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diff --git a/old/54091-0.txt b/old/54091-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9d53068..0000000 --- a/old/54091-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6142 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of All But Lost Vol 1 of 3, by G. A. Henty - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: All But Lost Vol 1 of 3 - A Novel - -Author: G. A. Henty - -Release Date: February 2, 2017 [EBook #54091] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL BUT LOST VOL 1 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, David Edwards and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - ALL BUT LOST - A Novel. - - - BY - - G. A. HENTY, - AUTHOR OF “THE MARCH TO MAGDALA,” ETC., ETC. - - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL I. - - - LONDON: - TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. - 1869. - [_The Right of Translation is reserved._] - - - - - LONDON: - BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - CHAP. PAGE - - I.— COLLEGE LIFE 1 - - II.— THE DUSTMAN’S FAMILY 22 - - III.— BROKEN DOWN 46 - - IV.— THE OWNERS OF WYVERN HALL 70 - - V.— A MODEST ANNIVERSARY 94 - - VI.— THE BINGHAMS 118 - - VII.— A STARTLING SUGGESTION 138 - - VIII.— A SHATTERED HOME 169 - - IX.— WHAT WILL IT LEAD TO? 195 - - X.— PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL 221 - - XI— AN EVENING AT THE HOLLS’ 244 - - XII.— THWARTED PLANS 264 - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - ALL BUT LOST. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - COLLEGE LIFE. - - -It is near the end of the Lent term at Cambridge, a raw, damp day. The -grey clouds are drifting thick and low, over the flat fen country, and a -fine mist is falling steadily. But for once no one seems to mind the -weather. It is two o’clock, and from all the colleges the men are -pouring out in groups, on their way down to the river. - -Hardly a soul in the University remains behind. Even the reading men -have closed their books for the afternoon, have given up their daily -constitutional out beyond Trumpington, and are going down to see their -college eights row. - -It is the last day of the races. Along the men tramp in little knots -through the narrow winding streets—talking excitedly as they go, and -making many bets as to the fortune of the day—and then, across the wet -grass, down to the water side. - -Here those who are to row cross the floating bridge to the boat-houses, -while the others walk slowly along the banks, to see the boats as they -paddle by on their way down. Soon they come; John’s in its blazing -scarlet, Trinity in dark blue, cherry-coloured Emanuel, chocolate -Corpus, and violet Caius; Trinity Hall in its sober grey, Sidney in -bright orange, and Queen’s in green.[1] These and many others sweep -past, and the narrow river seems alive with the flashing oars. - -Footnote 1: - - Many of the colours have since been changed. - -The men on the banks hurry now, to be up at the starting posts in time. - -Some trot along for a little way, by the side of the boat they are most -interested in, watching with anxious eye, the condition and form of each -man, and the regular swing of the crew. Now they have arrived at the -post-reach, and are clustered along the towing path, while the boats, by -this time empty, lie at their respective stations. Their crews stand -alongside, looking grave and anxious, and receive the final words of -advice and admonition from their captains. - -At length the last boat has arrived at its post, and the first gun -fires. There are three minutes yet, but the men take their places in -their boats, strip off the upper jerseys and comforters in which they -are wrapped, and, amid a perfect babel of last words, of little speeches -of encouragement and good will, from their friends on the bank, push -slowly off. - -The crowd on the towing-path clusters thickest round the first three -boats, but our place is by the fifth, for that contains the men whose -fortunes will be the subject of this story. It is Caius; before it lies -Emanuel, behind it Trinity Hall, confessedly the best crew of the three. -Another gun. The tumult on the bank is hushed as if by magic, umbrellas -are closed, coats buttoned up, and all prepare for a start. The boats -lie out in the middle of the stream; twenty of them in a long line; each -with its eight stalwart oarsmen, all in white, their caps forming the -only distinguishing badges. Each of the coxswains holds in his hand a -rope attached to his post. These are forty yards apart, and each boat’s -bow is therefore only some sixty feet from the rudder of the one before -it. - -There is a dead silence, broken only by voices of men on the bank -counting the seconds, and by the short quick orders of the coxswains. - -“Fifteen seconds gone;”—“Paddle bow and two;”—“Twenty;” “Thirty;” “Forty -seconds gone;” “Forty-five;”—“Pull half a stroke bow;”—“Fifty;” -“Fifty-five;”—“Forward all;”—“Sixty.” As the word is heard, the gun is -fired; a hundred and sixty oars strike the water as if by one impulse. -At the same moment a roar of exhortation and encouragement breaks from -the crowd on the bank; they set off to run—a wild, pushing, shouting -throng. - -No easy matter is it to keep up with the flying boats, jostled and -pushed in that excited, eager crowd. Woe be to him who falls,—fortunate -by comparison he who is pushed into the river. A wild looking set are -they: men in boating dresses of every variety of colour, their arms -waving frantically; men in pea-jackets, and waterproof coats and wraps -of every description; sober reading men, lost in the tumult, bewildered -and hustled, intent only on keeping their feet, all shouting in voices -which grow momentarily hoarse and broken. - -The boats had got an equally good start, but in the first few hundred -yards Trinity Hall had considerably lessened the gap between itself and -Caius, while the latter had gained but slightly upon Emanuel. In this -order they round the post corner, and dash on through the gut to Grassy. -“Now bow and three, now bow and three,” is the shout, and the boats -sweep round the sharp curve. - -Here Emanuel steers rather wild, and her pursuer has palpably gained -upon her. The shouting redoubles; men who have dropped behind from the -leading boats join the throng and take up the cry, “Now, Caius, now; -you’re gaining, you’re gaining.” “Now, Trinity Hall, take her along.” -There are not thirty feet between Emanuel and Caius, while Trinity -Hall is not twenty behind the latter. On they fly, the boats leaping -forward at each stroke like long hungry water snakes after their prey, -past the Plough, and round Ditton corner. Here a fresh burst cheering -breaks out from the opposite bank, from numbers stationed there;—dons -too old and staid to run along the towing path, and men on horse-back, -who start to gallop alongside. Many ladies are there too; these wave -their handkerchiefs and parasols, and would like to run along with the -rest. On the boats dart; rounding the corner the tired crews pull with -renewed energy and hope. It is straight home now; only another half -mile. They are nearing each other fast. There is certain to be a bump: -which boat will make it? Nearer and nearer. Trinity Hall overlaps -Caius; but her bow has not touched her flying adversary, and whenever -it draws near, the rudder of the Caius boat is slightly turned, and a -rush of water thrown against it. This cannot last. Inch by inch they -draw up, and Caius is still three feet behind Emanuel. Her chance -seems hopeless. All at once, in a momentary lull of the shouting, a -well-known voice from the throng, that of one of the college tutors, -himself once a famous oar, comes out clear and strong—“Now, Caius, -now—twenty strokes, and you are in to them. One—two—three.” The crowd -take up the cry: “four”—“five”—“six;” and at each stroke the boat -seems to leap upon its adversary. “Seven”—“eight”—“three more and you -do it.” “Nine”—“ten”—“eleven;” and a last wild cheer breaks out as the -nose of the Caius boat touches the rudder of Emanuel, and the bump is -made. - -The two boats immediately pull aside to let those behind them pass, and -the gasping crews lean on their oars, exhausted and breathless. One or -two get out, too done-up to pull farther, while friends on the bank take -their places. The light University blue flag, with the Caius’ arms in -the centre, is hoisted triumphantly in the stern, and the boat paddles -quietly on again, saluted by a burst of “see the conquering hero comes,” -from the band on the barge near the railway bridge. The excitement is -over, and the men on the bank, awaking to the consciousness that they -are terribly wet, once more put up their umbrellas, and make the best of -their way back to college. - -It is evening now in the quiet courts of Caius. The wind has quite -dropped, the rain has ceased, and the night is still and dark; but from -some of the windows the lights stream out brightly into the gloom, and -sounds of singing and loud laughter at times break out across the -deserted court. - -Now a man crosses the court, smoking a short pipe, with a very battered -cap upon his head, and a very short gown over his shoulders; goes up the -stairs to one of the rooms from which the laughter and noise come -loudest, stops at a door over which the name of Grahame is painted in -white letters, opens it, and goes in. - -His arrival is greeted with shouts of welcome, with a great thumping of -tumblers, and cries of “Hurrah, seven! Well rowed, old man!” - -“Come up this way, Frank,” a voice from the other end of the room -shouted through the smoke; “I have kept a place for you here by me.” - -“I’ll come as soon as I can see my way,” the new-comer answered; “but, -upon my word, considering that it’s barely nine o’clock yet, you have -managed to blow a very fair amount of tobacco smoke between you.” -Accordingly he made his way up to the end of the room, and took his seat -by the side of his host, who was the captain and stroke of the Caius -eight, and had given this party to celebrate the victory of the day, and -the termination of the last month’s training. The men round the table, -by the unanimity and earnestness with which they were smoking, seemed -determined to make up for their long abstinence from the fragrant weed. - -Frank Maynard, the new comer, was a tall, wiry man, lithe and sinewy, -with broad sloping shoulders. His face was long and narrow, still -whiskerless, or nearly so, and he would be probably a much -better-looking man in another two or three years than he was now. But he -could never be handsome; his features were by no means regular, and his -honest eyes, frank smile, and powerful frame, constituted at present his -only claims to attraction. He was generally addressed by his Christian -name, a sure sign at the University of unusual popularity. Upon Frank’s -left sat his cousin, Fred Bingham, and a stronger contrast could hardly -be imagined. Fred Bingham was under the middle height, and his figure -was extremely slight, almost as much so as that of a boy of fourteen, -and his waist could have been spanned by the hands of an ordinary man. -Apart from the extraordinary youthfulness of his appearance, he was -good-looking, with well-cut aristocratic features. His hair was very -fair, and his face had hardly a trace of colour. His voice was -high-pitched and thin, and his laugh especially more resembled that of a -girl than a man. He had small and well-formed feet, but his hands -curiously were large, red, and coarse. Among a certain set in the -college with whom he cared to make himself agreeable he was much liked, -but among the boating set he was intensely unpopular. These big, strong -men were antipathetic to him, their powerful figures dwarfed his, their -deep hearty voices drowned his weak treble and girlish laugh, and his -disagreeable remarks and cutting sneers frequently caused disputes which -it needed all his cousin Frank’s influence to allay. Indeed, had it not -been for Frank’s popularity, the crew would never have retained him for -their coxswain, notwithstanding the fact that he really was a most -useful man, always cool and collected, with a perfect knowledge of the -river, a good judge of rowing, and above all a feather-weight. - -It is unnecessary to enter into any details as to the doings of the -evening, the speech-making, the songs, the drinking, and the smoking. -Every one can imagine the scene for himself, and may conceive the noise, -the shouting and laughing which twenty young fellows in full health and -spirits, highly satisfied with themselves and their day’s work, would -make upon such an occasion. So great was the hubbub indeed that the dons -across the court began to think that even the victory of the day, which -they themselves had discussed with great satisfaction over their wine in -the common room, could hardly excuse such an uproarious meeting as this. -About midnight, however, the party began to break up, and the men -scattered over the college to their respective rooms, singing snatches -of songs as they went. And then the courts were still again. Frank -Maynard, and a few of the quieter men, sat for another hour smoking and -discussing the race, agreeing that the credit of the day was mainly due -to Crockford, the don who had called upon them for the final ten strokes -which had effected the bump. After this they, too, separated, and in a -few minutes Caius was quiet for the night. - -Frank Maynard had not been very long asleep when he was awakened by a -shouting, and the sound of running in the street. He opened his eyes—the -room was lit up with a dull red light—and he hardly needed the cry of -“Fire! fire!” to tell him what was the matter. He leaped from his bed, -threw up his window, and looked out. There were no flames visible, but -the fronts of the houses on the opposite side of the road were aglow -with a dark fiery glare. It was evident that the flames were behind -him—that one of the colleges was on fire. He ran into the -sitting-room—to the windows which looked into the court, and there, -through the trees before him, across the court, was a great glare, and -sparks flying up. It was close—so close that he could not tell whether -it was in the next court of his own college or in Trinity Hall, which -lies behind it, separated only by a narrow lane. - -It was the work of a minute to throw on his clothes, and to run -downstairs and across to the gateway leading to the next court; and then -he saw that the fire was not there, but in Trinity Hall. - -Turning back, he ran to the porter’s-lodge. It was already open, and the -porter, in answer to an appeal at the gate for assistance, had just gone -into the college to rouse the men. - -Frank ran down the narrow lane between Caius and the schools, and in -another minute was in Trinity Hall. From the rooms above the gateway a -volume of flame and red smoke was pouring out. Not many men were as yet -in the court; those there were, belonged to the college itself. They -were looking on, ready enough to assist, but helpless at present. The -engines had not yet arrived, and the flames were having it all their own -way, pouring out with a fierce crackling from the windows of the -first-floor. The volume of red smoke, lit up by an occasional tongue of -flame, which filled the adjoining rooms, showed that it was rapidly -spreading. Very soon a bright ripple of flame runs along the ceilings, -the window curtains catch, the glass shivers into fragments at the fiery -touch, and the flames rush out with a roar of triumph. Now the men from -the colleges near, from Caius and Trinity and Clare, are clustering in, -together with a few of the townspeople. Presently the engines come -lumbering up, and the handles are seized by eager volunteers. But there -is no water at hand, and the hose are not long enough to reach to the -river behind. So long lines of men are formed down to the waterside, who -pass the buckets along from hand to hand, and in a few minutes the -engines begin to work. By this time the fire has got a firm hold of the -part attacked, and the upper stories are one sheet of flame. Dainty food -do the old colleges, with their rickety wooden staircases and wainscoted -rooms, dry and inflammable as so much tinder, offer to the hungry fire. -At last the engines are in full play, and work at a speed at which -engines have seldom worked before. Most of those at the handles are -boating-men, who have been for weeks in some sort of training. Beneath -their powerful arms the cranks work up and down, with a rapid stroke, -very unlike the usual monotonous clank of a fire-engine. The men -encourage each other with cheering shouts and boating cries of “Now -then, all together!” “Now she moves!” and the jets of water dash eagerly -in at the blazing windows. But the fire still spreads. The roof falls -in. The flames mount up more fiercely and brightly than before, with -vast volumes of glowing smoke, and myriads of fiery sparks. Day is -dawning, and the crowded court presents a strange sight as the grey -morning light breaks on the red flashing of the fire. Some of the men -are in pea-jackets with boating-caps of every colour, others are in -their caps and gowns. Here a party is working its engine with untiring -vigour, there another group is impatiently awaiting fresh supplies of -water; long lines of men are passing the buckets to and from the river. -Sober dons are as busy and excited as any; a few are directing the -operations, the rest are hard at work among the undergraduates. In spite -of their exertions the fire still spreads. All are anxious; for if the -flames extend to the adjoining wing of the court, Trinity, which is only -separated by a narrow lane, is certain to catch fire. These old places -are terribly inflammable. Some of the dons therefore get upon the roof, -Crockford of Caius most active among them, and direct the hose of the -engines; not unfrequently in their haste and inexperience deluging -themselves and each other with water, to the amusement of the -undergraduates below. No attempt is now made to extinguish the fire in -the part it has already seized upon, every effort being directed to -prevent it from spreading. Several times the flames break into the -adjoining rooms, but the dons with the hose, on ladders at the windows, -stand their ground and beat them back. All this time the college -servants are moving about with cans of beer among the men at work; the -butteries of the colleges near are thrown open, and refreshments served -to all comers. - -At last the efforts to check the flames are successful, and they spread -no farther. Another hour passes, and it is evident that all danger is -over. The flames only shoot up at intervals from the shell they have -destroyed. The gown then leave it to the firemen to pump upon the ruins, -and scatter to their homes to breakfast. - -By the time that Frank Maynard had changed his things and was ready, a -friend who had been working next to him at the engine, and who had -agreed to come in to breakfast, arrived. Arthur Prescott was a man with -a short, thick-set figure, and a kindly face with a quaint, -old-fashioned expression—one of those faces which, on a boy’s shoulders, -looks like that of an old man, but which never alters, and in old age -looks younger than it had ever done before. - -Arthur Prescott—he had been always called Old Prescott at school, and -his intimate friends never spoke of him as anything else even now—was a -general favourite. No one was ever heard to say a bad word of him. He -was one of those men in whom all around him seem instinctively to -confide, and to make a depositary of secrets which they would never -relate to anyone else; a straightforward, sensible, true-hearted English -gentleman. - -Prescott and Maynard had been great friends when boys together at -Westminster; and, indeed, it was principally the fact of the former’s -coming to Caius which had induced Frank to choose that college in -preference to any other. - -Maynard greeted his arrival with, “That’s right, Prescott, you’re just -in time to help me; there is the gridiron, put the steak on while I see -about the coffee.” - -For some time there was little conversation. Prescott was fully occupied -with his culinary charge, and Maynard in the preparation of the coffee; -the apparatus being one of those beautifully-scientific inventions, -which, while they produce no doubt an excellent result, demand incessant -attention, and are liable, in the event of the least thing going wrong, -to explode with disastrous consequences. At last all was ready, and they -sat down to breakfast. They had scarcely begun when a new-comer entered. - -“I thought I should find you at breakfast, Maynard. Give me some, like a -good fellow. My fire is gone out, and I can’t find either my gyp or -bed-maker, although I’ve been shouting from the window till I am as -hoarse as a raven. What are you eating? Steak, and mighty nicely done -too.” - -Their hunger once somewhat appeased, they began to talk over the events -of the past night, and of the boat supper. - -“Do you know, Frank,” Teddy Drake said, after a pause, “that cousin of -yours—Bingham—becomes more unpleasant every day. I thought last night -there would have been a row half-a-dozen times. He is the most -insufferable little beggar I ever came across.” - -Frank laughed. “Bingham does make himself disagreeable, Drake, I quite -allow; but it is really all manner, he is not a bad fellow.” - -“I only go by what I see and hear, Frank, and I call him a cantankerous -little vermin.” - -“It is all outside, Drake; he is a good-hearted fellow in the main.” - -“I don’t think it, Frank. I tell you he is a chip of the evil one.” - -“Without going as far as Drake,” Prescott said, smiling, “I confess, -Frank, that I don’t like Bingham. It is not that he is disagreeable, -although he certainly is that, but that I feel instinctively repelled by -him. Frankly, Maynard, he gives me the impression of being bad hearted. -He is essentially a man I could not trust.” - -“Oh come, Prescott,” Frank said, warmly, “that is not like you. I have -known Fred for many years, and I believe him to be a very -straightforward fellow. Disagreeable and cantankerous if you like, but a -good fellow in the main. In his way he reminds me, although he is as -straight as an arrow, of deformed people. They are generally -kind-hearted, but they are often extremely sensitive. They imagine all -sorts of slights where none are intended, and are not unfrequently very -bitter in their remarks on those to whom nature has been more bountiful -than to themselves. So with Fred; I am sure he feels it very much that -he looks a mere boy, and it makes him irritable and snappish.” - -“I have no doubt there is a good deal in what you say, Frank; but I -confess that somehow or other I distrust as much as I dislike him.” - -“He’s a chip of the evil one,” Teddy Drake muttered to himself, “and -there are no two ways about it.” - -“Now, Drake,” Frank said, “help me to push the table back, and let’s -have a pipe. Another fortnight and we shall be going down; now the races -are over I shall be glad to be away.” - -“I am going to stop up and read,” Teddy Drake said, disconsolately. “My -coach says that I never open a book when the men are up, and that my -only chance is in the vacations, when there is nothing to do. I am -afraid he’s about right; and I’ve made up my mind to stick to it. I -shall run up to town and see the ‘’Varsity,’ of course, but that’s all -the holidays I mean to take.” - -“Look here, Drake,” Frank said; “the best thing you can do is to come -and stay for the week with me. My guardian is a capital old fellow, and -there’s lots of room in the house.” - -“I should like it of all things, Frank; but does he object to smoke, -because I couldn’t do without that?” - -“He wouldn’t like it in the breakfast-room,” Frank laughed; “but he -smokes himself in his study, and I have a special smoking-room -upstairs.” - -“In that case, Frank, I shall be delighted. That guardian of yours must -be a trump. I wish my father saw things in the same reasonable light. -He’s always down upon me about smoking; but I am afraid he will never -cure me of it.” - -“I am afraid not, Teddy. Well, you can smoke as much as you like while -you are with us.” - - - - - CHAPTER II. - THE DUSTMAN’S FAMILY. - - -Nearly three years have passed since the night of the fire at Trinity -Hall. It is a cold wintry afternoon, not a clear frost, but raw and -foggy. The ice is forming rapidly, and the costermongers are reaping a -rich harvest. All the ponds near London are centres of noisy groups of -men with carts, of all sizes and sorts, from the large two-horse vehicle -down to mere boxes upon wheels drawn by diminutive donkeys. The drivers -are striving and quarrelling, and exchanging volleys of abusive language -with each other, in their anxiety for priority of place and right of -filling their carts. Those next to the water are engaged in breaking the -ice with poles, or with iron weights attached to cords. With these they -draw the ice to the shore, pulling it up with rakes, and shovelling and -lifting it into the carts. When they are filled they drive off to -dispose of their loads to confectioners and fishmongers. - -Although it is nearly dusk there are still a good many strollers by the -banks of the Serpentine looking at the state of the ice, and calculating -on the chances of skating. On the other side of the bridge, on the long -water, the ice is already strong, and will probably bear after another -night’s frost; but the Serpentine itself, from its greater breadth and -depth, is still thin in many places, and will require two or three days -more frost before it will be safe. The ice is everywhere smooth and -black, and it is agreed that if the frost holds there will be capital -skating. - -Frank Maynard is walking along the side of the Serpentine with his -friend Prescott. He has been for two years upon the Continent, and this -is his first winter in England since he left college. - -“It will be splendid ice for skating if the frost holds, Prescott. I -must certainly invest in a pair of new skates. I have some somewhere, -but where I have not the remotest idea. You must put by your books, and -keep me company, at any rate for a day or two.” - -“I don’t think I can do that, Frank. I don’t like breaking in upon my -regular work; and, indeed, I don’t care very much for skating. It must -be very pleasant for a really good skater, who can wheel about like a -bird, and perform all those intricate figures; otherwise, especially the -first day or two of the season, it is very fatiguing and straining. If I -could put by my books for a month, I would devote myself to it with all -my heart, but for one or two days the pleasure does not pay for the -pain. Look, Frank! there is something the matter.” - -A knot of people were standing together at the edge of the water, -apparently watching some small black object upon the ice, but it was -already too dusk for the friends, until they came quite close, to see -what was the matter. A small dog had run out upon the ice, which was in -most places quite strong enough to bear it, but there were many patches, -over the powerful springs which well-up in parts of the Serpentine, -where the ice had as yet formed a mere skin. On one of these treacherous -places the little animal had run, and had at once gone through. All -round it the ice was extremely thin, and, as the dog endeavoured to -scramble out, it broke under its fore-paws, until a good-sized space of -water was cleared, round which the poor little animal kept swimming. Had -it continued its efforts only in the line towards the shore, the dog -would speedily have broken its way to stronger ice. This, however, it -had not sense to do, although the men called and whistled to it, and -endeavoured in every way to encourage it to swim towards them. But the -poor thing continued swimming round and round in its narrow circle, -making occasional efforts to get out, but only falling back again, and -giving from time to time a pitiful whimper. Its mistress, a little girl -of about ten years old, was crying bitterly. - -“This is very painful, Prescott,” Frank Maynard said, after looking on -for some time in silence; “the poor little brute’s cries go through me.” - -“Come away, Frank,” Prescott said, turning to go. “I don’t know that I -ever saw anything more pitiful. Let us get away; it is impossible to do -anything for him.” - -Frank did not move, but stood looking on irresolutely. At last he said— - -“It’s no use, I can’t help it. Here, Prescott, take my coat and -waistcoat, I must go in for it.” - -“Nonsense, Frank. My dear fellow, it would be madness!” - -Frank paid no attention to his friend’s remonstrances, but sat down on -the gravel, and began to unlace his boots. He was however anticipated. -There was a movement among the crowd near, and a lad of about fourteen, -without jacket or boots, stepped into the water, breaking the ice as he -did so, amidst a general cheer and some few expostulations from the -crowd. Frank Maynard pushed forward impetuously to the spot. - -“Can you swim well, my boy?” he asked. - -“Ay,” the boy answered; “I bathe in the Serpentine every morning, winter -and summer, except when it’s frozen.” - -“They’re gone to fetch the ropes,” a man said; “you had better wait till -they come back.” - -“No, no,” the lad said, “it will be too late—he’s pretty nigh done -already;” and he went deeper into the water. - -“That’s right, my lad,” Frank called out; “lose no time, or you will get -numbed by the cold; and don’t be afraid: if you want help, sing out, and -I will come in for you.” - -Frank unlaced his boots ready to kick them off in a moment, unbuttoned -his waistcoat, handed his watch to Prescott, and stood with the rest -watching the boy’s progress. - -He was swimming now. It was slow work; for as he advanced he had to -break the ice, sometimes by strokes of his arm, sometimes by trying to -get on it and breaking it with his weight. At last he reached the thin -ice. It gave way readily enough before him; he gained the little open -piece of water which the dog had made, and then turned to come back. It -had not been far, not more than twenty yards, but it had taken a long -time, and he was evidently exhausted. - -“I must go in for him, or he will never get back,” Frank said, pulling -off his coat and waistcoat; but just as he was about to plunge in, there -was a shout from the bystanders, and a man came running up with a long -rope which he had fetched from the Humane Society’s house. Frank took it -from him and threw it to the boy, who caught the end, and was drawn -rapidly to the shore amidst the shouts of the crowd, the little dog -swimming behind with sharp barks of pleasure. The boy was terribly -exhausted, and it was proposed to carry him to the Society’s house; but -while the matter was being debated, he recovered himself a little, and -said— - -Please would they leave him alone, he was only out of breath, and would -rather run home, for he was late already, and mother would be wondering -what had become of him. - -Seeing that he really was coming round and was anxious to be off, it was -agreed to let him have his way. Two men accordingly chafed his arms and -hands. When the circulation was restored, his jacket was put on him, and -his hands encased in a pair of warm woollen gloves, sizes too large for -him, the gift of one of the lookers-on. In the meantime another of the -bystanders took off his hat, and went round among the crowd. He speedily -collected a goodly number of halfpence, sixpences, and shillings, and a -few half-crowns; Frank dropping in a sovereign for himself and Prescott. -By the time that the boy had finished his toilet, such as it was, and -had pronounced himself “all right,” the man came up with the amount -collected. - -The boy opened his eyes in astonishment. “Is all this for me?” - -“Yes, my boy, and you deserve it well.” - -“But I did not do it for money,” he said; “I only did it because I could -not bear to hear the dog yelp so.” - -“We know that, my lad,” Frank said; “and this money is not to pay you, -but only to show you how pleased we all are with your pluck. You are a -brave little fellow. What is your name? and where do you live? for I -should like to see if anything can be done for you.” - -“My name is Evan Holl, sir; and I live in Moor Street, Knightsbridge.” - -“I shall not forget you,” Frank said; “there, run along now, and don’t -stop till you get home.” - -While they had been speaking, the man who had collected the money had -with difficulty put it into the pockets of the boy’s wet trousers, for -his hands were quite useless in the big gloves in which they were -enveloped. - -“Thank you all kindly,” the boy said, when the man had finished; and was -preparing to start at a run, when he exclaimed, “But where is my tray?” - -“Here it is, please,” the child to whom the dog belonged said; “you gave -it to me to keep; and, oh, I am so much obliged to you, and so is -Bobby.” - -And here Bobby, who had up to this time been shaking himself, frisking -and yelping in the most outrageous way, came up and began to jump upon -Evan, in evident token of his gratitude. - -The tray which the child brought up, was a small wooden one, apparently -at some time or other the lid of a box. In it were arranged sticks of -peppermint, bullseyes, and brandyballs, in which, during cold weather, -Evan drove a brisk trade on the ice. The contents were hastily tumbled -into a tin box, in which he carried them when not exposed for sale, and -with another “Thank you kindly,” the boy started at a run, and was soon -lost in the darkness. This, in the ten minutes which the incident had -occupied, had closed in rapidly, and the little crowd by the waterside -speedily dispersed, talking over the adventure. - -Evan Holl continued running, slowly at first, for he was numbed and cold -to the bones, but gradually, as the blood began to circulate, at a -quicker pace. So along by the end of the Serpentine, across Rotten Row, -empty and deserted now, through the narrow alley by the side of the -barracks into the main road, and then down by the cabstand into -Knightsbridge. - -Knightsbridge may be described geographically as the region bounded on -the north by Hyde Park, on the east by Apsley House and St. George’s -Hospital, and on the west by Brompton and the cavalry barracks; on the -south-east by Wilton Crescent and Lowndes Square, and on the south-west -by an unknown region of misery and want. A vast tide of traffic runs -through it, formed by the junction of three considerable streams. Two of -these are from the west; the one rises in the distant region of Richmond -and Brentford, and increases greatly in magnitude by tributaries at -Hammersmith and Kensington; the other has its source at Putney, but -receives its chief addition in its course through Brompton. The third -stream comes north from Chelsea, and is poured in by Sloane Street. This -great tide commences early, and sets eastward with great violence during -the early part of the day, beginning to ebb at about two o’clock, and -running west till past midnight, after which it may be said to be slack -tide until morning. - -The