All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 3 of 3

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All But Lost.

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All But Lost.

_A Novel._

By

G. A. Henty,

Author Of “The March To Magdala,” Etc., Etc.

In Three Volumes.

Vol. III.

London: Tinsley Brothers, 18, Catherine St., Strand. 1869.

[The Right of Translation is reserved.]

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London: Bradbury, Evans, And Co., Printers, Whitefriars.

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Contents.

Chap. Page

I. —Arcades Ambo 1

II. —Ruined 17

III. —Proffered Aid 31

IV. —Showing The Hoof 53

V. —Finding A Clue 67

VI. —Strange Tidings 85

VII. —Owned At Last 100

VIII. —Scotching A Snake 114

IX. —John Holl, Dust Contractor 132

X. —Well Matched 146

XI. —Avenged 159

XII. —Shaking Off The Yoke 170

XIII. —Not Guilty! 200

XIV. —Waiting For The Ship 218

XV. —Reconciled 248

XVI. —Squaring Accounts 272

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All But Lost.

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Chapter I.

Arcades Ambo.

Fred Bingham was now rather an important person in his way. He had a large number of works in hand; he was contractor for miles of sewers in and around London. He was building a nobleman’s mansion in Sussex, and a large church in Birmingham. He had a pier in hand down in Cornwall, and a railway in Durham. Altogether he appeared to be a flourishing man. People who met him casually, spoke of him as an extremely pushing, sharp young fellow, with a pleasant manner; men who met him in business said he was a cute fellow, but hard, sir, hard as nails. Any one who had seen him at home, as his wife and his servants saw him, knew him for a morose and irritable tyrant. Not that he had not his pleasant moments, when he would jest with his wife, and speak jokingly to the servants, and be for a short time pleasant and apparently light-hearted, but the slightest thing would bring the cloud over his face, and his sharp voice would say the most bitter things to every one around him, regardless of who heard him. His wife was greatly changed since he married her; never actually pretty, there had yet been a trusting kindliness in her face, and under happier auspices the poor little heiress might have blossomed out into a very bright little flower. But now the bud had closed up on itself, as if stricken with the touch of a bitter March wind, and she was a silent, timid woman. She loved her husband still, but she feared him even more than she loved him. She was always nervously trying to please him, and was ever ready to laugh if he was in a humour to joke. She bore his bitterest taunts without an answer, although a flush of pain, as if she had been struck, came up sometimes over her face when he spoke so to her before the servants. In money matters her husband was liberal. He had always been openhanded as a boy, and now he never grudged his wife any thing that she fancied. She had her carriage, and her maid, and when she was in the country he seldom came back from his visit to London without a rich dress, or a pretty bonnet, or some present which he thought she would like. To his servants too he was a liberal, and in some respects a kind master. He liked the pleasure of giving, and if presents could have bought love, he would have been adored by those around him. But his irritable temper and his bitter tongue would constantly inflict wounds which no presents could salve, no mere burst of good humour heal. One reason of his irritability was unquestionably the state of his business. Large as it apparently was, his position was precarious. The whole of his wife’s capital was sunk in it, but that was as nothing in comparison to the requirements of such extensive works as he was now carrying on. He had, therefore, been obliged to borrow large sums of money, and to discount his payments for work done. He was staying alone now in his house in Harley Street, his wife being down at a place he had taken to be near his work at Durham; and as usual, during these London visits, was in an exceedingly irritable state of temper, when among his letters he received one signed Robert Barton. Its contents were brief.

“Private Enquiry Office.

“SIR,—I am in possession of information of the last importance to yourself, and which I wish an early opportunity of discussing with you. I shall be at this office from eleven until one every day, or will call upon you at any time for which you may choose to make an appointment.”

Fred Bingham’s pale face became even whiter than usual. “What the devil does this fellow want to see me about? Business of the last importance;” and his thoughts at once flew to the matter of his cousin Frank. “Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “that is out of the question. It must be that he has heard that some one is not solvent, or that some of my bills perhaps have got into bad hands. At any rate, I must go and see the fellow.” Then he put Mr. Barton’s letter aside, opened several of the others, some of which he read through carefully, others threw aside at a glance. The last he opened was from his wife.

“Bah!” he said, impatiently, “what quantities of twaddle women write, as if any one was going to read them through,” and he tore the letter up and threw the fragments into a waste-paper basket. He drew his desk to him and wrote several letters; then he looked at his watch. “Eleven o’clock. I will go up to the City at once, and see this Barton. I shall only worry about it until I know what it is. Mary,” he said sharply, as the servant entered, “fetch a hansom, and look sharp about it.”

Mr. Barton was alone in his den when the clerk brought in Mr. Bingham’s card. “Show him in,” and as the clerk left the room, Mr. Barton rose, took a small bundle of papers from an iron safe, and placed them in a drawer by his side. Fred Bingham entered. “Take a seat, Mr. Bingham.”

“I have received a note from you this morning,” Fred said shortly, “and thought it as well to call at once.”

“Quite as well,” Mr. Barton said slowly, rubbing his chin and examining his visitor’s face, as if to read his character; “quite as well,” he repeated rather more rapidly, as if his survey had been a satisfactory one. “Yes. There is nothing like attending to business at once. That has always been my rule.”

Fred Bingham made a gesture of impatience.

“If you will tell me what you want,” he said, “I shall be glad. I have business of importance to attend to.”

“No doubt, no doubt, Mr. Bingham, but hardly I imagine of such importance as the present, as you will I am sure allow when you have heard me. Now, Mr. Bingham,” he went on sharply and decisively, as if he had now quite made up his mind as to his visitor’s character, and the conclusion he had arrived at were satisfactory, “we will proceed to business. We are both of us men of the world.”

Fred Bingham did not like the opening. His own experience had been universal that when two men agreed that they were men of the world, they were about to propose or to carry out some doubtful business which would not bear a rigid investigation. He only nodded, however, and the detective went on—

“The business relates to family matters.” Again the old fear came into Fred Bingham’s thoughts, and the man who was watching him saw instantly that there was some sore point or other in his family affairs. “You are, I believe, sir, the next of kin and recognised heir of Captain Bradshaw, of Lowndes Square and of Wyvern Park, in the county of Leicester. You may readily imagine that a man of my profession does not ask such a question from mere impertinent curiosity.”

“I presume not,” Fred Bingham said coldly. “You are mistaken. My cousin, Mr. Maynard, is an equally near relative with myself,—indeed, as son of the elder sister, he is Captain Bradshaw’s nearest heir.”

“Quite so,” Mr. Barton said; “so I understood. But I am also aware—for in these matters one, of course, makes oneself acquainted with all particulars—that a quarrel has arisen between Captain Bradshaw and Mr. Maynard, and that you may now not unreasonably be regarded as his sole heir.”

“I am not aware of Captain Bradshaw’s intention with regard to the disposal of his property,” Fred Bingham said stiffly.

“No!” Mr. Barton said as if surprised. “I imagined that you were, at least it is whispered—these things get whispered, you know—that you applied to a party in the city, who shall be nameless, and obtained a heavyish loan on the strength of your expectation in that quarter.”

Fred Bingham coloured scarlet, and was about to speak, when Mr. Barton stopped him.

“Pooh, pooh, my dear sir, don’t be angry. As men of the world we understand these matters, and the little affair in question is not known beyond a very small circle of safe men. If men did not mention the matter to their particular friends, you know, accidents might happen; a gentleman might borrow twice, for instance, from different parties upon the strength of his expectations.”

Fred Bingham bit his lip, for he had only the night before been meditating on the possibility of some such step as that suggested. He did not speak, and Mr. Barton went on—

“I think, then, that it will assist us to a better understanding of the position, if we assume—just assume, you know—that you are the probable heir to Captain Bradshaw’s very large property, now that Captain Bradshaw has had this unfortunate quarrel with your cousin.”

Mr. Barton laid a meaning stress upon the word unfortunate, and Fred Bingham said hastily—

“I had nothing to do with the quarrel.”

“Of course not, of course not,” Mr. Barton said, having not the least doubt but that he had, a doubt of which he made a mental note for future use. Fred Bingham felt that thus far he had had much the worst of the struggle, and he said,—

“I really do not see, Mr. Barton, where the conversation about family matters is leading us to.”

“Patience, my dear sir,” Mr. Barton said, composedly, “I am coming to the point. Now you being, as we have assumed for the sake of argument, the probable heir to the very large property of Captain Bradshaw, it would be a new and somewhat unpleasant circumstance if another person should appear being a nearer relation than yourself, and having consequently stronger claims upon his affections. In fact, let us suppose a grandson.”

Fred Bingham was relieved of the fear which had hitherto oppressed him, and he said, angrily,—

“Really, Mr. Barton, I cannot enter upon any such impossible conjecture.”

“But suppose I tell you, Mr. Bingham, that it is not a conjecture at all, but a fact, and that such a grandson is really in existence?”

Fred Bingham for a moment sat speechless, and then exclaimed, fiercely,—

“I should say it was a lie.”

“No doubt you would; no doubt you would,” Mr. Barton said, very composedly; “and very natural too. But for all that it is true. Your cousin, Captain Bradshaw’s daughter, ran away from home, married and died, leaving a child behind her. That child is alive!”

Fred Bingham sat in complete stupefaction. He had heard, it is true, years ago of a daughter of Captain Bradshaw, but the possibility of her child being in existence to step in between him and the fortune had never entered his mind. He did not doubt the fact, for Barton’s manner was too earnest to be doubted. He sat astounded and crushed under the unexpected disaster.

“Here,” Mr. Barton went on, quietly taking the papers from the drawer, “here is a copy of the register of her marriage, here is a copy of the baptism of the infant, and I could procure—were it to the point, which it is not—a copy of the register of her burial.”

Fred Bingham sat for some time in silence, but after the first burst of surprise and despair, his busy brain began to work again. Why did this man come to him instead of going either to Captain Bradshaw himself, or to the heir? Why did he come to him? Naturally because he saw an advantage in so doing; because, in fact, he would get more out of him. At least there was hope then. When he spoke, his words expressed these thoughts.

“You have not finished, Mr. Barton. Of course you come to me with an object; of course that object is money. Now why do you come to me before you go to them? Why do you suppose I would pay you more?”

“Very good, indeed, sir. I like doing business in a practical way, and that’s what I call practical talk. I can only give you the answer in the words of your own question. I came to you simply because I do believe you would give me more than either Captain Bradshaw or his grandson and also, and mainly, because when you and I have agreed upon the matter, there is no fear of its going any further—it would not suit either of us for it to get abroad. Now, on the other hand, Captain Bradshaw or his grandson might refuse to pay. The relationship once disclosed I lose my hold upon them, and if I were to try to enforce my claim, I should not go into court with clean hands. I was employed by Captain Bradshaw to trace his daughter, and when I told him of her death, I forgot to mention she had left a child. You see the public might take a wrong view of it, and it is even possible that I might lose my suit. Now with you I have none of these inconveniences. I know if you agree to pay me you will do so, because it is your interest. You know I shall keep my part of the bargain, because in the event of my opening my lips, the public would know that I have acted in a rather unprofessional and underhand way, and I should be spoken of in a way I should not like.”

“There is only one other point, Mr. Barton. How am I to know this boy is still alive?”

“Ah,” Mr. Barton said approvingly, “I do like to deal with a man with his head well on his shoulders. Now you have hit upon the only weak point. I cannot prove it. I know the young man. I see him constantly, but without letting him know it. I cannot prove it to you without his having his suspicions awakened. How can I? You must take my word for it. I tell you he is alive. If any sort of oath will satisfy you, I will take it; I can’t say more than that.”

Fred Bingham rose.

“I can give you no answer now upon this. It is all new to me. I must think it over. I will call to-morrow about the same time.” And he went out and got into the cab which had been waiting for him. “Back again to Harley Street, and drive quick.”

Fred Bingham sat for some hours in his study that evening thinking over the new and unexpected impediment to his hopes. “To think of a grandson of the old man being alive just when everything looked so well. Was ever anything so frightfully unlucky?” However of course the question was, was it worth while to buy this man off or not? Fred Bingham had a clear head, and he considered every possible argument which could be urged upon either side. If he refused to treat, and the heir was produced, what then? Captain Bradshaw had, he had heard, bitterly regretted his treatment of the mother, and would no doubt receive the boy with joy, and establish him as his heir. Of course he would leave a considerable sum to himself. He would feel bound to do so. Fred did not deceive himself, his uncle had never liked him as he had Frank; still he would leave him perhaps a third of the whole property. Suppose he bought this man off. The whole property was worth perhaps £150,000; suppose he gave £20,000 for silence, of course it would pay him well. But would that be the end of it? Would he find himself in this man’s power if he did so? Yes, that was the real question. The agreement of course would be, that he would give a bond to pay a certain amount at his uncle’s death, provided his uncle died ignorant of the existence of his grandson. Yes, that would be it. Then he would pay the money in cash, so that no trace of the transaction could be brought against him, and he would receive in exchange the bond. Would Barton have any hold upon him afterwards? He did not think so. He did not see how he could have any. Suppose he produced the grandson, what then? The will would have left the property to him, and the grandson would not have the slightest claim. Could Barton threaten to divulge the compact? He could deny that it ever existed, and Barton would have no proof to adduce. Over and over again he thought it over, and again and again he arrived at the same conclusion; the grandson could have no claim, Barton could hold no threat over his head. It was not so very bad after all. And with this conclusion he went to bed. The next day he called again at Mr. Barton’s office. The interview was brief this time.

“How much do you want to hold your tongue?”

“The estate is worth £150,000 by what I hear. I will charge ten per cent.”

“No,” Fred Bingham said, “if this heir turns up I should get at least a third. I will give you ten per cent. upon the rest.”

“Come,” Mr. Barton said, “I have waited twenty years. I will take £12,000, not a farthing less.”

“Very well,” Fred Bingham said; “payable of course at my uncle’s death, in the event of no nearer heir than myself appearing.”

“Just so,” Mr. Barton assented. “I have drawn up a bond on stamped paper up to £15,000, the figures are not put in. I will fill it up. ‘I owe Robert Barton the sum of £12,000, which I agree to pay upon the death of Captain Bradshaw of Lowndes Square, providing that no nearer heir than myself to his property be found.’”

“But supposing,” Fred Bingham said, “that my uncle quarrels with me and leaves his property to some one else?”

“I don’t think you are likely to let him quarrel with you, Mr. Bingham; but should he do so, I rely upon you for your own sake to come here and tell me so frankly, and I will then restore you this paper, and produce the grandson.”

Fred thought for a minute, and then said, “Yes, that would suit us both. There, I have signed the bond. Don’t leave it about. Good morning, Mr. Barton.”

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Chapter II

Ruined.

Frank Maynard and his wife had finished breakfast. Frank was reading the “Times,” and Kate had just brought down baby to play with. Frank suddenly gave a sharp exclamation as of sudden pain.

“What is it, Frank? What is the matter?”

Frank did not answer, his face had a look of utter dismay. “Send baby away.” His wife rang the bell, and baby was sent up to the nursery.

“What is it, Frank dear? Something very bad? Tell me, dearest.”

“Katie,” Frank said, “if this is true, and there can be no doubt of it, we are ruined,—ruined, little woman.”

“How, Frank?” his wife asked, unable to realise the misfortune, “how ruined, dear?”

“The great Indian Bank is broken, Katie—a complete smash.”

