stop to wipe her eyes furtively with her checked apron. With a woman's discernment she had felt the reason of the change; the short cry, the ghastly pallor with which he had received the first news of Carry's flight; the wild outburst of passion; the subsequent quiet sadness, were enough for her. She knew then how he had worshipped Carry. She had communicated her thoughts to John, and had ordered the children never to allude to the subject of Carry's absence under pain of the severest punishment. And so the girl's name was never mentioned in the little house which her presence had so often brightened.
One thing only of notability had occurred, and this had been of so extraordinary a kind, that it had upset all Mrs. Holl's calculation of time. Mr. Barton had made his usual call, and had [275] evidently been struck with the great change which had taken place in James's appearance. He had not, however, spoken upon the subject, but had come again after only a month's interval, and had been palpably moved and excited at the sight of James's increasing weakness. He had even, when the others were talking, entered into a little private conversation with Mrs. Holl, and had inquired of her what was the cause of the illness of the cripple. Mrs. Holl had honestly told him that she did not know, and that the doctor, who had made two visits to the lad, had been unable to say what his ailment was. “Poor boy,” she added, “I fear he will not be with us long.”
Mr. Barton had been palpably affected, and had promised to call again soon to see how his young friend was getting on. What was really passing in his mind, was evident from his conversation with his wife upon his return home, after two or three subsequent visits to the Holls,—
“You have got away sooner than usual, Barton,” that lady said, when he entered.
“Yes,” he said. “No use stopping.”
[276]
“Is the boy worse?” she asked anxiously.
“He is, Rachel. He is dying, there is no doubt about that. He may live a year or two; it all depends; but he is breaking up. Of course, the great question with us is, will he hold on till he is one-and-twenty? He wants nearly two years of it yet.”
“One-and-twenty won't do, Barton,” his wife said decidedly. “What is the use of getting a bond for ten thousand pounds from a boy who is going to die before he comes into his property? Who is going to pay it? After what has happened it is not likely his grandfather would pay a penny. The bond would not be worth the paper it's written on. No; if the boy is really dying, the whole game is up.”
“Yes,” her husband said, stroking his chin, “but I don't quite despair of making a good thing out of it yet. You see, the old man has two nephews, who, of course, if the boy is not heard of, are his natural heirs. One of these nephews he has, I find, quarrelled with, but what about I cannot discover; and I have tried every way I know. However, it is a regular split, and he is altogether out of it; so the other expects to step into the [277] old man's shoes. Now for the last three months, seeing that the boy is dying, I have had Benjamin at work, finding out about this other one. He is a hard-fisted, sharp young fellow, and he is said to be a 'cute hand at a bargain; and about as hard a chap to get over as you could want. A regular grinder. He has got some big works on down in the country, and his men hate him like poison. Benjamin says he don't know that he ever knew a young one so hated. Now I should think I might work him a bit. Just tell him the heir is alive, and that I can produce him. I don't know after all that it would not be as good as the old thing, and no fear of a blow up. What do you think, Rachel?”
“Well, it might do,” his wife answered. “Don't you let him find out where the boy is, Barton, or he would wait till he died, and then snap his fingers at you.”
“Thank you, Rachel; I am not quite a fool,” her husband said grimly. “In a matter like this, which I have waited and planned for, for twenty years, I am not likely to make a mistake.”
“And you have quite made up your mind, [278] Barton, that it will be better to try with the next heir?”
“Quite, Rachel; I have thought it over in every light, and I don't see that there is any chance now of getting anything out of this boy after all these years of watching.”
END OF VOL. II.