stream which flows in at Sloane Street divides Knightsbridge into -two portions, differing more entirely in habits, manners, and almost in -language, than perhaps any similar division which could be cited. St. -George’s Channel, or even the Straits of Dover, do not separate peoples -more alien in every thought and action than does Sloane Street. It is, -as it were, the great gulf which divides wealth and luxury from poverty -and want. - -Eastward are splendid shops, with their plate glass windows, filled with -costly and elegant objects. Long lines of carriages wait in front of -them, while their owners expend sums which would appear fabulous to the -inhabitants of the western side. On that side are small shops crowded -together, as if jostling for room, filled with the necessaries of life -for the working classes. Their customers do not arrive in carriages, -but, hurry up from obscure alleys behind, hastily make their little -purchases and are gone. At no time of the week is this difference so -strongly marked as on a Saturday evening. - -Eastward the grand shops are all closed, their customers are at dinner -or the opera, and their owners off to their snug suburban villas till -Monday. - -Westward the flood of business is at its highest. The bakers’ shops are -so piled with bread that it seems a wonder where it can all go to, but -they will be nearly empty by to-night. The grocers’ windows are filled -with sugar and tea, with the prices marked on tickets of gaudy colours, -with the pennies marvellously large, and the farthings microscopically -small. At the doors of the greengrocers are huge baskets heaped with -potatoes and vegetables. All are full of a noisy busy crowd of -purchasers. - -Across the pathway are the stalls of the itinerant vendors, lit by -candles in paper lanterns. Wonderful are these, too, in their way—piles -of vegetables, so large that it is a marvel how the decrepit old women -who look after the stalls ever got them there; book-stalls and -picture-stalls; men with barrows covered with toys of every conceivable -description, and all at one penny; men with trays of sweetmeats and -lollipops of the most tempting shapes and colours; men with yards of -songs, and packets of infallible shaving paste; and men selling twenty -articles, among which is a gold wedding-ring, for one penny;—all alike -shouting at the top of their voices, and expatiating on the merits of -their goods, and all surrounded by a gaping crowd, consisting, of -course, chiefly of boys. - -At some of these, wet as he was, Evan Holl stopped for a minute. Had it -not been for the thick gloves, and the tray and tin box under his arm, -he would have certainly expended a penny or two among all this tempting -display. As it was, after a brief pause, he hurried on past the bright -shops, and the crowded stalls, and the butchers’ shops with their great -gaslights flaring out, and the women bargaining for their Sunday dinner. -He then turned down beneath an archway, and was soon in the labyrinth of -small streets lying behind this part of Knightsbridge. Now he has left -the whirl and confusion of business behind him; he is among the homes of -the poor. All is quiet here. The children are indoors or in bed, the -mothers, mostly, are doing their shopping. A few men stand about at -their doors, smoke long pipes, and chat with their neighbours. Here and -there the sounds of singing and noise come through the windows of small -public-houses. At the doors of these, perhaps, pale women, in thin torn -clothes, stand waiting anxiously; entering timidly sometimes, hanging on -already half-drunken husbands, and begging them to come home ere their -pay is all spent. Poor things! well may they persist, for on their -success depends whether they and their children shall have food for the -next week or not. They must not care for curses or an occasional blow, -they are accustomed to that, it is for them a battle of life, they must -win or starve. Through all this Evan Holl goes. He takes but little -notice of it; not that he is hard-hearted, as he has but now -sufficiently proved; but he is used to it, and knows that it will be on -a Saturday night. A few more steps and he is home. - -A shout greets his arrival, and some of the children, of whom there are -several in the room, run up to relieve him of his tray, but fall back -again with the exclamation, “Why, Evan, you are all wet!” - -“Wet!” Mrs. Holl said, hurrying up. “Drat the boy! what has he been -after now?” - -“It is all right, mother; you just wait till I get these things off my -hands; why, my pocket is full of money.” - -“Bless us and save us!” Mrs. Holl ejaculated; and then, maternal -solicitude triumphing even over curiosity, “Never mind that now, Evan; -why you are dripping wet, and your teeth are all of a chatter; what on -earth have you been doing with yourself?” - -“I have been in the Serpentine, mother.” - -“Mercy’s sake!” Mrs. Holl exclaimed, “the boy’s mad! There, go upstairs -and take off your clothes, and get into bed at once.” - -Evan did as he was told, as far as going upstairs was concerned, but he -only changed his things, and came down again. - -His mother, had it been her nature, would have been really angry when -she saw him reappear, but as it was not, she contented herself by -telling him he was a wilful lad. She then bade him sit down by the fire, -and drink some hot beer, with sugar and ginger in it, which she had -prepared for him while he was upstairs; giving him strict orders not to -speak a word till he had finished it, and was quite warm again. Evan -accordingly drank his beer, not hurrying over it, but pretending it was -too hot to drink fast; amusing himself with the openly expressed -impatience of the other children, who were eagerly watching him, and by -the less openly betrayed, but not less real curiosity of Mrs. Holl, who -kept bustling about the room in apparent unconcern, but really just as -anxious as the others to know what had befallen him. Mrs. Holl’s family -is evidently a large one, for there are four or five now in the room, -while occasionally a wail from above proclaims that there is at least -one little one up there. They are all healthy looking and clean, and -their clothes are tidy and carefully mended. The room itself looks -bright and cheerful. It is low and whitewashed, and ornamented by sundry -pictures in varnished frames, principally brightly-coloured prints. The -one in the place of honour over the chimney-piece represents a youth in -an impossible attitude, and a Scotch plaid of an unknown clan, beneath a -greenwood-tree, bidding farewell to a florid young woman, with feathers -in her hair; she is attired in a white dress with Tartan scarf of the -most brilliant hues. - -There is a large chest of drawers, black with age, which serves also the -purpose of a sideboard; many queer little mugs and ornaments of various -sorts and colours stand upon it, and behind them is a large japanned -waiter with gaudy flowers. - -The irons and tins and candlesticks suspended from nails in the wall, or -standing on the chimney-piece, shine till one can see one’s face in -them; so do the dark arm-chair and table, and so does the old oak -settle, in which Evan is sitting by the fire. - -Before Evan commenced his story, Mr. Holl came in, and in the pleasure -which his advent occasions all thought of Evan is for a time lost, and -he gives up the post of honour by the fire to his father. John Holl is a -dustman, and is a sober and industrious man. He has his peculiarities—as -who has not?—but he is a good husband and father, as it is easy to see -by the pleasure with which his return is greeted. He is a short, stoutly -built man, with shoulders rounded from carrying heavy baskets up area -stairs, and his legs are bowed and clumsy. John Holl earns good wages, -for he has many a sixpence given him in the course of the day, and he -has no need to spend money on beer, for he gets plenty of that in the -discharge of his avocation. - -Mother is hurrying about now, laying the cloth for supper, and taking -the pot containing potatoes, which form the staple of that repast, off -the fire, where they have been for some time boiling and bubbling. - -Mrs. Holl goes out charing; she is a large woman with a hoarse voice, -and her hand is clumsy and hard, from washing and scrubbing and -polishing. She has a heavy tread, and is considered by the servants -generally at the houses where she works to be a low person. Perhaps she -is, but her heart is in the right place. She is a true, kind-hearted, -tender woman; a very rough diamond truly, badly cut and displayed to the -worst possible advantage, but a real stone of the first water for all -that. She is a foolish person too, for as if her own children were not -enough for her to love and work for, she has adopted and brought up an -orphan, who had none else to care for it, and must have otherwise been -taken to the workhouse. But, in spite of her folly, her neighbours like -her for it, and in their little ways assist her, take the young ones -between them when she goes out charing, and help her a bit with her -washing. - -Mrs. Holl can neither read nor write herself, but she wants all her -children to be able to do so. She has managed to pay for their schooling -at the national schools, and has quite a respect for their learning. She -listens with breathless delight and interest of an evening while they -read aloud by turns from that exciting periodical, the Red Handed Robber -of the Black Forest, published weekly at one penny, and to be completed -in one hundred and twenty numbers. - -Until Mrs. Holl had placed the large dish of steaming potatoes on the -table, she was too much absorbed in her occupation to give a thought to -any other subject. But just as she had done so, John Holl, who had -several times taken his pipe from his mouth, and looked round in a -puzzled way, said, “It is very strange, Sairey, but it seems to me just -as if some one had been a drinking of spiced beer. Don’t take it amiss, -old woman, I don’t mean to say that I think you have been a drinking of -it, for you’re not that sort. Still there is something that smells -uncommon like spiced beer.” - -“Bless me,” Mrs. Holl said, “what a head I have got, to be sure! I do -declare I have not told you a word about it, for it slipped clean out of -my mind. You are quite right, John, you do smell spiced beer, for Evan -has been drinking it. The boy has been in the Serpentine, and came home -that wet you could have squeezed the water out of him by the pailful.” - -“In the Serpentine!” John Holl exclaimed; “I heard that the ice was too -thin to think of going on it. Why, Evan, that was not like you, not a -bit, you are generally steady enough. How did you get in? Some foolery, -I’ll wager a pot of beer.” - -In answer to this appeal from his father, Evan related what had -happened; the others gathering round him, and the young ones even -leaving off eating their supper to listen, and breaking in with many -exclamations of astonishment as he proceeded. - -“It was very wrong, Evan,” his mother said, “you might have got yourself -drownded, and what should we have said then? Why, Lor, you might have -gone under the ice, and we should never have known nothing about what -had become of you, till they brought your tray of lollipops home. That -would be all we should have had left of you. What should we have done?” - -Mrs. Holl began to weep aloud at the picture she had raised; the younger -children immediately followed her example, and required so much -pacifying that it was some time before quiet was restored. - -“Lor bless you, mother,” Evan said, “there is no call to take on about -it. I was not going to get drowned close to the shore; besides, there -was a gentleman, who got ready to come in for me, if I had sung out for -help; and he would have done it too. I could see he meant it.” - -“It were a risky job,” John Holl said; “a plaguy risky job. I ain’t -going for to say as you are altogether wrong, Evan, but it were -certainly risky.” - -“You were quite right, Evan,” a voice said warmly, “quite right, and I -would give a good deal, if I had it, to have been in your place, and to -have done something one could look back with pleasure upon, if only for -once in my life.” - -The speaker was a lad of about seventeen, who has not yet been -described, and yet he was of all these the person who would have first -fixed the attention of any incomer. - -He sat on the opposite side of the fire to John Holl, in a sort of box -with high wheels to it; by turning these he moved himself about the -room. He had a very intelligent face, thoughtful but not sad. His -shoulders and the upper part of his body were straight and well -developed, and his arms strong and nervous; down to his waist he was a -fine well-formed figure, but below he was a helpless cripple. He had -been injured as a child, his legs had lost all power, and had become -perfectly drawn up and useless. He was a sad spectacle, and yet he was -not unhappy, and by the little attentions which the children showed him -it was easy to see how great a favourite he was with them. Evan now -produced a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, in which he had put his -money, and unfolded it and exhibited the store. - -It was emptied on to the table, among the shouts of the children, who -evidently considered that their brother had become the possessor of -boundless riches, and indulged in all sorts of surmises as to what would -be done with all this wealth, while Evan counted up the amount. There -were twenty-five shillings in silver and copper, and the sovereign Frank -Maynard had put in—two pounds five in all. - -Having counted it, Evan again took it up and brought it to his father, -but John Holl put it aside. “No, lad, the money is thine, you have -fairly earned it, and it is yours to do as you like with. Don’t fool it -away, and think well over everything before you spend it. You are -getting too old for your tray now; with that you might buy a good -barrow, and do a great deal better; but there’s time enough for that. -Give it to mother; she will take care of it for you, and you have but to -go to her when you want it.” - -And so it was arranged; and then Mrs. Holl took the young ones off to -bed, whither the elders followed them very soon after. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - BROKEN DOWN. - - -Talking over their little adventure, Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott -crossed from the Serpentine to Albert Gate. The evening had set in with -a cold raw fog, which was momentarily getting thicker. - -“One ought to be very careful at the crossings such a night as this, -Prescott. It is just foggy enough to prevent the drivers seeing twenty -yards ahead of them, and yet not sufficiently thick to make them go -slowly. The road is very slippery, too.” - -As they spoke a man who was standing at the edge of the pavement near -them, after peering cautiously into the fog, started to cross. Frank and -his friend followed slowly, for it really required considerable caution; -as, from the constant roar and rumble of the traffic it was difficult to -judge how far off an approaching vehicle might be. - -They had not gone half-way across the road when there was a shout, and a -rapid trampling of horses, and an omnibus came out of the fog not -fifteen yards distant. It was driving fast, and the friends stopped -simultaneously to allow it to pass in front of them. - -The man who was crossing before them was, however, exactly in the line -of the omnibus as it came out of the fog. He stopped, hesitated, and, -although three steps would have placed him out of danger, he turned to -go back. As he did so in his haste and confusion his foot slipped on the -frozen road, and he fell. In another instant the horses would have been -upon him, when Frank Maynard, who had at once perceived the danger when -he stopped, sprang forward, snatched him up in his strong arms, as if he -had been a child, and threw himself forward. He was barely in time. The -shoulder of the off horse struck him, and sent him staggering with his -burden to the ground, but fortunately beyond the reach of the wheels. -Frank was on his feet in an instant, raised the man, who appeared to be -confused and hardly conscious of what was occurring, to his feet, and -assisted him to the footpath. All this was the work of half a minute, -and they were at once joined by Prescott. - -“Are you hurt, Frank?” he asked, anxiously. - -“No, nothing to speak of, old man; bruised myself a bit, and barked my -arm, at least I should say so by the feel of it; but I think that is -about all the damage.” - -“I thought you were under the horses, Frank; you have made me feel quite -sick and faint. My dear fellow, this is the last walk I shall take with -you, if this is your way of going on.” - -Frank laughed. - -“It is all right, Prescott, there are no bones broken. How are you, sir? -not hurt, I hope,” he asked the man he had picked up, who was standing -looking round in a sort of confused bewildered way, as if he hardly yet -understood what had happened. - -Frank repeated his question. - -“Eh? I beg your pardon,” the man said; “were you speaking to me? No—no, -I don’t think I am hurt; indeed, I hardly know what is the matter. Let -me see——;” and he passed his hand helplessly over his forehead. “Oh yes, -I remember now. I was crossing, and I saw a ‘bus coming, and somehow I -slipped down. I shut my eyes so as not to see it come over me, and then -I felt myself caught up, and then another great shake. Yes, yes, I see -it all now; and it was you, sir, who picked me up, and saved my life? -Dear me—dear me—I do hope you are not hurt, sir. I know I owe my life to -you, for I must have been killed, and then what would have happened to -Carry? I do hope you are not hurt.” - -Frank assured him that he was not. - -“Now, really, sir” (the man went on in a rambling nervous sort of way), -“really I can’t thank you as I ought to do, but if you would but kindly -come in to see me, my Carry will thank you for both of us. I am a poor -nervous creature at the best, and the whole place seems in a whirl with -me, but here is my card,” and he produced a packet of cards from his -pocket. “It is a poor place, sir, but we should be very glad if you will -come in to see me; and will you please tell me what your name is?” - -“My name is Maynard, and I live in the Temple,” Frank answered. “Pray do -not trouble yourself about thanking me. I am quite content to know that -you have got off without more harm than a few bruises. I will be sure to -look you up one of these days—yes, you can rely upon it. Good evening, -mind how you go home; you are rather shaky still. Good night.” And, -shaking him by the hand, Frank moved away with his friend. - -The man stood looking after them as they disappeared in the fog, and -then turned and walked westward. Pausing sometimes, taking off his hat -and passing his hand across his forehead and over his hair in a confused -puzzled sort of way, as if even now he were not quite clear what had -really happened. - -At the corner of Sloane Street he stopped, too nervous to attempt to -cross; others went over quietly enough, but he could not summon up -resolution to follow their example. At last he went up to a policeman -who was standing at the corner, and meekly requested him to be kind -enough to cross with him. - -The man looked sharply and suspiciously at him. Certainly, his -appearance was against him. One side of his face was much cut where he -had fallen the second time, and his hat was all crushed in; altogether, -he did not look a reputable figure. - -“You have begun it pretty early, you have!” he said, sternly. “You ought -to be ashamed of yourself, a respectable-looking man to be about the -streets in this state before six o’clock in the evening.” - -“I have not been drinking, indeed I have not, policeman; but I have been -knocked down by an omnibus, or at least I was nearly knocked down; at -least—indeed I don’t quite clearly know how it did happen; but I know an -omnibus had something to do with it.” - -The policeman’s belief in the man’s state of inebriety was evidently -unshaken; however, he took him by the arm and walked across the road -with him, and then dismissed him, telling him that “he should advise him -to go straight home, or he would find himself in the wrong box before -long.” The man again attempted to expostulate, but the policeman cut him -short by turning to go back to his former station, with a parting -admonition: “There, don’t you talk, it won’t do you any good; you go -home; take my advice, and don’t stop by the way.” - -The man, shaking his head in feeble deprecation at the policeman’s -opinion, pursued his way along the crowded pavement, past the bright -shops, and the stalls with their noisy vendors—through which Evan Holl -had passed a short half-hour before. He went along quite unconscious of -the crowd and the bustle, getting frequently jostled and pushed against, -and receiving angry expostulation and considerable abuse, to none of -which he paid the slightest heed. At length he reached the end of the -row where the next street ran across it into the main road. This, -however, he had not to cross, as his way lay up the side street, but not -far, only past three or four houses; then he stopped at the door of a -small shop, opened it, and went in. - -It was a small stationer’s shop, illuminated by a solitary tallow candle -standing upon the counter, and whose long wick with its dull red cap -testified plainly that it had not been attended to for some time. Round -the shop were ranges of shelves filled with dingy volumes, with paper -numbers pasted upon their backs. There were piles of penny periodicals -upon the counter, and a glass case with partitions containing cigars. -These, with the small pair of scales beside them, and sundry canisters -upon the shelves, showed that its proprietor combined the tobacco and -literary businesses. The little parlour behind was separated from the -shop by a glass door, with a muslin curtain drawn across it, and through -this the bright flickering light of a fire shone cheerfully. The man -opened the door, and went in. It was a small room, but was very snug and -comfortable. The furniture and curtains were neat and well chosen, and -altogether much superior to what would have been expected from the shop -and locality. The tea-things stood upon the table, and a copper kettle -on the hob was singing merrily. On the hearth-rug a girl was sitting -reading a novel by the light of the fire; a very pretty figure, light -and graceful, as could be seen in the attitude in which she half sat, -half reclined; a girl of some eighteen years old, with a bright happy -face. Her hair was pushed back from her forehead, and fell in thick -clustering curls behind her ears. Her face was very pretty, with an -innocent child-like expression. About her mouth and chin there was some -want of firmness and character, but by no means sufficiently so to mar -the general effect of her face. She had large blue eyes, over which she -had a little trick of drooping her eyelids, and she had a saucy way of -tossing her head. Altogether, Carry was a belle, and was perfectly aware -of it; and indeed, to say truth, her head was a little turned by all the -nonsense and flattery that she was constantly receiving; but she was a -good girl for all that, and devotedly attached to her father, the man -who now entered. - -Stephen Walker was perhaps fifty years old, about the middle height, but -stooping a good deal; evidently, by his manner, a nervous, timid man. -His address and way of speaking unmistakably showed that he had seen -better days; but when he slipped down the rounds of the ladder, he had -lost any little faith he might ever have had in himself, and was content -to remain helplessly at its foot, with scarce an effort to try to regain -his lost position. Stephen Walker’s father had been a well-to-do City -tradesman, a very great man in his own eyes; an active bustling member -of the Court of Common Council, respected but not much liked there for -the harsh dictatorial way in which he enunciated his opinions; very -great upon the inexpediency of pampering the poor, a strict reformer of -abuses, and withal a harsh, vulgar, narrow-minded man. - -Stephen was a weakly child, and his mother, a quiet timid woman, would -fain have kept him at home, and herself attended to his education until -he should be old enough to be sent to some school down in the country; -but his father would not hear of it, and in his own house his will was -law. Accordingly, at the earliest possible age, he was sent to St. -Paul’s School, a timid, shrinking child, and among the rough spirits -there he fared but badly. Cowed and kept down at home, bullied and -laughed at at school, Stephen Walker grew up a nervous delicate boy. -When he was fifteen his father said that he knew enough now, or if he -did not he ought to, and that so he was to come into the shop. Into the -shop he accordingly came, and when there his life was a burden to him. -His mother, who would have softened things for him as far as she could, -and would at all events have been kind to him, and have commiserated -with and cheered him, had been dead some three years, and his life -became one long blank of misery. He hated the shop, he hated business, -he almost hated his father. Heartily did he envy his associates in the -shop, who at least, when the day’s work was over, could take their -departure and be their own masters until the shutters were taken down in -the morning. His drudgery never ceased, for when the shop was closed, -his father, a great part of whose daytime was occupied by City business, -would sit down with him at his desk and go into the whole accounts of -the day’s sales until half-past nine. Then upstairs, where the servants -would be summoned, and his father take his place at the head of the -table with a large Bible before him, which he would read and expound in -a stern harsh manner, eminently calculated to make the Scriptures -altogether hateful to those who heard him. This with prayer lasted for -an hour. Then to bed; to begin over again in the morning. Such was -Stephen Walker’s life for six years; and then, when he was twenty-one, -his father died suddenly. It was just in time to save his son’s life; in -another year it might have been too late, for his health was breaking -fast; as it was, it was too late for him ever to become other than he -was, a nervous timid man. - -It was some time before Stephen Walker could come to understand that he -was now a free agent, and that he could really do as he liked. It was so -unnatural for him to be able to carry into execution any wish of his -own, that, after his father’s funeral was over, he went back as -regularly as ever to his duties in the shop. At the end of a month an -old schoolfellow came in, told him he was not looking well, and asked -him to go into the country with him for the day. Stephen was absolutely -startled, even the possibility of such a thing as his leaving the shop -had never entered his mind. In the six years such an event had never -happened. He looked round frightened and aghast at the proposition. As, -however, he had no reasons to adduce, beyond the fact that he never did -go anywhere, which his friend insisted was the very reason why he should -go now, he was finally persuaded. Never did man enjoy his first holiday -less than Stephen Walker did. He felt like a guilty self-convicted -truant; he had a constant impression upon his mind that he was doing -something very wrong, and on his return entered the shop with a guilty -air, and a conviction that the assistants behind the counter were eyeing -him disapprovingly. - -However, the ice was broken. He began, at first at long intervals, but -afterwards, as he learnt really to enjoy the sweets of his newly found -liberty more and more often, to absent himself from the shop, until by -degrees he discovered that he really was his own master. The first time -a friend remarked that he rather wondered he did not sell the business -and retire altogether, it seemed to him almost a profane suggestion. -Still in time it became familiar to his mind, and at length, finding -that no obstacle except that of his own imagination stood in his way, he -determined to carry it out. Accordingly in less than eighteen months -from his father’s death he disposed of the lease and goodwill of the -business, and found that he was master of £30,000. He then, acting upon -the advice of his physician, started for a long tour upon the continent; -not going alone,—he had not sufficient confidence in himself for that, -but taking with him as companion a friend who had been on the continent -before, and who spoke French, paying all his expenses, and a handsome -sum in addition. - -There he remained in all three years, and in this time his health became -re-established; but although his manner greatly improved from his -mixture with travelling society, he still remained a nervous timid man. - -At the end of this three years he married a very pretty ladylike looking -girl, who was governess in a family wintering in Rome. Her beauty was -her only redeeming point, for she was a silly, vain, indolent woman. - -The newly married couple returned after another three months wanderings -to London, near which they shortly after took a pretty villa. - -They were unfortunate in their children, having lost all they had when -quite young, with the exception only of their youngest daughter Carry. -Had Stephen Walker continued to live quietly upon his income all might -have gone well; but his wife was an extravagant woman and a miserable -manager, and Stephen, who in money matters was helpless as a child, soon -found that his expenditure was greater than his income. - -The idea of remonstrating with his wife or endeavouring to curtail the -household expenses never entered his mind; the only plan which presented -itself to him was to increase his income. To do this he took to -speculation, and to the most hazardous of all speculations, that in -mining shares; hazardous to anyone, but most of all to a man like -Stephen Walker. As might have been anticipated, his operations were -almost always unsuccessful. Indeed in the way in which he conducted them -it was impossible that it could have been otherwise. He bought shares in -mines when they were most prosperous, and stood at the highest point in -the market, and directly any reverse or depression took place, although -perhaps only of a temporary nature, instead of holding on and waiting -until the mine recovered itself, he would rush into the market and -dispose of his shares for what they would fetch. It may therefore be -readily imagined that Stephen Walker’s fortune melted rapidly away, -under his repeated and heavy losses, and the extravagance of his wife. -The latter although she would peevishly remonstrate with him, not as to -his speculation, but on his losses, had not the least idea of suiting -their expenditure to their decreased means. And so things went on from -bad to worse, until at last the end came. A mine in which he had -invested far more heavily than usual under the influence of the -brilliant prospects held out, and the advice of a friend, collapsed, and -that so suddenly, that Stephen had no opportunity to dispose of his -shares. He was placed on the list of contributories, and called upon for -a heavy sum for the winding-up expenses. Then the crash came, and -Stephen Walker found himself possessed of only a few hundred pounds and -the furniture of the villa. This was sold, and he removed with his wife -and his child, then about seven years old, into small lodgings. Here for -a year his life was embittered by the reproaches and complainings of his -helpless wife; at the end of that time she died, and left a great blank -in his life. He had been blind to her faults, and had accepted her -querulous reproaches as deserved and natural; besides, as long as she -lived, he had had some one to look to for advice, little qualified as -she was to give it. Now, excepting his little daughter, he was quite -alone. For another year, while his little capital dwindled away, he -tried in vain to get something to do. This would have been in any case -an almost hopeless task, and was rendered still more so from his extreme -want of confidence in himself, which altogether prevented his -endeavouring to push himself forward. - -At length he took a resolution, one of the few, and certainly by far the -best, he ever had taken. He determined to sink the few hundred pounds he -had remaining in buying a house and opening a shop. After a considerable -search, he found the one in New Street; the former proprietor, who was -also in the tobacco and periodical line, had died, and his widow was -anxious to dispose of the house; the goodwill, such as it was, of the -shop being thrown into the bargain. Stephen Walker purchased it of her, -furnished the lower part, and let off the upper, and never regretted his -bargain. - -The profits of the shop were not large, but having no rent to pay, and -receiving a few shillings every week from the tenants, he was able to -live comfortably, and with the company and affection of his little -daughter, found himself really happier and more in his element than he -had ever before been in his life. - -Carry grew up in her humble home, a bright happy child, very fond of her -father, and very fond, too, of all the admiration which the frequenters -of the shop bestowed upon her. - -“Why, how late you are, father!” she said as he entered. “Tea has been -ready this half-hour at the very least,” and she put down her book and -looked up at him. “Why, father, what has happened?” she exclaimed in a -changed tone, and leaping hastily to her feet. “Your cheek is all -covered with blood, your hat is broken in, and you look quite strange. -Oh! father, what is the matter? are you hurt?” - -“No, Carry, I do not think I am, but I am confused and bewildered.” - -“Sit down in the chair by the fire, then; now give me your hat and coat; -that’s right, and your comforter, dear old father; now wait and I will -get warm water and a towel, and bathe its dear old face. There, now you -look nice; now tell me all about it.” - -The man submitted himself to the girl’s hands in the helpless way -natural to him. - -“Well, Carry, I hardly know myself what has happened. I was crossing at -Albert Gate when I saw a ‘bus coming. It was very foggy and slippery, -and I did not see it till it was quite close, and then somehow I fell. I -tried to shut my eyes, but I could not, and then I felt the horses -trampling upon me, and the wheels came crushing down upon my body. Oh, -it was terrible, Carry!” - -“But, oh, father,” the girl said faintly, and the bright colour was -quite gone from her cheeks now, “you must be terribly hurt; some of your -ribs must be broken; why did not you say so at once? Please sit quiet -while I put on my bonnet, and run round to fetch a doctor,” and she -turned to do so, but she was trembling so much that she had to sit down -in a chair. - -“No, Carry, you do not understand me. I do not mean that the ‘bus -absolutely did run over me.” - -“But you just said it did, father; you said that you felt the wheels -crush your body.” - -“Did I, Carry? Well, I did not mean it. Oh no, I was not run over after -all.” - -“What a dear, silly old father you are, and how you frightened me!” the -girl said, laughing and crying together. “I have a great mind to be very -angry with you in real earnest, and not to speak another word to you all -the evening.” - -“I am very sorry, Carry. I did not mean it, my child. I only meant that -I felt it was going to run over me, and I am sure I suffered quite as -much as if it had. No, just as the horses were quite close to -me—certainly within a yard or two, for their heads looked to me almost -over mine—I felt myself caught up by some one, like a baby, carried a -step or two, then there was a great shake, and down we both went with a -terrible shock, then I was picked up again, and found myself safe on the -pavement.” - -“Oh, father, what a narrow escape! you might really have been killed, -and it was very very serious after all, so I will forgive you for -frightening me so much. And who was it saved your life?” - -“I hardly remember rightly, my dear, my head is quite in a whirl still. -I remember, though, there were two gentlemen waiting to cross just as I -started, for I heard one of them say we ought to be careful, and so I -was, my dear, very careful, else I should not have slipped. I suppose -they were just behind me, and one of them caught me up just as the -horses were going to trample on me. He was not quite in time, for the -horses caught him and knocked us both down, only I suppose it was out of -reach of the wheels, at any rate they did not go over us; and really -that is all I know about it.” - -“Oh, father, how brave of him! Who was he?” - -“I am sure I don’t know, Carry. He did tell me what his name was; but I -am sure I forget it. Let me see—no, I don’t remember it at all; but I -know he said he lived in the Temple—or, no—let me see, perhaps it was in -Lincoln’s Inn, either that or Gray’s Inn—anyhow I am nearly sure it was -one of the three.” - -“Oh, father, I am so sorry you do not recollect his name, I should so -have liked to thank him, and it will seem so ungrateful if you never go -near him to tell him how much obliged you are. If it had not been for -him what would have happened to you? I am very sorry.” And the girl’s -eyes filled with tears again. “Did you tell him where you lived, -father?” she asked presently, as her father sat gazing dejectedly into -the fire. - -“I think I did, Carry; yes, I do think I did. By the way I have some -recollection that I gave him my card, and I fancy that he said he would -call upon me.” - -“But can’t you remember for certain, father, whether you gave him your -card? surely you must remember such a thing as that,” Carry persisted. - -Stephen Walker passed his hand vaguely across his forehead. - -“Really, my dear, I can’t help thinking that I did, although I can’t be -sure. Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, “I have it now. I know I had twelve -cards in my pocket. I know that, because when I went to the printer for -them the fresh lot were not ready, but as I wanted some to go on with, -he struck off a dozen while I was waiting. Look in the breast-pocket of -my great coat, the cards are there. Count them, and if there is one -short I must have given it to him, for I am sure I spoke to no one else -on my way home.” - -Carry eagerly took the cards and counted them; to her delight there were -only eleven. - -“Did he say he would come, father?” - -“It seems to me that I have a distinct remembrance that he did, Carry; -but, there, I may be wrong. I am a poor nervous creature.” - -“You are a dear, silly old darling,” Carry said, kissing him, “and I -shan’t be able to trust you out by yourself in future. The idea of -slipping down in the street like a little baby! I have a great mind to -scold you dreadfully. But there you have had fright enough for once; and -now I will make tea for you, and that always does you good.” - -While they were at tea Carry asked, “Do you think you should know the -gentleman again if you met him, father?” - -“Yes, my dear, I am nearly sure that I should.” - -“What was he like, father?” Carry asked, “do try and think what he was -like.” - -“He was a young man of four or five and twenty, I should say, and he -seemed tall to me, and he must have been as strong as a giant, for he -picked me up as easily as you would a kitten.” - -“Was he good-looking, father?” Carry asked, a little shyly, this time. - -“I should say he was, my dear; but my head was in such a swim that I did -not notice much about his face; but I certainly think he was -good-looking. There, my dear, there is some one just come into the -shop.” - -After this several customers came in, and Carry was pretty well occupied -for the rest of the evening. She did not renew the subject of her -father’s preserver. Stephen Walker lit a long pipe and smoked -thoughtfully beside the fire. Once or twice he went into the shop, but -he was not of much use to Carry, and received orders to sit quiet and -smoke his pipe, for that he had given her quite anxiety enough for one -day. At ten o’clock the shop was shut, and they went up to bed, Stephen -Walker to sleep fitfully, waking up with great starts, under the idea -that the omnibus wheels were passing over his body. Carry lay awake for -a long time, trying to picture to herself her father’s preserver, and -wondering whether he would ever come to see them. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - THE OWNERS OF WYVERN HALL. - - -Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott, after leaving Stephen Walker standing -bewildered upon the pavement, did not pursue their way along -Knightsbridge, but turned at once into Lowndes Square. They walked the -length of this, and stopped at one of the three or four houses which -form the end of the square, or rather oblong. It belonged to Captain -Bradshaw, Frank’s uncle, with whom the young men were going to dine. - -Harry Bradshaw was the younger of two brothers, sons of Reginald -Bradshaw, of Wyvern Park, in Oxfordshire. It was a fine property. -Indeed, there were not many finer in the county—with its noble old -mansion, its wide park, and its stately trees—and had been in the family -for centuries. During all this time—if tradition is to be believed—the -Bradshaws had been a hearty, honest, hard-riding, and deep-drinking -race; and Reginald did not belie his ancestry, but drank as deeply and -rode as hard as the best of them could have done. - -But stately as was Wyvern Hall, and wide and fair as was its park, the -Bradshaws were by no means a wealthy race. Previous to the rebellion -they had been so, but the Bradshaw of that time had thrown himself heart -and soul into the Royalist cause. He had lost everything but life, and -lived abroad with his Prince in France, until, at the death of Cromwell, -men once more shook off the iron Puritan yoke from their necks, and -welcomed their King home again from his long exile. With him returned -Marmaduke Bradshaw. More fortunate than many, he succeeded in regaining -his family estate, and in ousting the pious corn-factor of the -neighbouring town, who had, by the fervour and lengthiness of his -prayers, and the strength of his right arm, fought and prayed himself -into possession of the domain of the malcontent and godless follower of -the man Stuart. But although Marmaduke succeeded in thus regaining -possession of the mansion and park, he was not so fortunate as to the -various outlying farms and properties. Some, indeed, he recovered, but -the greater part were in the hands of surly iron-fisted men, who had won -them on the fields of Marston and Naseby and Worcester, and who were by -no means men to unclose their hands upon what they had once grasped. -Force was not to be tried. The King was engaged in endeavouring to make -himself popular to all parties, and had very difficult cards to play -between them, Marmaduke Bradshaw, therefore, settled down in the family -mansion with a greatly diminished rent roll, but still thinking himself -lucky in comparison to many others, whose devotion in times of adversity -to their King was but ill rewarded on his return to power. - -The mansion and estate were strictly entailed, and the Bradshaws had -hard work, with their horses and their hounds and their lavish -hospitality, to keep up their establishment in accordance with their -apparent wealth, and to hold their own among the county families, with -perhaps far larger means and less expensive domains. Nor indeed could -they have done so, had it not been the rule and habit of the family to -marry well. They were a good-looking, fine-grown race; and to be -mistress of Wyvern Park was no unenviable position; consequently the -Bradshaws had nearly their choice among the county heiresses. Thus by -constant additions of fresh property the lords of Wyvern Park were able -to maintain their position and reputation. Reginald Bradshaw had, in -accordance with the family tradition, married a neighbouring heiress, -and for some years kept almost open house. But by the time that his -eldest son came of age, and Harry was seventeen, money began to run -short with him. The property his wife had brought him was mortgaged -nearly to its full value. To his grievous dissatisfaction and disgust, -therefore, he found that he could no longer retain his mastership of the -hounds, and that it was absolutely necessary considerably to retrench -his expenditure. Harry was offered a choice among the professions; the -church, the army, or navy, or an Indian cadetship. He selected the -latter, and started a few months later, with his father’s blessing, a -light heart, a hundred pounds in his pocket, and permission to draw for -two hundred a year as long as he required it. - -The times were troublous and promotion rapid; and when at the age of -six-and-twenty he heard first the news of his father’s death, and, four -months later, of that of his brother, who was thrown from his horse -returning from a hunt dinner, he was already a captain. He returned to -England at once; for his brother had died unmarried, and he was now -therefore the owner of Wyvern Park. In another year he married a pretty, -quiet girl, possessed of considerable property; with this new accession, -and under his auspices, the property improved greatly. Although he had -been only eight years in India, the climate had during that -comparatively short residence sufficed to ruin his constitution, and to -send him home a confirmed valetudinarian. He found himself therefore, to -his great disgust—for he was passionately fond of field sports—obliged -to give up all horse exercise. Fortunately he was not prevented from -shooting, and in the season would spend all his time in the fields with -his dogs and gun; but he was entirely debarred from the hunting field, -and was forbidden to indulge to any extent in the pleasures of the -table. But although all this was an intolerable grievance to the master -of Wyvern Park, yet Wyvern Park throve upon it greatly. In a few years, -instead of mortgaging his property as his ancestors had done, Harry -Bradshaw found himself in a position to clear off many old standing -liabilities on the outlying properties, and to be able to add others to -them. Although unable to join in the hunting field, or in the -deep-drinking bouts and jovial meetings of the period, there was hardly -a more popular man in the county than Harry Bradshaw. He was by no means -of the ordinary big burly Bradshaw build, but was a light active figure, -with an open kindly bronzed face, clustering black hair, a merry -infectious laugh, an inexhaustible fund of fun and anecdote, an -inveterate habit of swearing—then a far more common habit than now—a -very quick fiery temper, and an intense objection to anything like -dictation on the part of others. - -Generally popular in the county as he was, there were yet some by whom -Captain Bradshaw was looked upon with an eye of extraordinary disfavour. -Foremost among them was the Earl of Longdale, the patron, and, as he -considered, the owner of the little borough of Longdale, which had been -an hereditary appanage of his family from time immemorial. Very -aggrieved and highly indignant therefore was he when Harry -Bradshaw—whose estate adjoined the earl’s, and who had had a dispute -with his lordship respecting the right of shooting over a small piece of -waste land which lay wedged in between the properties—brought down from -London an unknown barrister of Conservative opinions, and at every -election contested the borough with his lordship’s Whig nominee. His -candidate never polled a dozen votes certainly, for as nearly the whole -property belonged to the earl, and none of his tenants dared to record -their votes against him, it was a hopeless struggle; still, it was none -the less provoking to the earl to read, in the county papers, the -fulminations against himself with which Harry Bradshaw wound up his -speeches on proposing his candidate, or to hear of the cheers with which -these orations had been greeted. For if his lordship’s tenants were -compelled to vote one way, they considered that they had at least the -right to shout as they pleased. And Harry Bradshaw’s speeches were -exactly of the sort to carry an audience away with him,—full of biting -truths, interspersed with humorous appeals and broad fun, dashed here -and there with bitter personal invectives, and spoken with a thorough -enjoyment and zest, and an earnest conviction of truth and right. - -But the great climax of Harry Bradshaw’s offences was when the earl shut -up a public footpath leading across a pretty corner of his park. - -The town of Longdale, although indignant at losing its prettiest walk, -would yet have sullenly acquiesced in it, had not Harry Bradshaw taken -the matter up, and with some of his labourers levelled the barrier which -had been erected. He then at his own expense fought the case from court -to court, until at last the right of the public to the walk was -triumphantly established, and the earl’s pet project defeated. - -Captain Bradshaw had two sisters, both very much younger than himself. -The eldest, Alice, after she came of age, when on a visit to some friend -in London, met and fell in love with Richard Bingham, a young civil -engineer. - -Very indignant was her brother when informed of what he considered such -an extremely derogatory proceeding. “The Bradshaws had always married -well, and why she should want to make a fool of herself he did not -know.” Alice appeared to give way to the storm, but when a few months -later she repeated her visit to London, she one day went out, was -quietly married to the man of her choice, and only returned to her -friends to bid them good-bye, and inform them that she was now Mrs. -Bingham. The first notification which her brother received of it was on -reading the notice in the columns of the “Times;” and had the feelings -of society permitted a man to fight a duel with his brother-in-law, -Harry Bradshaw would most unquestionably have called him out. As it was, -he was forced to content himself with solemnly denouncing his sister, -and writing a letter to her husband, expressing his sentiments towards -him, and these sentiments were of such a nature that no future -communication ever passed between them. - -Shortly after, his younger sister married, with his consent, if not with -his absolute approval. Percy Maynard was a barrister, with a fair -practice and a moderate fortune, and although Captain Bradshaw had -rather that his sister had fallen in love with one of the neighbouring -proprietors, still, as he really liked the man she had chosen, he made -no serious objections to the match. - -He himself had at that time been for some years a widower, having lost -his wife after only four years of happy married life, leaving him one -little girl. - -Two or three years later he married again, but his second wife bore him -no children. His daughter, Laura, grew up a spoilt child, very loveable -in her happy home, but with more than all her father’s fiery temper, and -an almost sullen obstinacy, which was certainly no ingredient of his -disposition. So she grew up until she was eighteen, and then an event -occurred which changed all Harry Bradshaw’s hopes and plans, and -embittered his whole future life. Laura followed her aunt Alice’s -example. She formed an acquaintance with a lawyer’s clerk, who sometimes -came down instead of his principal to transact business with her father. -How Laura met him, what opportunities there were for their first casual -acquaintance to ripen into intimacy and then into love, Captain Bradshaw -never knew and never inquired. Undoubtedly their interviews had taken -place almost entirely during the three or four months of each year which -the family spent in London, where Laura was in the habit of frequently -going out attended only by her maid. However, by some accident he -discovered it, a stormy scene followed, Laura’s temper rose as quickly -as her father’s, she openly declared she had been for some weeks -secretly married, and was not ashamed to own it. This brought matters to -a climax, and Laura, half an hour afterwards, left the house never to -return. - -Captain Bradshaw’s anger was seldom very long-lived, but on this -occasion he was far longer than usual before he got over it. However, at -the end of some months, he came to the conclusion that it was quite time -to forgive her, that is, to forgive her sufficiently to allow her a -sufficient income to live upon in comfort. He accordingly wrote to the -solicitors—with whom he had quarrelled, taking his business from their -hands immediately he had heard of Laura’s marriage—and requested them to -send him the address of their clerk. The answer he received was that he -had left their service in the same week that the exposure had taken -place, and that they had not seen or heard of him since. - -Captain Bradshaw advertised, and tried every means to discover them. He -at last put the matter into the hands of the Bow Street authorities, but -months elapsed before any news whatever was obtained. When he did hear, -it was the worst news possible. His daughter was dead; had died in want -and misery, after surviving her husband two months. Harry Bradshaw was -fairly broken by the blow. He never inquired more. He shrunk from -hearing any particulars. She was dead. That was pain and grief -sufficient. Any further detail could but add to his remorse. He withdrew -from all society, and after a few months went abroad, where he remained -some three years, returning once more a widower. Then he again entered -the world, but as a changed and saddened man. The world, however, saw -nothing of this, it was only when alone that he gave way; with others he -was the same lively, amusing man as ever, his laugh gay and infectious -as of old,—it was his nature, and he could not be otherwise. He entirely -gave up country life now, closed Wyvern Hall, left the Earl of Longdale -in undisturbed possession of the borough, and took up his residence -permanently in London, spending most of his time at his Club—the -Oriental. - -The younger and favourite sister lived near him. She had only one child, -Frank, to whom Captain Bradshaw took greatly, and came to look upon -almost as his own son. Under the influence of his present softened -feelings, he after some years made advances to young Frederick Bingham, -which, however, he could not bring himself to extend to the father and -mother. - -The lad responded readily to these overtures, called at the house, and -was soon as much at home there as his cousin Frank. He spared no pains -to ingratiate himself with his uncle, who, although he still preferred -Frank, took a warm liking to him, and when the time came for his going -to the University, made him a handsome allowance to pay his expenses -there. When Frank was about seventeen he lost his father and mother -within a few weeks of each other, and after that, until he left College, -his uncle’s house was his home, and he spent his vacations entirely -there. - -When Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott arrived at the house in Lowndes -Square, they found Captain Bradshaw in the drawing-room. He was still a -light active figure, although he walked rather bent; his hair and -whiskers were nearly white, and, until he spoke, he looked an old man; -but when he did so, his face lit up, his eyes sparkled, and his lip -played in a smile, and in the manner of his talk he was as young again -as ever. There was a fourth person present, of whom no mention has yet -been made. Alice Heathcote was a niece of Captain Bradshaw, the daughter -of his second wife’s sister, and to whom he was guardian. The mother had -died ten years before, and Alice, except when away at school, had lived -with him ever since. A tall girl, with a thoughtful face, and good -features; a broad rather than a high forehead, light grey eyes, a -profusion of brown hair, and a slight figure, which almost leant back in -its lissome grace. Her age was about twenty. - -“That is right, Frank,” Captain Bradshaw said, as the young men entered. -“I am glad to see that all this wandering about over the continent has -not destroyed your habits of punctuality. Mr. Prescott, I am glad to see -you.” - -“What on earth have you been doing with yourself, Frank?” Alice -Heathcote said. “Your hand is all cut, and you have a great scratch on -your cheek.” - -Frank glanced at his hand. “Really, Alice, I did not know it. I tumbled -down, crossing Knightsbridge. It is a mere trifle: only the skin off. I -will run up to your room, uncle; I shall not be a minute.” - -“Frank has just been doing a very gallant action,” Prescott said, when -his friend had left the room; “he saved a man’s life, at the risk of his -own, and a very near thing it was, too.” And he then related what had -taken place. - -Captain Bradshaw listened with eager interest, and Alice, whose cheek -had paled when she first heard Prescott’s announcement of the risk Frank -had run, flushed up with pleasure and excitement at the particulars. The -story was just finished, and the questions which arose from it answered, -when Frank came downstairs again. - -“Well, Frank, Prescott here is telling us that you have been risking -your life in the most reckless way, and becoming an amateur member of -the Humane Society. Joking apart, my dear boy, it was a very plucky -thing, and the speed with which it had to be done shows that you have a -cool head as well as a strong arm and good pluck.” - -“What a fellow you are, Prescott!” Frank said, in a tone of indignant -remonstrance, and colouring up as a girl might have done. “Prescott has -been making a mountain out of a molehill, uncle. A man slipped down, and -I picked him up. It was a mere impulse; nothing could be simpler or more -natural.” - -“Stuff and nonsense, Frank! you saved the man’s life; it showed pluck -and presence of mind, and the fact that you were knocked down speaks for -itself what a very near thing it was. I am proud of you, my boy, and so -is Alice, ain’t you, Alice?” - -“I think it was very brave of Frank,” Alice Heathcote said, quietly—much -more quietly, indeed than might have been expected from the previous -glow of enthusiasm upon her face. “Who was the man you picked up, and -did he tell you his name?” - -“He seemed a poor nervous sort of creature, and hardly knew whether he -stood upon his head or his heels, after he was safe on the pavement. As -to who he was, I have got his card; here it is— - - STEPHEN WALKER, - TOBACCONIST, - Stationery of all kinds at the lowest prices. - _Newspapers and periodicals punctually supplied._ - -“Stephen Walker!” Captain Bradshaw said, “there was a man of that name, -a major in my regiment, when I first joined. He was killed in a -skirmish, I remember quite well.” And here the captain’s reminiscence -was cut short by the servant announcing dinner. - -“Alice, take my arm. These two young fellows are neither of them -strangers.” - -“I should think not, sir,” Prescott said, “considering that it is eight -or nine years since I first used to come here from Westminster to spend -Saturdays and Sundays with Frank.” - -The dining-room was a large well-proportioned room, with a dark red -paper; and with large prints of Conservative statesmen, in heavy oak -frames, looking down at the proceedings. In the daylight it was an -undeniably gloomy room, imperfectly lighted, and very dark; but with the -curtains drawn, and in the warm soft light of the wax candles, it was a -very snug room indeed. - -“It is a mere form my sitting down to dinner,” Captain Bradshaw -continued, when they had taken their seats, “for I dare not eat -anything.” - -“You are not worse than usual, I hope, uncle?” - -“I am as bad as I can be, Frank; my liver is all but gone. I can’t last -much longer, my boy, quite impossible; I am going as fast as I can.” - -“I hope not, uncle,” Frank said, gravely; but he was not much alarmed, -for he had heard nearly the same thing almost as long as he could -remember. - -“I tell you, Frank, it is impossible. I have no more liver than a cat. I -can’t understand why I have gone on so long. Damn it, sir, it is flying -in the face of Nature. I was down at the Club, to-day, and met Colonel -Oldham, who was a youngster with me in India. I told him that as he was -going away for three or four months upon the continent, I would say -good-bye to him for good, for it was quite impossible I could hold out -till he came back again.” - -“What did Colonel Oldham say, uncle?” - -“Well, Frank, between ourselves, the old fool said that he should say -nothing of the sort, for that I had made him the same speech ten years -ago.” Captain Bradshaw joined merrily in the laugh against himself. - -“I should not be surprised, uncle, if you make the same speech to him -ten years hence.” - -“Stuff and nonsense, Frank, the thing is impossible. Damn it, sir, I am -a living miracle as it is—a man living without a liver. I intend leaving -what there is left to the College of Surgeons, that is, if they can find -it. It won’t take up much room, for I would lay odds that a half-ounce -phial will contain it, with room to spare.” - -“My dear uncle,” Miss Heathcote said, “pray do not talk so very -unpleasantly. You have gone on as you are for a very long time, and we -all hope that you will for a long time more.” - -Harry Bradshaw shook his head, and went on with his dinner. He really -believed what he said; and yet he had uttered these forebodings with a -cheerful voice, a merry laugh, and a sparkling eye. He could not speak -seriously upon any subject, even such an one as this, unless he was in a -passion, and then he could be very serious indeed. - -Dinner passed off cheerfully. The principal part of the talk was -supported by Frank and his uncle. The latter, indeed, kept up a steady -stream of chat, mingled with many anecdotes of his Eastern experience, -most of which the other had heard before, but they were always fresh and -amusing from the humour with which they were told, and the glee with -which the old officer related them. After dinner, they drew round to the -fire. The servant placed a small table before them, to hold decanters -and glasses, and Miss Heathcote took out some fancy work, as it was a -rule of her uncle’s that unless strangers were there she should remain -with them. - -“Don’t spare the wine, boys, I must not drink more than a glass or two -myself, but I may at least have the pleasure of seeing you do so. And -now, what have you been doing with yourselves this afternoon?” - -Frank, in reply, related the episode of the saving the dog’s life at the -Serpentine. - -“By Gad, Frank, that must have been a fine little fellow. I should like -to have been there. I would have given a five-pound note to have seen -it. Did you say you took his address?” - -“Yes, uncle; I thought I might have an opportunity of doing the boy a -good turn some day or other.” - -“Then, Frank, when you go to see him, I should be glad if you would give -him that sovereign for me. Poor little brute! I mean the dog, not the -boy. It must have been a painful scene. I never shall forget a thing -which happened to me on my way home from India. Your saying how pitiful -it was to see the dog drowning and being able to do nothing for it, -reminded me of it. There was a little cabin boy on board, I should say -he was about twelve years old, one of the sharpest and jolliest little -fellows I ever saw. He waited on us at mess, and we all quite took to -him. Well, sir, we were becalmed down near the Cape. It was very hot -weather, and the crew asked permission to bathe. Of course it was given, -and in five minutes half the men were in the water, among them Curly -Jack, as we used to call the boy, who could swim like a fish. Well, sir, -they had been in the water some time, when the mate gave the word for -them to come out, and most of them had climbed up the side, but there -were still a few in the water, and all were close to the ship’s side -except little Jack, who was some distance off, eighty yards or so. -Suddenly a man called out, ‘A shark!’ Where he came from or how he got -there I don’t know. He had no right to be there at that time of year, -and we had not seen one before. However, sure enough, there he was. Of -course it was only his back-fin that we saw, cutting along the surface, -but there was no mistaking that. He might have been two hundred yards -off when we saw him, and he was making directly for the boy. What we all -felt I cannot tell you. My heart seemed to stand still, and a deadly -feeling of faintness came over me. I would have given worlds to have -looked away, but I could not if my life had depended upon it. There was -a shout of ‘Swim, Jack, swim for your life!’ and then a great splashing -in the water, and I believe that every man who had been bathing jumped -in again and swam towards him, splashing and hallooing in hopes of -frightening the shark. But he gave no signs of hearing them, and the -black fin cut through the water in a straight line towards poor Jack. -The boy knew his danger, and I could see that his bright ruddy face was -as pale as death. He never said a word, but swam as I never saw a man -swim before, and for a moment I hoped he might reach the men who were -swimming in a body towards him, before the shark could overtake him. But -I only hoped so for a moment, the beast came nearer and nearer, he was -close upon him. I would have given worlds to have been able to shut my -eyes, but I could not. Suddenly I saw the boy half leap out of the water -with a wild cry, which rang in my ears for weeks, and then down he went, -and we never saw a sign of him again.” - -“How dreadful, uncle! how shocking! Please never tell me that story -again,” Alice Heathcote said. “I shall dream of it. Poor little boy!” - -“That was a most horrible business,” Frank said. “By Jove! I would not -have seen that for any money that could be given me. I do like a row, or -danger of any sort if one’s in it oneself, but to stand quiet and look -on is more than I could do.” - -“Let us go upstairs, if you will not have any more wine; Alice will sing -you a song or two before you go.” - -And so they went upstairs. Alice Heathcote took her place at the piano, -and glanced for an instant towards Frank to see if he were coming to -choose a song. Seeing, however, that he was telling his uncle an -alligator adventure he had met with up the Nile, she took the first -which came to hand, and opened it before her. Prescott, seeing that -Frank was making no sign of going towards the piano, took his place by -the side of her, and turned over the leaves. She sang one song, and -then, getting up, said that she was quite out of voice, and could not -sing any more, that story of the sailor boy had, she supposed, upset -her. Then, taking her work, she sat down by her uncle and worked -quietly, joining very little in the conversation, and only glancing up -occasionally at the speakers. Soon after tea the friends took leave, -and, lighting their cigars, walked back to the Temple. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - A MODEST ANNIVERSARY. - - -A quarter past eight o’clock on Monday morning; a clear, sharp, frosty -day; the shutters are down and the shop open at Stephen Walker’s. From -eight to ten is the busiest part of the day with them. Carry, looking -very bright and pretty, is counting a number of the morning papers, -which have just come in and are lying in a pile, damp and flabby, in -front of her. Stephen Walker is standing beside her occupied in folding -them, a task which, from long practice, he performs with wonderful -quickness and exactitude. On the other side of the counter a small boy, -with a good-humoured face and a merry impudent eye, with his hands in -thick knitted gloves, and a red comforter round his neck, is waiting, -stamping his feet to warm them and swinging his arms for the same -purpose. - -“Here is your lot,” Carry said, when she had finished; “twelve ‘Times,’ -two ‘Posts,’ and three ‘’Tisers.’ Now mind, Tom Holl, no stopping about -or playing at marbles.” - -“As if it were likely, Miss, that one would stop to play at marbles such -a morning as this—oh yes! very.” - -“There, take the papers and run off then.” - -The boy put them under his arm, and went off at a brisk trot. - -“What are you doing, father?” - -“I am trying to put the books into proper order, Carry. Dear, dear, what -terrible confusion they are in! Here is 55 next to 4, and the next to -that is 87.” - -“Oh please, father, do leave them alone. I shall never be able to find -anything. I know now exactly where they all are, and could put my hand -upon any book that is asked for in the dark; but if you once meddle with -them I shall never find them again; the numbers don’t go for anything.” - -“Just as you like, Carry. When do you suppose breakfast will be ready?” - -“I am sure I don’t know, father; I must attend to the shop at present, -and I do think the very best thing you could do would be to go in and -see about it. Now that would be really very useful; besides, you are -such a figure that I don’t like you to be seen here. That great cut and -swelling upon your cheek make you look as if you had been fighting on -Saturday night. Why, those two gentlemen who came in just now, and asked -what you had been doing, when you said you had slipped down, looked at -each other and winked and laughed. I could see they did not believe you -a bit—and no one else will.” - -“Do you really think so, Carry? Dear me, dear me! that is very wrong of -them, and will get me quite a bad name. Be sure to tell them when they -call to-morrow how it happened. But perhaps you are right, my dear, and -I had better keep as much as I can out of the shop of a morning till my -face has got quite right again. I will see about breakfast: but, be -sure, if you really want me, to call, and I will come in at once, -whatever they may say about me.” - -In truth, Carry was by no means sorry for an excuse which would keep her -father out of the shop of a morning, at any rate for a week or so, a -result which sometimes took her some little scheming to attain. For at -that time a good many clerks were in the habit of coming in to buy -tobacco, before they took ‘bus for the city; not perhaps that Stephen -Walker’s tobacco was unusually good, but then certainly his daughter was -uncommonly pretty. Those who did not smoke bought the “Times” for the -use of their office there, which gave them the double advantage of -having it to read on their way up, and of having a chat with Carry -Walker before starting. So there were quite a number of men came in of a -morning from half-past eight to half-past nine; and Carry who, as has -been said, was in no ways loath to be admired, had a bright smile, and a -laughing remark ready for each. So Stephen Walker’s shop was quite a -well-known rendezvous, and the young men would stand there chatting with -Carry till the ‘bus came along past the end of the street, where the -coachman would regularly stop for them. Carry very much enjoyed all -this. Her head was somewhat turned perhaps; but, in spite of her little -vanities, she was a shrewd, sensible girl, and took all the nonsense -talked to her at pretty nearly what it was worth. She had always an -answer for every remark, and in the little wordy passages generally -managed to hold her own; and yet, although full of fun and life, she -never for an instant forgot herself, or allowed her fun to carry her -away. Her numerous admirers felt and respected this, and consequently -the little war of words never exceeded anything that the father might -not have listened to. At the same time there were unquestionably more -fun and talk on those mornings when he did not appear in the shop. Some -of these admirers of Carry were really in earnest, and would gladly have -shared their homes and salaries with the tobacconist’s pretty daughter; -but she gave no encouragement to one more than another, and to the two -or three who, in spite of this, had endeavoured to persuade her to unite -her lot with theirs, she had very decidedly intimated that she had at -present no idea whatever of changing her condition. - -By half past nine her work was nearly over. The last batch of her -visitors was off to town; the last “Times” was sold out, and in those -days there were no penny papers. - -When the shop was empty Carry went into the little parlour, and found -that her father had got the breakfast ready, and was sitting by the side -of the fire waiting patiently till she should come in. Stephen Walker -was no more sorry than his daughter was that he should have some excuse -for leaving her alone in the shop during the busy time. He was perfectly -aware that a large proportion of his customers came more for the purpose -of seeing and talking with her than to buy tobacco or papers. And as he -felt perfectly assured of Carry’s discretion and self-respect, he was -not at all afraid of leaving her to take care of herself. At first it -had not been so, and he had been very loath to leave her in the shop -alone, and had, when he went into the parlour, been in the habit of -leaving the door ajar, so that he could hear what went on. When he -found, however, that the conversation never surpassed the limits of fair -badinage, and that Carry turned aside all the compliments paid to her, -with a merry laugh, he grew confident, and was quite content to leave -her to herself, especially as he could not but feel that his presence -was a restraint both to them and her. He was quite sensible of the fact -that in the two years which had elapsed since she first took her place -in the shop, that the business had trebled, and that his and her -comforts were proportionately increased. - -They had scarcely sat down to breakfast before they heard some one come -into the shop. Carry got up with a little exclamation of impatience, -opened the door, and looked out. - -“Good morning, Evan, what is it?” - -“Good morning, miss. Could I speak to Mr. Walker?” - -“Come in Evan, we are at breakfast; that is right; now shut the door.” - -“What do you want, Evan?” Stephen Walker asked. - -“If you please, sir, I wanted to ask you, if when you go up to town, you -would get me some books for James to read.” - -“What sort of books, Evan?” - -“Not story books sir, but clever books about mechanics, and that sort of -thing; not easy ones, sir, he is a wonderful chap at ‘rithmetic, James -is, and can do any of the sums in the one we have got at home; but I -have heard him say he should like to learn mathematics. I would go -myself sir, and not trouble you, but Lor, I should not know which was -which. I don’t want new ones, but books from the old stalls; I have -heard tell, they are very cheap there. Here is ten shillings, sir; would -you kindly choose as many as you can get for it, and please keep them -here for me, ‘cause I want to surprise him with them?” - -“But gracious, child!” Carry said, “where on earth did you get ten -shillings to spend on old books?” - -“If you please, miss, it were given to me, and more too, for picking a -little dog out of the Serpentine, and I thought that I couldn’t do -better with it than get some books for James. He is mighty clever, and -he has nothing to amuse him, poor fellow, except his flowers, so he will -have plenty of time to think over all these hard things.” - -“You are a good boy, Evan,” Stephen Walker said, “and I will do my best, -and ten shillings will go a good way. That sort of book is always to be -picked up very cheap. I can get an algebra, Euclid, and trigonometry, -anyhow, and perhaps a book on conic sections, and it will take your -brother some time to master them. But, Evan, does your father know what -you are spending your money upon?” - -“Oh yes, he knows,” the boy said; “besides, he told me that the money -was mine, and I could spend it upon what I liked. And please, Mr. -Walker, father told me to give his respects, and would you go in and -smoke a pipe with him this evening?” - -“Will you tell your father from me,” Stephen Walker said, “that he may -rely upon my coming. And where are you going now, Evan?” - -“I am going down to the Serpentine; I hear they are skating there this -morning, and I have got a new tray, and such a lot of bull’s eyes and -peppermints, rather. Will you have some, miss,” and the boy took out a -handful and put them down by Carry’s plate. - -“Thank you, Evan, I will take two or three, not more; I could not eat -them—that will do, thank you; I hope you will do a good day’s work.” - -“No fear of that, miss; I just shall do this week if the frost goes on. -Good bye, miss. Good bye, sir, and thank you; please don’t forget the -books,” and Evan Holl was gone. - -“Do you know, father, I think it’s lowering yourself going into John -Holl’s, he is a very good sort of a man, but he is only a dustman. I -think you ought to look higher than that, if only for my sake.” - -“John Holl is a very decent man, my dear,” her father said mildly, “and -he always treats me with proper respect. There are not many places I do -go to; but I esteem John Holl to be a very respectable man in his sphere -of life, and I do not think it can do me any harm.” - -Carry pouted a little, but made no further remark. She had very little -knowledge of her father’s past life. She could remember vaguely that as -a child she had lived in a much better house, but that was all. Stephen -Walker had never spoken of earlier times, beyond telling her that he had -formerly kept a much larger shop, which had been his father’s before -him; but that he had been unfortunate, and had therefore settled down -into a place more suited to his means. More than this he had never told -her, for he thought it better for the girl’s happiness that she should -remain in ignorance of what the past had been. He thought that if she -had known in what a different station she might have moved, it might -tend to make her discontented with her state. For himself, he accepted -his lot cheerfully, and was on the whole far happier than he had ever -been before, and he judged her by himself. - -Stephen Walker really liked these little evenings with his humble -friends. When he went in there to smoke a pipe he was always treated -with a certain deference which gratified any lingering feelings of -personal pride he might have, and made him flatter himself with the idea -that in so doing he was really conferring a favour instead of accepting -one. - -Anyone entering John Holl’s at seven o’clock that evening would have -seen at once that something very important was about to take place. The -floor had been evidently recently scrubbed, and in those parts not -covered by the square patch of drugget in the middle of the room, was so -clean and white that it almost seemed a pity to tread upon it. The -chairs and table absolutely shone with the amount of rubbing and -polishing which had been bestowed upon them, and the ornaments on the -chest of drawers had been arranged upon a spotless white cloth to the -best possible advantage. - -Mother had just come down from upstairs, where she had been engaged in -tidying herself, and looked red and hot from the hard work and -excitement. - -John Holl himself was sitting in his usual place by the side of the -fire, smoking his long pipe with his accustomed air of thoughtful -gravity. James was in his box on wheels opposite to him, but not -immediately so, the chair next to the fire being, as the place of -honour, reserved for Stephen Walker. - -The younger children are seated upon the stairs as being quite out of -the way, and are from that post of vantage viewing all the preparations -with an air of extreme interest, passing away the time the while, by -munching apples and cakes which have fallen to them as their share of -the feast. - -Presently Evan returns, and the cause of his absence is at once -apparent, for he is followed by a potboy from a neighbouring -public-house, carrying in one hand a large can of beer and in the other -three empty pewter pots, which he places upon the table in company with -several long clay pipes which are lying upon it ready for use. He then -takes from the pockets of his jacket two black bottles which he places -beside them, and with a brief “good-night” takes his leave. And now when -Mrs. Holl has placed some tumblers upon the table, the preparations for -the feast are complete. - -For even the Holls have their feasts—not often and not great ones. In no -single respect resembling those banquets which a city alderman pictures -to himself at the word feast, where turtle soup with its lumps of green -fat mingles if not harmonises with venison and truffles, the whole -crowned with that wonderful institution—the loving cup. - -But the Holls have none of these things, nor perhaps would be able -thoroughly to appreciate them if they had. The contents of the black -bottles and battered pewter pots form the great staple of the -entertainment. Strange stories, could they speak, might these pewters -relate of those who have drunk from them, and curious would be the -history of each of their numerous dints and bruises. That one was -crushed only last Saturday night by being thrown by a drunken husband at -his wife; the symmetry of the next was spoilt against a navvy’s skull in -an English and Irish row; for stealing the third, Daniel Crinky, alias -the Ferret, was sent on a long sea voyage; and many another tale of -drunkenness and crime. - -This is one of the pewter’s innocent uses, and they seem to have been -specially cleaned and brightened up in honour of the occasion. It is the -twentieth anniversary of John and Sarah Holl’s wedding-day. The guests -soon begin to arrive; there are not many of them—half-a-dozen or so. In -the first case, as he is a public character should be mentioned A 56. -For he is a public character, and his place can by no means be termed a -sinecure. Far from it, for A 56 has plenty of hard work and not over -much pay in return. He must make up his mind for hard knocks, and -occasionally in the discharge of his duty to be nearly killed, perhaps -in the open day, with dozens of bystanders looking on, too cowardly or -too indifferent to lift a finger in his defence. He will have some -unpleasant duties, too, such as keeping the line all day in the rain at -Chiswick Fête, and is expected to be within a few yards of every -irascible gentleman who is overcharged by a cabman, or who imagines -himself to be in any way aggrieved. He must make up his mind to being a -pretty general object of dislike among the lower orders, and to be -taunted and chaffed and groaned at on all public occasions, he being at -those times considered a fair subject for sport. All this and much more -must he bear with perfect equanimity and good temper, for if he should -ever get a little crusty, and hit rather harder then the occasion -appears to warrant, he knows that “Mentor,” and “Censor,” and “Civis,” -and many others will be down upon him at once in the columns of the -daily papers. But to their credit be it spoken, it is very seldom that A -56 and his brethren from A 1 to the end of the alphabet ever give an -opportunity for a charge against them. - -Next to A 56 must be mentioned Perkins. Perkins is not a handsome man, -in fact the reverse. He is rather tall and strongly built, with high -cheek bones, small sunken eyes, and a broken nose. He wears a groom’s -waistcoat with a heavy steel watchguard, and a gaudy scarf round his -neck with a showy mosaic gold pin. From these tokens it may be at once -seen that Perkins is or has been a prize-fighter. A nasty customer was -Perkins in his time, and many a victory has he won, from his first -appearance as Harry Parson’s novice, to the time when backing himself to -fight Unknown for 200_l._ a side, he was nearly killed. It was in that -celebrated conflict that his nose was broken; and he then retired from -the ring, and was established by his admirers in the snug Public, known -as “The Lively Stunners,” where every Wednesday evening a select -harmonic meeting is held, at which good humour and fisticuffs prevail, -as see “Bell’s Life.” - -Between Perkins and A 56 a species of feud exists, for Perkins cannot -disguise that he objects to A 56. Not on personal grounds, far from it; -but as being one of the body who are constantly on the watch to -interrupt and put an end to the noble art of which he, Perkins, is a -professor; and he attributes to A 56 and his fellows the disrepute into -which that noble science has fallen. Of the others present, as they will -not appear again in the pages of this history, no description need be -given. - -After the first guest had arrived the rest soon came in, entering -generally with a rather awkward air, as if impressed somewhat with the -gravity and importance of the occasion, but thawing rapidly when they -had once seated themselves and had each got one of the long pipes into -full operation. - -Presently Stephen Walker arrives, and is inducted in the post of honour. -His being thus late was caused by his desire to see the shop closed, and -Carry comfortably seated at the fire with a novel, before coming out. - -As was but natural the weather was the first object of discussion, but -this did not last long, it being unanimously agreed that the frost was -likely to last any time. After that, various other topics are introduced -and discussed gravely, and generally with a fair knowledge of the -subject. At last, as all conversation among working men at that period -was sure to do, their talk turned upon the Chartist movement which was -agitating the lower classes of the metropolis. - -“I wish the Charter had never been heard of,” John Holl said, “I’m sick -of it. Look at my brother Bill. A better workman never stepped in shoes, -always at work, always on the best wages, and look at him now, never -doing a stroke, but wasting his time going about talking. It’s been a -weary time for Bessy since he took up with it. But, Lor bless you, to -hear him talk you would think that we were all black niggers. It sounds -all very fine, and though I know I aint a black nigger, I can’t say -anything against it. But, Lor bless you! you should hear James, he ats -him, and he gives him word for word, and line for line, and Bill gets -hit pretty hard, I can tell you; you do slap it into him, James, don’t -you?” - -The lad, who had been very quiet, only putting in a remark occasionally, -laughed merrily. - -“I like arguing with Uncle Bill, he is so accustomed to have it all his -own way, and he does not half like it sometimes when I come down upon -him. I am very sorry for him though, and I do wish I could convince him. -He is so honest, and he believes in what he says so much, that it is a -pity to think that it will lead him into trouble.” - -“Why did he not come here to-night, John?” Stephen Walker asked. - -“He has got what he calls a ‘committee’ on, and, bless you, he wouldn’t -miss a committee, he wouldn’t, not if he knew he should find us all dead -when he came out.” - -Here Mrs. Holl, who had been upstairs putting the younger children to -bed, came down again, and began to bustle about, and lay a cloth for -supper. She then brought out a huge pie from the cupboard, and in a few -minutes the whole party drew round the table and set to. When supper was -over, Mrs. Holl cleared the table, put the black bottles and tumblers -upon it, poured out a large jug of boiling water, and each mixed himself -a glass. - -There was then a little pause, and Stephen Walker, finding that the eyes -of the company were directed generally towards him, said— - -“Gentlemen, we are met here to night to celebrate a very happy occasion. -Twenty years ago to-day, my friends, John and Sarah Holl were married. -How happy they have been they best know, but from what I have seen of -them, and I have known them for some years now, I should say that they -are as happy a couple as any in the town, and I think you will agree -with me when I say that they well deserve to be. John, I drink your -health and your good wife’s, may you continue for another twenty years -to be as happy as you have been up to this time.” - -His speech was received with murmurs of applause, and with thumping of -glasses from those seated near enough to the table to be enabled to -indulge in that evidence of their approbation. - -Then all nodded to John and Sarah over their glasses, and said, “Here’s -to ye,” and there was a pause of silence for John Holl’s reply. - -And then John, wiping his mouth with the back of his broad, brown hand, -and clearing his throat, said— - -“Mr. Walker and friends all, speaking ain’t in my way much, but for -Sairey and self, I must tell you how much I feel obligated for all your -kind wishes. Mr. Walker, and friends all, I thank yer kindly. Sairey -here and I have been married twenty long years now, and we ha’ been very -happy together. It don’t seem twenty year, but I know it is. Sairey, she -were a tall, shapely lass, and I were an active, young chap then; as you -may see, friends all, we ha’ changed rarely since then. But I don’t -think we ha’ changed other way. I do believe, Sairey an’ me are just as -fond o’ each other as we was this day twenty year back. Mr. Walker, and -friends all, my wife Sairey has been a good wife to me. I can’t say -rightly how good, but I feel it. I know well that I ain’t made Sairey as -good a husband as I might ha’ done—hold your tongue, Sairey—but as you -see, friends all, I don’t think she likes me any the less for it now. We -aint lived just an idle life all these years, and we didn’t expect to -when we got married. We have had our hardish times, too, but nothing not -to say to grumble about. On the whole we have got on pretty fair, and -ha’ laid up a few pound for a wet day. Mr. Walker, and friends all, -thank ye kindly. Sairey, old girl, here’s to ye,” and John gave his wife -a loud-sounding kiss, and Sarah, although she was a low person, and -hardly knew what nerves meant, wiped away a tear unobserved amongst the -thumping of glasses, and stamping of feet, which greeted the conclusion -of John Holl’s speech. After that there was a greater appearance of -general ease, and of a determination to enjoy themselves. Presently they -began to sing. A 56 sang, principally comic songs, and sang them with so -much spirit, that it was evident that under the rather stolid demeanor, -and close cut regulation whisker, A 56 concealed a strong sense of -humour. The crippled lad sang, and with considerable taste and feeling, -and Perkins favoured the company with some of the songs of the “Lively -Stunners” in his best style. And the others sang; but the most marked -feature about their songs was the almost entire absence of any -appreciable air, and that they all had a chorus apropos of nothing, of -ri tiddy ti tiddy ad libitum. The singers too seemed continually -striving to get up to some imaginary note, about two octaves above the -normal compass of their voices, and as their eyes moved in accordance -with their voices, at these times only the whites were visible; the -entire effect to any one unaccustomed to it being extremely painful. - -However, all seemed satisfied, and when the party broke up, which they -did a little before twelve, as several of them had to be at their work -early, they expressed themselves as greatly delighted with their -evening. And so they went off, the others to bed, but policeman A 56, -who had only got leave in honour of the occasion, went off to the -station to report himself, and then to relieve the comrade who had taken -his place on his beat. Tramp, tramp, with his slow, heavy, regular tread -all night, up and down many a quiet street, where his heavy foot-fall -seems to echo strangely; steadily on, with once or twice a pause, and a -sound of voice in remonstrance and dispute, and then a little scuffle as -some drunken man is either persuaded to go home or else taken off to the -station. Down many an area does the bright eye of his lantern pry; now -it dances along a wall, now ‘tis on the ground, now it flits into a -window. Loudly the bells chime the hours in the still, starlight -night—two—three—four—London is at its stillest, the last carriage from -the latest party is back now, the last straggling foot passenger in bed. -Five—six—and now there are some signs of life and movement again. The -workmen are beginning to start to their distant places of work, stamping -their feet, and swinging their arms, to warm themselves in the keen -morning air. Had it been market-day, long ere this the light carts would -have been rattling into Covent Garden, to purchase a supply of -vegetables, and be back again before the earliest customers are awake. -Now it approaches seven, and the grey morning light begins to break over -London, and to dim the brightness of A 56’s lantern. The streets are -busy with men hastening to their work. Seven—and it is comparatively -quiet again. Half-past—and sleepy-looking housemaids begin to draw up -blinds, and to open front doors, and sweep down the steps. And now the -milk-carts drive up, and as the clock strikes eight, London seems to -wake with a start. The ‘busses rattle off with their loads of men for -the early offices, foot passengers muffled to the throats, cabs and -carts; day has fairly begun. And now A 56 is relieved, and goes home and -sleeps long and soundly. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - THE BINGHAMS. - - -Behind Sloane Street lie the quiet and secluded regions of Hans Place. -Very respectable, and intensely dull is Hans Place, looking more like a -portion of some sleepy little cathedral town than a corner of busy -moving London. The rush and the roar of traffic pass it afar off, -sounding like the murmur of the distant ocean. Were it not that it -happens to be a short cut from Brompton to the upper part of Sloane -Street, it is probable that not five vehicles or ten foot-passengers, -beyond the inhabitants themselves and the tradespeople who supply them, -would ever pass through it. Little groups of children, indeed, from the -small streets lying between it and Knightsbridge, come up into it, and -the elders sit down on door steps, and discourse soberly and gravely -together, while the younger ones play on the deserted pavement, fearless -of interruption. But these seem the only signs of life. It can hardly be -that Nature made an exception in the case of Hans Place to her general -laws, and that no children are ever born to any of its inhabitants; but -it is believed that, in the memory of man, none were ever seen at play -in the dismal piece of ground in its centre, known as the garden. -Indeed, the only denizens of the place which seem endowed with life and -vitality are the sparrows. These twitter and fight noisily in the dusty -trees, or hop about on the wide road, heedless of interruption, hardly -moving even when a passing vehicle drives by, but, standing with their -heads on one side, watching it inquisitively with their bright fearless -eyes. - -In Hans Place reside the Binghams. Mr. Bingham is a civil engineer, and -dabbles generally in building operations. He is a man of about middle -height, spare, and active; very careful as to his attire, and of a mild -conciliatory address; a pleasant, well-informed man. - -Mrs. Bingham, the sister of Captain Bradshaw, is the picture of good -temper. Short and stout, as such women generally are, devoted to her -husband and children, having no thought, no care, no object in life -unconnected with the narrow circle of her own family. Not a clever -woman—that is, not a clever woman of the world. As a painter and -musician, she was really talented; but to have heard her talk, no one -would have given her credit for being anything of the sort. And yet, in -any point unconnected with her own family and belongings, she was shrewd -and sensible, with a little touch of satire; but the affection and -admiration of the mother of the Gracchi for her children, were as -nothing to the feelings with which she regarded her progeny. Terrible -indeed was Mrs. Bingham’s house to visitors when the children were -young. She would dilate upon their affectionate dispositions, their -extraordinary cleverness and precocity. Their sayings and doings would -be rehearsed at length, and the children themselves brought in, -exhibited, and praised, Mrs. Bingham taking it for granted that all this -would afford at least as much pleasure to her visitors as to herself. It -was fortunate that this idea was so thoroughly rooted in her mind, that -she required very little active acquiescence. A general smile, an -“indeed,” and “dear me,” thrown in from time to time, was sufficient to -satisfy her; but even with this, it was universally agreed among Mrs. -Bingham’s friends that a visit to her was a very dreadful affair. - -The children were by no means bad children in themselves. Frederick, the -eldest, has been already spoken of, and, as a boy, was a pleasant and -quiet, but hasty tempered lad. The two daughters were quiet, simple -girls, taking much after their mother in her home tastes, and -affectionate disposition. They were, at this time, of the ages of -sixteen and fifteen respectively. Fred Bingham was in no way changed by -the three years which had passed since the night of the boating party at -Cambridge. He did not look one day older; there were no signs of whisker -on his smooth fair face; a slight moustache of light hair had grown upon -his upper lip; this, contrary to the usual custom in the year ‘48, he -assiduously cultivated, although with small success, but if constant -stroking could have conduced to its growth, it would have been a very -much more important affair than it was. - -The Binghams had nearly finished breakfast. Mr. Bingham had quite done, -and was looking out of the window at a solitary foot passenger who was -in sight, when his wife asked him, - -“Are you going up to your office this morning, my dear?” - -“No; I am going over to Bayswater, to value a house, but I dare say I -shall be in town in the afternoon.” - -“Then I suppose you are going to the office, Freddy, dear?” - -“Now, look here, Venerable,” Fred Bingham said, “I suppose you want -something; if you do, say it out, and don’t be beating about the bush, -and asking questions about things which don’t concern you.” - -“Now, Freddy, that is so like you. No, I don’t want anything at all. I -was only thinking what a treat it would be to take the poor children to -a pantomime.” - -“Oh, you were thinking what a treat it would be to take the poor -children to a pantomime,” Fred mimicked. “Well, supposing that it would, -I really don’t see what connection that has to my going to office.” - -“Now, Freddy, how you do take me up. I was only wondering whether you -would be doing anything to tire yourselves, because if not——” - -“Oh, because if not, I suppose you wondered next whether you could do me -into buying tickets for them.” - -“No, Freddy, I did not wonder anything of the sort. I am sure your dear -papa would do that.” - -“I don’t know, my dear,” Mr. Bingham said, standing on the hearth-rug, -and jingling the money and keys in his trousers pockets, as was a -favourite habit of his. “I don’t know, my dear, that their dear papa -will do anything of the sort. He is peculiarly short of money at -present.” - -“There, Venerable,” Fred said, “don’t look so downcast. I will get -tickets for the poor things, and as I suppose you will be wanting to go -too, instead of staying quietly at home, as an old lady of your age -should do, I must get one for you, too. Make up your minds which theatre -you will go to, but don’t talk about it now, as you will all talk -together, and then I shan’t get you the tickets at all. Settle it among -yourselves out of the room, and let me know before I start.” - -“There’s a dear, kind Freddy,” Mrs. Bingham said, admiringly: “he is -always such a good, kind fellow.” And she looked round proudly upon the -girls, who purred acquiescence. - -“There, that will do, Venerable, a very little of that goes a long way; -besides, I believe I have heard you say as much before. And, look here, -girls, I shall expect you both to practise that glee we were singing -last night, to-day and to-morrow, so as to be perfect in the evening, -and not make such an exhibition of yourselves as you did last night. And -now, all three of you take yourselves off at once, and make up your -minds about the theatre; I want to have ten minutes talk with the pater -upon business before we start.” - -Mrs. Bingham rose without a word, and went out accompanied by the girls, -with the parting remark, given in a decided tone, which defied -contradiction, that “there never was such a dear fellow in the world.” - -Fred Bingham was very kind to his mother and sisters. He was liberal in -the extreme with his money, and they deservedly doted upon him. He was, -it is true, excessively dictatorial in his way of speaking to them, but -they obeyed all he said unquestioningly, taking it partly as fun, partly -his right, the due of his extreme kindness and cleverness. - -When they had left the room, Frederick Bingham turned to the father. The -smile had gone from his face now, and he spoke in a cold hard business -way, very different from the light jesting tone he had used to his -mother. - -“How long shall you be at Bayswater?” - -“I should think two hours will be quite sufficient; it is not a large -house.” - -“Those Biglows have not paid their rent yet. I think you had better go -up to St. John’s Wood and see about it.” - -“I will go if you think so, Fred, but it will be of no use.” - -“Give them to the end of the week, and if they don’t pay on Saturday, -put a man in the first thing on Monday morning.” - -“You see, Fred, they said last week when I saw them,” Mr. Bingham said -hesitatingly, “that Biglow had been ill for months, and had been too -weak to touch a brush.” - -“That is their business,” the son said harshly, “not ours. Let them go -into a smaller house. There will be enough furniture left, after paying -us our half-year’s rent to furnish that. The furniture is very good. I -took particular notice myself last time I saw them. Anyhow, the -dining-room alone is worth fifty pounds at a sale. You can tell them -that you don’t want to do anything unhandsome, but that you must have -the forty pounds they owe; and that rather than sell them up, if they -like to leave the dining-room and drawing-room furniture, we will let -them take the rest out and cry quits. That will suit both of us; it will -save them being sold up, and it is worth a good hundred pounds to us.” - -“But, Fred, he might easily borrow the means to pay the half-year’s rent -on the furniture by merely giving a bill of sale.” - -“Nonsense, father; the man’s an artist, and knows no more of business -than a child. Do as I advise you, and you will see he will jump at the -offer, and be grateful besides.” - -“Well, Fred, you will never die a pauper, that’s pretty certain,” his -father said, admiringly. - -“I have no intention of doing so,” Fred said drily. “That is settled -then. I don’t know that there is anything else to arrange. Call round at -the office if you have time; but I shall leave early myself. I suppose -we shall dine at five, to give us plenty of time for the theatre -business” - -Fred then went to the door, and shouted for his mother, who came with -the information that they had decided upon the Princess’s. - -“Very well, Venerable, I will get the tickets as I go up. I am off now. -Have the girls got my hat and gloves, and brushed my great coat?” - -The girls had; and now brought them to him. It took him another five -minutes getting them on—especially the gloves—for Fred Bingham was, like -his father, extremely careful about his personal adornment, especially -in the matter of gloves—which he was never without—wearing them upon -every possible occasion; for if there was one thing which galled Fred -Bingham more than another, it was those unfortunate great unshapely red -hands of his. - -The Binghams lived on the side of Hans Place nearest to Knightsbridge. -The shortest way, consequently, into the high road, was to cut down -through the small streets instead of going out into Sloane Street. Fred -Bingham, however, after turning out of Hans Place, did not take the most -direct way, but turning through two or three narrow lanes, he came out -into New Street, which he followed till he came to Stephen Walker’s -shop, where he turned in. Carry was alone in the shop, and it was at -once evident by the girl’s manner that Fred Bingham was a regular -customer; and by her slightly heightened colour that he was by no means -an unwelcome one. - -“Good morning, Carry; looking as bright and pretty as ever, I see.” - -“What nonsense you do talk to be sure, Mr. Bingham!” the girl laughed. -“I shall certainly give up coming into the shop altogether, and put -father in here from half-past nine till you are gone, if you don’t give -up talking rubbish.” - -“Give me a cigar, Carry. No, not those things; one out of my special -box; thank you. Now you would not be so cruel as that, Carry, I am quite -sure. I should pine visibly if you hid your bright face. I am almost as -thin as I can be now, but I should become a candidate for the at present -vacant situation of walking skeleton, in no time.” - -“Oh! I dare say,” the girl retorted, “you would not eat a mouthful the -less at your dinner, I’d wager, whether you saw my bright face or not.” - -“You are quite wrong, Carry, I can assure you. What are you working at -so industriously?” - -“Never mind,” the girl said, laughing. “Never ask