“But, Frank, that is not altogether ruin; I have heard you say half your money was in the shares of that Bank, and the other half in the Bank of England, so only half is gone.”

“No, Katie; the Bank has failed, the notice says, for an immense amount. Not one-third of the amount of the shares is called in; they will call up the rest now, and every farthing we have in the world will go, Katie. Oh, my poor little wife, my poor little wife!”

“My dearest, I have you left, so I am rich still. Do not give way, Frank, my own boy, you must not do that; we shall do very well somehow. Don’t give way, Frank.”

“My darling, I am only thinking of you. My little tender wife! To think how different your life will be.”

“My dear Frank, I am not a hothouse flower—I am a little wild Irish girl; do you think I can’t rough it as well as you? Why, Frank, I have been wondering lately whether I was always to lead such an idle, useless life as I have lately, with only baby to work for. I am sure I shall be happier, Frank, and you know, dear, I can be useful, and perhaps earn money. I am sure I could give singing lessons.”

“No, no, don’t talk of it, Katie. I am not a man to give way. I was upset when I thought of you, dear, but I shall be only too proud and too glad to work for you; and as long as I have a pair of hands you may be sure, Katie, there is no need for you to talk of doing anything. Why, you little goose, have you no faith in me? I can do all sorts of things.”

“Can you, Frank?” Kate said doubtfully; “well, we shall see, only let us trust each other, dear, and we can look the worst in the face.”

“You are a darling, Katie, and I did not know what a treasure I had got. There, I feel all right again now, so I will go up to the city, perhaps things may not be as bad as they seem.”

Frank, however, derived but little comfort from what he heard in town. The city was in a state of consternation. The break down of the Bank had been quite unexpected. The “Indian” had been looked upon as one of the most stable of the banks, and no one knew which might go next. The liabilities were described as tremendous. It was certain that the shareholders would have to pay up to their last penny, and that even then the depositors would suffer greatly. Frank went back again to Thurloe Square greatly depressed.

“It is as bad as it can be, Katie,” he said, in answer to his wife’s questioning look when he entered. “It is no use deceiving ourselves. We shall be called upon to pay up every penny we have.”

“Well, Frank,” Kate said, simply, “we have the consolation that it is no fault of ours, and I am sure, dear, we shall be very happy wherever we are.”

“I am sure we shall, Katie.”

“I suppose we shall not have to turn out just yet, Frank?”

“Oh, no; there will be receivers appointed, and then the calls will be made. I should think it will be a couple of months before anything is settled.”

“Ah! then, Frank, we need not worry ourselves; we shall have plenty of time to think over our plans.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Prescott entered.

“My dear Frank! My dear Kate”—for Frank and his wife had long since insisted that their friend should so call her—“I am sorry for this. I only heard it this afternoon, for I never look at the money article; so directly I could get away from court, I ran down to see you. This is, indeed, a bad affair.”

“It can’t be helped, Arthur,” Kate said, cheerfully; “it’s no use crying over spilt milk.”

“Is it very bad, Frank?”

“Every penny we have in the world, Prescott. It’s no use mincing matters.”

Prescott sat down in consternation.

“Don’t take it to heart, Arthur,” Kate said; “you see we are very comfortable over it.”

Prescott could not answer for some time. At last he said,—

“At least, Frank has one treasure left him.”

“No nonsense, Arthur, else I shall be angry with you. Now please let us say no more about it till after dinner, and then we will hold a council. We will all go into Frank’s snuggery, and Frank shall smoke his big meerschaum; that always puts him in a good temper if he’s ever so cross.”

“You are an impudent puss, Katie; you know I never am cross.”

“Oh, what fibs, Frank! You know you are a perfect bear sometimes. There, it is time for you to go upstairs, dinner will be ready in five minutes.”

Kate left the room, her husband remaining behind to say to his friend,—

“Isn’t she a brick, Prescott? Isn’t she a downright little trump? I tell you what, Prescott, I never was sharp, but I managed somehow to choose the very best little woman in the world.” And then he went upstairs after his wife.

At dinner, Prescott was the most silent of the party. Frank, in his pleasure and pride at his wife’s stout-heartedness, was in really high spirits; and Katie having wisely turned the subject to travels, Frank rattled on about some adventures of his in Albania, and never came back again to England until the cloth was removed. Then Kate said,—

“Evan, put the wine and glasses in your master’s study. Now, Frank, let us go there. I have ordered a fire to be lighted; it is more cheerful.”

It was not until they had been seated for some minutes in Frank’s smoking-room, and until Frank’s meerschaum was fairly alight, that Prescott brought the conversation to present matters by asking,—

“Have you thought at all of going abroad, Frank?”

“Well, no,” Frank said. “I have not thought about it, but I should be open to any good appointment. Wolf killer to his Majesty the Czar of all the Russias, that would suit me capitally; or, if I could not get that, say ambassador to Madrid.”

“No, no, Frank; I am speaking seriously. I mean are you thinking of going at once? Hundreds of men in your position will go. The calls cannot be made for another month or six weeks; and there is nothing in the world to prevent your selling out of the Funds, and you would still have a good income for the Continent.”

Frank was silent. After a pause his wife spoke.

“But that would be cheating, would it not, Arthur?”

Prescott hesitated; he was too straightforward to equivocate.

“I don’t know that it would be absolutely cheating, Kate. Frank, you see, has lost a large sum by the fall of the Bank, and he may consider that he has a perfect right to save the rest if he can. Hundreds will do so, no doubt.”

“Still, I suppose it is cheating all the same, Arthur?” Kate said quietly. “If Frank’s money properly belongs to the creditors of the Bank, it must be cheating if he goes off without paying it.”

“Look here, Prescott,” Frank said gravely; “the interest and sympathy of the public will in this, as in all cases, be with the depositor, and not with the shareholder. In this case more than ordinarily so; for the depositors in the ‘Indian’ were old Indian officers, and their widows and children. The distress this smash will cause will be terrible; and by what I hear, even after the greatest amount possible is wrung out of the shareholders, there will not be nearly enough to pay the depositors in full. Now, Prescott, I could stand a good deal of hardship and trial, but I could not stand being pointed at as a man who had swindled—that would be the word, old man; there is no use mincing it—the widows and orphans who have been brought to want by the failure of the Bank. Even for Katie’s sake I could not do that.”

“You never thought we would, did you, Arthur?”

“No, I did not,” Prescott answered. “I thought you would not, still I thought it right to suggest the thing before it is too late to be carried out. There is no doubt that a vast number of the unfortunate shareholders of the ‘Indian’ are preparing to spend the rest of their time on the Continent.”

“It is very wicked of them,” Katie said, earnestly.

“You are too hard, little woman,” Frank said. “We must not judge other people by ourselves. There are circumstances under which I might myself do what they are doing. For me there would be no excuse for choosing a life of dishonest ease to setting-to at hard work of some sort. I am not yet seven-and-twenty; it is comparatively easy for me to begin life; but suppose I were an old man, with no possible kind of work to turn to to earn a living, and with a wife of my own age, and a grown-up daughter or two, what then? What could I possibly do? You must remember our case is just as hard as that of the depositors. We bought shares at prices which paid five or six per cent.—no extraordinary interest—and we imagined that the money was absolutely safe. The depositors put their money in the Bank, and received interest for it. The Bank goes, from no fault of ours any more than of theirs. We lose every penny invested; they will receive, at any rate, some part of what they put in. I think, then, that an old man, in the case I have spoken of, would be morally justified in trying to save anything which may remain to him; but I do not think a young man would be.”

“Perhaps so,” Katie said, thoughtfully. “At any rate, I am glad you are a young man.”

“So am I, Kate,” Frank laughed. “There, Prescott, now we have quite decided upon that point, what is your next idea?”

“My dear Frank, I have no idea,” Prescott said; “it is for you to turn over in your mind what you think would suit you.”

“I was thinking of that as I came down from town, Prescott,” Frank said, disconsolately; “and upon my word I don’t see what I am fit for. I write a rascally bad hand, and I am sure no one would take me as a clerk; I couldn’t do anything in the literary line, to save my life, I can pull an oar you know; but then, fellows must be apprenticed before they can be watermen. Upon my word, the only thing I can see for myself,” he said, ruefully, “is to go into the ring. I fancy there ain’t above one or two men I couldn’t hold my own with.”

“A prizefighter, Frank! For shame! How dare you talk of such a thing?” Katie said, indignantly.

“He is only joking, Kate,” Prescott said, although he saw that Frank had been half in earnest. “He is laughing at himself and us.”

“Yes, I suppose it would not do,” Frank said, with half a sigh; “but upon my word it is about all I am fit for.”

“You see, Arthur, if Frank could get any little thing to do here, I could help. I could give lessons in, singing. Besides, I can work very well. I am a wonderful hand at bonnets.”

“You are a wonderful goose,” Frank broke in, seizing her and taking her from her chair on to his knees in his own easy chair, and checking her remonstrances with “Do as you are told, Katie, Prescott won’t mind.”

“Frank, I am really ashamed of you. I shall go away. I will, Frank; please let me go.”

“Not a bit of it, Katie. Here you are, and here you remain. Now, Prescott, please go on. It is agreed Katie is to give singing lessons, and I am to stay at home and nurse baby.”

“Frank, that is unkind,” Katie said, with the tears in her eyes. “Why should I not have the pleasure of helping too?”

“My own Katie,” Frank said. “If the worst comes to the worst, you shall help; but I hope that we shall hit on something better than that. Your proper work will be quite as hard, my pet; what with baby and me you will have quite enough to do. I am afraid I shall be the most troublesome of the two. Now, Prescott, have you anything else to propose?”

“Nothing definite, Frank; but if I were in your place, with your strength and energy, and with such a brave-hearted wife to back me and help me, I should emigrate. I am afraid there is no sort of profession here for which you are fitted, but you are just the man to get on out there. A man who is strong and active, and is willing to turn his hand to anything, is safe to get on; and no kind of work is considered dishonouring out there.”

“By Jove, Prescott, that would be just the thing for me, but it would be a rough life for poor Kate.”

“Not rougher for me than for you, Frank. Besides, you know that I could really help you out there.”

“I should think so, Kate; still I think if we really do make up our minds to it, it would be better for me to go out first to make a home for you, Katie—a rough home, dear, but still a home—and for you to stay for a little while with the Drakes.”

“Look here, Frank,” his wife said, with a tear glistening in her eye again, and a laugh that was nearly a cry, “I promise you solemnly, that if you once leave me behind, you leave me behind for good. You don’t mean it, do you, husband?”

“No, darling; that is, I don’t mean it, if you don’t want it. Well, Prescott, and which of the colonies do you think would suit me best?”

“Ah, that is a matter for great consideration, Frank. You must do nothing in a hurry. There are Canada, the Cape, the various Australian colonies, and New Zealand. You must get up the subject, and settle a little what line you mean to take up.”

“By Jove, Prescott, it is a great idea, and has taken a tremendous weight off my mind. I did not see anything for it but the ring, you know, and Kate does not seem to fancy that. Well, we may consider the matter settled so far.”

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Chapter III

Proffered Aid.

Alice Heathcote had noticed that for a week past Captain Bradshaw had been unusually absent and moody. He had, however, upon the first occasion, when she had inquired if anything were the matter, answered so sharply, “Nothing, my dear, what makes you get such ideas in your head?” that she had not again approached the subject, and rather put it down to an access of her uncle’s chronic complaint of liver.

They were one evening at a small dinner party at the house of an old friend. During a pause in the conversation at dessert, their host remarked, “Shocking bad business that of the ‘Indian’, Bradshaw.”

“Very,” Captain Bradshaw said, curtly.

“You had no shares in it, I hope?”

“Not a penny,” Captain Bradshaw answered.

“Bad business for your nephew Frank. I hear he’s completely done for. Furniture advertised! Fine young fellow, sorry for him—haven’t seen much of him of late. However, it doesn’t matter so much in his case. He’s got a good uncle, eh, Bradshaw?”

“Frank and myself have had a difference,” Captain Bradshaw said stiffly; “I have not spoken to him since his marriage.”

“God bless my soul!” the host said, in much confusion; “I beg your pardon—never dreamt of it—never, upon my life. You have been away so long, you see.”

“It is of no consequence,” Captain Bradshaw said, calmly; “we will change the subject.”

Alice Heathcote had heard all this in silence; she felt that she was very pale, and was grateful when the hostess, to break the awkward silence that ensued, rose as Captain Bradshaw finished speaking, and gave the signal for the ladies to retire. Alice took up a book as an excuse for being silent, sat down upon an ottoman apart from the others, and thought over what she had heard. Frank ruined. The furniture to be sold. Was it possible? What would Frank do? What could he do? Frank had been very wicked, very, very wrong, but still he had for many years been her playmate and brother. Could it be possible that he was absolutely ruined, had nothing to live on? What would he do? and with a wife, too, the wife of whom he used to talk so lovingly and proudly to her; and a little child, too. No, no, whatever Frank had done he must not want. While she was so rich, Frank at any rate should never be poor; but how could she do it? Alice was still thinking over this when the gentlemen came upstairs. The host came and took his seat on the ottoman by her.

“My dear Miss Heathcote, I am very sorry I made such a terrible mistake at dinner. But I had no idea of it. I understand now why Maynard came here so seldom—dropped our acquaintance, in fact. I was rather hurt about it, as an old friend, and that is why I did not ask him and his wife to meet you to-day. He had refused me twice. But what is this all about? I always made sure he was to be Captain Bradshaw’s heir.”

“I cannot tell you what it is about, Mr. Pierce,” Alice said, simply, “but I am afraid it will never be made up. Please tell me is he really ruined?”

“I am afraid so; in fact I am sure of it. He himself once mentioned to me that he was a large shareholder in the ‘Indian’ and I happened to meet him the day before yesterday, and as an old friend, you know, spoke to him about it, and said I hoped he was not hit hard. ‘I am, indeed’ he said, ‘about as hard as can be. When the calls are made, every penny I have goes.’”

“Did he seem very low spirited, Mr. Pierce?”

“Oh, no,” her host said; “he seemed just as usual; spoke out in his cheery sort of way, as if it was a matter of no very great importance to himself that he was talking about; and I naturally supposed, as I had always looked upon him as Captain Bradshaw’s heir, that he was by no means anxious about the future. And you say that there is no chance of the quarrel being made up? I am sorry, indeed! such a nice lad as he was, and such a fine fellow as he had grown up. If there is anything I can do, Miss Heathcote; if as an old friend, I can try to bring matters round, you may rely upon me.”

“Thank you,” Alice said; “but it would not be of the slightest use. It would make matters worse, indeed. No, nothing can be done.”

Another of the gentlemen now coming up, the conversation was changed, and shortly afterwards Captain Bradshaw’s carriage was announced. Neither spoke upon their way home, and the only words exchanged as they separated upon the stair, were “Good night, uncle;” “Good night, Alice. You look tired.” The next morning Alice looked pale and ill, but her uncle made no observation. They were silent at breakfast, at last Alice said resolutely,—

“Uncle, you will not be angry with me?”

“I don’t know, Alice; I hope not.”

“I have always been a good girl, Guardy, haven’t I?”

“Yes, Alice, a very good girl.”

“I have never teased you, or wanted to have my own way, have I?”

“Well, Alice, you have not teased me more than was reasonable that a young woman should do, and I don’t know that I ever particularly wanted you to go any way you did not yourself like.”

Captain Bradshaw spoke playfully, but he quite guessed what Alice was going to say, and was fully prepared to resist her.

“Uncle, you had heard before of Frank having lost all his money?”

“Yes, I had heard it before, Alice,” Captain Bradshaw said, and then muttered to himself, “and serve him right too.”

“Uncle,” Alice said, pleadingly, “can you bear to think of Frank with his young wife and a baby being in want, in absolute want?”

“He must do as other people do, my dear, and work for his living. He is strong enough.”

Alice saw that it was useless trying to move her uncle, and that if she persisted he would only get into a passion, and make what she had quite resolved to do the more difficult.

“Uncle Harry, you know that I quite think with you about Frank. Quite agree with you that he can never be to us what he formerly was, without he explains and expresses repentance and sorrow for the past; and if I know anything at all of Frank, if he could not, or would not, do it when you first wrote to him, and when he was comfortably off, he will not do it now.”

“I quite agree with you there, Alice.”

“Well, uncle, I don’t wish to influence you at all, but for the sake of old times, for the sake of the boy I loved as a girl, I will not let him want. I believe, uncle, that I have absolute control over my fortune?”

“Yes, Miss Heathcote,” her uncle said, coldly, “I am sorry to say that you have.”

“Oh, uncle,” Alice said, bursting into tears, “don’t speak so to me; you are the only person I have to love in the world, but I must help Frank.”

“Well, my dear,” the old man said, more kindly, “have your own way. ‘A wilful woman,’ you know; but mind, I don’t oppose you simply because I can’t. If I could, I would. I tell you that fairly; but if in spite of that you choose to have your own way, I shall not quarrel with you about it. I have had quarrelling enough in my time, God knows, and I am not going to quarrel with you.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Alice said, brightening up. “I am sorry I can’t do as you want me. I am really. But I cannot help it. I have fifty thousand pounds, haven’t I?”

“Yes, Alice.”

“If I want to get some of it—and I do want—how do I set about it?”

“The money is invested in my name, Alice, as your trustee. It was so put when you were a child, and has never been altered, because I was able to sign for your dividends without troubling you. If you want any of it out, you give me authority, I write to a broker, and give him authority, and he manages it.”

“Will you please to write, uncle, and tell him to sell out ten thousand pounds? Don’t look angry, uncle, please don’t.”

“Well, Alice, I will do as you desire me; but mind, Frank won’t take it.”

“Oh, uncle, don’t say that,” Alice cried; indeed she had worried so much over the difficulty of persuading her uncle to consent to her wishes that she had never thought of the probability or otherwise of Frank’s accepting it.

“Well, do you think it likely yourself, Alice?”

“But he mustn’t know it comes from me, uncle.”

“Well, my dear, have your own way; I will carry out your wishes as you desire; but, mark my words, Frank won’t take it. Frank may have done a blackguard dishonourable action once, but we can’t have been altogether mistaken in him. We cast him off when he was well off, he will not receive assistance from us now.”

“No, he would not for himself, uncle, but he has others to think of now.”

“Very well, my dear,” Captain Bradshaw said, coldly; “try.”

Two or three days after this, as Frank and his wife were sitting by the fire after tea, talking about their now rapidly approaching change, a letter was brought in. Frank opened it. He gave a low whistle of surprise.

“What is it, Frank?”

“Messrs. Hankey beg to inform Mr. Frank Maynard that a sum of ten thousand pounds (£10,000) has been paid in to open an account in his name. Will he please to give an early call at the Bank to complete the necessary formalities. Messrs. Hankey are not at liberty to state the name of the person by whom the money has been paid in.”

“What do you think of that, Katie? Of course it comes from Captain Bradshaw. I am surprised, I confess. I did not think he would have given in.”

Kate looked thoughtfully into the fire.

“Are you sure he has given in, Frank?”

“Well, I suppose so, Katie. There is no one else among my circle of acquaintances who is likely to have paid anonymously ten thousand pounds on my account. Mind, I am not saying that we are going to take it. That’s a thing to be talked over. Unless he apologises amply and fully for his conduct, of course it would be out of the question; and even then——”

Katie glanced up at her husband. He evidently had no thought that the offer could have come from anyone else. Katie’s woman’s instinct had at once guessed the truth, and a little jealous pang had shot through her that another woman should help her husband. To help him with money, too! As she thought of Alice’s proud, cold face as she had passed Frank in the street only a month or two before, a feeling of anger took the place of jealousy.

“Don’t you see, Frank, it is not your uncle, it is Miss Heathcote has sent you this.”

“Do you think so, Kate? Well, it is likely enough; she was always the kindest-hearted girl possible.”

His wife pouted her lip a little, and her colour rose.

“Well, Frank, of course you know her better than I do. I only saw her once, and after that I would rather go out as a servant than take money from her. I call it a wilful impertinence, Frank. I call it a downright insult. A woman, whom you have known from a child, and who cut you dead in the streets the other day, to send you money now you are poor! Frank, it is a downright insult,” and the blood mounted in Kate’s cheek, and her eyes flashed very indignantly.

Frank looked at her, first in surprise, then in amusement.

“Come here, Katie.” His wife did not move. “Come here, Katie; do as you are told; come and let me look at you.”

“No, Frank, I’m not going to be talked over,” Kate said, sturdily; but she came nevertheless.

“You jealous little woman. You have never forgiven Alice for being silly enough to care for me years ago.”

“Yes, I have forgiven her, Frank. There was nothing to forgive in it. She had just as much right to fall in love with you as I had. I would have loved her very much for your sake if she would have let me. I should not have minded her doing as her guardian told her, and ceasing to see you; but I do mind—yes, Frank, I do mind—her passing you as she did. She looked hard and cold, not the face of some one who dared not look, but the face of one who would not; and then now to send you money out of pity, just as she might give to a beggar in the streets; no wonder I am angry, Frank,” and Katie looked very indignant indeed.

“There is a good deal in what you say, Katie, and no doubt I ought to be more angry than I am. I hardly know why I am not, except I am essentially an easy going man. Very likely I should be angry if I were in your place. You do not know Alice Heathcote as I do. I have known her since she was a little girl, and I loved her as a sister, Katie. You must remember that. A man may be blind to the faults of one he loves as a wife, but men are always hard upon their sisters. Now I looked upon Alice as a sister, and I know she is a very true, very affectionate, very thoughtful girl, not given to sudden likes and dislikes, or to be moved by sudden impulses. I am certain then, Kate, as certain as I sit here, that some extraordinary mistake, at the nature of which I cannot even guess, has arisen. Alice might obey Captain Bradshaw, and hold no communication with me, but she would never, I would wager my life, look cold or hard when she met me. If Alice Heathcote no longer loves me as a, brother, it is because she has in some strange way been morally convinced that I am not worthy of her esteem; and if I know Alice—and I think I do know her—it has cost her no slight pain before she came to the conclusion.”

Kate was softened. “Perhaps you are right, Frank, but you must make allowances for me. You know it is galling to a wife that her husband should be assisted by a woman who used to love him. No one would like that, Frank. You know you would not like it, now, if anyone who was once in love with me—and you don’t know how much I used to flirt before I knew you—were to come forward now and offer me money—especially if he had, you considered, behaved very badly in other respects.”

“No, Katie,” Frank said heartily, “I certainly should not. I should consider it to be a confoundedly impertinent interference, and should be monstrously inclined to punch his head for him.”

Kate laughed happily. “Oh, you easy-going man! There, Frank, now you have granted that, and so excused me, let us talk rationally about it. Do you mean to take the money or not?”

“Of course not, Katie; I never dreamt of it.”

“Why didn’t you say so at once then, you tiresome boy, and not tease me into a rage?”

“You never gave me a chance, Katie,” Frank laughed. “No, dear, I would not have taken it from Captain Bradshaw, much less from Alice. Although I should like to stay in England for your sake,—it will be a hard life for you abroad, little woman.”

“That’s an old subject,” Kate said, cheerfully. “Now, Frank, get out your books again, and let us go into the intricate question of where we shall go.”

“We have quite decided against the United States and Canada, haven’t we?”

“Yes, Frank. I should not like to be among people who would talk of us in a contemptuous sort of way as Britishers; and I can’t bear cold. It lies between the Cape, Australia, and New Zealand.” And so they took out their books again, and studied maps, and the price of land, and the question of provisions and labour, until it was time to go to bed. The next day Frank happened to be going near Mr. Bingham’s office. He liked his uncle, but he did not see much of him, for Mr. Bingham was a good deal away, and their lives lay in completely different circles. They had met once before since the failure of the Bank, so that Mr. Bingham was acquainted with the state of Frank’s affairs.

“And so, Frank, you are still talking of going abroad?”

“Yes,” Frank said; “there is nothing else that I can see for it. I confess, that for myself I rather like the thought, it is just the sort of life to suit me; but my wife will, I know, be sorry to leave England. She is very cheerful, you know, and so on, but I can see she dreads it a little. It is so different for a woman, you see, to what it is for a man.”

“I’ve been thinking, Frank, that it is a pity you don’t make up your mind to set to at work in England. Fred and I have plenty of work all over the country; we can’t be everywhere at once, and it would be a very great advantage to us to have some one we can rely upon as ourselves. Of course you don’t understand engineering work, but for earthworks, for example, mere pick and barrow work, the men only want a good ganger, and the master’s eye over them. I have just got a contract for twenty miles of railway in Yorkshire; now if you like to come down, I will make a fair calculation, and give you the earthwork. The great thing with navvies is for them to like the man they work for. You are just the sort of man they would be likely to get on with. You will save me one or two inspectors, and this sort of work is always done cheaper by piece work. It is a good thing to get into, you know, Frank; you would not perhaps make very much the first job, but you would learn the business, and be able to do well afterwards.”

Frank was silent a short time.

“I am very much obliged to you, uncle, and personally I should like nothing better. In fact it is just the sort of thing to suit me. It is your contract, uncle, not Fred’s? because, you see, I don’t mind working under you or any man older than myself, but I should not like working under a fellow of my own age, especially a cousin.”

“It is mine, Frank. Between ourselves, I have determined to keep this matter in my own hands. Fred and I don’t always agree.”

“But to take a contract for work of that sort requires capital, does it not, uncle?”

“Very little, Frank. You see the men are paid once a week, or once a fortnight, as the case may be, and the work is measured up, and paid for by the contractor once a month. So in fact you would only require a fortnight’s pay for the men. Of course at first the work begins upon a small scale, as it is impossible, until the cuttings are fairly opened, to put very many men on. Two or three hundred pounds would be enough for a beginning.”

“I could manage that,” Frank said. “I have spoken to the official assignee of the Bank, and have told him I am ready to give up every halfpenny I have to meet the call, but that I must have the proceeds of my furniture to pay other little debts, and so on, and I expect after I have cleared them off to have a hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds left. If I had been going to emigrate, I should have asked my wife’s friends to have helped me with as much more. One can ask friends to help when one is going abroad for good. Well, uncle, of course I cannot decide at once, but I will let you know to-morrow or next day.”

“Do, Frank; it is a good thing to get into, I can assure you, and as we are likely to have plenty of work, I think it is a really good opening; far better than going out to the colonies.”

Frank went round to Prescott’s room. “Prescott, old man, I want you to come round and dine this evening; there is something I want to ask the opinion of you and Katie about.”

Prescott came down accordingly. Frank did not broach the subject until after dinner was over.

“Now, Katie, I want your opinion upon an offer I have had to-day, and I have asked Prescott down on purpose to take part in our councils. So I will state the case. Prescott shall give his opinion, and you shall decide. I have had an offer to stay in England.” His wife looked up eagerly. “For myself, I am ready either to refuse or accept the offer with equal willingness. It is the sort of work that would suit me, and which I should like—in fact it is a good deal like the work I should have abroad, an active out-of-door life. My uncle Bingham has asked me if I would like to go down to undertake the earthworks, that is the looking after the navvies on a line he has got the contract for in Yorkshire. I should take the sub-contract of the earthworks, and as he says, learn the business. In time I should be capable of undertaking larger and more important works, and he has plenty of opportunities for pushing me on. Now, what do you think of it?” Neither Kate nor Prescott answered. “Now, Prescott, what is your opinion of it?”

“Well, Frank, it is a difficult matter to give an opinion upon. I was always in favour of your emigrating, for the simple reason that I did not see anything here which was likely to suit you. But I never disguised from myself that you both, your wife particularly, would have to encounter many hardships. It appears to me that this may really lead to something. Railway contracting is a profitable business, and if your uncle really chooses to push you, it is as he says a good opening. Now in Australia or the Cape, taking a farm of five hundred acres, as you think of doing, and getting it into cultivation, is the work of years. There is no future in it. You will no doubt make a living, even a comfortable competency, but there seems little chance of your ever making enough to come back to England to live upon your means. There is another thing to be said. If this should turn out badly, if you should lose what little money you take down with you, your friends will all help, and you can but go to Australia after all.”

“Now, what do you say, Katie?”

“Oh, I quite agree with Arthur, Frank. I don’t want to go away and never see our friends again.”

“Very well,” Frank said, “then that’s settled; hurrah for railroads!”

In another week the sale took place at the Maynards. A sale is not a picturesque sight, with its dirty Jew brokers, its unwashed hangers-on, its close, crowded atmosphere, its voluble auctioneer, and its eager bidders. But it is a sad business for those who look in the slightest degree below the surface. Here are the ruins of a household. Almost every one of the articles so carelessly examined, so slightingly looked at, so jeeringly commented upon, has its own little history, its reminiscences, which make it sacred to those who have to part with it. The little child’s chair, the water-colour drawing which your wife gave you ere yet she was your wife, the chair she always sat in—these and a hundred other things are sacred relics to you, while they are caviare to the world around.

Frank and Kate had gone into lodgings upon the previous day, having paid off the servants and handed over the house to the broker. With one of their followers only had they not parted. Frank had called Evan in and said,—

“Evan, here are your wages up to next week. That will make the month from the time I gave you notice. I am sorry to part with you, lad, but of course it can’t be helped. Whenever you want a character, you have only to refer to me.”

Evan made no sign of taking up the money. “Please, Mr. Maynard,” he said, “I’m not going.”

“But you must go, Evan. I am a poor man, and can’t keep a servant any longer. I am going down to work on a railway.”

“Well, Mr. Maynard, I shall go down too. I can get some work on the line, I dare say, and I can come in to help of an evening. After what you have done for me, sir, after what you did for Aunt Bessy, I’m not going to leave you now. Lor, sir, mother won’t take me in if I was to go home and tell her I’d left you. No, sir, where you go, I go. If I can’t be your servant, I can do a few odd jobs, and make myself useful between times.”

And so, as Evan positively refused to be separated from his old master, it was arranged that he should go down and work on the line. A fortnight afterwards Frank and his wife started for Yorkshire.

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Chapter IV

Showing The Hoof.