questions about things -which don’t concern you. You know the rest of it.” - -“Quite well, Carry. But that appears to me to be a masculine garment, -and therefore it is possible that it may concern me; because if it is -intended for a favoured swain, I shall infallibly slay him.” - -“You need not do that, it is only a shirt for father. Besides, I have -told you fifty times I have no favoured swain, as you call it.” - -“Oh yes, I know you have; but you see I have a great difficulty in -believing you.” - -“Now, Mr. Bingham, really if you go on like that, I shall go into the -next room,” the girl said, making, however, no effort to rise. - -“Really, Carry, it is very hard on a man that he may not say what he -thinks.” - -“Yes, but you don’t think it” - -“I do think it, Carry; on my honour I think you the very prettiest -girl——” - -“There now, sir, you see I am obliged to go,” Carry said, really getting -up this time. “But then that’s fortunate; I can hear a ‘bus; so I am -well rid of you.” - -“Bye bye, Carry; I must be up in town this morning in good time, or I -would stay for the next hour, if it were only to plague you.” And so he -was gone. - -Carry did not take up her work again for some time, but sat thinking -quietly, till her father came into the shop from the room behind, when -she began to work assiduously. - -“Carry, you have not been out for the last two days. Put on your bonnet, -child; I will mind the shop for a while. A little fresh air will do you -good.” - -“Very well, father, I will go out for a little time; and I shall look in -and have a chat with James Holl. I don’t suppose I shall be more than an -hour gone.” - -In a few minutes, Carry came down dressed for her walk; and with a -parting nod to her father, went out. First down into Knightsbridge. Here -she spent some little time in looking at the tempting displays in the -shop windows. Oh that she had but money that she might go in and make -unlimited purchases! Fancy, too, how exactly that bonnet would suit her -complexion, and how well she should look in that Indian shawl! And so -Carry walked up the hill as far as the Duke’s. Turning here she retraced -her steps to Sloane Street, and thence, striking into the narrow -streets, was soon at the Holls’ door. After a preliminary knock with her -hand, she lifted the latch and entered. - -There were only three persons in the room. The crippled lad was at the -window, to which he had wheeled up his box, partly to enable him to see -out, partly for the benefit of the light for his work. On a table in -front of him were a number of thin sheets of wax of various colours, a -few paints and brushes, some wire and modelling tools, and some -exquisite wax flowers which he had finished, with others in different -stages of progress, upon which he was still engaged. Two little girls -were standing beside him, with books in their hands, and one of them was -reading aloud, while he listened and corrected her as he worked. A -little impatiently, perhaps, which was very unusual for him, but on the -table near him was an algebra, part of Evan’s present, which he had only -received the day before. It was open, but was lying with its face -downwards, and it was evident, by the glances which he cast in that -direction, that he was longing to continue his study. He looked up when -his visitor entered, and a bright flush of pleasure came across his -face. - -“How do you do, Miss Carry? It seems quite a time since you were here -last.” - -“Not more than a week, James; and how are you, and where is Mrs. Holl?” - -“I am quite well, Miss Carry. Mother has gone out for the day; but -please sit down for a little while, you know what pleasure a talk with -you always gives me.” - -The girl kissed the children, and then drew up a chair and sat down by -him. - -“Thank you,” he said, “You see I am hearing Jessie and Loo their -lessons. There, children, that will do for this morning; put away your -books and go and play, but don’t make a noise.” The little girls gladly -did as they were told, and were soon sitting on two low stools in front -of the fire, busy playing with two dolls, so old and battered that their -clothes might be put on at pleasure either way, there being no -distinguishable difference between their faces and the backs of their -heads. - -“What lovely flowers, James! I can’t think how you can do them without a -copy.” - -“No more I could, Miss Carry. Father knows one of the men in the flower -shop just as you get into Hans Place from Sloane Street, and he often -brings me one, and I copy it at once and put it by till I want to make -some of that sort.” - -“It must be very interesting work, James, especially when you get to -make them as beautifully as you do. What a lovely spray of roses and -buds that is!” - -“Do you think so, Miss Carry? Yes, they are very pretty. It is a copy of -a bunch my friend the gardener brought me in last summer, and I liked it -so much that I copied them just as they were. Will you accept that one, -Miss Carry?” he said timidly; “I should be so glad if you would.” - -“Oh, I could not think of it, James; it must have taken you an immense -time.” - -“My time is of no great value,” the lad said rather sadly; “besides, it -does not take nearly as long as it looks. I cut all the petals out with -stamps. Please take it, Miss Carry. It would give me so much pleasure if -you would.” - -“Well, if it would, James, I will certainly accept your offer, and thank -you very much for them. They are really lovely. I have got a little -Parian marble vase under a glass shade, father bought me my last -birthday; they will keep under that beautifully.” - -The lad took a sheet of silver paper from a drawer of the table, and -watched her with a pleased face as she very carefully enveloped them in -it. - -“When I think how slowly the days used to pass,” he said, “I don’t know -what I should have done without my flower making, I had nothing to do -but to sit here, and hear the people walking past, and the children at -play, and wonder why it should be that I was to be cut off from playing -or walking as long as my life should last, and be a helpless burden upon -other people all my life. I shall never forget what I felt, when your -father said to me one day, ‘I wonder you don’t try and do something, -James.’ Although I might have known that he was the last man to hurt any -one’s feelings, Miss Carry, for a moment I did think that what he said -was without thought. The tears came up into my eyes, and I said, I dare -say bitterly enough, ‘God knows I should be only too glad, Mr. Walker, -but what can I do?’ - -“‘Do,’ said your father, ‘plenty of things; make wax flowers, for -instance.’ - -“‘Oh, I should be so glad, but how am I to learn?’ - -“‘I’ll tell you what, James,’ your father said. ‘I will get you a book -to teach you all about it, and all the things you will want. You must -get some flowers to copy—easy ones to begin with, and if you are sharp, -you will find in a very short time you will be able to earn money, -besides keeping yourself employed. I will lay out a pound, James, in the -materials, and you shall pay it out of your first earnings.’ That’s -three years back now, Miss Carry, and I was not much more than fourteen. -But I had thought a good deal, through sitting here all day with nothing -to do, but to think, think all the long hours, and I had read a great -deal too, for Mr. Walker has always lent me what books I liked. But, boy -as I was, my heart was too full of delight and hope to say one word. To -think that I was not to be all my life without an occupation or an aim, -that I was not always to be a burden to others! It was almost too much; -for now for the first time your father’s words seem to point out that it -might be so different to what I had thought. I have read in books, Miss -Carry, of what a man condemned to death feels when he is reprieved upon -the scaffold, but I am sure he could not feel more than I did. I had so -often wished to die, and had thought it would be so much better for me, -so much happier than my life could be, that it seemed as if more than -fresh life was given me. Oh, how anxious I was till your father brought -the things, how I learnt the book by heart before I ventured to begin, -how nervous I was with my first attempt, and, above all, what joy I felt -when mother took out a box of my flowers, and brought me back far more -than I had ever dreamt they would have fetched, and the news that at the -shop where she had sold them, they had said they would take as many more -as I could make. I soon paid your father back his pound, Miss Carry; but -as long as I live I can never repay him for the benefit he did me. What -a different life mine has been since—always busy and happy, with a -feeling that I am no longer a burden but a help to father and mother; -and all this I owe to your father.” - -“Dear father,” Carry said softly, “he is always good and kind. That puts -me in mind that he is all alone in the shop, and that I must be going -home, to see after the dinner. Good bye, James, and thank you for your -flowers.” - -“Good bye, Miss Carry, you are heartily welcome to them.” - -And so shaking hands cordially with the crippled lad, and kissing the -children, Carry went back to relieve her father in the shop; while -James’s studies at his algebra made but small progress that morning. For -a bright face, which certainly Colenso never thought of inserting there, -would keep intruding itself between the figures and his eyes, and making -a terrible confusion of + and – and of “a’s” and “x’s.” - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - A STARTLING SUGGESTION. - - -Frank Maynard, on his return from the Continent, had taken rooms close -to those occupied by Arthur Prescott, in the Temple. An arrangement, -which although in itself very pleasant for both, by no means conduced to -the promotion of the latter’s legal studies; for Arthur had been lately -called to the bar, and was working really very hard at his profession. -For the first week after his friend came back to town, he had put by his -books, and given up his time to him entirely, but after that he had been -obliged to enter into a compact with him. First, that Frank should on no -pretence whatever come to his rooms before one o’clock; and second, that -although he might pass the afternoon with him, he should be bound to -occupy himself in reading, and was on no account to enter into long -conversations. After four o’clock, Prescott put aside his law books, and -was at his friend’s service for the rest of the day. - -The first part of the condition Frank found it easy enough to observe. -He did not rise until late; and after he had finished breakfast, the -“Times” occupied him pretty well till it was the hour for going into -Prescott’s. After lunch he would take up a novel, light his pipe, make -himself comfortable, and read for an hour or so. But presently he would -put his book down, and begin to ask Prescott questions, and to entrap -him into lengthy conversations, till Arthur became quite desperate; when -Frank would leave him and sally out to make a round of calls, returning -at six to go out to dinner with his friend. In the evening, Prescott was -safe from interruption, as Frank was almost always out at dances and -balls at the houses of the numerous friends he had met during his -travels. - -It was a week after the party at the Holls’. The frost had broken up, -but the weather was raw and cold. Arthur Prescott was studying, and -occasionally looking over, with a rather amused glance, at his friend. -Frank having in vain tried to interest himself in his novel, had thrown -it down in disgust, and was gazing disconsolately out of the window, -upon the green lawn below, and at the leaden-coloured river beyond, with -its black drifting barges, and its busy little steamers hurrying past. - -“By Jove, Prescott,” he broke out at last, “this is a beastly climate of -ours.” - -“As how, Frank?” Prescott asked quietly. - -“As how?” Frank repeated irritably. “Why in its wind, and its rain; and -its damp, and its cold. It’s detestable. Last winter I was in Rome.” - -“Ah, and were you there in summer, Frank?” - -“Of course not, Prescott. One might as well live in an oven, with an air -blowing in from a fever-den.” - -“Quite so, Frank. You see other places have their detestable points as -well as ours.” - -Frank Maynard gave a grunt of discontent, and again looked out of the -window. At last he turned round again. - -“What on earth am I to do with myself, Prescott?” - -“My dear Frank, I am afraid that question is likely to bring on a long -discussion; but in consideration of the day, and the more especially as -I see you do not mean to let me read, I will put away my books for the -afternoon.” - -“There’s a good fellow,” Frank said, brightening up greatly, and -wheeling the fellow arm-chair of the one he had been sitting in, up to -the fire, while Prescott put his books back into their places on the -shelves. That done, he opened a bottle of beer, poured it into a large -tankard—a college trophy of his prowess in boating—and lit his pipe. - -“There, that’s comfortable,” Frank said. “The climate has its advantages -after all. Now let us talk seriously. What in the world am I to do? Here -have I been back in England little more than three months, two of which -I have spent shooting, and now after a month in London, I am bored out -of my life.” - -“It is a hard case, Frank; a man with eight hundred a year, and nothing -to do but to spend it; and you are out nearly every evening, too.” - -“That’s all well enough for the evening, Prescott, but I can’t spend the -day thinking whom I am going to meet in the evening; and whether the -pretty girl I danced with the night before will be there, and so on.” - -“Why not join a club, Frank?” - -“I am down for the ‘Travellers,’ but it may be years before I am -elected, and I don’t believe I shall care for it when I am. I have been -into several clubs with men I know, and they seem to me the slowest -places going. Men look in, and moon about the room, and take up a paper, -and then throw it down again, and go and look out of the window, and -then order their dinner, and grumble over it when they have got it. My -dear fellow, it’s well enough for old fogies, but I can see no pull in -it at all. Of course, in the evening one can play billiards, but as I am -out nearly every night, I don’t see that I shall gain much by that.” - -“Why don’t you keep a horse, Frank?” - -“Well, I might do that, Prescott; but I don’t think I should ever go out -on the beggar if I had one. I don’t care much for riding at the best of -times; and as to going up and down Rotten Row, it would drive me out of -my mind in a week. No; when summer comes I shall buy a yacht of about -twenty tons, and cruise about; but the question is the winter.” - -“Well, Frank, as you do not care, I have heard you say, for country -sports, I really think it would be worth your while to think seriously -of entering yourself at the bar, or of taking to literary work; or in -fact making some sort of aim for yourself. I confess that, as a busy man -myself, I can hardly conceive a man having the whole day on his hands, -with nothing definite before him.” - -“My dear fellow,” Frank said despondently; “what on earth would be the -good of my entering at the bar? I should never read—you know that as -well as I do; and consequently I should have no more to do than I have -now, with the additional disadvantage of being obliged to dine so often -in Hall, instead of being able to get my dinner where I like. As to -literary work, the thing’s simply absurd; what on earth should I write -about? And when I had fixed on a subject, what in the name of goodness -should I have to say about it? Upon my word, Prescott, your suggestions -are positively childish.” - -Prescott shrugged his shoulders, and smoked for some time in silence. -Presently he took his pipe from his mouth, and asked suddenly— - -“Why don’t you get married, Frank?” - -“Married! My dear Prescott, I wish you would not talk in that light way -of such a serious business. I should as soon think of flying up to the -moon. Besides, whom in the world should I marry? I go out to parties and -balls, and flirt with dozens of girls, but I never think any more of -them, nor do they of me. Just imagine one of their faces, if I were to -say, ‘Madam, your obedient servant is on the look-out for a wife; will -you supply the deficiency?’” - -Frank laughed loudly; Prescott smiled, and then was quiet for some time. -At last he said, with a sort of effort— - -“There is one young lady with whom you are at any rate on intimate -terms. I mean, of course, Miss Heathcote.” - -“Alice!” Frank exclaimed in great surprise; “now that is about the very -last suggestion I should have expected to hear from you; for, upon my -word, in the three or four times we have been down there together, since -I came back, you were so quiet, and—you know what I mean—that I had a -sort of suspicion that you were spoony there yourself!” - -Prescott coloured up hotly. “My dear Frank,” he said, gravely, “I have a -very great esteem for Miss Heathcote; I think her a very loveable woman, -but had I any deeper feeling for her, I should only endeavour to lay it -aside as quickly as possible, because I know that I should not have the -remotest chance in the world.” - -“Upon my word now, Prescott, I don’t see why; Alice is an heiress, but I -don’t know that her money would be a serious obstacle. She has no one to -consult but herself, and if she fancies you, why should she not have -you?” - -“I am not speaking of money, Frank. If Miss Heathcote loved me, she -would think nothing of her money; and I—although I would far rather -bring wealth to my wife than that she should to me, still that would be -no great obstacle. I am speaking of herself. I know that she would never -care for me. So please do not let us discuss that part of the question. -We were speaking of her in reference to yourself. Unless I am greatly -mistaken, your uncle would be very pleased if you were to marry her. Why -should you not do so?” - -“Well, he has thrown out some hints, but I only laughed, thinking it was -a joke. Upon my word now, Prescott, this is too bad!” Frank went on with -an air of great perplexity, “It seems to me that my uncle and you have -entered into a sort of plot to marry me to Alice. Thank goodness, -though,” he said, cheering up, “Alice is not in it, for she has quite -changed since I came back again. We were awful friends formerly, I used -to kiss her regularly, and we were as jolly together as possible. When I -came back from abroad, after being away two years, of course I kissed -her when we met, but next time I offered to do so, she would not have -it, and said that she was a great deal too old for that sort of thing. I -said that we were cousins, and therefore it was all right and proper, -but she answered quite sharply, that we were, indeed, nothing of the -sort. Altogether she has been at times quite stiff and formal, and not a -bit like what she was before I went away to the Continent. No, no, she -is not in the conspiracy. Upon my word, Prescott, you quite frightened -me. We like each other very well—very much perhaps, but there is not the -slightest risk of either of us going further.” - -Prescott shrugged his shoulders with an irritable impatience which was -very unusual to him. He was angry with Frank for his careless -indifference, and yet, although he told himself over and over again that -he was sorry to see that his friend was so blind, how could he help -being glad? To him this was no new subject. He had thought it over and -over till his head ached with the thought many a time. He had seen, -years before, how the girl had looked up to Frank, had listened to his -schoolboy stories, and his college tales, how she had submitted to all -his boy’s humours, and had made a hero of him to herself. He had noticed -in the last year before Frank went abroad, how the girl’s feeling had -grown and intensified with her own growth towards womanhood; how she -flushed up when Frank paid her little attentions; and how quickly she -resented it whenever he still treated her as a child. He had noticed how -eagerly she listened to all that was said about Frank when he was away, -and, at the same time, how she shrank from appearing to pay any but the -most ordinary attention. And more than ever, since Frank’s return, was -Prescott sure that Alice Heathcote loved him. Another, a less close and -less obtrusive watcher, would not have seen all this, but Prescott had a -deep stake in the matter. He knew that he loved Alice with the whole -strength of his nature. Had he believed that he had the slightest chance -of success, he would have yielded no point of vantage, even to his -friend Frank. Had both entered for the prize, and had Alice been -neutral, Prescott would have told his friend frankly that they were -rivals, and fought the matter out to the last. But here he could do -nothing. The prize was given away, and the winner was too indifferent to -stretch out his hand for it. True, he did not know that it might be had -for the asking, and Prescott, as he sat quietly for a few minutes after -Frank had spoken, was thinking very deeply with himself whether he ought -to tell his friend that he was sure that he was mistaken. He was -interrupted by Frank’s saying irritably, “I wish to goodness, Prescott, -you had never put such a notion into my head. I was comfortable and at -home with Alice before, as I had no more idea of marrying her than I had -of flying, and now I shall never get the idea out of my head. I wonder -whether my uncle has ever thrown out any hints of his idea to Alice. I -should not be surprised if he has. That would account for what I was -saying about her being cold and stiff to me; naturally she supposes that -I want to make love to her, and she tries as plainly as she can to show -me that she will have nothing to say to me. I tell you what, Prescott, -you and my uncle, with your plans and ideas, will end by making Alice -and me hate each other.” - -Frank got up, and walked up and down the room, smoking his pipe in short -puffs, with an air of extreme vexation. Prescott said nothing in reply. -He was actually far more irritated and much more puzzled than Frank -himself was, but he could show neither his irritation nor the conflict -of thoughts and feelings which was agitating him. Presently Frank -stopped and said, “There is only one thing in the world I do think would -induce me to marry Alice.” - -“What is that, Frank?” Prescott asked, looking anxiously up at him. - -“I would marry her rather than that she should marry Fred Bingham. He is -constantly there, and I think he is trying to make up to her.” - -“I do not think that he has any chance whatever,” Prescott said quietly; -“but you were always an upholder of your cousin—what has changed your -opinion of him?” - -“I don’t think that anything has changed it as far as I am concerned, -Prescott,” Frank said, sitting down again; “you know he is not my sort -of man. I believe just as much as I did that he is not a bad-hearted -fellow—far from it; that is, I have no reason for believing otherwise. -But you see I have been away for some time, and his cantankerous way -comes upon me fresh. I never know whether he is making fun of me or not, -and he does try my temper, which is, you know, none of the best, most -amazingly. Although I know it is only prejudice, I own I do not like to -see him hanging over Alice, turning over the leaves of her music for -her, and that sort of thing; it makes me somehow feel cold and -uncomfortable all over, and as I have said, rather than that he should -marry her, I would save her from it by marrying her myself. Of course -supposing that she would have me.” - -“There is no fear, Frank, that you will be called upon to sacrifice -yourself to prevent that contingency happening. Whatever Miss Heathcote -may do, be assured she will never fall in love with Fred Bingham. As for -what you say about your feelings towards him, it is not a prejudice -against which you are struggling, it is a natural antipathy; one of -those instincts which nature gives us against what is dangerous and bad. -You know what we all felt about him at Cambridge; you would not agree -with us, you fought against the idea, but your instinct is too strong -for you, and you will end by thinking like the rest of us.” - -“No, no, Prescott, I will not allow that; I grant that he irritates me -more than he did, and that somehow, although I have no idea why, I -should not like to see Alice marry him; but I have not the least reason -for changing my opinion that he is a good fellow at heart.” - -“He is a bad egg,” Prescott said, dogmatically. “A bad egg, Frank; do -what you will with him, he is bad to the core. His shell is white -enough, but some day when you crack it, and find what a rotten inside -it’s got, you will regret deeply enough that you ever took it in your -hand.” - -“You are a prejudiced beggar, Prescott,” Frank said, laughing; “but I -know it is no use my arguing the point with you. Time will show which is -right.” - -Prescott nodded, and there was a short silence, when Frank rose. - -“The sun is shining, Prescott, the afternoon is quite changed; suppose -we go out. Oh, nonsense, you said you would give me the afternoon. Where -shall we go?” - -“It’s all the same to me, Frank.” - -“I wish to goodness it was not, Prescott; you give me all the trouble of -thinking—there now, I’ve got another idea—let’s go and see the boy that -picked the dog out of the Serpentine.” - -“What are you going to say to him when you do see him, Frank?” - -“In the first place I’m going to give him the sovereign Uncle Harry gave -me for him; and in the next place—what a fellow you are, Prescott, in -the next place—well, I suppose I shall tell him he is a fine little -chap. No, I’ve another idea. By Jove, I will make a Buttons of him.” - -“But what on earth do you want a Buttons for, Frank?” Prescott said, -laughing. - -“Oh, hundreds of things. He will be very useful in my chambers, go -messages, and all sorts of things. I never can find that old bed maker -of mine. My dear fellow, I can’t make out how I have done without one so -long. A Buttons will be just the thing; besides, if I get a horse, look -how useful he would be. I will make him cabin boy on board the -yacht—hundreds of things; my dear fellow, my ideas come so fast, I think -I shall take up the literary line, after all. There, get your hat and -coat on, Prescott, and we will charter a cab, and be off at once to get -Buttons.” - -The afternoon had come out clear and fine; so they went out through -Essex Street into the Strand, and took a cab, which soon set them down -at the end of Sloane Street. Here they discharged it; and inquiring of a -policeman where Moor Street was, received the intelligence that it lay -down behind, but that they had better take the first turning to the -right, and then inquire again. Accordingly they turned off from Sloane -Street and entered the network of small lanes lying between Hans Place -and Knightsbridge. Densely populated as the neighbourhood was, there -were few signs of business, or the bustle of every day life. The place -seemed entirely deserted by grown up people, and handed over bodily to -children. The fathers were away at work, the mothers busy within the -houses, but children swarmed everywhere; boys and girls of all ages and -sizes, from the little baby set down upon a door step—sitting -contentedly there, sucking a piece of rag, and gazing with a quiet -old-fashioned look at the world around it, while its elder sister, a -staid little woman of some seven years old, gossipped with another of -the same standing—to lazy, hulking fellows of sixteen or seventeen, -lounging idly at the corners of streets, smoking. Everywhere children -engaged in every game which the youthful mind was capable of devising -from the very limited materials at hand. Boys playing at hop-scotch, and -tip-cat, and ball, with much shouting and rushing about, and danger to -passers-by; boys playing at marbles, and games with buttons, and flat -stones, and halfpence. These amusements constantly gave rise to great -squabbling and disputes, in which one of the great idle fellows before -mentioned was usually called in as umpire, although like umpires in -general, he always failed signally in giving satisfaction to either -party. Girls sitting on door steps working; girls playing at -shuttlecock; little things of five or six years old in strange garments -and vast bonnets, staggering along with babies nearly as big as -themselves; grave little parties of nurses sitting on door steps—while -the babies under their charge made dirt pies—and amusing themselves -relating stories to each other,—not fanciful Arabian nights’ tales, but -real histories of life:—“How father had come in on Saturday night drunk, -and when mother had asked for money, how he had knocked she down.” Or, -“how put about father was when he came home last night, to find that -mother had been and pawned his Sunday clothes, and got drunk on it.” -Many a similar tale do these little people relate gravely to each other. -Poor little prematurely-old things, with their babies under their -charge, and their cares already sitting heavily on their young -shoulders, and such a life before them! - -Sometimes, but not often, a cart comes along, and the games are stopped, -and the marbles scattered, and the little nurses snatch up their -charges; doors open hastily, and women rush out into the road and seize -their little ones by their dress, or an arm, or a leg, or anything that -comes handy, and carry them off into their houses, with much shaking and -scolding, and through the closed doors come out sounds of slapping and -cries. - -Through all this, Frank Maynard and his friend make their way. They -easily find Moor Street, but, not knowing the number, have some -difficulty in discovering the Holls’ abode. However, after inquiring of -some twenty children, they light upon one who is able to point out the -house. Mrs. Holl herself opens the door in answer to their knock. Mrs. -Holl is engaged in washing, and her arms to the elbows are white with -soap-suds. Greatly surprised is she at seeing two gentlemen standing at -the door. Finding however, by their inquiry if she is Mrs. Holl, that -there is no mistake, she wipes her arms hastily with her apron, and asks -them to walk in, apologizing as she does for the state of the room. -There was no occasion for that, for it was beautifully clean. The -washing-tub stood upon a low bench in one corner; there were some cords -stretched across the ceiling, but the clothes were not yet suspended -upon them, and except that there was a warm steam in the room, which -made everything look clammy and moist, it was neat and tidy as usual. -Mrs. Holl placed two chairs for her visitors, giving them a preliminary -polish with her apron, and then waited in silence to hear the reason of -their coming. But they were too much surprised at the conduct of the -fourth inmate of the room to be able for a time to pay her any -attention. He had at their entrance been sitting at work at his -artificial flower making near the window. On seeing two gentlemen enter, -and supposing that they wished to speak to Mrs. Holl, he had wheeled his -box to its usual place by the fire, where there was a ladder fixed at a -considerable angle and reaching to the ceiling. Under this he pushed his -box, and then taking hold of its rungs he pulled himself up hand over -hand to the ceiling, to the rafters of which were fixed a line of large -open iron handles. Along these he swung himself to the staircase, and -then away out of sight by similar handles; the whole being done -apparently without the least effort, and as if it were a perfectly -normal method of progression. - -“By Jove!” Frank exclaimed, when he had disappeared up the stairs, -“that’s wonderful. I am pretty good at gymnastics, but I could no more -do that than I could fly, and it did not seem the least effort to him; -and it is so much the more difficult that I see the poor fellow has lost -the use of his legs.” - -“James is wonderful strong, sir, in the arm,” Mrs. Holl said, “wonderful -strong. He began that clambering work when he was about twelve year old. -He was pale like and thin, and the doctor said he ought to go out in the -air, and not always sit indoors. Well, sir, James he could not abear the -thought of going out much, being drawed about in a cart, but he thought -if father could put up a pole, across over his head, he might make a -shift to draw himself up and down, and so exercise himself a bit. Well, -sir, father he put up a pole, and in time James he got to be like a -monkey, he could swing himself up with one arm and hang ever so long. -After a bit, father he got the thought of setting some handles in the -beams there, and the ladder to get up to them, and it were a great -amusement for James; I have seen him go right round the room ten times; -as for the stairs, that were James’s own idea. He were then about -fifteen, and father used to carry him up to bed, and all at once it came -to him, that if he had handles put on the top of the stairs and along -his room, and then a ladder to get down by, he might make shift to go up -and down of himself. Father went out that same night and got a -blacksmith to make the handles, and that very night James went up to bed -by himself. Lor, how pleased the poor lad were, to be sure. But I beg -your pardon, gentlemen, for running on so—what can I do for you?” - -“About ten days since, Mrs. Holl,” Frank said, “my friend and I were at -the Serpentine, and your son—he said his name was Evan, I believe—went -into the water to fetch out a dog.” - -“He did, sir; are you the gentleman, sir, who was going in to fetch him -out?” - -“Just so, Mrs. Holl. Now I was very much pleased with him, and I have -come here for two things to-day: the one to give him a sovereign which a -friend of mine, to whom I was speaking of your boy’s pluck, gave me for -him. Here it is; will you lay it out in something useful to him? The -other reason was, I want a boy to be a general useful sort of -lad—messenger or domestic, in fact for all sorts of things. Now it seems -to me your son would be just the thing for me. I don’t of course know -anything of him, but from what I have seen I have no doubt we should get -on very well together, and I think he would be very comfortable with -me.” - -“I am sure you are very good, sir,” Mrs. Holl said, gratefully, “very -good, and I should think Evan very lucky to get such a place. I can’t -answer for him, sir, but I should say he would jump at it” - -“Let him think it over, Mrs. Holl, and let him come up and see me any -time before Thursday evening, when I may be going out of town for a -week. Here is my card. By Jove! what beautiful wax flowers; look, -Prescott, are they not exquisitely made?” and Frank went across the room -to look at James Holl’s handiwork. - -“They are beautifully made,” Prescott said, examining them; “I saw your -son was at work at them when we came in.” - -“Yes, sir, he mostly is at work at them. He is very clever, James is, -awful clever, and he earns a good deal of money at it too, besides its -being a great amusement to him. Poor boy, it’s a heavy life, sir, always -to sit in that box of his, with no hope of ever getting any better.” - -“It must be, indeed, Mrs. Holl. Why, what is this—Colenso’s Algebra—does -he read that?” - -“He do, sir, while he is at work; and when he ain’t he never puts it -down.” - -“He must be fonder of it than I ever was,” Frank laughed. “But this is -very interesting, Prescott, is it not?” - -“If your son is so fond of study, Mrs. Holl,” Arthur said, “I have a -number of my old college books. I shall never touch them again. They -only block my place up, and he is perfectly welcome to them.” - -“Lor, sir, it would be just a godsend to him.” - -“I will look them out, Mrs. Holl, and send them down to-morrow.” - -“I should take it very kind of you, sir—very kind; and James will be -delighted.” - -“And, Mrs. Holl, I should like some of those wax flowers amazingly; will -you ask him to make me some?