Landfarn is a quiet place in South Yorkshire, and may be rather called a large village than a town, with a semi-rural, semi-agricultural population. The staple of its manufactures is, of course, wool; and there are five or six flannel factories, either on the main stream, the Farn, or nestled up in little side valleys upon its tributaries. The country round is undulating and pretty. Frank’s first care upon arriving was to look out for a house, and he was fortunate in finding a pretty, furnished cottage, with a garden and paddock, upon a hill side at a little more than half a mile from the town. It had been standing empty for some time, and the rent was only thirty-five pounds a year. In a week from their arrival, the Maynards were installed in their new home, engaging the old woman who had previously been there as servant, and taking a young girl from Landfarn as nurse for baby. Kate was charmed with their new abode. It was so quiet and pretty, so enclosed in trees, that it seemed quite shut out from the world. Indeed it would have been better, as she afterwards acknowledged, had there been fewer trees, for they kept the house damp, and in winter the paper had an awkward habit of peeling off, and everything had to be taken out of boxes and drawers once a fortnight for a thorough drying and airing. As for the garden, it was so steep, that walking in it was a difficulty; and from a seat at the upper end, one could almost look down the chimneys. But, indeed, there was a really beautiful view from the garden. Below was the broad valley, with the Farn winding backwards and forwards; the opposite hills were covered to their very summits with trees; away to the right lay Landfarn itself, with its light smoke curling up, and its church watching over it. Altogether they were very fortunate, and were ready to be pleased with everything. The only drawback to their house was, that it was situated on the side of the town opposite to that from which the new line was to start. Mr. Bingham had taken a large house upon the other side of Landfarn, and came down with Mrs. Bingham and the girls a day or two after Frank had got fairly established. A day or two after, Frank went with him over the line, at portions of which men were already at work fencing it in, and Mr. Bingham explained the plans to Frank, and gave him a few ideas as to his new work.

“When do we begin, uncle?”

“In a week I hope to cut the first sod, Frank, and then we shall go on in earnest. It will be a good plan for you to take four men, and to dig holes five or six feet deep in the principal cuttings to see what nature the ground is; we are sure to have plenty of offers from small contractors, accustomed to this country, and we shall get a fair idea of the value of the work.”

For the next few days Frank was very busy, and in high spirits. It wanted only two days to the day fixed for the commencement of the work, when Frank, on going down to the Binghams, found Mr. Bingham looking very serious.

“Anything the matter, uncle?”

“Yes, indeed, Frank. A very serious affair indeed. It seems that the South-west Yorkshire Railway got a Bill two years ago for a branch from here to Leeds, and the first two miles run over exactly the same ground that we do. Everyone thought they had dropped the line from want of capital, but to-day they have got their men at work, fencing. Of course I shall knock the fences down. It will be arranged, no doubt, but it must cause a good deal of delay. I am going up to town at once to see the directors.”

This was, indeed, serious news for Frank. Mr. Bingham had other works in hand, and to him it was a matter of comparative indifference, but to Frank it was of vital importance.

“This is indeed a bad business, uncle. Do you think the delay is likely to last long?”

“I can’t tell you, Frank. You know now as much as I do. I will write to you from London as soon as we get legal opinions on the subject.”

Frank went up to the cottage very disheartened. He told his wife what had taken place.

“Oh, Frank, this is unfortunate. What had we better do, dear? Don’t you think we had better go up to London again at once, and carry out our former plan?”

“Well, Katie, at any rate we had better wait a short time until we hear from Mr. Bingham. You see we have taken this house for six months certain, and we have had all the expense of coming down here. It will have made a large hole in our little capital, dear.”

“Yes, Frank; but it would be better to put up with that than to wait here, spending more and doing nothing.”

“So it would, Katie; but at any rate we had better wait for another fortnight; by that time we shall see whether it is going on or not.”

It was nearly a fortnight before an answer came from Mr. Bingham, and it was highly satisfactory. Counsel were of opinion that the other party had not a leg to stand upon. That they ought to have opposed when the Bill was before the House; and that the last Act overrode the former one. An early day was named for hearing the case, and there was no doubt that the work would begin immediately after.

Both Frank and Kate agreed that there was nothing for it but to wait. In the meantime they had got to know the few gentry of the place. Mr. Larpent, who lived in the great house down on the hill-side below their cottage, and who owned some mines at a short distance from Landfarn. Mr. Larpent was a shrewd practical man, and his wife was very friendly with Mrs. Frank; as for Fanny Larpent, their daughter, she and Kate soon became as intimate as sisters; and Frank laughed and said, “If he had not married Katie, he should certainly have fallen in love with Fanny Larpent.”

The doctor, too, soon became a great ally of Frank’s. A short, stout, hearty man, with a fund of good sense and fun. There were a few other families in the place itself or in its immediate neighbourhood, the usual _entourage_ of all small country towns. The clergyman, the lawyer, a half-pay officer or two, a few small landed proprietors, and three or four of the owners of the principal woollen factories. Some of these called upon the Maynards very shortly after their arrival, and most of the others, influenced by the favourable reports of the new comers, soon followed their example. Landfarn rather prided itself upon being a sociable place, and there were many quiet tea drinkings, and whist parties, and musical evenings. Altogether Frank and his wife liked the place very much. In the meantime, the South-west Yorkshire began work upon their part of the line beyond the disputed point, and Frank, making friends with the inspector, passed much of his time with him, watching the works, and learning his new business. Upon this line Evan went to work, and Frank saw but little of him now, for it was too far off to return at night to work. Weeks passed, the news from London was always favourable; Mr. Bingham wrote that the work must begin before long. This delay was very wearying to both Kate and Frank—more, perhaps, to her than to him, for Frank was essentially an easy going man, while Kate was as decidedly an impetuous woman. Sometimes Mr. Bingham came down, sometimes Fred, but the visits of the former decreased in number, while those of his son became more frequent. Constantly Frank was tempted to give it up, and as often some unusually cheering piece of news would come, and they would decide that it would be madness after waiting so long to throw it up, and to lose the benefit of all these months of delay, and of all the money that they had spent. Six months passed over thus—six weary anxious months—and then arrived the welcome news that both parties had agreed upon a compromise, and that work was certain to begin in another month at the latest. With this joyful intelligence, however, came the news that the contract had changed hands, and that Fred Bingham was to be the contractor in place of his father. Frank was very much vexed at this change. He had always liked his uncle, and had perfect faith in his good intentions towards him. Fred he objected to work under, as being of his own age; besides, stoutly as he had always supported him, he had doubts he could not entirely suppress of his good faith, besides which Fred had been decidedly cool during his visits to Landfarn. However, it was too late to draw back now. The hundred and fifty pounds which Frank had brought down with him were gone now, scarcely a pound remained, and there was nothing to do for it but to make the best of matters. At last the news came that the compromise was arranged, that the South-west Yorkshire was to make the disputed piece of work, and that both companies were to have the right of using it. Fred Bingham was to come down with his wife at the end of the week, and work was to begin at once from the point beyond the junction. This time there were no more delays; and upon the day appointed, Fred Bingham came down and took possession. The same evening, Frank went down to see him. Fred was in his smoking-room.

“Well, Fred,” Frank began, “I congratulate you as well as myself, that all this weary delay is over at last. It has been a terrible trial.”

“Yes,” Fred said coolly, “it has been a nuisance.”

“I suppose we are to begin at once, Fred?”

“Yes,” Fred Bingham answered. “On Monday. I have got several offers for the cuttings.”

“But, Fred, it was arranged between your father and myself that I was to have all the earthwork.”

“Ah,” Fred said, “very likely. But the old man has nothing to do with it now, and I am not bound by any foolish arrangements he may have made.”

Frank grew very white, but he controlled himself. “And do you mean to say, Fred, putting aside the fact of our being cousins, that after my coming down here at your father’s wish, after being here all these months, receiving not a penny,—while your clerks and men down here have been paid just as usual—until every penny I have in the world is gone—do you mean to say you are going to throw me over now?”

“I am not going to throw you over, as you call it,” Fred said; “if you are ready to do the work on the same terms as other people, you can have it. These are the offers I have had.” And he pushed some letters across to Frank. They were illiterate, badly spelt epistles, evidently from working men.

“The work cannot possibly be done on the terms, Fred,” Frank said when he had glanced through them. “The ground is tough blue clay with stones, just the same that they have got on the other line. In many cases you must use powder to it. These men are mere wandering navvies. They will make money as long as they are merely at work on the easy surface stuff, and then when they find it doesn’t pay will go off without paying their men. I will take the work on the terms which any responsible person is willing to tender for it at.”

“Yes,” Fred Bingham said, “but the responsible person would find money, and not call upon me the first Saturday for the men’s pay. You tell me yourself you have no money.”

For a moment the impulse upon Frank Maynard to seize his cousin by the throat and to thrash him to within an inch of his life almost over-powered him. But the thought of his wife sitting at home, of the bills he already owed in the town, of the house on his hands for another quarter, and that he was actually without a penny, rushed upon him, and with a tremendous effort he kept down his passion.

Fred continued. “In some respects I would rather keep the work in my own hands. Now what I think of doing is this. I will take the highest of these estimates, sixpence a yard for clay, and a shilling for rock. Now you shall work the men just as if they were your own. I shall pay them. If there is any profit at the end, that is if we have done the work under this price, we will divide it between us, and in the meantime you shall draw two pounds a week, to be charged of course against the work. What do you say to that?” Fred spoke cheerfully as if he were making a most liberal offer.

“I am perfectly certain, Fred, that the work cannot be done at the price. Still, if those are your only terms, I must accept them. I have no choice.”

“And mind, Frank, work is to be work. I shall expect you to do just the same as any other inspector would do. To be on the work before the men begin at six in the morning, and to be there till they knock off at night.”

Again Frank had a very hard struggle with himself, his teeth were set hard, and the veins on his forehead stood out like cords. But he only said, “Of course I shall do my work like other people. Good night.”

Fred Bingham looked after him for some time with his smile upon his lips. “I’ll make you smart before I’ve done with you, my fine fellow.” And then he went out into the night air.

“Oh, Katie,” Frank said to himself as he shut the door, “you little know what I have stood to-night for your sake. My God, my God.! what is to become of us? To think that I should have been such a gross idiot as to believe all these years in this infernal scoundrel. What have I done to make him hate me like this? God knows I have always taken his part since he was a boy, have quarrelled for him, have supported him against Prescott and Alice and Kate and all, and now at last, when he knows I am helplessly in his power, bound hand and foot, he treats me as if—Good Heavens! I shall go mad. Oh, if I could only get out of this, only carry out our old plan. But there, it is too late now. At any rate I must stop for a time; if the worst comes to the worst, Katie and I must put our pride in our pockets, and ask the Drakes to lend us enough to take us abroad.”

“Frank, you are dreadfully pale,” Kate said anxiously, when he came in.

“I knocked against the gate in the dark,” Frank said, deceiving his wife for the first time, “and shook myself a bit. I shall be all right presently.”

“Where did you hurt yourself, Frank?”

“In the side, but it is no odds, it was the shock more than anything. The gate was half open, and I ran against the end. It’s really nothing, Katie.”

“Well, Frank, and is it all right? Is the work to begin at last?”

“Yes, darling; thank God, it begins on Monday.”

“And there is no hitch? nothing disagreeable with Fred?”

“No, Kate; we have mutually agreed as to the terms of the contract. I am to do it at so much a yard, and as each cutting is done, I am to be paid the profit, and in the meantime I am to draw two pounds a week.”

“Two pounds! that seems very little, Frank?”

“Well, it can hardly be termed wealth, Katie, but our expenses here are very small, and I dare say we shall manage well enough. Besides, as each cutting is finished, there will be the profit.”

“It is only a pound a week to live on, Frank. The rent and Hannah and nurse come to the other pound.”

“Well, we must try, Katie, and if we can’t make it do, I must ask Fred to let me draw a little more. I did not wish to press matters the first time, you see. He will soon see how useful I shall be, and then no doubt there will be no difficulty about arranging to draw more each week. At any rate, thank God, Katie, I am going to earn something at last.”

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Chapter V

Finding A Clue.

And so Frank set to work. He was not a man to do things by halves, and threw himself with all his energies into it. Every morning soon after half-past four he was up; after he was out of bed he lit a small spirit-lamp, made his coffee, and had his early breakfast when he was dressed. Then, at a little after five he started for his three mile walk to his work, at which he always arrived before six. Then a turn along the line and back again to his starting-point by half-past eight, when the men stopped work for half an hour to breakfast. Then Frank would go into a little turf hut by the side of the cutting and eat, with an appetite sharpened by the keen morning air, the breakfast he had brought with him. Another turn up and down the line, and then, at twelve o’clock, he would have a fire lit in his hut and warm up his dinner; then up and down again until six, or, if the men were working overtime, until eight, and then three miles home again. It was very hard work, and Frank had sometimes to sit down by the roadside of that last steep pull up to his cottage. Once there, however, he was strong and cheery again, for the bright face was always on the look out for him, and his slippers, and his easy coat, and his hot water, and his tea, and the cheerful smile, better than all, were sure to be ready for him. Few of his old London friends would have known Frank now, in his rough shooting-coat, his gaiters and navvy boots, and the beard which he had allowed to grow since he came down to Yorkshire. During this time Frank and his wife suffered far more for each other than for themselves. Kate, bright and cheerful as she was when Frank was with her, fretted much when he was away. More especially of an evening she would picture him to herself, toiling along the dark road, so tired, that as she well knew he could hardly drag himself along. Frank, too, worried about his wife; for himself, hard, terribly hard, as his work was, he did not so much mind; it was the thought of her sitting at home by herself all those long hours worrying about him which troubled him. His only satisfaction was that he was doing his best, his very best, to earn her a living. Frank’s was immensely popular with his men. Some men have the knack of getting on with working men, and this knack Frank possessed in the highest degree. He had a cheery word and a ready jest for each when he passed him. He was strict with his work, and soon thoroughly understood it, but the men knew he never blamed unless blame was really deserved, and they looked up to the “gaffer,” as Frank was termed, with all the rough affection of which navvies are eminently capable. At first one or two rough fellows, not knowing their man, had ventured to be insolent when Frank reproved them, and were summarily dismissed. When they had been paid, he told them that now they were no longer in his service, they were his equals, and could treat him as such; and so, taking off his coat, he gave them a tremendous thrashing. After that he had no trouble whatever; and the rest of his men liked him all the better for it.

A few days after work had begun, Katie had gone down to call upon Mrs. Fred. Mrs. Fred had been very glad to see her, and promised to come up in a few days; but her husband, when he heard of Kate’s visit, told his wife that he did not choose that she should visit his inspectors’ wives, and that he forbade positively her going up to the cottage, a prohibition which his wife, though with many quiet tears, was forced to obey. Fred Bingham by no means made himself popular with the people of the neighbourhood, and after a time they ceased to call. Frank, although reticent to Kate as to his grievances, was outspoken enough to the doctor and his other friends, and Fred Bingham got a bad name in the place. Although he himself did not care about visiting, it annoyed him exceedingly on Sundays, when they came out of church, to see that Frank and his wife were greeted warmly by all the people of the place, while they merely drew by to let himself and his wife pass with a distant bow. Frank and his wife soon found that twenty shillings a week was an impossible sum to live on, and in spite of her utmost economy, the bills accumulated in a way which caused Kate many a weary hour of anxiety. Indeed, they could not have held on had it not been that three times they received assistance. The first was when their second child was born, about five months after the work began. When the event was approaching, Frank had written to Prescott, and his friend had sent him twenty pounds. The second help was a week or two after baby’s advent, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Drake, who was quite in ignorance of the state of their circumstances, and sent a present of twenty pounds also for christening things for the new-comer. The third present came three months later, and for this they had to thank, though unwittingly, Fred Bingham.

Fred had been up in London, and, as was his invariable custom upon these occasions, had called upon his uncle. Captain Bradshaw was out, but Miss Heathcote was at home. Now, between Alice and Fred there was a feud which had existed ever since she had rejected him. He had never forgiven her for refusing him, and indeed, next only to Frank Maynard, hated her beyond any living thing. Alice, on her part, despised him. She had looked upon him with absolute contempt, not unmingled with fear, since the occasion when he had taunted her with her love for Frank. It was only for Captain Bradshaw’s sake that she bore with him, but so great was her love for her uncle that she would not, by look or word, say anything before or to him to shake his confidence in Fred. She knew he liked Fred; not as he had loved Frank, but with a passive sort of liking, and that he looked upon him as his only possible heir. Fred perfectly understood her motive for silence, and showed himself to her as he really was, in a way he did not often show himself to any one except his wife. Upon the present occasion he went in.

“How are you getting on down in Yorkshire, Fred?”

“Pretty well, Alice; nothing to grumble about.”

“Fred,” Alice said, “I have been waiting to get an opportunity of speaking to you alone. I want to ask you how Frank Maynard is getting on; I have no one to ask but yourself.”

“I know it is an interesting subject,” Fred sneered.

Alice’s eyes flashed.

“Yes,” he continued, “you need not look angry, Alice. He is getting on as well as he could expect, I suppose.”

“And how well is that, Fred?”

“Well,” said Fred, carelessly, “he is a sort of inspector.”

“And what are an inspector’s duties, Fred? What does he have to do?”

“Well, he has to be on the work at six o’clock—unfortunately he lives three miles away, but that’s his business—he has to be there at six and he has to look after the men all day till six in the evening; that is, if the men ain’t working overtime—if they are he is there till eight.”

“And has he a horse, Fred?”

“A horse!” Fred said, scornfully; “no, thank you, I don’t have my inspectors riding about on horseback.”

“Do you mean to say, Fred, that Frank Maynard has to walk to work three miles of a morning and back at night, and to be on his feet all day?”

“Of course,” Fred said; “what would you have?”

Alice bit her lips until the blood nearly came.

“And how much do you pay him per week for work like this?”

“Two pounds a week.”

“Really two pounds a week?”

“Yes, that is the exact figure.”

Alice Heathcote drew her breath hard. Then she got up and rang the bell. The servant came.

“James, show Mr. Bingham to the door; and, remember, he is never to be admitted unless my uncle is at home.”

Fred Bingham hesitated, but there was a look of white anger in Alice’s face that warned him she was perfectly in earnest, and as she stood looking more even than her natural height in her passion, with her compressed lips, and little clenched hands, Fred thought that for once he had gone too far, and without a word, went out.

When James had left the room, Alice walked up and down for a few times; and then, throwing herself upon the sofa, cried bitterly. Presently she rose, went up to her room, and wrote a note:—

“Dear Mr. Prescott,

“The matter on which I write is between ourselves alone, and I rely upon you to keep it so. Although matters have occurred which make it impossible that the breach between your friend and us can ever be healed, still it pains me beyond description to hear that he is working down in Yorkshire from morning to night upon pay which can scarcely keep him and his family from starvation. I would do anything to save him from this wretched state; but he will, I know, accept nothing at my hands. I enclose three ten pound notes. You will understand that I enclose this sum only, because I know that he would not receive more. Will you do me the very great kindness to manage it as a loan from yourself? It is a harmless fraud, and I can think of no other method. Will you tell him you have had a heavy case on, and are enabled, without hurting yourself, to offer him the money without inconvenience? Please do this, Mr. Prescott. I ask you, both for your friend’s sake, and in the name of the long standing regard which has always existed between yourself and yours sincerely,

“Alice Heathcote.”

And so Frank received another thirty pounds from Prescott, which he accepted without hesitation, believing that Prescott could spare it, and knowing that under similar circumstances his own purse would have been entirely at his friend’s service. For a time, therefore, the Maynards were straight again. The tradesmen’s bills which had pressed so heavily were paid off, and a few things which were most urgently required were purchased.

All this while Fred Bingham had apparently been on friendly terms with Frank: at times he was cold and distant with him, carrying his position as master to the very extreme of what he saw Frank would bear; at other times he chatted with him in the most friendly manner—and it is difficult to say under which mood Frank found it most difficult to keep his temper.

Sometimes he would go up on Sunday afternoon and smoke a pipe on the seat in front of the cottage, chatting with Frank, and ignoring altogether his wife’s short answers and evident dislike of his presence; for Kate, when she did not like any one, made no secret of her feelings.

“You are very high and mighty, my lady,” he said to himself one day, as he drove homewards in his handsome dog-cart, “but I’ll give you something to think of before long.”

A few days afterwards he walked into Frank’s cottage in the afternoon, to Kate’s great astonishment.

“Was just riding by, Mrs. Frank, and thought I would come in to have a chat.”

“Thank you,” Kate said, “but I’m particularly busy to-day.”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Mrs. Frank. I’m no stranger, you know.”

“I wish you were,” Kate muttered, half audibly.

“I wanted to talk to you about Frank. You see this life is a very hard one for him, and it is greatly to be wished that something could be done for him.”

“It is not I that make it hard for him,” Kate said, pointedly. “I have broken no promises. I didn’t tempt him to come down here, and then make him work almost like a common navvy.”

“No, quite so, Mrs. Frank,” Fred said, composedly. “But that is not now to the point. What I was thinking of, is, could not this unfortunate quarrel between Frank and his uncle be made up?”

Kate looked full at him with her honest eyes. “I expect, Mr. Bingham, you know more of the quarrel than we do.”

Fred Bingham coloured a little. “I suppose we both know pretty well all about it, Mrs. Frank. It has been a most unfortunate circumstance, but I should think that Captain Bradshaw by this time would be able to make allowances and to overlook the past.”

Kate rose from her seat, her little figure looking grand in its indignation. “I don’t know what you mean, Fred Bingham; but if you mean that Frank has done anything which requires to be forgiven, or looked over, you’re telling a lie, and I, Frank’s wife, tell you so.”

“What?” Fred Bingham said, in tones of surprise; “has Frank really kept you in ignorance all this time of the cause of quarrel? I always thought you were the most forgiving of women, but I see now by your manner that you do not know.”

“I know all that Frank knows,” Kate said; “and that is just nothing.”

“Really I am sorry,” Fred Bingham began; “because if you are in ignorance of this sad affair, it makes it so much the more difficult to make it up with Captain Bradshaw; but I think that if you did but know it you might be able to act as mediator, and I feel sure my uncle could not bear malice any longer. I do so wish to see things made up, that if you will promise solemnly to keep it a secret, painful as it is, I will tell you the real cause of quarrel. You see——”

“Stop, Fred Bingham, stop!” Kate cried impetuously; “do not dare to say a word to me. Not for fifty times Captain Bradshaw’s money would I hear a word against Frank. And more than that, do you think, after what I know of you, that I would believe you if you took an oath on the Bible? Don’t speak, sir,” she said, passionately. “I warn you, if you say a word, one single word, I will tell my husband; and if you know him as well as I do, you will know that if he thought you were trying to make mischief between us, he would beat you like a dog before all your men.”

“I only wished to put matters straight,” Fred Bingham said, cowed by the might of Kate’s anger.

“You did not, Fred Bingham; you never wished to do anything of the sort. I don’t believe you ever wanted to do a good action from the day you were born. You simply wanted to make mischief. You only wanted to tell me a lie under promise of secrecy.”

“I swear to you,” Fred Bingham said, “that what I was going to tell you, Captain Bradshaw will corroborate if you write to him.”

“Then, likely enough, Fred Bingham, you lied to him as well as to me; you are quite capable of it. And now go: you may rely that for Frank’s sake, though not for yours, I shall not mention that you have been here; but if you ever come again when I am alone, and try to make mischief between Frank and me, I will tell him, whatever the consequences may be.”

Fred Bingham went away crestfallen, and never came up to the cottage again.

Two more months passed. It is nearly a year since Frank began work at Landfarn. Things are unchanged. It is a Sunday afternoon, which Frank and Kate always look forward to during the whole week, as the one day when they are happy together. After church, if it is fine, Frank sits in front of the cottage, and plays with Charley, who is now two years old; Katie sits by his side and reads to him, or talks of old days. They are very happy there, and agree that on Sunday the works shall never be alluded to. Evan does a little in the garden, or helps Jane to carry the baby about. Evan has been on the works ever since they began. He is eighteen now, and his navvy work has widened him out into a broad young fellow. He does not live at the cottage; it is too far from his work; but he comes up on Saturday afternoon, when the pay is over, and stops until Monday morning, working in the garden, and making himself useful in many little ways. On the day in question the afternoon was wet, and Frank had, for want of anything else to do, been turning over his desk, and tearing up the accumulated letters of months. Among other letters which he had so treated was the one which he himself had written to Captain Bradshaw, and which had been returned unopened.

“It’s no use keeping that any longer,” he had said to his wife; “it is not a pleasant thing to stare one in the face every time one opens one’s desk.”

Kate nodded, and the letter was torn to pieces, and with its envelope thrown carelessly with the others.

Presently Evan came in with Charley on his shoulders, having been engaged in a game of romps with him in the next room.

“Evan, will you take out all the scraps and burn them, and tell Hannah she can lay the cloth.”

Evan gathered up the fragments, and left the room. In about five minutes he returned with a serious face, and with an envelope in his hand.

“What is it, Evan?”

“Please, sir, I was dropping the pieces one by one into the kitchen fire, when I see this envelope.”

“Yes, Evan, and what is there peculiar about that envelope?” Frank asked, amused, for the lad looked so unnaturally serious that he could hardly help smiling.

“Please, sir, there’s a seal on it.”

“Yes, Evan, it’s unbroken. Do you remember, Katie, my tearing the letter open so as to show you the seal?”

“Yes, Frank, I remember it quite well.”

“Please, sir, isn’t the seal a hand?”

“Yes, Evan, it’s a hand.”

“But it’s only three fingers, hasn’t it, sir?”

“Yes, Evan, it has only three fingers; it’s a crest, but what is there curious in that?”

“Well, sir, it’s curious because I never saw a hand with three fingers on before; but I’ve heard mother say that Brother James, you know, sir, him as is a cripple, when his mother died she had a seal round her neck with only three fingers.”

“God bless me, Evan, that is very curious, very,” Frank said, very interested. “If this should only turn out as I think, by Jove, Katie, it would put that little blackguard’s nose out of joint, and no mistake.”

“What do you mean, Frank? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I will tell you, dear. Let me see, Evan, how old is James now?”

“He’s rather better than twenty, sir.”

“Just so, Katie. Of course it may not be so, but if it is not it’s a curious coincidence. You’ve heard me say that Captain Bradshaw had a daughter who married and ran away from home, and that uncle never heard of her till he heard she was dead, and had died in great want.”

“Yes; I remember, Frank.”

“Well, Katie, as nearly as I can tell that is about twenty-one years ago. Now it is really possible that this poor woman who died at the Holls was her, and that this is her son, whom Captain Bradshaw has never known was alive. A three-fingered hand is not a common crest. I will write to Prescott at once, and ask him to go into the affair. Oh Katie, if it should turn out so, it will be glorious! Of course my uncle will leave him a part anyhow of his estate. By Jove I can forgive uncle having sent back my letter unanswered, if it is the means of finding his grandson and doing Fred Bingham out of part of the fortune.”

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Chapter VI

Strange Tidings.

Arthur Prescott was one day surprised at the receipt of the following letter from Frank Maynard:—

“My Dear Old Prescott,

“I am not a good letter writer, and when things are not going on well I don’t write at all. Things are not going on well, and I have not written. You and Katie and everyone else have been right and I have been wrong, and Fred Bingham is a damned scoundrel; but that’s no news, and I am not writing about that now. I am writing about a very extraordinary discovery which has been made here. This afternoon I was clearing out my desk, and tore up a lot of old letters and things. Evan, who is a first-rate lad and as true as steel, cleared up the letters, and, seeing a seal unbroken, looked at it. It was the seal of the last letter I had from Captain Bradshaw—his crest, you know, the three-fingered hand. Well, Evan asserts that the mother of the cripple lad had a seal round her neck with a three-fingered hand. If so, it is possible—nay, probable that this lad is Captain Bradshaw’s grandson. Whether he knows of it or not I cannot say. In spite of his inexplicable conduct to me I cannot believe it. This is quite in your line, old man, and I leave you to act as you think best. I think my uncle ought to be told in case he should be ignorant of it.

“Yours very affectionately,

“Frank Maynard.”

Prescott read the letter through twice, and then, putting on his hat, went straight down to Mrs. Holl. He was greatly shocked at the striking change which had taken place in the appearance of the cripple lad; but after the first greeting said,—

“James, I want to talk to your mother; would you mind going into the next room for a few minutes?”

James wheeled his box into his room, and Mrs. Holl closed the door.

“How dreadfully ill he looks, Mrs. Holl.”

“Ay, sir, and he is ill; he frets and mopes here, and I fear nothing but change, which the doctor says he ought to have, can save him. Poor lad, I fear me he won’t be here long.”

“We must hope better things, Mrs. Holl, and the matter I have come about may lead to it.”

“Lor! sir,” Mrs. Holl said; “how can that be?”

“A curious discovery has been made, Mrs. Holl, which may, I don’t say will, lead to our tracing who his mother was.”

“You don’t say so, sir,” Mrs. Holl said.

“I do indeed, Mrs. Holl. I hear from Evan that his mother had a seal, with a three-fingered hand upon it. Have you got it?”

“Yes, sir; I have it locked up.”

“Please let me see it.”

Mrs. Holl produced from a chest a small bundle of clothes, and carefully done up in paper a small seal. Prescott examined it. There was no question that it was a three-fingered hand.

“Were these her things, Mrs. Holl?”

“Yes, sir; that’s all there were.”

“Now, Mrs. Holl, if I am right the linen will be marked L. B.; or, at any rate, L. something. L. B. were the maiden initials of the lady, and as she died little over a year after her marriage—for she was, I believe, married—it is probable her clothes would bear her maiden initials.”

“Yes, sir, sure enough, they are marked L. B. I remember it was L. B. because I looked particular to see if they were marked in full, in hopes of finding out about her. There it is, sir, L. B. clear enough.”

“And now, Mrs. Holl, have you any reason to suppose any one has ever had any interest, or watched the boy?”

“Yes, sir, that there has.”

And here Mrs. Holl related at length the history of the mysterious visits of Barton, and how they had found out that he had once been a Bow Street runner, but now kept a private detective office. Prescott looked serious.

“This is bad news, Mrs. Holl. It looks as if the boy’s friends knew of his whereabouts, but did not choose to own him. However, it may not be so,” he said, thoughtfully; “this man may have found it out accidentally, and kept it dark with a purpose of making money some day out of the secret. And now, Mrs. Holl, what year was it the poor woman came here?”

“In May, sir, 1831. Her child was about two months old then.”

“That will do, Mrs. Holl. Please lend me the seal, I will take great care of it. Do not say anything to James; I may be mistaken, and nothing may come of it after all. I will see you again to-morrow or next day.”

Prescott walked away very slowly, and went the whole length of Sloane Street, up and down, thinking over the best course to pursue. He then turned into Lowndes Square, and knocked at the door which was once so familiar to him. “Is Captain Bradshaw in?”

“Yes, sir.”