—a basket of them. Eh, Prescott, don’t you -think a basket of wax flowers would be just the thing for my room?” - -“I don’t know that they would be altogether in strict keeping with its -general contents,” Prescott said, smiling, “but no doubt they would look -very well.” - -“Just so,” Frank said. “Will you ask your son to make me a basket, Mrs. -Holl? I suppose he can buy a basket and a shade, and all that sort of -thing? and you know I will pay him for it all when he sends it.” - -“James will be very glad, sir; and thank’ee, but he is not my son.” - -“Is he not, Mrs. Holl? If it is not an impertinent question, what -relation is he of yours?” - -“He ain’t no sort of relation, sir,” the woman said. The young men -looked surprised, and Prescott asked— - -“Then how did you come to bring him up, Mrs. Holl?” - -“Well, sir, it was a very simple matter; but if so be as you care to -hear it, I will tell you just how it happened;” and leaning against the -mantelpiece, with the red light of the fire thrown up into her face, -Mrs. Holl went on, very slowly, and speaking as though she almost saw -what she was relating. “Well, sir, it were an evening in April—a cold, -bitter day—I was sitting here between light and dark, drinking my tea -with John, who had just come home from work—John is my husband, you see, -sir—when we heard a noise outside in the street. We went out to see what -was the matter, and we found a poor young creature, with a baby in her -arms, had fallen down in a faint like. She was a pretty young thing, -sir; and though her dress was poor and torn, she looked as if she had -not been always so. Some one says, ‘Take them to the workhouse;’ ‘no,’ -says I—for my heart yearned towards the poor young thing—‘bring her in -here; mayn’t we, John?’ says I. Well, sir, John did not say nothing, but -he took the baby out of her arms, and gived it to me, and then he upped -and took the poor young creature—she were no great weight, sir—and -carried her into the house, and laid her on the bed, as it might be by -the window there. Well, gentlemen, that bed she never left; she came -round a little, and lived some days, but her mind were never rightly -itself again. She would lay there, with her baby beside her, and sing -songs to herself, I don’t know what about, for it were some foreigner -language. She were very gentle and quiet like, but I don’t think she -ever knew where she was, or anything about it. She were very fond of -baby, and would take it in her arms, and hush it and talk to it. She -faded and faded away, and the doctor said nothing could be done for her. -It made my heart ache, sir; and if you will believe me, I would go -upstairs and cry by the hour. The thought of the little baby troubled me -too. I had just lost my first little one, sir, and I could not abear the -thought of the little thing going to a workhouse, so one day I says to -John, ‘John, when that poor mother dies, for God’s sake, dont’ee send -the little baby to the workhouse; He has taken away our own little one, -and maybe He has sent this one for us to love in his place. Let us take -him as our own.’ John, he did not say nothing, but he up and gived me a -great kiss, and said, ‘Sairey, you’re a good woman;’ which of course, -gentlemen,” Mrs. Holl put in apologetically, “is neither here nor there, -for any mother would have done the same; but it’s John’s way when he’s -pleased. That very same night the baby’s mother died.” - -The young men listened in silence as Mrs. Holl told her story; standing, -with her rough honest face lit up in the bright fire-glow, she related -it simply, and as a matter of course, all unconscious of the good part -she had taken in it, assuming no credit to herself, or seeing that she -deserved any. When she had finished, there was a little silence; Frank -passed his hand furtively across his eyes, and then Arthur sprang up and -shook Mrs. Holl warmly by the hand, saying, “Your husband was right, -Mrs. Holl; you are a good woman.” - -Mrs. Holl looked completely amazed, and stammered out, “Lor bless you, -sir, there weren’t nothing out of the way in what I did, and there’s -scores and scores would do the like. Having just lost my own little one, -my heart went out to the poor little thing, and it seemed sent natural -like to fill the place of the little angel who was gone from us. Bless -your heart, sir, there weren’t nothing out of the way in that; nothing -at all; and we have never had cause to regret it. The boy’s a good boy, -and a clever boy; and he is a comfort and a help to us. A better boy -never lived; but we have always grieved sorely over his accident.” - -“Then he was not originally lame, Mrs. Holl?” Prescott asked. - -“Dear me, no sir, not till he were six year old. It happened this a way: -I were laid up at the time; I was just confined of Mary—she’s my eldest -girl—and somehow, James he were out in the streets playing; I don’t -rightly know how it happened, but never shall I forget when they brought -him in, and said that a cart had run over him. John, he was in, which -was lucky, for I think I lost my head like, and went clean out of my -mind for a bit, for I loved him just like my own. They did not think he -would have lived at first, for the cart had gone over the lower part of -his body, and broke one of his thigh bones, and the other leg up high. -It was a light cart, I have heard tell, or it must have killed him. He -were in bed for months; and if you will believe me, if ever there was a -patient little angel on earth, it was surely James. He never complained; -and his chief trouble was for my sake. At last he got well, but the -doctors said that he would never walk again, for they thought there were -some damage done to his spine; and sure enough he never has walked. He -is always cheerful, only he never likes going out; and never would go at -all, if we did not almost make him; he thinks folks look at him. Then he -took to the climbing work, and that did him good; and the last three -years he has taken to making them wax flowers; and it has been a -wonderful thing for him, that has. He has always been given to reading. -John made a shift to teach him his letters; and then the children of the -neighbours, they lent him their school books, and taught him what they -knew; and in a short time, bless you, sir, he knew more than them all. -He would sit and read for hours together. He is wonderful clever, James -is.” - -“Well, Mrs. Holl,” Frank said, rising, “we are very much obliged to you -for your story, but we must not keep you any longer. We will call again -and arrange matters with you when Evan lets me know whether he accepts -my offer.” - -“And I will be sure to forward the books to you to-morrow. Good bye.” - -And greatly to Mrs. Holl’s astonishment, the two young men shook hands -warmly with her, as they took their leave. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - A SHATTERED HOME. - - -“Bill, dear Bill, I do wish you would give up these Chartist goings on. -No good will come of it.” - -The speaker was a pretty young woman, who would have been prettier, had -not premature care traced deep lines on her forehead, which Time, more -gentle, would not have done for years to come yet. Her dress was very -poor, and the scanty furniture of the attic in which she and her husband -lived, and the small embers of the fire over which a few potatoes were -boiling for their meal, seemed to say that want had helped care in its -work. - -Bessy White had been the belle of her native village down in quiet -Hampshire. A wilful, merry, coquettish little beauty, knowing her power, -and using it; with a bright, fresh colour, and a happy ringing laugh. It -seemed hardly possible that four years could have changed her to the -thin, pale, careworn woman she now was. Yet it was only four years since -William Holl, a journeyman joiner, had on his wanderings passed through -the village, and had stopped to do some work at the Squire’s, which had -occupied him for several weeks. There he saw her, fell in love with her, -and carried her off in triumph from his rustic rivals, who, with the -village in general, had marvelled much what pretty Bessy White could see -to fancy in the pale, quiet, young carpenter, when so many stout young -fellows were laying their hearts at her feet. However, Bessy had laughed -at their wonder and their warnings, had gaily married, and gone off with -her husband to busy London. For the first two or three years of her -marriage her life was as happy as she had hoped that it would be. About -eighteen months after she had come up to London, she had a baby, which -only lived a few weeks; but this had been the only cloud to her -happiness. Her husband earned good wages, for he was a capital workman, -and was sober and industrious. He loved his wife fondly, and was very -proud of her, and of the prettily-furnished neat little rooms which -constituted his home. - -But after a while, strange murmurs of discontent buzzed about among the -workpeople of the metropolis, and William Holl, with his talent and -enthusiasm, threw himself heart and soul into the movement, and soon -became one of its recognised heads. - -Then came Bessy’s evil days. Her husband, who had been considered one of -the best and steadiest hands at the shop where he worked, was now -constantly away, and at last lost his place altogether. The pretty -furniture they once had, had gone piece by piece. They had moved from -the snug lodgings they formerly occupied into the bare garret they now -lived in. The rent even of this was frequently in arrear, and a crust of -dry bread was often all the food they had. William Holl was ready enough -to work now, but he had great difficulty in getting employment. Good -workman as he was, masters looked shy at a man whom they considered as a -sort of firebrand among their men, and it was only now by doing jobs at -home for other hands that he earned even the most scanty living. Still -his heart was in the cause, and although he acutely felt his changed -position, and his wife’s altered looks, he never wavered for an instant -in his course. For himself, indeed, he hardly felt it; the applause -which nightly greeted his impassioned speeches at the club to which he -belonged, was enough for him, and he would return to his wretched home -with a flushed cheek and a proud bearing. He was a pale, sickly-looking -man, with a high intellectual forehead, and a clear and expressive eye. -Few who saw him at ordinary times would have supposed him capable of -filling a large hall with his voice, pouring out bursts of real -eloquence, and moving hundreds with his impassioned utterances. - -To his wife he answered with a faint smile, “It is too late, Bessy; it -is too late, my girl. I must go through with it now; I cannot draw back, -and I would not if I could. We have the right with us, Bessy, and we -have the strength; we must triumph in the end and get our Charter.” - -His wife shook her head sadly. - -“My poor Bessy,” he went on, “my poor girl. It is hard on you, you had -better have stayed down in Hampshire, quiet and happy. It was a sore day -for you when ever I saw you. But yet, Bessy, I can’t help it. I must -struggle for our rights even if I die for it. But I am sorry for your -sake, Bessy, that I feel as I do.” - -“Never mind me, Bill,” his wife said, “I can bear it if you can, but I -am so afraid it will never come right. I do so fear the future—I am so -frightened lest you should get yourself into trouble.” - -“Never fear that, Bessy, we are sure to win. We must get our Charter, -and then things will be all changed again, and we shall be better off -than ever.” - -Again his wife shook her head doubtingly. - -“Ah, Bill, if they were all like you, I should not fear—no, not one -bit—but they are not. Look at the men you take up with now—men you would -have been ashamed to be seen walking with in the old days; men who spend -half their time in the public-house, who are seen drunk in the middle of -the day—men who beat their wives, and let their children go about in -rags. Oh, Bill! with such men as these you will never make things better -than they were before. I have no doubt you are right, Bill, and that -things ought to be changed, but, for my part, it seems to me we were -very happy as we were before, when we never thought that we were, as you -say, only slaves.” - -“You women don’t understand these things, Bessy,” her husband said, a -little impatiently; and then, with a slight shade on his face, went on, -“I know that the men I work with are not the sort I should choose, but -for a cause like ours we must work with the tools which come to hand. -The better sort will soon come. Let them only hear the truth, and they -will join us. They are doing so now—every day we get stronger, the -Charter receives thousands of fresh signatures, and the Government, -which grinds us down, trembles. Yes, Bessy, we are sure to succeed, and -then, my poor girl, your troubles will be over. But it is nearly time -for me to be off, let us have our potatoes. I must not miss our meeting -to-night, for I expect we shall have an important discussion.” - -The scanty meal was eaten in silence, for William Holl could not help -comparing it in his mind with the snug, cheerful tea which he had always -found waiting for him at the end of his day’s work in the old times. - -When he had gone out his wife sighed heavily, and then continued the -work at which she was engaged, and on which indeed their scanty living -at present greatly depended. - -William Holl lodged in a small street in Pimlico, close to Vauxhall -Bridge, across which his shortest route lay. But a penny now was a -serious matter, and he accordingly kept along Millbank, in front of the -maze of scaffolding of the new Houses of Parliament, and over -Westminster Bridge, straight on to the Elephant and Castle. Then turning -off from the bustle and roar of traffic in Newington Causeway, he passed -into the heart of Bermondsey. - -At first his way was through narrow streets inhabited entirely by the -working classes. The clocks have just struck six, and the men are -turning out from the neighbouring tan-yards and skinneries. Women are -standing in front of their houses talking to each other, and looking out -for their husbands’ return, and through the open doors can be seen the -tables laid with white cloths, and the little trays with the tea-things -standing there, and the bright fires with the kettles singing upon them. -The men come trooping along boldly, and lustily whistling snatches of -popular airs, laughing and joking together. All is bustle and -cheerfulness. Now William Holl has turned off into a narrow lane, and -has at once entered another atmosphere. There is no sound of whistling -and light laughter here. Heavy surly men lean against door-posts and -look sullenly out—men with heavy eyebrows and low foreheads, square -jawbones and bull-necks—men on whom crime seems to have set a stamp, and -whom instinct would lead you to avoid as you would a wolf or a tiger. -Through some of the windows come sounds of quarrelling and blows, and -foul imprecations of unspeakable horror, but no one heeds this; the men -at the doorways do not even turn their heads to listen. The few women -who are about, have for the most part an air of boldness and degradation -indescribable. They are dressed in dirty tawdry garments, their faces -show deep marks caused by misery and drink; whilst their mouths are full -of language even fouler and more horrible than that of the men. The men -seemed all of one stamp, but of the women there were two distinctly -marked classes. A few were very different from those just described. -Poor creatures, timid and shrinking; wretched worn-out women, who only a -few years before had been bright happy girls in some quiet country -village far from the misery and crime of London. They had seen their -husbands, originally perhaps honest and industrious, go with rapid steps -down the social ladder, beginning with drink and ending in a life passed -in violence and crime. Through all this the wives had never once thought -of leaving them, but had clung to them through good report and evil -report, through curses and blows, through desertion and shame, through -want and misery. These women looked with trembling and horror upon the -life they were bound to. To them death would have been a relief, oh, how -welcome! Their early life seemed to them now a glimpse of some far off, -long lost Paradise upon which they hardly dared even to cast a thought -back. - -There were a few children, precocious and old-looking, treading rapidly -in their father’s steps, born to people these wretched dens, and to fill -the reformatories and gaols of their native land. These nests of crime, -these social ulcers, which eat into the heart of this London of ours, -defy alike the efforts of benevolence and the sword of the law to cure -or eradicate them. But one hope, one resource remains—to cut off the -springs by which they are fed, to send the children to schools and -reformatories before they are utterly hardened and debased, to make them -useful, industrious men, and to show them the happiness of honest -labour, and the inevitable misery of crime. Thus, and thus only, can the -evil be reached. For the men, reformation is hopeless. They must be -treated as savage beasts, and caged as such. And that not merely till -the first paroxysm of rage and evil is past, to be then turned loose -under the protection of a ticket-of-leave, to prey upon society. The -tiger who appears to sleep in his cage, with his glossy paw extended and -these terrible claws folded up, is the same tiger who in his native -wilds slew men and beasts and drank their blood. Who would think of -letting him loose again, to range with unrestrained freedom? Why, then, -should these men-tigers be permitted to work their savage wills? Should -they not rather, when once, by repeated crimes, they have shown that -their nature is thoroughly evil, be taken for ever from the world, of -which they are scourges, not to be confined for life in a cell, but only -until they learn that labour is a boon. Then they should be put to pass -their lives in labouring for the good of that society to whom their -existence has hitherto been a curse. - -Through this den William Holl went. Beyond it the dwellings became, -scarcer; but the lanes were bounded by high walls, or large rambling -buildings, the odour of tan and hide from which sufficiently indicated -the trade carried on within them. - -In a lonely corner of one of these lanes stood a public-house. It seemed -at first sight a strange position for it, but doubtless the landlord -knew his own business. It was a quiet out-of-the-way spot for men who -did not care to enter the full light of more-frequented houses; besides, -being in the midst of the tan-yards and skinneries, it obtained a fair -share of custom from the men working in them. When William Holl passed -the door he glanced in. A solitary gaslight was burning in the bar, but -the place seemed entirely empty and deserted, and no lights in the upper -windows betrayed any signs of life and activity. There was a small court -by the side of the house; down this he turned, stopped at a door, and -knocked in a quiet and peculiar way. The door was opened a little, and -some one behind it asked, “Who knocks?” to which he answered, “The -People and their Charter.” The door was then opened wide enough for him -to enter, and he passed through into a small court behind the -public-house. This he crossed, lifted the latch of a door, and went into -a small passage with a staircase leading up from it. He mounted this and -knocked at a door, and the same question and answer were exchanged -before it was opened for his admission. - -The room which William Holl entered was a large one, and had probably -been used at one time for a penny concert room or singing hall, for at -the end was a sort of raised platform. The roof was black from the smoke -of years, and from it hung two chandeliers for gas. Neither of these -however was now in use, as the room was lit by some candles fastened to -a hoop hanging immediately over the table, at which fourteen men were -seated. The shutters were closed, and strips of paper pasted over the -cracks to prevent the light within being seen from the street. To these -men there was an indescribable charm in all this mystery, in these -closed windows and secret passwords, this obscure meeting place, and -this rough illumination. It seemed to raise them to the grandeur of -conspirators. They pleased themselves by imagining themselves watched -and tracked by the agents and spies of Government. While Government, -secure of the unanimous assistance of the middle classes and the -fidelity of the troops, troubled itself little with the ramifications of -the plot, although it looked with some little anxiety upon the -increasing murmurs and disaffection of the working classes, stirred up -as they were by the violent orations of their demagogue leaders. These -men, for their own selfish aims and ends, assured them that they were -down-trodden slaves, pointed to the scenes then enacting on the other -side of the water, and called upon them to make one united effort for -their freedom. - -The present meeting was composed of some of the most influential and -violent of the agitators of the time, being, some of them, members of -the central committee, the rest delegates from various parts of London. -They were, as in the French Revolution they aspired to imitate, divided -into two distinct classes. A small minority were men like William Holl, -intelligent and enthusiastic, to a certain extent theorists and -dreamers, but actuated only by a sincere desire of ameliorating and -raising the condition of their fellow-workmen—men with pale faces and -lustrous eyes, animated with ardent hopes and pure intentions. But the -vast majority, had very different aims and notions. They desired in the -first place to pull down all above them, under the conviction that, in -the confusion and anarchy which would follow the carrying out of their -plans, they would somehow or other better their own condition. These men -cared but little for the nominal objects of their schemes, but to secure -their personal aggrandizement would not have hesitated at a reign of -terror. They hated work, and, lived upon the contributions wrung from -their dupes, and took up politics simply because they were selfish and -indolent. The general end for which all alike professed to be agitating -was manhood suffrage and political equality; their secret hopes and -wishes differed greatly. Some would have been satisfied with a change of -Government, and a House of Commons in which the democratic element -thoroughly preponderated; others would have abolished the House of -Peers, and have ruled only by an assembly chosen from the people; some, -again, openly advocated the establishment of a republic; while a few -went in for universal equality and a community of goods. The men present -were composed principally of the working classes, but there were some -few who by their attire belonged to a higher class, clerks and small -tradesmen, who, either from interest or ambition, had joined the -movement. - -The chairman was evidently a man of a considerably higher social grade -than most of his associates, and was elevated to the position he at -present occupied for that reason, and not for any mental superiority. -Indeed, among all the faces present, his was the most strikingly -distinguished for an entire absence of any intellectual expression. An -elderly man, with white hair, whiskers, and hair under his chin, with a -look of self-importance which was laughable in its inordinate vanity. He -was a bad speaker, and delivered his harangues with an exaggeration of -attitude, and an inflated pomposity of manner, at which even his -associates had difficulty in restraining their laughter. And yet their -chairman was a useful man to them, and the LL.D. after his name threw a -sort of halo of respectability over the cause. Next to him sat a man who -differed in appearance yet more strongly from the remainder of those -present. He was a tall man, very carefully dressed, and with a military -bearing. Captain Thornton had been an officer in the army, but had been -put upon half-pay, and considered himself hardly used. He resembled the -chairman, only in being inordinately and absurdly vain. His personal -vanity it was which had urged him to take part in the present movement, -and made him delight to march at the head even of a mob from St. -Giles’s. He was one of those men who would fain be king, but would -otherwise be content to act the part of king’s fool, as being the next -most conspicuous personage. He loved being looked up to as a man of -consequence by the mechanics and roughs with whom he was associated. It -tickled his consuming vanity, when he was saluted in the streets with -the cry of “Bravo, Thornton!” To obtain popularity, even among the -lowest class, he would have done anything, short of disturbing the set -of his coat or the arrangement of his hair. Had there been no other way -of making himself conspicuous, he would have done it by wearing a -feather in his hat, or painting his boots scarlet. Not the least -gratification which Captain Thornton derived from his prominent position -in the ranks of the Chartists was the belief that he was revenging -himself upon the authorities for the manner in which they had treated -him. He was a more dangerous man than the chairman, for although equally -vain, he was not equally weak, and would have gone any lengths, even to -deluging England with blood, if he could have increased the notoriety of -his name by so doing. - -Such were some of the nominal leaders of the Chartist movement of ‘48. -William Holl took his place at the lower end of the table by the side of -a few others who were, like himself, animated by a really disinterested -and lofty spirit. A whispered conversation was kept up for a few -minutes, and then the chairman rose. He accompanied his speech by -swaying his body backwards and forwards, and by striking one hand in the -palm of the other. He spoke very slowly in broken sentences, pausing -between each, as if he expected applause to follow every utterance. - -“My friends, the glorious moment when we shall shake off the yoke under -which we have for a thousand years groaned, is at hand. The aristocracy, -who batten on your sweat and blood, tremble. The Government are -preparing for flight. The great cause gains ground daily. Ten thousand -signatures have been added to the Charter of the people during the last -three days. The moment of freedom is at hand! We agreed, at our last -meeting, that we would this evening discuss what our course of -proceeding shall be, when the Charter of the people is presented to the -House of Commons. In that House we have no confidence; it is composed of -the enemies of the people,—of the very men who are the worst -oppressors,—who lay the taxation of the nation on the shoulders of the -working men, while they enjoy their iniquitous wealth scot-free! They -are the ravening lions who lay wait to devour the poor! Yet to them must -we, in the first place, submit our cause. We have now to consider what -is the course it behoves us to adopt.” - -There was a slight silence, and then William Holl said, “It appears to -me that the question resolves itself into two sides. If the House -receive our petition, and act in accordance with it, our object will -have been gained, and our course then will be to strain every nerve -throughout the country to return men of our own views. Every working man -in the kingdom must be pledged to vote only for the members selected for -them by a central committee, and as we shall be in a majority of twenty -to one everywhere, we shall return exactly such a House as we desire, -and can pass laws which will put an end to the injustice and anomalies -of which we complain. But this is for after consideration, and the -machinery can be arranged at a future time. The other alternative is, if -the House refuse to receive our petition, or if they accept it, to carry -it into force. The question then arises, and should now be determined -upon, what shall be our course? Shall we submit to the refusal, or use -force?” - -Each man looked at the other. This was palpably the question upon which -the whole of their plans depended, and although nearly all were of one -opinion on it, none liked to be the first to propose violence. At last -Captain Thornton said: - -“It appears to me, gentlemen, that we must be all of one opinion. The -voice of the people is the voice of God; we must compel the Houses of -Parliament to pass our Charter. We compelled them in ‘32 to pass the -Reform Bill, and the same means must be used now; but if those means -fail, we must follow the example of the people of Paris. We must march -our tens of thousands down from Manchester, and the manufacturing towns. -We must fill the galleries of the House; we must compel them to sit -until they have passed it; we must awe them into submission.” - -“Right, Thornton,” another said. “We must render refusal out of the -question; we must make them carry our wishes into effect.” - -“But force will be opposed to us,” one of the others remarked, -doubtingly. - -“Then,” William Holl said, resolutely, “it must be met by force. Are we -greater cowards than the working men of the other capitals of Europe? -and yet in the last month or two we have seen them carry their way -against Despots, with armies of ten times the force of ours to back -them. Are we greater cowards than the French, who in ‘87, in ‘30, and -again now, have insisted on their will being respected? The working men -of London may be put down at five hundred thousand; and to oppose us, -are only the handful of troops now in it; for none will be spared from -other parts. Manchester, Birmingham, Sheffield, Leeds, all the great -manufacturing towns are with us, and there are not thirty thousand -troops in England, and these are of ourselves. Let us always, when -interrupted by the police, beat them off. When the soldiers come against -us, cheer them and fraternise with them. If the worst comes to the -worst, let us defy them.” - -There was a general sound of applause when he ceased. - -“But,” said the man who had before objected, “we are not in the same -position the French people were; we are quite unarmed.” - -“You are always timid, Wilkins,” one of the others said; “and timid -counsels have had their way long enough; it is the time now for action. -At any rate there are paving-stones, and a good supply of paving-stones -on the tops of the houses make a street nasty walking for the best -soldiers in the world. Besides, there are the gunsmiths’ shops; our -first move will, of course, be to possess ourselves of the contents of -them, and then to take possession of the arsenal in the Tower; it is not -half so strong as the Bastile was.” - -“Woe be to London if they try and oppose us by force,” a man at the -other end of the table said. “We shall only have to call for our friend -Turner’s lambs; and it will take more troops than London can bring to -keep down St. Giles’s and Westminster.” - -The man to whom he alluded was a powerful man, with a ruddy face, a low -forehead, overhanging eyebrows, and a coarse sensual mouth; he was a -butcher of Clare Market, and might have been well drawn for his -prototype the famous butcher Lepelletier, the leader of the faubourgs of -the French Revolution. He smiled significantly. - -“Ay, ay,” he said, “if you once let my lambs loose, the devil himself -would not chain them up, as long as there is a shop ungutted in London.” - -William Holl, and several others of the same class, made a movement of -disgust and dissent. - -“I trust to God it will never come to that.” - -“I hope not, too,” another speaker said, “but we must not blink the -fact; we must let those who would keep us down know, that we have it in -our power to compel them to assent to the popular will; and that unless -they obey it we will use that power. By so doing we shall gain the -support to a certain extent of all the shop-keepers, who are at heart -our most bitter opponents, for, rather than have their shops sacked, -they will be glad enough to help us to put a pressure upon the Houses to -do us justice.” - -“I agree with you there,” William Holl said; “as a threat they will be -useful, but I for one will never consent to invoking riot and robbery -for our aid. In the French Revolution, anyone caught with plunder about -him was hung up instantly, and I should vote that we did the same; as -far as ourselves go, I should not hesitate, if necessary, to resort to -arms, and would fight to the last with my fellow-workmen in an effort -for liberty, but not by the side of St. Giles’s. But I do hope, and I -believe, that it will never come to that. I trust that Parliament will -quietly yield to the wishes of the nation.” - -A significant look passed between two or three of the more advanced -party. A peaceful solution would have ill suited their plans and -schemes; and had William Holl’s wishes been carried into effect, he -would have found, as his predecessors, the Girondists, had done, another -Mountain to oppose him, and perhaps met with such a fate as them in the -end. - -“I should say,” another man said, “that the whole of the working classes -in London—every man—should be agreed to meet at three or four centres, -such as Primrose Hill, Hyde Park, and Kennington Common, and that they -should go in procession to Westminster to present our petition, and -should call upon the House to name an early day for its consideration. -That on that day we should again assemble, and march to the House; that -we should fill the galleries, and sit there till it had passed. That we -should have everything prepared in case of refusal; the men all told off -in companies under officers, and their work given to each; so many to -the gunsmiths’ shops, so many to the Tower; the rest to throw up -barricades. That an agreement should be made with the northern towns to -rise simultaneously; and that we should then as a people declare -Parliament dissolved, and proclaim a Republic. That we should disarm the -troops when they did not resist us, annihilate them when they did, and -then proceed all over the country to elect a house of representatives by -universal suffrage.” - -The speech was received with loud applause, and they proceeded to -discuss the details of the undertaking. Many of the speeches were really -brilliant, and the assembly was perfectly in accord on the main points. -It was nearly one o’clock when they separated. As they were breaking up, -Thornton spoke aside to a small malignant-looking man, who had taken a -very prominent part in the debates. This man was the editor of an -obscure paper, which pandered to the passions of its readers, by pouring -out the foulest abuse on all who were above them,— - -“Everything goes on well, Hausford; don’t forget your part of the work. -We depend greatly upon you, you know. Be sure you keep them up to -boiling point.” - -The man replied by a meaning nod, and then quietly one by one, to avoid -attracting attention, the council took their departure. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - WHAT WILL IT LEAD TO. - - -At about seven o’clock on the next evening, Arthur Prescott was sitting -smoking in his friend’s room, which was immediately under his own. The -two apartments were similar in size, but this was the only resemblance -that existed between them. Arthur’s was strictly a student’s room, plain -and neat, half office, half sitting room, with a few bookshelves filled -with plain, legal-looking volumes. Stiff dining-room chairs with -leather-covered seats, a horsehair sofa at the hardness of which Frank -was constantly grumbling, and two easy chairs of questionable comfort, -nearly made up the inventory of the contents. Frank’s room was in strong -contrast to this; it was handsomely, indeed luxuriously, furnished. The -walls were wainscoted with dark, or rather black oak, on the panels of -which hung a few really good pictures, which Frank had purchased during -his rambles in Spain. The curtains were green, and the floor covered -with a rich Turkey carpet, in which the same colour predominated. In the -centre of the mantelpiece stood a bronze statue from Herculaneum, -flanked by two real Etruscan vases, and a pair of magnificent Venetian -goblets. Crossed above these upon the wall were two long Turkish jasmine -pipe-stems, with their red bowls and amber mouth-pieces; and higher -still, two swords, Toledo and Damascene, bought in the countries where -they were manufactured. On brackets round the room were a few Parian -marble statuettes. On a small round table stood a large Turkish -narghile, with its long tube of green and gold coiled round it like a -glistening snake. In the recess on one side of the fire-place was a -really good library of choice standard works; in the other was a perfect -confusion of boxing-gloves, single-sticks, foils, masks, heavy clubs, -and dumb-bells, with which, as Frank said, he kept his hand in for a -quarter of an hour before breakfast. The chairs were covered with -furniture to match the hangings, but this was their only point of mutual -resemblance. They were all of different shapes; most of them being of -the sort coming under the general term of easy, while the two large ones -by the fire, in which the occupants of the room were seated, were of a -particularly comfortable and luxurious appearance. It was about these -very chairs that the young men were speaking. - -“It is quite a treat to sit in them,” Prescott said. - -“Yes,” Frank answered, puffing out his smoke with an air of extreme -contentment. “I flatter myself that they approach as nearly to perfect -comfort as it is possible for anything earthly to do. I do love an easy -chair. I remember when I was a child I used to be tortured, not as a -punishment, mind, but as a regular thing—tortured by having to sit on a -high-legged, straight-backed chair, with a seat no bigger than a -cheese-plate, so that you could neither lean forward nor backward. How -my unfortunate little back used to ache! I really wonder that my spine -ever grew straight. At other times, when not in that terrible little -chair, I had to sit bolt upright, and it was a penal offence to loll, as -my grandmother called it, or in any way to approach a comfortable -attitude.” - -“It was nearly as bad in my case, Frank,” Prescott said. “I believe our -fathers had a vague idea that unless we sat perfectly upright, our spine -would become irretrievably crooked, whereas I really believe the reverse -to be nearer the fact. I feel certain that many a man and woman with a -curved spine and broken health has nothing but those atrocious chairs -and the miserable stiff attitudes they had to sit in as children to -thank for their misfortunes.” - -“If our ancestors had but used their common sense,” Frank said, “which -with respect to the treatment of their children they never seem to have -done, they would have seen that the straightest and best formed people -in the world, the Arabs of the Desert, and I may add the North American -Indians—as they used to be, before they were improved off the face of -the earth—never sat on a chair in their lives, but always either lay at -full length, or squatted on the ground with their backs in a bow. - -“Halloa!” he broke off; “there’s a single knock at the door; I wonder -who that can be, I have not ordered anything that I know of.” - -So saying he got up and went to the outer door. A boy was standing -there. - -“Please, sir, I want to see Mr. Maynard.” - -“I am Mr. Maynard,” Frank said; “what do you want?” - -“Please, sir, my name is Evan Holl.” - -“Oh, is it you, Evan? Come in, it is so dark out here I did not know you -again. I am glad you have come.” - -Frank led the way back again into the sitting-room, followed by Evan, -greatly abashed at the splendour of its belongings. - -“Well, Evan, my lad,” Frank said, leaning against the mantel, “I suppose -your mother has told you what I said to her. Mr. Prescott here and I -were so much pleased with your pluck the other day at the Serpentine, -that I thought we should get on together capitally, for if there’s one -thing more than another I like, it is pluck. What do think of it; would -you like to come?” - -“Please, sir, I should like it very much.” - -“That’s right, Evan. Now you understand you are to be my man of all -work—errand-boy, footman, valet, groom, coachman, gardener, butler, -sailor, steward and cook—in fact, general factotum.” - -Prescott laughed, and Evan opened his eyes in astonishment. - -“Lor’ bless you, sir, I don’t know nothing about driving coaches, or -gardening, or cooking.” - -“No!” Frank said in a tone of great surprise. “Of course in that case I -shall not be able to trust either my coach or my garden into your charge -at present. As to cooking, I should advise you to commence as soon as -possible; and I should recommend you to go through a course of study: -begin, say, by boiling a potato in its skin; next endeavour to reach -perfection with an egg; proceed gradually to a rasher of bacon; and -after that, master the intricacies of chops and steaks. I think that -will do for the present; my little favourite dishes I will myself -instruct you in afterwards.” - -“What nonsense you do talk, Frank!” Prescott said, laughing; “the boy -does not know whether you are in earnest or not.” - -Which, indeed, was the truth, for Evan was standing shifting uneasily -from one foot to the other, and twirling his cap between his hands with -a look of considerable embarrassment. - -“Well, Evan,” Frank went on, “as Mr. Prescott seems to think that at -present we had better leave these matters alone, I suppose we must -postpone the cooking part of the business, as well as the driving and -gardening, and hope that it will all come in time. And now, Prescott, -about his dress; what do you say to a neat thing in green, picked out -with scarlet?” - -“Nonsense, Frank! I don’t see that you want to put him in livery at -all.” - -“My dear Prescott,” Frank said, plaintively, “you have no idea of the -fitness of things. You destroy all my illusions. I did think that green -picked out with scarlet would have harmonised well with the room. Do you -not agree with me, now, that a Turkish dress with a fez, and especial -instruction as to cleaning and lighting pipes and making black coffee, -would have a good effect;—a sort of Nubian slave attire, only he would -have to black his face to be in keeping? You would not mind that, Evan, -would you?” - -Evan had by this time an idea that his new master was only joking, so he -answered more briskly, “I don’t know that I should mind it much, sir.” - -“That is right,” Frank said, approvingly; “but I foresee a difficulty in -the matter. You see, Prescott, if he blacks his face, of course his -hands must be blacked, too, and that would be disagreeable, for it would -be sure to come off. I wonder, now, whether I could get a good receipt -anywhere. I should say that a gipsy would be a likely person to apply -to. They say, you know, that they steal children and dye them brown, and -perhaps they could do rather a darker shade if they liked. However, till -I find a gipsy the matter must stand over.” - -“There, Frank, do stop talking nonsense, and let the boy go.” - -“Very well, Evan, that will do for to-night. You understand, there will -not be much for you to do for the present. Keep yourself clean and tidy; -lose no time when I send you on messages; and, above all—and this I feel -sure I may trust you in from what your mother says of you—above all, -never tell me a lie; whatever may happen, tell me exactly the truth, and -I have no question that we shall get on capitally together. I will give -you a line to my tailor, and tell him to fit you out with a suit of -plain undress livery. And now, here are three sovereigns, take them to -your mother, and ask her to get you shoes and everything you may want, -and then you will start fair. I have arranged nothing about your wages, -but we shall not differ about that. There, good night, Evan; go with the -note at once to the tailor’s; I have told him to get, at any rate, some -of your things ready by the day after to-morrow, and when you have got -them come here at once. You will sleep in the little room off the -passage. I will get a bed and things for you to-morrow. Good-night.” - -Evan took his leave, highly contented with his visit, and went home in -great spirits, and related to his brothers and sisters what had taken -place at the interview. The little ones were so amused at the idea of -Evan dressed up as a black boy, and having his face painted, that Mrs. -Holl had the greatest difficulty in getting them off to sleep, their -laughter bursting out afresh again and again; so that at last father -himself had to halloa at the foot of the stairs, that if they were not -quiet he should have to come up to them, a threat which they knew meant -something, whereas all mother’s scolding went for nothing. - -After Evan had left, Prescott announced his intention of going up to -read, and asked Frank what he intended to do with himself. - -“What time is it now?—half-past seven. Tomorrow evening I am engaged -out. I think I shall go down and see my uncle.” - -Frank, in accordance with this intention, proceeded to change his coat, -Prescott waiting while he did so. He took a quantity of letters from his -pocket. - -“How terribly letters do accumulate, and I am afraid that most of them -want answering. Put me in mind of it to-morrow morning, Prescott, and I -will do a regular batch of letter writing. What’s this? Ah! Stephen -Walker—by the way I promised to look him up, and see how he is after his -shaking. It is somewhere down Knightsbridge way, so I may as well do it -while I think of it. As he is a tobacconist, I will go in and get a -cigar, and if he recognises me, well and good; if not, I shall not -introduce myself. Good-bye, old man, take care of yourself. Mind, you -breakfast with me in the morning.” - -Frank Maynard found the shop of Stephen Walker without much difficulty. -The solitary candle burnt on the counter, but no one was in the shop. -However, on hearing the door open, Carry came out of the back room, -where she had been sitting reading, bringing another lighted candle in -her hand. Frank, who had fully expected to see an elderly man make his -appearance, was not a little surprised at seeing such a remarkably -pretty girl come out. He asked for some tobacco, which Carry, who had -noticed at the first glance that he was not a regular customer, gave him -in silence; for, indeed, at the moment he entered, she had been engaged -in a most interesting chapter of her book, and she was longing to get -back to it again. - -“Have you any good cigars?” Frank asked. - -Almost mechanically she drew back the glasses from above the cigars upon -the counter. Frank glanced at them. - -“No, thank you,” he said. “I mean, have you any really good ones?” - -Carry looked fairly up at Frank for the first time. - -“Come, now,” he urged, “I have no doubt but that you have a box of good -ones which you keep for your favoured customers.” - -Carry smiled, and brought out the box which was usually reserved for -Fred Bingham’s smoking. “I believe these are good, sir.” - -“Yes,” Frank said, examining them, “these look the right thing, I will -take half a dozen.” - -Now Frank had entered the shop with his mind perfectly made up, that -unless he was recognised, he should go out again without saying who he -was; but Carry looked so very pretty and bright, that he thought it -would be very pleasant to sit down and have a chat with her, and to do -so there was no other way than to say who he was. So he began,— - -“Mr. Walker—your father I presume—has he quite recovered from the fright -and the shock he got the other day?” - -The bright eyes glanced up inquiringly at him now, and a flash of eager -colour came across her face. - -“How did you know my father was hurt, sir?” - -“I saw him fall,” Frank said; “indeed I was fortunately close to him at -the time, and helped him to pick himself up.” - -“Did you indeed, sir?” Carry asked earnestly, “and was it you really who -saved his life?” - -“I do not know that I actually saved his life,” Frank said, smiling, -“but I certainly helped him up.” - -“Father! father!” Carry cried, flying into the next room and calling up -the stairs. “Come down, come down at once; here is the gentleman who -saved your life.” Then she rushed back into the shop, but this time to -the same side of the counter as that on which Frank was standing, seized -his hand in hers, and looked up into his face with those large eyes of -hers. “Oh, I am so glad you have come, I wanted so much to thank you; -so, so much. Father has told me all about it, and I know that I owe his -life to you.” - -“Don’t say anything more about it,” Frank said; “I saved your father’s -life by the simple accident that I happened to be close to him when he -fell, and fortunately having my wits about me, picked him up in time.” - -“It is very well for you to say so, sir,” Carry said, “but you will -never make me feel differently towards you; you saved father’s life at -the risk of your own, and how can I ever thank you enough?” And Carry -looked up so gratefully and earnestly, that Frank did as most other -young fellows would have done in his place, bent down and kissed the -bright face lifted up to his. Carry returned the kiss as an impulsive -child might have done; it was the saviour of her father’s life that she -thanked, not a good-looking young man, and flushed and excited as she -was, the colour hardly deepened upon her cheek. - -“There, we are quits now,” Frank said, “so the burden is off your mind.” - -At this moment Stephen Walker entered. He was evidently even more -nervous and embarrassed than usual. - -“Oh, sir,” he began, when Frank interrupted,— - -“Pray say no more about it, Mr. Walker. I was lucky enough to be close -to you, and did what any one else would have done under the -circumstances. Your daughter has already thanked me most amply for you -both,” and he glanced for a moment at Carry, who this time coloured up -hotly; “so please let us say no more about it,” and he shook Stephen -Walker warmly by the hand. As he did so, Stephen Walker, by a great -effort, overcame his habitual nervousness, and said, quietly, - -“My life, sir, is of no great value to myself or to any one else except -to my daughter here, but for her sake I thank you very much for saving -it. And now, sir, it is very long since any gentleman has honoured my -roof with his presence, but if you will come in for half an hour, and -smoke a cigar, I shall take it as a favour.” - -Frank willingly accepted the invitation, and rather surprised at the -manner in which it was given, went into the little parlour, Stephen -Walker pausing for a moment to speak a word or two to his daughter. He -then produced his best cigars, lit one himself instead of his usual -pipe, and when Carry came in with two bottles of spirits, she was -surprised to find her father and his guest talking together like old -acquaintances. - -Stephen Walker seemed for once to have laid aside that nervous timidity -which had cost him so much during his life, and which had become almost -a part of his nature; he chatted with Frank quietly and cheerfully, as -one gentleman with another. The conversation turned upon travels, and -Frank found to his astonishment that there was hardly a place he had -visited in Europe that his host did not know as well as he did himself. -As for Carry, she could hardly believe her senses. Was this her dear, -nervous old father? She had heard him say incidentally that he had -travelled when he was a young man, but she had had no idea of the extent -of his journeyings. As the conversation went on, her blue eyes opened -wider and wider, and at last she was so convinced that she must be -dreaming, that she ran the needle, with which she was pretending to -work, into her finger, to assure herself that she was awake. Frank -remained for about an hour in conversation with Stephen Walker, and then -took his leave, promising that he would call again. With Carry he had -hardly exchanged a word after his first entrance; indeed he had been so -much interested in his conversation with her father that he had quite -forgotten the motive he had in first declaring himself. As for Carry, -she was far too much surprised at her father’s change of manner, to -think of speaking at all. After Frank had gone, Stephen Walker went back -into the little parlour, while Carry locked the door and closed the shop -for the night. When she had done this, she went into the other room, and -found her father sitting in his chair with his head bent down, and his -empty pipe, which he had mechanically taken down, lying across his -knees. Carry paused a little, and then seeing that he did not raise his -head, she went up to him, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said, -“Who is this person? Have I been dreaming, or has this been my old -father who has been talking here for the last hour?” - -For more than a minute her father did not answer. His fingers played -nervously, with his pipe; then he looked up and said, hurriedly,— - -“No, Carry, no. It was not your old father who was speaking then. Not -his real self, but quite another being. It was one who might have been -me, but not myself as I am. No, no, child, don’t think it, don’t think -it.” And he moved his hands nervously, as if to wipe away the thought. - -“Don’t think what? pappy dear,” she said, coming closer to him and -putting one arm round his neck, while with her other she stroked his -thin grey hair. “I only am thinking what a bad naughty pappy it has -been, when it could talk like that, and knew all these things, never to -let poor little me know anything about it. To think that all these years -this bad thing should have hidden what it really was, and let me have my -own way, and be mistress, and scold it and talk to it as if it were a -child, when it was all the time so clever and wise. Naughty, naughty -pappy.” Carry talked playfully, but it was evident that she was very -much in earnest, for the tears stood in her eyes. - -“No, no, Carry, whatever you do, do not think that I was ever as I was -to-night; do not think that the one you have always known is a pretence, -and that this one was the real thing. I was never like that. Do not -think that misfortune,—you know I was better off once—has so changed me -that I have become what I am from that. I never was so, dear; I might -have been so, but I never was. Had I always been as you just saw me we -should not be here as we are now, and all would have been quite -different; but that other nature went away when I was quite little, -scared by harsh treatment, and never came back again except for a little -little time till to-night. Why it did come back to-night I cannot say, -only to raise doubts between my child and me,” and Stephen Walker wrung -his hands in feeble despair. - -“No, no, father dear,” Carry said, throwing her arms round his neck and -kissing him, “not doubts. I was very pleased and proud, but very -surprised too, to hear my old pappy talk like that, and a little ashamed -when I thought how much I had underrated you. Not that I should have -loved you more, had you been the cleverest man in the world, not one bit -more; but I should have looked up to you more, and felt somehow -differently towards you.” - -“That is just it,” Stephen Walker said, helplessly; “she would have felt -differently. She is not going to be my little Carry any more. That other -one has come in between us, and frightened her away.” - -“No, no, pappy,” Carry said coaxingly, and seating herself upon his -knees, “this is your little Carry, is it not? There, look up, and don’t -hang your naughty head down. Is not this little Carry? Come, speak, sir, -or I shall scold you dreadfully.” - -“Yes, yes, my darling,” the old man said, “you are my own little Carry. -And now listen, dear, and I will tell you in a few words the story of my -life. My father was a tradesman well to do, but he was a stern man, and -took a mistaken view of his religious duties. I was a poor weakly -delicate child; at school I was beaten and worried; at home lectured and -preached at; my life was a misery and a burden; and even at that young -age, all hope of my ever being what I otherwise might have been, had I -been differently brought up, was lost. After some years I became my own -master, but it was too late then, my child; too late. For awhile I -travelled, as you have heard this evening. Then I married; things went -badly with me. I am, as you know, from my nervous timidity, a poor hand -at business. So I lost, as might have been expected, what little I had; -and here I am a poor, but, I thank God, a far happier and more contented -man than I had ever hoped or deserved to be. Happy in having enough to -live upon without anxiety, and in having my own little Carry to love and -pet. And now, Carry, light my pipe, and try and forget what has taken -place to-night.” - -Carry never spoke of it again, but she did think of it a good deal. Only -to think that if that dear old father of hers had not lost his money, -she should have been rich, and perhaps riding in a carriage instead of -selling periodicals and cigars behind a counter. Her father had -certainly spoken of losing what little he had, but that could only have -been his way of talking; for did he not travel about everywhere, and did -it not cost a good deal of money to travel; and was it not only rich -people who travelled about in that way? Oh! he must have been rich; and -how nice it would have been to be rich, and to do what one liked, and to -buy beautiful dresses and things, instead of merely looking at them in -the shop windows. And Carry pictured herself in all sorts of pretty -dresses, and tasty little bonnets, and thought she should certainly look -very nice. Then she sighed a little, and wondered whether she should -ever be rich. Who could say? The gentlemen who came to the shop all paid -her compliments, and some of them were real gentlemen, not mere clerks; -and Carry resolved in her mind to be rather more distant in her manner -to these last than had been her custom. Besides all this, she thought a -good deal of Frank Maynard, so brave and strong and good-looking, but -very impertinent—not, perhaps, that she liked him any the worse in her -heart for that, girls seldom do—and to think of her kissing him, too. -How could she have done such a thing? He must think her very bold and -forward; and even when alone, Carry coloured up at the thought, as she -had not done at the time when, in the fulness of her gratitude, she had -kissed Frank Maynard. - -That gentleman, after leaving the shop, had gone straight to Lowndes -Square, where he found only his uncle at home, Alice having gone out, -under the chaperonage of a neighbour, to a ball. - -“Well, Frank, where do you come from? You do not often drop in so late -as this.” - -“No, uncle; but I have just been making a call.” - -“Making a call, Frank? You have chosen rather a curious hour for -visiting. Who is your friend?” - -“Stephen Walker, uncle.” - -“Stephen Walker!” Captain Bradshaw said, in a puzzled tone. “I seem to -remember the name, but damme if I can recollect who it is.” - -“It is the man I picked up at the crossing last week, uncle Harry.” - -“Ah, yes, I remember now,” Captain Bradshaw said, laughing; “periodicals -punctually supplied. And how long did your visit last, Frank?” - -“Better than an hour, uncle. I went into his room and smoked a pipe with -him.” - -“Oh, indeed. And has the excellent newsman any family, Frank?” - -“He has one daughter, and she is without exception one of the very -prettiest girls I ever saw.” - -“Oh, indeed,” Captain Bradshaw said, drily; “that accounts for the -length of your visit. I suppose she was very grateful to the preserver -of her father’s life, and that sort of thing? I should not be surprised -now if she threw herself into your arms and kissed you—eh, Frank?” - -“Well, uncle,” Frank said, laughing, “I shall think you are a conjurer, -for I confess that I did kiss her.” - -“Just what I guessed,” Captain Bradshaw said, even more drily. “And the -father, Frank? I suppose he is a very superior sort of man?” - -“Very much so, uncle; I can assure you, although you are laughing at me, -he is quite a gentleman; has travelled all over Europe, and has -evidently mixed in good society there.” - -“Look here, Frank” Captain Bradshaw said, very gravely; “this is exactly -the sort of thing which is sure to end badly. Here we have all the -elements: father a decayed gentleman; daughter a lovely and accomplished -girl, gushing over with gratitude to the preserver of her father’s life. -I should advise you very seriously not to go there again. I have known -these sort of things over and over again, scores of times, and they end -in nine cases out of ten in a man’s making either a fool or a rascal of -himself.” - -“But, uncle,” Frank broke out hotly—— - -“Pooh, pooh! Frank, don’t tell me,” the captain said. “Damme, sir, do -you think I have not heard it over and over again? Of course you have -only been there once; you have found a pretty, grateful girl, and you -have given her a kiss, as was only right and natural that you should do -under the circumstances. There is no harm in these first meetings—there -never is. A man seldom goes into these things with his eyes open—very -few men are scoundrels enough deliberately to plan these things—but he -calls again and again. He still finds her very pretty, and her gratitude -gradually grows into a warmer feeling; he has kissed her once, and of -course it would be absurd for her to make any objection when he does it -the second time; and so these things go on, until the man, as I have -said, either makes a fool of himself, and marries her, or makes a rascal -of himself, and does worse. I know, Frank, that such an idea is at -present as far from your head as it is from mine; but as a man of the -world, I ask you, ask yourself, if you were to go there often—sometimes, -of course, finding her father away, and having a half hour’s chat with -her all to yourself—would you not end by feeling that you had very much -better have left the matter alone? Honestly, now?” - -“Well, uncle, honestly, now you put it in that light, very likely I -should. But I think you know me well enough to feel——” - -“Quite so, Frank,” the captain said, taking his hand; “quite so. I -believe you to be an honourable, upright young fellow. I believe you to -be more free than young men in general from this sort of thing, but for -that very reason more likely to make a fool of yourself. Now you have my -opinion of the affair. If you are wise you will take my advice, and not -go there again.” - -As Frank Maynard walked home that night, thinking over what had -happened, he took his cigar from his mouth, and said to himself, “By -Jove, uncle is right; she is a wonderfully pretty winning little thing; -and if I were to go there often, and find, as he says, her father out, I -should be very likely to get spoony, and make in the end, as he -prophesies, either a fool or a rascal of myself; so I will take his -advice, and go there no more. Prevention is better than cure.” - - - - - CHAPTER X. - PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. - - -Mr. Barton is at breakfast in his snug little house down Brompton way. -Mr. Barton enjoys his breakfast, and eats largely. Mrs. Barton does the -same. It may be here observed that Mr. Barton enjoys all his meals, and -that Mrs. Barton in this particular strictly follows his example. And -yet there was nothing in Mr. Barton’s appearance to lead an observer to -believe that he cared particularly for his meals or was a great eater. -He was a large boned, ungainly, awkward man, with long ill-shaped limbs; -he carried himself stiff and upright, and moved his head as if his gaunt -long neck were encased in a stiff military stock. His hair had been -black and bristly, but it was now thin and grey; his cheeks were closely -shaved, and his face was hard and passionless. Altogether, Mr. Barton’s -appearance was not prepossessing. He was a man whose age it would have -been next to impossible to guess, but he really was about fifty-five. -Mr. Barton was a Scotchman. He had come up to London young, and had, -through the interest of some relations, obtained a situation in the -Detective Police, at that time known as the Bow Street Runners; and a -sharp, active, intelligent detective he turned out. The stiffness, which -he had now so long put on that it had become a second nature to him, was -originally assumed when engaged in London upon ordinary duties, in order -to render detection the more difficult when he was in disguise. Although -somewhat heavy and uncouth in appearance, he was a young man active and -lissome, and, as he had shown on several occasions when he had been -found out, and had been obliged to fight for his life, was possessed of -great strength as well as activity. But situations like these were not -Mr. Barton’s forte; he could, if necessary, fight desperately for his -life, but he was by no means fond of putting himself into positions -where such an eventuality was probable. The authorities at Bow Street -were well aware of this weakness, and generally selected him in -researches in which shrewdness and patience were required rather than -courage. In these they knew he was to be thoroughly relied upon, and -would hunt down his game with the unerring sagacity of a hound. Even -here he failed sometimes, losing his clue unaccountably, and that just -at a time when success seemed certain. The authorities happened upon one -of these occasions to obtain proofs that it was not his sagacity but his -honesty which had been at fault, and that a heavy purse had proved -sufficient to render his eyesight temporarily defective. Thereupon Mr. -Barton was dismissed the force in disgrace. This was fifteen years back; -soon after that time he had married. - -Mrs. Barton’s figure was in the strongest possible contrast to that of -her husband. She was a large woman and enormously stout. Mrs. Barton was -a Jewess, the widow of a Hebrew clothier in Houndsditch, who had left -her a small fortune. She had been very handsome when young, but not the -slightest trace of her good looks remained in her fat, coarse face. She -was nearly as old as her husband, but there was not a white hair in the -black bands on her low square forehead. What had induced Mrs. Barton to -marry her present husband was a riddle which none of her friends could -solve. It seemed, however, that he had been employed in some enquiry in -which her late husband was interested, and she was a woman who could -keenly appreciate the shrewdness and energy of the rather uncouth -Scotchman. At any rate, when the days of mourning had expired, the widow -signified her willingness to lay aside her weeds in his favour. As -Robert Barton had just left the force, and was looking out for a fresh -opening, he gladly accepted her offer, although even at that time, at -five-and-thirty, the widow was, to say the least, large, and her good -looks had completely flown. Indeed, he hesitated not a moment. He had -saved up some money, and with that and the widow’s fortune and -connection, he thought he saw his way very clearly before him. It is -true that her friends were extremely angry with her for marrying a -Christian; she became as it were excommunicate, and cut off from all -participation in the service of the synagogue. This feeling, however, in -no way interfered with their willingness to work with her in business, -and as she had been a popular woman among her class during the lifetime -of her first husband, her connections, with the exception of a few of -the strictest set, soon forgave her her marriage out of the pale. A few -weeks after his marriage Mr. Barton opened an office in the City, which -he entitled “Barton’s Private Research and Detection Office.” In a very -short time he began to do a good business, and once or twice made -especially happy hits—succeeding in tracing stolen property, and in -ferreting out an absconding clerk—when the regular detective force had -given up the task in despair. After this his success was a certainty, -and it was soon apparent that he had means of obtaining information -altogether beyond the ordinary police sources of intelligence. Here it -was that Mrs. Barton’s connection came into play. The whole of the -agents he employed belonged to her persuasion, and so numerous and -active were they, that scarce an attempt was made to pass a stolen note -without Barton being informed of it. Even on the Continent, at Hamburg -and other places where Jews congregate, he had numerous correspondents; -and as most of the stolen property was likely, sooner or later, to find -its way there, the information with which he was furnished enabled him -frequently to make the most surprising captures in England. It must not -be supposed that these men betrayed themselves or each other, or that -they restored stolen property which they had purchased. They simply let -him know that they had become possessors of it, and gave him such clues -as would enable him to trace the thief. Besides this they arranged -through him the terms for restoration of bills, and various other -securities, and even for the recovery of bank-notes. There were, indeed, -occasional murmurs heard against him. It seemed, men said, that although -Barton was certain to bring the guilt home to the smaller class of -delinquents, pilfering shop-boys, forgers for small amounts, or -defaulting collectors, yet in cases of great importance, where perhaps -the absconding clerk had made off with very large amounts, his zeal in -following upon the scent, though apparently very great, was rewarded -with singular ill-success. - -Robert Barton’s business was not confined to the discovery of frauds; -many of his researches were of a far more complex and delicate nature. -Wives who sought missing husbands; broken-hearted fathers, missing -daughters; claimants to property, who set him to work to find the lost -link in their chain of evidence; husbands and wives who sought proofs of -each other’s infidelity:—all came to Mr. Barton, and on the whole they -were well satisfied with him. In these researches he seldom took any -active part, contenting himself with sitting in the office, holding the -threads of all the nets which his active subordinates were spreading -round their victims. Occasionally, however, when the fit took him, or -the affair was too important to be trusted to any hands but his own, he -would put on a disguise, lay aside his stiff carriage, and transforming -himself so completely that no one would recognise him, sally out upon -his search. - -“What have you got to-day, Barton—anything important?” - -Robert Barton took out his pocket-book and examined the entries. - -“Marriage certificate between John Rogers and Mary Hare, somewhere about -1792, probably in London. That’s a mere matter of sending circulars to -all the parish clerks, offering a reward.