And Prescott was shown into the drawing-room. Captain Bradshaw and Miss Heathcote were both there; and Prescott, who in the thoughts of the important business in hand, had forgotten the possibility of his meeting Alice, stood for a moment irresolute. Captain Bradshaw frowned heavily for a moment, on hearing the name. Alice Heathcote turned a little pale.

“Mr. Prescott, I am glad to see you,” Captain Bradshaw said, coming forward and shaking hands. “Alice, you remember Mr. Prescott?” Alice did, and shook hands too, and really warmly; in the first place, because with a woman’s intuition she had known of old that he had loved her, and in the next place because he was Frank’s dearest friend. Why she should have liked him for the last reason she could not have explained even to herself. “Mr. Prescott,” Captain Bradshaw went on, “I am really glad to see you, and shall be always happy to do so; but only upon the condition, the absolute condition, that you make no allusion to past times, or to other persons. In fact that you come here as Mr. Prescott, to see an old friend, and not in the quality of an ambassador for other people.”

“I do not come here in the quality of an ambassador, Captain Bradshaw,” Prescott answered quietly, “although you would naturally suppose so from my coming at all. Nor do I come here to renew an acquaintance which I valued, and should still value, at the highest rate. Greatly as I value it, I could not accept friendship when my best, and truest, and most valued friend is excluded. I do not wish to discuss the point with you, Captain Bradshaw. I know what your feelings on the subject must be, when you can deliberately cast off a man whom I know you loved, but the origin of those feelings is to me an utter mystery. I respect them, however, and you I am sure will respect the friendship, the love I have for a man whom I have for many years looked upon as a brother. The business I have come upon is of an entirely different nature. I give you my honour it relates in no way to what we have spoken of. May I ask you to give me a few minutes’ private conversation?”

Alice Heathcote rose. “Thank you, Mr. Prescott,” she said warmly, giving him her hand, “for what you have said. I always believed in you, that you were honest and true. Thank you for your defence of your friend. I am glad, yes, I am glad to hear him once again spoken well of. Tell Frank—yes, uncle, I must speak now—tell Frank, that although I cannot struggle against certainties, still that I cannot believe the worst of him. Tell him that though our paths in life can never come together again, I wish him and his heartily well, and believe and trust that that life will atone, as far as atonement can be made, for his error.”

Before Prescott could speak, she had pressed his hand and left the drawing-room.

Prescott turned to Captain Bradshaw and was about to demand what Frank’s fault had been, that he should be thus spoken of, when the old man rose, and said gravely,—

“No, Mr. Prescott, I will not listen to you. I will not answer any questions. If you are ignorant of the cause of the division between myself and my nephew, a division which nothing can possibly heal, remain in ignorance. Frank has his own trials now, God forbid that I should say aught which might deprive him of a friend like yourself.”

“Nothing you could say would do that,” Prescott said gravely. “But now, sir, to the business upon which I came. It is, like the other, a painful, an extremely painful business, and you will, I know, believe that nothing but the feeling of its extreme importance could lead me to ask you the question with which I must begin. You had a daughter named Laura?”

Captain Bradshaw turned deadly pale, a look of extreme pain came across his face, and he gasped hoarsely, “Forbear, sir, forbear, you do not know what you are saying. It is twenty years since I heard her name mentioned. How dare you call her up again?” and he laid a trembling hand upon Prescott’s shoulder.

“Forgive me, Captain Bradshaw; I know, at least I can guess, the pain I am causing, but I must do it. Pray sit down, sir, and pray answer my questions. I will ask as few as possible, I will simply relate facts; if I am wrong, stop me.”

Captain Bradshaw sank back into his chair, conquered by the steady calmness of his visitor, and buried his face in his hands.

“At the end of the year 1829, or at the beginning of 1830, you discovered that she had made a marriage with a person much beneath her. She left the house, and I believe you never saw her again. You never forgave her.”

“I did, sir,” the old man said passionately; “I did forgive her. I searched all England through for her, but I never heard of her until, God help me, I heard she was dead.”

“Thank God for that at least,” Prescott said. “The man, or one of the men, you employed to trace your daughter was a Bow Street runner named Barton?”

“It was,” the old man said, feebly, “though how you should know, I cannot tell.”

“Now, Captain Bradshaw, for my last question. This Barton told you, and told you truly, that your daughter was dead; but did he ever tell you she had left a child behind her?”

“A child!” the old man almost screamed, “a child! Laura left a child? Don’t say it, don’t say it; have I not been punished enough for my cruelty by knowing that my girl, my only girl, Laura, died of want? And now you say she left a child, a child in misery and want, and I, rolling in wealth, have never helped it; oh, my God, my God, it is too much.” And the old man sank down in his chair, sobbing like a child.

Prescott did not interrupt him, indeed he was too much affected at the sight of the old man’s agony to be able to trust himself to speak. At last he said, “It is not so bad as you imagine, sir. The child has been brought up in poverty, but not in want. He has been kindly nurtured and cared for by the poor people in whose house his mother died. All that love and kindness could do for him has been done. As they took the mother in and cared for her and nursed her to the last, so they adopted the child as their own. They never knew who he was. It has been discovered now only by accident. This seal, sir, which was the sole article of value she possessed—do you recognise it?”

The old man took it, and his tears fell more gently as he looked at it. “Yes, it was hers,” he said; “I gave it her when she went to school. Poor child, poor child!” Then starting up, he went on, “But why do we wait here?—why do we not go to fetch him?”

“My dear sir,” Prescott said gently, “I must prepare you for this meeting. The boy when very young had an accident which injured his spine, and he has been a helpless cripple ever since. He is now very ill. The doctors recommend change of air and scene, and I trust that they will restore him to health. He is an extraordinary young man. He is of the highest intelligence, and has educated himself in a wonderful way. Save that he is a cripple, you might well be proud of your grandson.”

The old man groaned. “Oh, if I had but known it, if I had but known it! Why did not Barton find out?”

“He did, Captain Bradshaw; he has known it all the time.”

“Impossible!” Captain Bradshaw exclaimed. “Impossible!”

“It is true, sir; he has never lost sight of him; he has been in the habit of coming to see him every few months.”

“The atrocious villain! the infernal scoundrel!” Captain Bradshaw exclaimed furiously. “Why did he not tell me?—what was his motive?”

“I can only imagine, sir, that he intended to keep it secret until the boy came of age, in order to get him to promise a very large sum of money upon being placed in possession of proofs of his birth.”

“The scoundrel! the villain!” ejaculated Captain Bradshaw, almost beside himself with passion, “I will punish him, I will kill him. Mr. Prescott, you are a lawyer, I will give ten thousand pounds to have him hung.”

“We will talk of that presently,” Prescott said soothingly; “in the meantime the great point is to get your grandson here.”

“Of course, of course,” Captain Bradshaw said, the current of his thoughts again changed. “I will tell Alice first,” and he went to the door; “Alice! Alice! come down directly.”

Miss Heathcote soon entered the room, and was astounded at seeing her uncle walking up and down the room, with the tears flowing down his cheeks.

“Alice,” he said, “I am a miserable old man. I drove my daughter from her home in a fit of rage. I tried afterwards to find her, but I never heard of her until it was too late, and the news came to me she was dead—had died of want, Alice, think of that!—and now I hear all, these years afterwards, that she has left a son behind her, and he has grown up a cripple, brought up by the charity of some poor people, whom,” said the old man solemnly, “may God bless for their goodness!”

Alice was too surprised to make any comment upon this story, but could only kiss her uncle soothingly. Then she turned to Prescott for further explanation.

“Sit down, Captain Bradshaw,” he said, “for a few minutes and recover your composure. I will tell you all I know about it.”

The two sat down, while Prescott related all he knew of the story, beginning with his first meeting the lad; telling Mrs. Holl’s story as nearly in her own words as he could recall it, at which point the tears flowed fast again from the eyes of both the old man and Miss Heathcote. He then simply said that the boy Evan, who was with Frank down in Yorkshire, had recognised the crest, upon an old letter of Captain Bradshaw’s, as being identical with the one owned by James’s mother. When he had done, Captain Bradshaw said:—

“Thank you very much for what you have done in this case; and now how shall we get the boy here?”

“I think, sir, if you will allow me, I will go down to the livery stables at Knightsbridge and get an invalid carriage, and order it to come round here at once with a couple of men. Then we will walk round together, and I will go in first and prepare him for it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Prescott; thank you very much.”

And Alice Heathcote looked a thank-you which far more than repaid Prescott for his exertions.

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Chapter VII

Owned At Last.

Prescott went with Captain Bradshaw and Alice Heathcote as far as the street in which the Holls lived, the carriage waiting in Sloane Street until wanted. Then Prescott pointed out the house, and asked the others to wait near for a few minutes until he should summon them. He then lifted the latch and went in.

“I am back sooner than I expected, Mrs. Holl. Do not leave, James,” as the boy was preparing to wheel himself away; “I wish you to hear what I have to say. James, it must, no doubt, have often seemed hard to you that you should have no one in the world with whom you are really connected, whose care and love you had a right to claim.”

“Sometimes it has, sir,” the cripple said quietly, “but I need not have thought so. No one could have loved me more or have been kinder to me than mother and father here,” and he took Mrs. Holl’s hand in his.

“Yes, James, you have been indeed fortunate in that respect, but others might have, perhaps, had it in their power to lighten your life more, to have taken you to see the world, and the wonders and beauties of it.”

The lad’s eyes brightened.

“They might, sir, and I own—it is wrong and sinful perhaps—but the one thing I have always longed for was to see the country, and the wide fields and the green trees I have read of, and above all to see the sea, the great moving infinite sea. Oh, how glorious it must be! But there, sir,” he said, resuming his quiet manner, “it wasn’t to be, you know, and it is not for me to complain. Why do you ask such questions, sir?”

“I will tell you, James,” and here Prescott went slowly and plainly through the narrative of the quarrel of James’s mother with her father, of her flight, and of the treachery of Barton in concealing the fact of his existence from Captain Bradshaw.

The cripple listened to it all with greater composure than Mrs. Holl did. Only when Prescott described the emotion of Captain Bradshaw did he appear affected.

“It is a strange story, sir,” he said when Prescott had finished, “and I am very glad to hear my poor mother was forgiven. For myself, sir, it makes but little difference. I am not like other men; still it will be a pleasure to me to be able to have what books I like, and to see for the first time the world. After what you have told me of my grandfather, I shall be glad if only for his sake. Had he been a cold, proud man, who would have been ashamed of his cripple relative, I would have remained here, where all have been so kind to me. My real father and mother are here.”

“Don’t think of us, James,” Mrs. Holl said, crying; “John and me will be only too glad to know you have doctors and comforts, and change of air, such as we could not give you. No, don’t you worry yourself about us, James.”

“Your grandfather is waiting outside, James, with his niece. May they come in?”

It was a touching scene when Captain Bradshaw entered. He paused at the door, and looked wistfully at the pale figure in his quaint chair. Then he came forward and took the lad’s thin hand in his.

“My poor boy, my poor boy!” he said; “my Laura’s child. To think you should have been all these years so near to me, and that I should never have dreamt of your existence, James. I have to ask your pardon, it is too late to ask hers now, for the past. I would have atoned it to her, but I could not; let me atone it to you.”

“Poor grandfather!” the lad said; “it has been hard on you, too, all these years—harder than on me. You could not find a child again—I found another mother.”

“Yes, indeed,” the old man said, and turning to Mrs. Holl, who was standing by crying audibly, “You good woman. How can I thank you; what can I say to you in my dead child’s name and in my own? But Mrs. Holl, you and your husband will surely have your reward. You know the words, ‘I was naked, and ye clothed me; sick, and ye visited me; hungry, and ye took me in.’ God will bless you. No thanks I can give you can repay you as your own good conscience must do. I never can repay you, and yet, Mrs. Holl, in some way or other you shall find Harry Bradshaw is not ungrateful.”

“Don’t talk of it, sir,” Mrs. Holl sobbed. “Me and John only did our duty, and it was a real pleasure, too, for James has always been a happiness and a comfort to us. ’Cept as to his accident, he has never caused us a sore moment.”

“And now, Mrs. Holl, you will spare him to me?” the old man said. “You have, I hear, other children; she was my only one. My claim is as nothing to yours, but for his own sake you will let him go?”

“Lor, yes, sir, and glad to know he is with his own people, and well cared for. But you will let us come to see him sometimes?”

Mrs. Holl was soon assured upon this point, and Captain Bradshaw then turned again to his grandson, who, during this time, had been talking to Alice Heathcote or Prescott. The lad was pleased and happy with his new relations. As to Captain Bradshaw’s earnestness there could be no doubt, and the lad felt in looking up at Alice, and in listening to her quiet, gentle voice, that it would be indeed pleasant to live with people like these, who would understand his thoughts and feelings, as the kind friends around him could never have done. But he refused to assent to Captain Bradshaw’s proposition that the carriage should come to take him away. “No, grandfather,” he said, “I cannot go away and let father come home and find I have gone without a word; I must see him first. Please go home now, sir; I should like to think it all over, and to talk with mother here. In a few days I will come, but not now.”

In vain Captain Bradshaw—who greatly admired the thoughtful kindness of the lad’s decision—argued against it; in vain Mrs. Holl entreated him, with tears in her eyes, not to mind them, but to go with his new friends. The boy was firm, and Captain Bradshaw could not but respect his decision.

The next morning Captain Bradshaw and Alice again called, and again the next day, but it was not until the third day that James gave way to the entreaties of all around him, and consented to leave those who had for so many years acted as parents to him. By eight o’clock that evening he was comfortably installed in an invalid chair in the drawing-room at Lowndes Square. That was a wonderful evening to him. The spacious room, the handsome furniture, the soft light of the candles—the whole atmosphere of comfort and luxury, were almost bewildering to him, who had scarcely from his earliest remembrance passed the threshold of the home he had lived in. Very delightful to his ear was the pleasant talk of Captain Bradshaw, and the softened accents of Alice Heathcote; and when the latter at her uncle’s request sat down and sang to him, he could hardly believe that it was all true, and that he was indeed always to live in this atmosphere of refinement and luxury. Not less were his newly-found relatives pleased with him. They were surprised at his easy and quiet mode of addressing himself, and at the acquaintance which he showed with books and literature. He was well read in the countries they had travelled in, and took his part in conversation quietly, but with modest confidence. The next evening Prescott came to dinner. James had been carried down in his chair, and to him the rich appointments of the dinner table, and the various strange dishes were a matter of extreme surprise, but with native good breeding he expressed nothing of what he felt, but took his part gaily in the conversation. After dinner Captain Bradshaw said, “Now, James, you can either stop down here and hear us talk, or you can go up stairs with Alice, and ask her to play to you.”

“I will go up stairs, if you will allow me,” James said, and Prescott almost envied him as his chair was carried out of the room, followed by Alice.

“He is a fine fellow, Mr. Prescott; I am proud of him. Ah, if he had not been a cripple!” and the old man sighed. “He is very weak, too, but I think he looks better already.”

“I think he does, sir,” Prescott said. “I feel confident that the change will do him good. And now, Captain Bradshaw, I am going to ask what steps you are going to take to prove that this lad is your grandson.”

“Prove it!” Captain Bradshaw said, surprised; “why, there is no doubt about the matter.”

“To our minds, no,” Prescott said; “the seal, the initials on the clothing, and the agreements of dates and ages are quite sufficient; still, it would be, of course, satisfactory, both to yourself and him, to have the case put in a shape which no one could doubt. There is no doubt, for instance, in our minds, of the marriage of his mother, because you had it from her own lips, but it would be desirable to have the certificate, as also the register of the boy’s birth, and some sort of proof, if obtainable, that the poor lady who died at Mrs. Holl’s was his mother and your daughter.”

“As you say, it would be better, Mr. Prescott; as far as the estates go, it makes no difference. I have no son, so the entail is broken, and I can leave them as I choose; and it will, therefore, make no actual difference whether James is legally proved to be my heir or not. Still, it would be, as you say, desirable. How is it to be done?”

“Well,” Prescott said, hesitatingly, “unquestionably the best plan would be to go to Barton; I have no doubt he has carefully procured all the necessary evidence. He may, perhaps, demand an exorbitant sum, but now that he must see he will get nothing in the way he had intended, we may make terms with him.”

“No, no, Mr. Prescott,” Captain Bradshaw said, striking the table with his hand; “not one farthing shall that infernal scoundrel get from me—not one single farthing. If it had not been for him—but there, I shall only get in a passion if I talk about him,” and Captain Bradshaw gulped down a glass of wine with a force and fury which nearly deprived him of breath.

“Well, sir, in that case we must try other means—advertising, and so on. I will, if you will entrust the matter to me, think the matter over, and set about it quietly.”

“Do, Mr. Prescott; I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness already, very greatly, and only wish—there, I see what you are going to say; don’t say it, but I have been thinking it over. And now—yes, I knew there was something else I wanted to speak to you about, and to ask you to do for me. About those good people, the Holls. You know I can’t offer them money, but anything money could buy, you know, anything, I would do for them.”

Prescott thought for a minute.

“I should say, sir, the way to make John Holl a rich man in his own way would be to buy him two or three carts and half a dozen horses, and to purchase some little established connection at the same time as a carrier or dust contractor, or something of that sort.”

“The very thing,” Captain Bradshaw said. “I give you _carte blanche_. Buy the lease, you know, of the house and furniture and stable, and all that; make all the arrangements, and come to me when you have done for a cheque for the amount, and, above all, don’t be afraid of making it too large. There, I am glad that’s off my mind. Now, if you won’t take any more wine, we’ll go upstairs.”

Upon the following evening, at half-past eight, when he knew that the children would be in bed, and that John Holl would be smoking his pipe, Prescott went down to his house. He had made John Holl’s acquaintance at the time when he had seen about the arrangements for Bessy’s sailing to join her husband in Australia.

“I am main glad to see you, Mr. Prescott; sit down, sir. We had a letter from our Evan this morning; he seems to like navvying work very much, Evan does, and lor, how fond he is of Mr. Maynard, to be sure. But there, that ain’t to be wondered at. He be an out-and-outer. There’s no mistake about he. Shocking bad job his losing all his money in that there Bank, weren’t it, sir?”

“It was, Mr. Holl,” Prescott said, lighting his pipe, “a very bad business, indeed. Please sit down, Mrs. Holl, else I shan’t be able to talk to John here.”

Mrs. Holl took her work and sat down at the table.

“A strange thing your James turning out to be a rich man at last, John?”

“Ay, that were a rum turn out, sir. Sarah’s been to see him to-day, and she says he seems as comfortable and as right as ninepence.”

“I have known Captain Bradshaw for a long time, John, and I am sure he and James will get on capitally together.”

“What tickles my fancy, Mr. Prescott,” John said, taking his pipe out of his mouth and laughing to himself, “what tickles my fancy more than all the rest, is to think that chap Barton, after all the years of snuffing and smelling about here, ain’t going to get anything out of it. To think he knew all along as how as James were Captain Bradshaw’s grandson, and never said a word about it! I wouldn’t mind giving a pound—well, no, I don’t know as I’d mind giving five pound—for a turn up with him for half an hour. He’s a pretty stiff one, but I think,” John Holl said meditatingly, “I think I’d give him soup in half an hour. I wish I could pay him out, and I ain’t quite sure I can’t. Perkins—you know Perkins, sir, of the ‘Stunners?’” Prescott nodded. “Well, I’ve heard Perkins say that the Slogger—know the Slogger, Mr. Prescott?” Prescott again nodded—“that the Slogger says as how he knows that against Barton as would make his life not worth a brass farthing if it was known.”

“Indeed?” Prescott said, much interested. “I think I will go down and see the Slogger, John. Barton has got some papers, or rather knows where to get them, which are essential to prove legally who James is, and if I could put the screw on to him I might get him to tell me all about it.”

“Well, sir, it’s Friday to-night, you won’t find him at the ‘Stunners;’ to-morrow’s the night for the ‘Stunners,’ and you are safe to catch him there then, and I expect he’ll tell you sharp enough if he thinks it will do Barton a bad turn; he hates him like poison, I know, for Barton got his brother transported four or five years back, and I have heard him swear he would be square with Barton some day yet.”

“I will go down, John. I used often to be at the ‘Stunners’ years ago with Mr. Maynard. And how goes business, John?”

“Pretty much as usual, sir. Dust is pretty steady. It’s looking up though, dust is; they’re making such a sight of bricks round London now, that cinders fetch their price. I can remember when dust warn’t worth next to nothing, and the contractor was paid for carting it away. Lor bless you, it’s as good as money now. The gaffer as I works for, he’s made a snug thing of it. I hear he’s going out of it with enough to live on. At one time he could scarce pay his men. It used to be a doubt in my mind all the week whether I would get my money on Saturday night, and now they say he has got his five thousand pounds, and he’s going to give it up and go down into the country.”

“How many carts has he, Mr. Holl?”

“He’s got eight carts and fifteen horses. Some are double carts and some single, you see. Johnson’s his name, down beyond Cremorne. I don’t suppose it will make much odds to me, he has promised to pass me over to the new gaffer when he sells off. Are you going, sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Holl, it is almost time I was off. Good night; good night, Mrs. Holl. I daresay I shall see you before long again.”

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Chapter VIII

Scotching A Snake.

At nine o’clock the next morning Prescott went into the “Lively Stunners.” Perkins was, as usual, at his post behind the bar, in his shirt-sleeves.

“Well, Perkins, how go things with you?”

“Lor, Mr. Prescott, what a time it is since you’ve been into the old crib, to be sure. The sight of you is good for one’s eyes. Come inside, sir,” and he shook hands warmly with Prescott and led the way into his snuggery behind the bar. A mere slip of a room, but comfortable, and decorated with the portraits of many worthies of the ring, in fighting costume and defiant attitudes—not perhaps a handsome set of men, but with an undeniable development of biceps. In the post of honour, over the mantel-piece, was the portrait of Perkins himself in fighting costume, as he appeared on standing up for the first round of that celebrated fight of his with “Unknown.” His portrait, as taken in the sixty-first and last round of that tournament, would have been less pleasant to see. Upon the mantel-piece were several silver cups, with inscriptions, stating that they had been presented to Perkins by admirers of his science, endurance, and British pluck.

“Sit down, Mr. Prescott, and light up; these cigars are a good brand. Now, sir, name your liquor?”

Prescott named his liquor, Perkins himself mixed it, and then having left the charge of the bar to his assistant, took his seat by Prescott.

“And how go things with you, Perkins?”

“Bobbish, Mr. Prescott, bobbish. No great shakes, perhaps, but nothing to grumble about. I don’t think the young swells are quite what they were. Stroll in, you know, and look on, but don’t go in so much for work as they used to do. Don’t take their punishment so kindly, you know. Bad job that about Mr. Maynard, sir. Heard about it from John Holl, Holl’s boy being in his service. Now, he was what I call first-rate, just first-rate. Shoulder a little too low, perhaps, but I defy any man to point out another blemish. Wonderful quick for a heavy weight, and such a hitter. I tell you what, Mr. Prescott, though I shouldn’t like it to go further, I never put on the gloves with any man that I felt so unsafe with as with Mr. Maynard. He stood just a little over me. He was as active on his pins as a kitten, and very quick with his head. He didn’t mind how hard you hit him, never lost his temper, but was always there, and then, just when you didn’t expect it, out would come his left like a sledge-hammer, and his right after it. Ah, he was a out-and-outer. A champion spoilt, sir, I call him, a champion spoilt. I’d have backed him against the Slasher, sir, and put every halfpenny I had on it.”

Prescott laughed.

“Yes, he is an awkward customer, Perkins. And now what’s going on upstairs?”

“There’s a few of the old lot, and half a dozen novices; will you walk up presently, sir?”

“Is the Slogger here?”

“Yes, he’s here, sir. Unsteady hand, the Slogger—can’t keep him off his lush. Always breaks down in his training. I’ve stood twenty on him twice, but it’s no good. So he’s give up work, and comes here regular to spar. Worst of him is he will get on, late, and make a row. You remember Mr. Maynard paid his fines and took him out twice. He’s better than he used to be. I had to tell him that he must give it up, or clear out, for he got my place a bad name.”

“I want to have a talk with him, Perkins. A man named Barton,—I believe, from what John Holl says, you have met him at his place,—has got some papers relating to a cousin of Mr. Maynard’s. This man Barton is a great scoundrel, and I don’t know how to get at him, but I hear that the Slogger thinks he has got some sort of hold over him.”

“Yes,” Perkins said, “I told Holl about it. I know the Slogger thinks it is a great pull, but he ain’t a very long-headed chap, ain’t the Slogger. However, Mr. Prescott, you can talk to him. Here, Bill,” he called to a boy, “go upstairs and tell the Slogger he’s wanted down here.”

The boy returned with word that the Slogger was at present in the ring with Nobbler Jack, but would be down shortly.

In a few minutes the Slogger himself appeared, very hot, very red in the face, and a little puffed about the lips.

“Servant, Mr. Prescott!” he said, “long time since I saw you.”

“Yes, Slogger, I’ve been too busy and am getting too stiff to do much with the gloves now. Sit down and take something to drink.”

“Gin cold is my liquor, sir.”

“Now, Mr. Prescott,” Perkins said, when he had brought in the required refreshment, “I’ll leave you to talk it over with the Slogger. I’ll just go upstairs and see how things are getting on.”

“This business I want to speak to you about, Slogger, concerns Mr. Maynard and myself, and I rely upon you to do anything you can for us.”

“That I will, sir,” the man said heartily. “Mr. Maynard and you have been good friends to me, and I’m your man now. Who is it, sir? I’ll tumble against him somehow, and give him pepper. I don’t care if I get six months for it, not a snap, sir, not for you and Mr. Maynard.”

Prescott laughed.

“It is not in that line, Slogger, and if it was you know Mr. Maynard could do it for himself.”

“So he could, sir, none better; still he mightn’t like to get in the papers, you know. I hoped I might have done him a good turn.”

“So you can, Slogger, but not in that line. You know a man named Barton?”

“That I do,” the man said angrily. “He got my brother Bill transported. But I’ll be even with him some day.”

“It is about that I wanted to speak to you. Barton has been paid by Mr. Maynard’s uncle to find out something. Instead of that he has cheated him completely, and has kept some documents in his hands which are of great importance. He will now want a large sum of money to give them up. The old gentleman is so indignant that he swears he won’t pay him a penny. Now, if you have really got some pull over Barton, and can put on the screw, so as to make him give up the papers, you will do Barton as ill a turn as he has done you, you will greatly oblige us, and you will put a fifty pound note into your pocket.”

“Done it is with you, it’s a match,” the man said. “I have got what I fancy’s a pull over Barton, but I never used it before because I never saw my way. I will tell you, sir, and you can put it on as you think best. You remember I went with Perkins and Mr. Maynard and you to that Chartist meeting. My eye, what a lark that were, to be sure. Well, sir, there was a big slouching chap standing in front of me when the row began. He didn’t go in for fighting, but his hat got knocked off in the skrimmage, and a black wig he wore, and I saw his short grey hair, and knew him at once for Barton, for it was only a week before I had seen him in the witness-box against my brother. I tried to get at him to give him a remembrancer, but there were half a dozen round all busy at me at once, so I had enough to do to keep close to the others. Well, sir, not long after this, came the blow up of the whole business, and I heard it said among some chaps I knew, who were pretty deep in it, that they had been blown upon. I asked who they suspected, and they told me that it must have been one of the committee, but there were only one chap who had been on it who they didn’t know, and he weren’t nowhere to be found. He’d give out he was a joiner, and worked down Clerkenwell, but they searched every shop, and made every enquiry, and no chap like him had been heard of there. I asked about his looks, and, just as I expected, I found out it was Barton. If I’d told ’em what I thought, Barton’s life wouldn’t have been worth, no, not a day’s purchase, for a lot of ’em had sworn if they ever found out who it was they’d do for him; and I didn’t somehow like the thought of that. It ain’t English, you know, sir, nothing manly and stand-up about it—what I call a foreigneering sort of job. So I kept it dark, thinking some day if any of my pals got into a hole I could put the screw on to Barton, and make him get ’em off. There, sir, that’s all I know. What do you think of it?”

“Very good, Slogger, very good indeed. I think I can manage with that. Now will you meet me to-morrow morning at the door of his office at eleven o’clock. I have written the address down upon that bit of paper, so that there can be no mistake about it I do not want you to go in with me, but just to be there if wanted.”

“All right, Mr. Prescott, I’m on.”

And so Prescott took his leave, and soon emerged from the narrow street into the broad glare of the Haymarket.

The next day at eleven Prescott entered Mr. Barton’s office, and sent in his name.

“Ask him to walk in.”

Prescott took a seat and made a quick survey of the man opposite.

“My name is Prescott, Mr. Barton. I am a barrister. I have come down to speak to you relative to some business you transacted a good many years since for Captain Bradshaw.”

The man gave a slight start, and his face grew visibly pale.

“I don’t think you acted quite on the square, so to speak, upon that occasion, Mr. Barton.”

He paused, but the detective did not speak.

“It was hardly the right thing to do, you know, although perhaps clever; you have the reputation for being a very clever man you know, Mr. Barton,” and Prescott paused again, but Barton did not speak, although Prescott could see that his lips moved, as if he was muttering a deep oath, and drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. “Still, you see, Barton, even very clever men make a mistake sometimes. A waiting game pays sometimes, but, perhaps, more often it does not.”

The detective could stand it no longer, but burst out with a fearful imprecation.

“——what are you driving at?”

“Only at this, Mr. Barton,” Prescott went on composedly, “that when you forgot to tell Captain Bradshaw that his grandson was alive,”—the man uttered an exclamation, which was almost a groan, but Prescott, without heeding him, continued,—“alive and well, and allowed him to remain all these years in ignorance of it—with the intention, of course, of extorting a very large sum from the boy when he came of age, for the knowledge of his birth—it would have been wiser to have assured yourself that the mother had left no sign, no little valuables, such as seals with crests, and so on, which might lead to the discovery of the mother without your kind interference. It was not likely, of course, but it turned out so, and the lad is now at his grandfather’s house as his acknowledged and recognised heir.”

The detective listened in stupefied silence. This utter overthrow of all he had schemed for for so many years completely crushed him. For a moment he thought of the document he held from Fred Bingham, then he remembered that it was expressly voided by the appearance of the heir. Then he sat for a time with his forehead on his hand, thinking deeply, Prescott quietly watching him all the time. At last he said,

“Well, Barton, what do you make of it?”

“I make this,” the man said doggedly; “that the boy may or may not be his grandson, but he has no proof whatever of it. The woman who died at the Holls’ may have stolen the things, or they may have been given to her by the other. You have no proof—even if you knew that it was his daughter, which you don’t—that the child was hers; and you have no proof that his parents were ever married, even if you could prove the other points.”

“We have not,” Prescott said, frankly, “and it is precisely for that reason that I come to you. Of course you have got all these proofs, and I want you to furnish them to us.”

“And how much do you propose to give for them?” Barton asked cautiously. “I have waited for twenty years, and I won’t give up the game for a trifle.”

“Captain Bradshaw is so angry at the manner in which you have deceived him that he will not give one farthing.”

“And do you think that, if I have those proofs,” Barton sneered, “I am going to give them up for nothing? Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Not at all,” Prescott answered unmoved. “I have already said that I take you to be a clever man, although things have hardly turned out as you expected. I will tell you what my advice to Captain Bradshaw will be. I shall recommend him to publish a statement of the case, under the head of ‘Extraordinary recovery of a missing Heir,’ in every newspaper in England, relating the whole particulars. I don’t think your business would be worth much after that.”

“I don’t care,” the man said doggedly; “you won’t frighten me that way. I am going to retire. I shall shut my office up next week for good.”

“Going to retire to enjoy your honest savings, Mr. Barton?” Prescott said cheerfully; “then we must go to work in another way. We know the marriage took place in or near London, so that an offer of fifty pounds reward will very soon produce that certificate. As to the birth of the child, it is more difficult. Let me see,” he said thoughtfully, narrowly watching the face of the man, who was sitting in sulky silence opposite to him; “she was very poor, very. Her husband died, I fancy, before the child was born, so she was likely to have been confined in a workhouse. Yes,” he said, seeing a slight change in the man’s face, “certainly in a workhouse, and as we know the date to within a month we shall have no difficulty about that part of the business.”

“You may do what you please,” Barton said, bringing his clenched hand down upon the table with a fierce execration; “you may do what you please, but you can never prove the connection beyond the personal ornaments, and they are no proof at all.”

“No legal proof in themselves,” Prescott said quietly, “but strong corroborative proof, which coupled with connection of dates and ages, the personal appearance of the lady, and other points, would make a strong case—a very strong case. Well, as you won’t help us, we must do our best. So you are thinking of retiring from business, Mr. Barton?”

“Yes, I am,” growled the man sulkily; “and now I will trouble you to walk out.”

“A snug little place at Putney or Hampstead, eh, Mr. Barton?”

“I don’t want any chaff,” the man said, rising; “you had better move, and before I make you.”

“I am just going, Mr. Barton. I was only about to say that it would not be a pleasant thing for you when you were walking in your garden in the dusk of evening, smoking your pipe—I suppose you do smoke?—to have a bullet put suddenly into you from behind a hedge. I am afraid by what I hear that it is not unlikely. I only mention it as a friend, you know. Good morning.”

Mr. Barton turned very pale. He was, as has been said, physically a coward, and this picture Prescott had drawn cowed him at once. He put his back against the door.

“What do you mean, Mr. Prescott, are you threatening me?”

“I!” Prescott said, in a surprised tone. “I! just the contrary, Mr. Barton. Why, you don’t suppose, man, do you, that I would hire a man to murder you because you decline to furnish me with a necessary link in a chain of evidence.” And Prescott laughed pleasantly. “I was only acting as a friend, you know, Mr. Barton. One hears things sometimes, and if a word of warning can avert mischief, of course one gives it. Good morning.”

Barton irresolutely half moved away from the door, and then his fear got the better of him, and he determined to see whether it was a mere threat or a real danger.

“I have done my duty,” he said sturdily, “and I am afraid of no man.”

“Very right, Barton, ‘do your duty and fear no man’ is an excellent rule to act on. Still, you know, men sometimes have a little malice among themselves, even against men who have done their duty. Now, I will give you a case in point. At the Chartist business three years ago, the men knew that their plans were betrayed and their leaders transported by the information of a man who called himself a joiner, of Clerkenwell. They have sworn to murder him if they find him out, and, upon my word, I believe they will keep their oath. I know that they never have found out who it was, but I have heard that at two o’clock this afternoon they are to be told. Now there is a case in point. Supposing that informer had been yourself, I ask you, would it be safe for you to indulge in an evening pipe in your garden?”

Mr. Barton actually trembled with terror and rage.

“This is a conspiracy against my life, Mr. Prescott. I will go off at once and swear an information against you.”

“Against me, Mr. Barton? you are mad. If I am conspiring at all it is in your favour. I hear a rumour and I mention it to you. I put a hypothetical case for your opinion.”

“And you have it in your power to prevent this information being known?”

“Yes, Mr. Barton, this is quite between ourselves; but there is a man leaning against the doorway opposite—yes, there he is,” and Prescott looked out of the window. “Now, if I wink at that man as I go out, that man will go straight to his home and will keep his mouth shut for the rest of his life; and he is the only man besides myself who knows of that little affair. If I don’t wink at him, I really can’t answer which way he will walk.”

“There are the papers,” the detective said, completely cowed, and taking some papers from an iron safe; “here are copies of certificates of the marriage, and baptism of the child. What else do you want?”

“I want you to go before a magistrate with me, and swear this affidavit I have prepared, saying, that in pursuance of instructions you received from Captain Bradshaw, you traced his daughter from the place where her child was born; that you never lost sight of her, and that she died at John Holl’s, and that the child is the one mentioned in the certificate of baptism.”

Without a word Barton followed Prescott down-stairs, and as they went out stole a glance at the lounging figure opposite, who, with his hands in his pockets, was apparently absorbed in the operation of smoking a pipe, but who, after they had passed, moved leisurely after them. When they came out from the Mansion House, Prescott said,—

“Good morning, Mr. Barton; that is, I think, satisfactory to all parties.”

The detective walked off without saying a word, he was too completely beaten even to retort.

“It’s all right, Slogger,” Prescott said to the man. “He was a dreadful cur. Come to-morrow at eleven o’clock to my rooms in the Temple, and I will hand you over the money.”

“All right, governor, I’ll be there,” and the man turned off again westward.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter IX

John Holl, Dust Contractor.

Arthur Prescott went up the same evening to Lowndes Square. The invalid had gone to bed, and Captain Bradshaw and Miss Heathcote were alone.

“Well, Mr. Prescott,” Captain Bradshaw said, after the first greetings, “I suppose you have no news to give us yet?”

“I have better than news, Captain Bradshaw; I have these to give you. There are all the proofs required in any court of law in the world to prove that James is your grandson and legitimate heir.”

“Really, Mr. Prescott?”

“Yes, really, Captain Bradshaw.”

“My dear sir,” the old man said, shaking him warmly by the hand, “I am delighted. I don’t know how to thank you. I have been thinking, since I saw you, that it would be necessary to come to terms with that scoundrel Barton, and I am very glad you took it upon yourself to act without asking me first. How much have you had to promise him? A heavy sum, of course; but I shan’t grudge it.”

“Not a very heavy amount, sir, considering their value. I shall want a cheque from you for fifty pounds.”

“Fifty pounds!” exclaimed Captain Bradshaw. “Do you mean to say Barton gave them up for fifty pounds?”

“No, that he did not,” Prescott laughed; “nor would he have given them up for much less than a hundred times that amount. If it is any satisfaction to you, Captain Bradshaw, Barton will not get one penny. I will tell you the whole story. But it is rather a long one, so you had better sit down to listen to it.”

So they sat down, Alice Heathcote putting aside the light work upon which she had been engaged. Prescott then told the story of his success, and when he had done Captain Bradshaw was in a state of the greatest delight.

“To think of your getting the better of that rascal. It is admirable—upon my word it is admirable; don’t you think so, Alice?”

“Yes, uncle, indeed I do. We are all very, very much obliged to Mr. Prescott.”

And Prescott felt that he was amply repaid.

“Now, Mr. Prescott, if you will come down into my study for a moment, I will write you the cheque.”

Prescott followed him down-stairs. Captain Bradshaw sat down and wrote two cheques.

“Now, Mr. Prescott,” he said, when he had finished the second, “you will not be offended at what I am going to say. I am an old fellow, you know, and have known you a great many years. You are a young man, and you have done me a great service—a very great service. I am speaking of your restoring James to me. You have now rendered me another, and have saved me a large sum of money. Will you let me look at all this in a professional point of view? I am a very rich man.”

“No, my dear Captain Bradshaw,” Prescott said, firmly. “I am not in the least offended at your offering it to me, but I could not take money for doing what has been a great pleasure. As you say, I have known you since I was quite a boy, and have received very many kindnesses from you; and it is very hard if I may not have the pleasure of doing you a slight service now.”

“You are wrong, Prescott,” Captain Bradshaw said. “But you must have your way. I am sorry, very sorry, you will not let me prove in my own way that I feel grateful to you. However, there’s an end of it,” and he tore up one of the cheques. “Believe me, my dear boy, if you ever do want a friend, Harry Bradshaw is your man.”

“Thank you, sir,” Prescott said, shaking hands with him warmly. “I quite believe you, and am very happy in the belief. I will see about the other business in the morning.”

Prescott went upstairs again for a short time. When he had gone, Captain Bradshaw said,—

“That is a fine fellow, Alice, a very fine fellow. I wish I could see my way to doing him a good turn. I have been asking him, delicately you know, my dear, as an old man might ask a young one, to let me treat him as my legal adviser in the matter, but he would not hear of it. It is not often that a cheque for five hundred pounds gets thrown into the fire.”

Alice looked pleased.

“I do wish I could do something for him; but I don’t see my way, Alice—do you?”

Alice shook her head; but as she bent over her work a flush mounted up to her forehead, as if the idea of some reward Prescott would care about had occurred to her. Whatever it was, she did not mention it to her uncle.

It was about a week after this that John Holl’s master said to him one evening when he went up with the carts at the end of the day’s work,—

“By the way, John, the carts won’t go out to-morrow. I’ve sold the whole thing out, as I told you I was going to; and to-morrow the things change hands, and the new name will be painted on the carts.”

“Well, gaffer,” John said, “we’ve worked a good many years together, and I am as sorry as can be that you’re going to leave us. Have you spoken a word for me to the new gaffer? I ain’t as young as I was, master; but no man can complain I don’t do a fair day’s work.”

“I’ve told him about you, John, and you’ll find it all right. I was talking about you and your wife having brought up that boy, and of his having turned out a rich chap. He was quite tickled about it, and so was his wife. She’s a kindish sort of woman, John, and she said she should like to see your wife.”

“Now, master, you needn’t have gone on upon that affair,” John said, reproachfully; “there never wer’nt nothing in it, you know.”

“Yes, John, but I was only saying that it was a rum start; and, you see, it may do you good, you know. It always does do good when a master and man take a fancy to each other. So you come up to-morrow afternoon, at three o’clock, to square up. And tell your wife to brush up a bit, and come along with you.”

“Thank you, master, I’ll come, and I daresay Sarah will, though the old woman won’t like it, I know.”

Nor, indeed, did John himself; for there is no man more proud and independent in his own way than an English workman. Indeed, he would have absolutely refused to bring his wife, but he did not like to hurt the feelings of his old master, who had evidently wished to do him a service.

“By the bye, John,” his master said, as he tamed to leave the yard, “rumly enough the new gaffer’s name is the same as yours, John Holl.”

“Is it now?” said John; “well, that is rum! Not that Holl is an uncommon name, or John either, for that matter; but to see it on our carts will be rum. Lor, how my mates will chaff me, to be sure. I know what it will be—Hullo, John, set up on your own account, old man? I say, John, stole a cart? Lor bless me, I shall never hear the end of it,” and John went off, laughing to himself.

John had, as he anticipated, some trouble with Sarah; but he had put the case to her somewhat diplomatically, and said that the new gaffer’s wife wanted to know the story of James being found and turning out a rich man, and then he had turned her attention off by telling her that the new gaffer’s name was John Holl “Won’t it be a rum start, Sarah, to see one’s own name on the carts?” Sarah was greatly amused at the idea, and when the appointed time came made no objection to starting with her husband for Chelsea.

“Lor, John, what a time it is sin’ you and me went out walking together on a week day. If you do take a holiday, which ain’t often, we have the children with us.”

“It do seem strange like, lass. Lor, what a shapely young girl you were when I took my first walk with you. Do you remember it, mother?”

“Ay, John,” Sarah said, with a softening of her voice, “I ain’t likely to forget that while I live. Well, John, I’ve been as happy as I hoped to be.”

“Ay, mother,” John said, “we’ve had no cause to grumble. If we ain’t done quite so well as we hoped then, Sairey, we’ve done as well as we could have fairly expected. Well, here we are; and I’m blest if there ain’t all the carts with their new name on them, ‘John Holl, dust contractor.’ It don’t look bad,” he said, critically, as he spelt the letters out slowly. “I wonder what the new gaffer’s like.”

“Well, John,” his old master said, coming out of the house into the yard, “come to square up, eh? How are you, Mrs. Holl?” and he went into a little outhouse, and paid John Holl his wages up to the preceding night.

“Now, John, I will take you indoors to the new master.” At the door, however, John and his wife were surprised to meet Mr. Prescott.

“Ah, Mr. Holl, how are you? How are you, Mrs. Holl? Had a little business here, too, you see. Come in,” and he led the way into a neat little parlour, the former master remaining outside.

“Hullo,” John exclaimed, in utter astonishment, when, upon entering, he saw the cripple boy sitting by the fireside in the very box in which he had sat so many years by their own hearth, and which, on coming out, they had left in the spot where it had so long stood.

“Yes, father, it’s me, sure enough. Well, mother, how goes it? You see I came down here with Mr. Prescott.”

Sarah kissed her foster son tenderly, and John Holl shook him by the hand.

“But where,” John said, looking round uneasily, “is the new gaffer?”

“He’ll be here presently, father, sit you down—sit down, mother.”

“Yes, my boy, but the master mightn’t like it if he came in here and found us making so free.”

“You sit down, mother, the new master won’t mind it. He’s a good fellow, is the new master, ain’t he, Mr. Prescott?”

“He is, indeed,” Prescott said, warmly, “a right good fellow.”

“So good a fellow, mother, that when he was a young man, and not long married, he took a poor boy out of the streets and brought him up.”

“Did he really though?” Sarah said. “Ah, that’s why he wants to see us. He has heard about James turning out a gentleman, and he wonders whether his lad will do the same.”

“Like enough, mother,” John said, “I wish he’d come though; for I can’t but feel as I’m intruding here.”

“Don’t you be uneasy, father. I want to tell you about the new master, for I know you and mother will like him. His name, you know, is John Holl.”

“Yes,” John said, “John Holl, dust contractor. It’s writ up on the carts, James.”

“Just so, father, John Holl, dust contractor. Well, father, John Holl, when he was a young man, wasn’t a contractor at all, but just a dustman. When he had not been married long, he took a poor little baby whose mother had died—she was no relation to him, mother, none at all, just a poor creature without friends—and they took in the baby, and brought him up as their own.”

“He must be a real good fellow, John Holl, dust contractor,” John put in, never remembering that he had done the same thing.

“He is, father. I told you you’d like him. Well, the worst of it was, the poor baby grew up a cripple, just like me, mother. But they didn’t love it or care for it any the less, but nursed it and watched over it with even greater