—Register of baptism of William -Pollard, 1822. Liverpool or Manchester.—Trace and recover notes and -bills in Borough Bank robbery. That, of course, I cannot move in at -present. It is a large sum, and I have no doubt, from the lot I believe -are in it, that the notes will go over to Hamburg. I must write to Levy -there to get hold of them and hold them for a time, and then I must find -out how much they will give for them.—John Bell, cashier, Latham and -Prodgers’, defaulter; determined to punish; offer £400. I shall soon lay -him by the legs.—Evidence against Mr. Halfall, Bristol. That is rather a -delicate matter. I must send Isaacs down, he is just the man for that; -the fellow is so good-looking, he gets round the servant girls in no -time. It is just nine, I must be off.” - -“Mind, Barton, don’t forget sharp six is the dinner-hour; you were ten -minutes late yesterday, and the joint was overdone.” - -In a few minutes Mr. Barton was on the roof of his ‘bus on his way to -the city. As he went along he sat grave and immoveable, scrutinizing the -passers-by, as if he considered they all possessed secrets he might be -some day called upon to investigate. - -Mr. Barton’s office was in one of the narrow streets leading off -Cheapside, and consisted of two rooms on the first floor, the one a -general waiting-room, the other his private office. In the former two -lads were at work at a desk, copying from the “Gazette” the bankrupt and -insolvent list. - -“Has any one been here?” - -“One gentleman, sir; he left his card.” - -Mr. Barton looked at it. “Did he say he would call again?” - -“He left word would you go round directly you came in.” - -The card was that of the manager of a large banking firm. - -“Ask any one who calls to wait, I shall not be gone many minutes,” and -Mr. Barton took his way to the Bank. - -On his sending in his name, he was at once shown into the manager’s -room. The manager, an elderly man with spectacles, was evidently at the -present time considerably ruffled and put out. - -“Take a seat, Mr. Barton. A very unpleasant business has taken place, -very much so, indeed. One of our clerks has made away with a great deal -of money; we do not yet know the particulars; we only found it out -yesterday afternoon. We sent for one of the books which he kept, as we -wished to compare it with another; on doing so we discovered some -extraordinary discrepancies; we sent down to him, but he was gone—had -left immediately the book was taken up to us. We sent up to his house, -but of course he had been in and gone out again. We put the police on -his scent last night, but as I was coming up to town this morning, I -remembered that you knew his face, as he was several times at your -office about that case of forgery you followed up for us; his name was -Symes—David Symes.” - -“I remember, sir, a fair young man.” - -“Just so; we shall offer two hundred pounds reward for his capture.” - -“Very well, sir,” Mr. Barton said, “I will lose no time. I will -telegraph down to my agents in Liverpool and Southampton. The police are -sure to watch Dover and Folkestone, and I will myself see about the -London shipping. If he is still in the country, depend upon it we shall -catch him, sir.” - -“Reuben,” Mr. Barton said to one of the lads in his office, upon his -return, “go at once and see Jonah Moss and Levi, and tell them to go to -all the slop shops in Houndsditch and eastward, and find out if a young -man of about thirty, fair, with bluish eyes, and very little whisker, -looking like a gentleman, bought any sea clothes down there last night. -If so, bring me a description.” - -“You need not trouble yourself, Mr. Barton,” a man said, coming into the -office. “Perhaps I can give you the information you want.” - -Mr. Barton looked at him steadily, then opened the door leading into the -inner office, motioned to the man to enter, followed him in, and closed -the door carefully after him. He then took another steady observation of -his visitor. He was dressed as a sailor, with a few little bits of -finery, a chain and rings, such as foreign sailors affect. He was -swarthy and dark, with black hair falling in little curls. He was the -beau ideal of a sailor from the shores of the Mediterranean. - -“A very good get-up, Mr. Symes,” Mr. Barton said quietly, “really very -creditable; pass muster very well in the street, but would hardly -deceive anyone on the watch for you. Don’t you think it is just the -least bit rash for you to come here?” - -“Rash! not a bit of it,” the man laughed; “the very best thing I could -do.” - -“I suppose you know I have just come from the Bank.” - -“Quite so, Mr. Barton, I was watching for you. I felt sure they would -put you after me, so I waited till you had been there and got -instructions, and then I thought I would come in and hear all about it.” - -“You are a cool hand, certainly,” Mr. Barton said, in a tone of -admiration. - -“Well, you see I have been for some time looking things in the face and -making my calculations. I knew, of course, that it must come out, sooner -or later, and I think I have made myself pretty well master of -everything which could bear upon my chances. As I felt sure they would -put you on me I inquired all about your way of doing business.” - -“And what was the result of your investigation?” Mr. Barton asked, -rather grimly. - -“Why, you see,” the man said, carelessly, “here I am. And now to -business. How much have they offered you?—a hundred pounds?” - -“Two hundred,” Mr. Barton said. - -“I am sure I feel it a compliment. Two hundred pounds! Well, now look -here. I have taken a big sum altogether, but it has been over a long -time, and has gone pretty nearly as fast as I got it. My luck on the -turf has been really a caution. So I don’t get off with much in the end, -only a few hundred pounds, but I tell you what, I will give you five -hundred pounds to let me go.” - -Mr. Barton hesitated, and sat thoughtfully for nearly a minute, and then -he said, “The three hundred you offer me more than they do is not -sufficient to cover the risk.” - -“Nonsense, man, there is no risk in the matter, as you know as well as I -do.” - -“But suppose, Mr. Symes, that the police catch you, how then?” - -“Ah! but the police must not catch me. It’s precisely for that that you -are going to take the extra three hundred. It will be your part of the -business to throw them off the scent, you will find that an easy job -enough.” - -“How am I to be paid? that is, supposing I agree to this?” - -“I will tell you. I have five hundred and fifty pounds standing as a -deposit in the Joint Stock Bank, in the name of Rogers; here is the -pass-book. When I paid it in, a year ago, I said that I should probably -draw it out in a lump for investment. I have written a letter here to -the manager, saying that I have given a cheque for five hundred—at least -I have left the figures blank at present, and that I shall be obliged if -he will fill up and return my pass-book, and let me know the amount -remaining to my credit. So that he will be prepared for the cheque when -it is presented. In what name shall I fill it in?” - -Mr. Barton thought for a minute, and then said, “John Halfourd; he is a -lawyer, it will be better through him, we do business together.” - -David Symes filled up the cheque. - -“I have dated it the day after to-morrow,” he said. “I sail to-morrow in -the ‘Louisa,’ for America. She warps out of the docks this evening. Put -the police on the track of the Australian ships. I depend on you to do -this. If I am taken, I shall, of course, stop the payment of the cheque. -Good-morning, Mr. Barton.” - -“Good-morning, Mr. Symes, a pleasant voyage.” - -And the ex-clerk went down the street, whistling gaily. - -“That is a monstrous clever fellow,” Mr. Barton said, admiringly; “cool -as a cucumber. It is as well, before I do anything else, to see if this -money really is at the Bank. There, Reuben, run round with this -pass-book to the Joint Stock, and ask them to be good enough to see if -it is all right, and then bring it back here. Don’t say who you come -from, but do it in a regular way of business.” - -While the boy was gone, Mr. Barton sat thinking deeply, till he returned -with the message that the book was correct with the exception of the -interest, which could not be added unless the book was left. - -“Is Aaron Solomons here, the man who came from Liverpool yesterday?” - -“Yes, sir, he is in the outer office. And am I to see about what you -told us before, about the buying the outfit?” - -“No, Reuben, that matter is arranged. Tell Solomons to come in here.” - -The man entered. He was a well-made, good looking fellow. - -“Solomons, when are you thinking of going back to Liverpool?” - -“To-night, Mr. Barton.” - -“You have never been much in London before, have you?” - -“No, sir, I only came up for a week at the time——” - -“Yes, Solomons, at the time you assisted at that little affair at the -goldsmith’s—there, don’t look nervous, man. I have kept your secret as -long as this, and you may rely upon it, that as long as you remain -faithful to my interests, I shall continue to do so. Then you are sure -that the police don’t know you?” - -“Quite sure.” - -“Very well, then I will tell you what I want. Get yourself up as a -gentleman; have you clothes?” The man nodded, and Mr. Barton went on. -“Put on moustaches if you like; don’t put on any jewellery about you, -but look plain and straightforward. Drive in a Hansom to Clinton’s Bank, -and ask to see the manager. Introduce yourself as Mr. Herbert Parker, of -25, Sloane Street, Knightsbridge. The house is really empty at present, -but I have got the name put into the red books; it is useful having a -name or two which no one else can claim. Say to the manager that you -have been intimate for some years with David Symes, a clerk in their -Bank, and that some time since he borrowed a hundred pounds of you; -mention that you called at his house this morning, and found him gone, -and the place in confusion, and that you heard a rumour that he had -absconded.” - -The man had been taking notes as Mr. Barton went on. He asked now, “What -was Symes’s address?—you have not told me.” - -“123, Brompton Square. Say you came down to the Bank at once, to inquire -if anything was really wrong with Symes; mention that you have heard him -say that he intended to go out some day to his friends in Australia. Do -you quite understand all that, Solomons?” - -“Quite,” the man said, repeating from his notes the instructions he had -received. “After that?” - -“After that, the manager is pretty certain to ask you if you would be so -good as to go round to the police-station, and tell them what you think -are the reasons why Symes will make for Australia. Get him to give you -his card, and then go to the police-station, and tell them you have been -to the Bank, and, at the manager’s request, came round to give them the -information.” - -“Is that all, Mr. Barton?” - -“Yes, I think so, Solomons, except that you had best go off by the first -train after you leave the police-station. Here are fifteen pounds for -your trouble.” - -The man hesitated a little. “One question, Mr. Barton. Does the man -Symes really go to Australia?—I suppose you are working to get him -away?” - -“Why do you ask, Solomons?” - -“I ask because, if he is not going to Australia, I do not think you have -hit on the safest plan.” - -“No, Solomons?—what is your idea? I know you are a sharp fellow, let me -hear it, man.” - -“Well, Mr. Barton, I should think that in any case the police are safe -to have a strong suspicion that it is a plant. Now, if I just get up a -little bit flashy—not too strong, you know—they will suspect it still -more, and they will be sure to send down to Sloane Street, and find out -that No. 25 is empty, and Mr. Herbert Parker is unknown. Now, where does -Symes sail for—America?” Mr. Barton nodded. “Very well, if I go and tell -the same story, only putting in America for Australia, they will be safe -to think that it is a plant, and that I have been sent down to put them -on to the American ship while he gets off in an Australian.” - -“Very good, indeed, Solomons; very good. I shall double what I promised -you, and make it thirty pounds, and if you are inclined in a month or so -to come up here from Liverpool, I will promise you a good berth. But it -is time for you to be at work. Remember, you are very likely to be -closely watched when you leave the police-station, so take a four-wheel -cab, and leave your bag in it, and change your things as you go to the -station. Don’t take the cab all the way, but pay him beforehand, and -tell him to stop whenever you get into a lock, so that you can slip out -and join in the crowd without being noticed; then take another cab to -the station, and take your ticket only as far as Crewe: get out there, -and go on by the next train.” - -Events turned out as Solomons had predicted. The police had been all day -closely watching the ship “Louisa,” which, with several others, was -lying in the stream ready for a start in the morning; but in the evening -word came down that from information obtained during the day, there was -no doubt that David Symes was not going to America, as had been -supposed, but to Australia or some other part. Consequently, the sharp -watch which had been kept up over the “Louisa” all day was relaxed, and -the vigilance of the police was directed to the other vessels preparing -for a start. The foreign sailor, therefore, who was going out as a -passenger in her to New York to take command of a French vessel lying -there, passed under their eyes almost unheeded, and by eight o’clock -next morning, the “Louisa,” with all sail set, and a strong ebb tide -underneath her, was running past Woolwich, to stop no more till she -furled her sails in New York harbour. - -Mr. Barton was very busy all day, sitting like a spider in his den, and -throwing his threads skilfully abroad to entangle the human flies; -which, some buzzing gaily in the sunshine unsuspicious of danger, some -hiding in nooks and corners, were yet equally sure, sooner or later, to -be caught in the meshes. - -At a quarter to five Mr. Barton left his office and took his way -homeward, in great content at the day’s proceedings. - -“Rachel,” he said to his wife, on entering, “we will have a bottle of -that old crusted port to-day.” - -“That means you have done a good day’s work, Robert?” - -“Yes, indeed; the best I have done this many a month. Five hundred -pounds clear.” - -“That is good indeed, Robert. What was it—a cross, I suppose?” - -“Just so, Rachel. One very seldom makes five hundred in a day’s work by -working on the square.” And Mr. Barton told his wife with great glee the -day’s incidents. “Four more years, Rachel, and we shall give it up. By -the way, that puts me in mind of something,” and he consulted his -pocket-book. “It is rather more than six months since I called to see -that boy. I will go in there to-morrow night.” - -“I suppose, Barton, you cannot do anything with him till he gets of -age?” - -“Nothing, Rachel; there are only four more years to wait now. That -pulled off, we shall be able to retire comfortably.” - -“We should not do badly if we gave it up now.” - -“By no means, Rachel; but as he will be worth to us at least ten -thousand pounds, it will pay very well to go on another four years. Of -course I shall make my bargain with him, and get a deed drawn up and -signed, before I tell him who he is, and I am sure he would give his -ears to be a gentleman.” - -“It was certainly a good idea of yours, Robert, and does you great -credit. Suppose, in honour of the occasion, we have two bottles of that -old port, instead of one.” - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - AN EVENING AT THE HOLLS’. - - -It is evening at the Holls’. The children are in bed, the place is, as -Mrs. Holl says, “tidied up,” and John is smoking his pipe with several -visitors who have dropped in. There is policeman A 56, and Perkins; -William Holl, and his wife too, have come over, for this does not happen -to be one of his nights at the meeting. Lastly, there is Mr. Barton. -That person, however, was certainly a less welcome guest than the -others, for John Holl did not like the man; why he could hardly say, but -he knew he did not, and was at no particular pains to conceal his -aversion. Mr. Barton never seemed to notice John’s rebuffs, but -periodically, perhaps once in six months, would come in and smoke a pipe -with him. John Holl had very often asked his wife, on whose good sense -he much relied, What that chap Barton meant by coming to see them? He -seemed comfortably off, and why he should come in twice a year to smoke -a pipe was a thing he could not understand. But for once, Sarah was -quite unable to enlighten her husband. The matter had fairly puzzled -both John and his wife. Many years had passed since John Holl first made -Mr. Barton’s acquaintance. It happened thus: John had no children then, -and was much younger and not quite so steady as he had since become. -John’s temptations, too, were many; for in the discharge of his -occupation as dustman, he had sundry mugs of beer offered to him in the -course of the day. So it chanced that one particularly warm summer -afternoon, being oppressed by the heat, John accepted several of these -offerings, and had felt his thirst noways abated thereby. After his work -was done, therefore, he went into a public-house, to endeavour still -further to wash the dust from his throat. Here, somehow or other—he -never could exactly recall the cause—he became involved in a fierce -dispute with a man who was also engaged in quenching a devouring thirst. -To settle this difference of opinion, they adjourned into the back-yard. -The end of this was, that John Holl, who had drunk more than his -opponent, got considerably the worst of it. The first thing he -remembered afterwards was, that he was sitting on the ground, supported -by Mr. Barton. This good Samaritan had entered the public-house just -after John himself, had espoused his side in the argument with great -zeal, and now sprinkled water in his face, and endeavoured to pour -brandy down his throat. When he had partially recovered, Mr. Barton, in -the kindest manner sent for a cab, drove John to his house, and there -delivered him over to the tender care and pity, mingled with -upbraidings, of his wife. After this he came in several times to see how -John was getting on, but, when he had as it were got a footing in the -house, his visits gradually became less frequent, and at last months -passed by without their seeing him. Then, greatly to their astonishment, -he had dropped in again; and from that time, every six months or so, Mr. -Barton would pay them a visit; greet John and Sarah as if he had seen -them only the day before; reach a long pipe down from the mantelpiece, -seat himself in his usual place next to James, and begin to smoke -tranquilly. Husband and wife had often wondered and discussed much what -could be his possible motive in thus, for seventeen years, continuing -his periodical visits. They did not like the man; still they had no -reason for telling him so, more especially as he tried to make his -visits as acceptable as possible, never failing to produce a small -bottle of spirits, remarking—with an immovable face, which it was -impossible to question—that he had in his pocket by accident, and to -insist that it should be drunk then and there. For the children, too, he -always brought a bag of cakes or lollipops, so that to them his visits -were noteworthy affairs. Indeed they served Mrs. Holl as a species of -calendar, and she reckoned the date of all her household events for -years past by them. Baby had been born about a month before Barton’s -fourth visit back. James had the measles just about the time of his -sixth visit, and so on; and, indeed, Sarah would sometimes greatly -mystify her neighbours by this method of reckoning. It was not till many -years after the commencement of this disjointed intimacy that John Holl -had found out who his visitor really was. He had always supposed him to -be something in the city—for Barton occasionally mentioned his -office—but he did not even know in what part of London he lived, and put -him down as being a close man, not given to talking about his affairs. -Four years ago, he had made the discovery in this wise. A 56 happened to -be spending his evening with John when Mr. Barton had come in. A 56 had -said rather respectfully, “Good evening, Mr. Barton,” and Mr. Barton had -looked for a moment decidedly taken aback, but recovering himself had -said, “We are both off duty together to-night, Brown;” Brown being the -name by which A 56 was known in private life. After this Mr. Barton had -sat smoking and talking for a time as usual, and when he was gone, A 56 -told them that Mr. Barton was a sort of private detective, at which John -and Sarah had been astonished, and indignant. - -“What,” John said, “a detective! and what does he mean by coming spying -here? I hain’t nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Brown; he may spy as much -as he likes in my house, but he won’t find nothing but what is honestly -paid for. I ain’t no thief, Mr. Brown. If I find anything in the -bins—and many a silver spoon and fork, and all sorts have I found there -in my time—when I finds them I gives them up. Why, Lor, what good would -it be if I didn’t? Sairey would not so much as look at them. Next time -Mr. Barton comes here he’ll see what he’ll get for his peeping and -spying. Just to think of it, Sairey, to think that while I thought -everyone knew John Holl was an honest man, that all this time I have had -a policeman—no offence, Mr. Brown—but a private policeman a spying into -my doings.” - -“I don’t think—do you know, John,” A 56 said, after smoking meditatively -for some time, “I don’t think you need trouble yourself about Barton’s -suspicions of your honesty. If there had been any great robbery of -plate, and they could not make out how the stuff had gone, and you had -taken away the dust, say early in the morning, I don’t know that they -might not suspect you, and keep you under their eye; but Lor bless you, -it would not have lasted more than a few weeks at most. It ain’t nothing -of that sort, you may take your solemn Davey. It is a rum start surely. -I have often heard you talk about a Mr. Barton, who came in twice a -year, but it never entered my head as how it were Barton the private -detective.” - -“Well, but what does he come here for, Mr. Brown? Just tell me that,” -John Holl said, bringing his heavy hand down upon the table. “I’ll find -out next time he comes, or my name’s not John Holl. I will punch his -head for him, Mr. Brown, detective or no detective; there’s no law -against that I expect, if he comes into my house without even saying by -your leave.” - -A 56 smoked thoughtfully, not paying much attention to what John Holl -said; then he remarked, “It is certainly strange, John. Barton is a deep -one, there’s no doubt of that, and not a bit the sort of chap to waste a -minute of his time without some good reason for it, but I can’t see what -his game is here.” - -“What was this Mr. Barton?” Mr. Holl asked. - -“He was a Bow Street runner,” A 56 said, “but he was turned out of the -force some twelve years back. He calls himself a private detective now, -and does all sorts of things in that way. They say he is as sharp as a -needle. He’s got to the bottom of several jobs which have beaten our -people, but I have heard, though I should not say so to every one, that -he plays double sometime. But there, that mayn’t be true, and you see -our people are rather jealous of him.” - -“That’s right enough, Mr. Brown, but still I can’t see what he has been -spying about here so long for—twelve years—no, more—nigh upon thirteen, -it were just about the time when James and his poor mother came here.” - -“Was it though?” the policeman said; “then you may take my word for it, -John, he comes to keep his eye on the boy. I’d bet a gallon to a pint he -knows who the boy is, and is paid by his friends to let him know if he’s -alive, and how he is getting on; yes, you may depend upon it, that’s -about the mark.” - -John Holl and his wife looked at each other in astonishment. Sarah was -the first to speak. - -“That’s it, John, sure enough. Like enough he’ll turn out some rich -man’s son, and get all his money yet.” - -“I would not think that, Mrs. Holl; no, not if I was you,” policeman -Brown said; “I should say his chance now is worse than it was before. -Then some day, I don’t say it was likely, still there it was, it might -have been found out by some accident who he was, but now it seems as if -they must know where he is, and all about him, but don’t want to -acknowledge or do anything for him.” - -“Then they’re a bad, unnatural lot, whoever they are,” Mrs. Holl said, -indignantly, “and the poor lad a cripple too. But any ways, John, if he -comes to look after James, we must speak him fair, for who knows, -perhaps some day when they are dying they may be sorry for what they -have done all these years, and turn round and send for him.” - -“That is so,” the policeman said; “let him come and go just as if you -thought nothing more of him than before; if any good come of it, so much -the better. If not, his visits won’t have done you any harm.” - -And so it was settled. Since that conversation Mr. Barton had paid his -seven visits with his usual punctuality—this was his eighth. No hint was -ever given by John and Sarah that they suspected the cause of his -coming, and to James they had never spoken of what had passed, for he -had gone to bed at the time when their discovery of Mr. Barton’s -occupation was made, and they agreed that it was much better to say -nothing to him on the subject. - -For some time the little party talked on indifferent matters, and then -the cripple boy, who was rather fond of attacking William Holl, brought -up the question of politics. James had read much, and variously. All -these years that he had been crippled, he had had no other occupation, -and he had thought as well as read; at ordinary times his diction, -although better, still resembled that of those around him, but when he -warmed into a subject he dropped this altogether, and spoke in the -language of those in the world, of which he had seen so little and read -so much. “Well, Uncle William, and how go on the Chartists?” - -“The great cause goes on well, James, as well or better than we could -hope. The working classes are everywhere moving, and a deep feeling of -discontent at their condition is fast gaining ground among them.” - -“And a great pity too, William,” Sarah Holl said; “we have always done -very well before we got these Chartist notions into our heads, and for -my part I can’t see what we want with them, or what good they are to do -us, when we do get them.” - -William Holl smiled pityingly, his wife sadly. - -“Sairey is right,” her husband said. “We have done very well, and I for -one don’t want no change. I should like to own my horse and cart, but I -don’t see that the charter is going to give it me. So let well alone, -says I.” - -“Anyhow, William,” Sarah said, “it has done neither you nor Bessy any -good. When I think of what you both were two years ago, and what you are -now, it makes me sick of the very name of the Charter.” - -“The first disciples of a cause always suffer,” William Holl said -earnestly, “and Bessy and I must be content to do the same. When we look -back some day upon our success, we shall be rewarded.” - -“The success you will have to look back upon some day, William Holl, if -you don’t watch it,” A 56 said, “will be finding yourself some fine -morning shut up between four walls.” - -“The voice of the million cannot be put down!” William Holl said, -sententiously. - -“Yes, it can, Uncle William,” James said, “when the million don’t happen -to be united, and the two or three hundred thousand who are their -masters, and who have an armed force at their command, are perfectly -unanimous.” - -“The history of the world says otherwise.” - -“In some cases, uncle, I grant you, where the million are really ground -down, as you are so fond of saying, or are crying for bread, their voice -is, I allow, irresistible, but unless their grievance is a real one, and -their hearts are in it, it may be very loud, but no one cares for it. -Your opponents have strength, and perfect unanimity; they have the law -on their side, the troops and the police, and against all this your mere -mob is a wave against a rock.” - -“The French Revolution, James, has taught us the power of the people.” - -“The French Revolution!” James laughed. “You will never play that game -over here, nor is it the slightest criterion for you. The French people -had reason on their side, they had justice if not law. The people were -tyrannised over to an extent we can hardly understand; they groaned -under an overbearing nobility with feudal power, who looked upon them as -hardly human beings; their condition was dreadful, and they were nearly -starving. They had something to fight for. But we are not mere slaves as -they were, nor are we starving. The French people groaned under so -terrible a tyranny, that the whole of the middle classes, the great -proportion of the clergy, and a good many even of the nobles were at -first with them—in fact were the Revolution, although in the end the -people turned upon their benefactors, and destroyed nobility, clergy, -and middle class. The people there were at the commencement united with -the middle class, and at any rate knew what they were fighting for, and -were sufficiently in earnest to be ready to give their lives for their -cause. You stand alone; the middle classes are more bitterly opposed to -you than even the upper, you have no unity among yourselves, and lastly, -you are fighting for you know not what—for a chimera.” - -“I beg your pardon, James,” William Holl said, hotly, “it is no chimera. -Universal suffrage is Nature’s law; every man has a right to a voice in -the Government.” - -“Now, my dear uncle, that is so like you. You see you get together, and -you dogmatise, and agree with each other, till you lay down things as -law, which have no existence except in your own brain. What do you mean -by that great sounding phrase,—‘universal suffrage is Nature’s law.’ It -sounds well, but what does it mean? Has it any meaning at all—and if so, -is it true? Let us go back to a state of nature—savage nature, and what -will you find? Chiefs or governors are elected to rule the nation; but I -will venture to say, in no tribe or race of which there is any history, -were they chosen by the vote of man, woman, and child; they were elected -and are now elected among savage tribes by the wise men of the nation, -the object being to choose the men most fitted for the place. And so -with this Government of ours; when Parliament was established, it was -proposed that the men most suited to rule the nation should be chosen. -There were various ways in which this might have been done, but the way -selected was that boroughs and counties should each send so many -members, which members were in those days unquestionably selected by the -leading men in such boroughs and counties. Since its foundation the -number admitted to the privilege, or to speak more correctly, the number -of those upon whom the responsibility of selecting the representatives -devolves, has largely increased, until nearly every man of intelligence -or energy, having a house, can vote. The object of it all is to obtain a -good Government. Is not that object attained? Do you mean for an instant -to say that a Parliament such as would be elected under a system of -universal suffrage would be equal in intelligence, in character, or in -any single point, with the present one? Failing to prove that, your -whole argument falls to the ground. If under the present state of things -you found Parliament legislating entirely for the benefit of the rich as -against the poor, taking burdens off their own shoulders to lay them on -yours, you might well complain. But it is not so. The burdens on -property are very great, the burden on you very slight. Every question -which comes before them which can in any way benefit the working classes -has always its full share of attention. What reason therefore have you -to complain? Of those who have the vote, not one half exercise the -inestimable privilege you make so much fuss about; not one quarter would -do so unless canvassed and worried and bribed. My dear uncle, as father -says, we are very well as we are; let well alone.” - -“There is something in what you say, James; but unquestionably a -republic in which each man has a voice is the happiest form of -government.” - -“Theoretically it may be, uncle, although I should doubt it. The Jews -tried it, and fell back upon a monarchy. The Athenians tried it, and -there it lasted till the time of their fall; but you will find that the -house of assembly, so to speak, in Athens, was chosen by a more limited -proportion of the people than have the vote here; besides, if you read -their domestic history, I don’t think you will conclude that it was a -happy or reputable one. Rome tried it; but in her earlier history the -real power was always in the hands of the patricians, who chose consuls, -who were kings with another name. And in Rome, as the popular element -became stronger, so was the government worse, until the nation took -refuge under an emperor. England tried a revolution, and fell into the -hands of Cromwell, who, although he ruled them wisely and well, was far -more despotic in his power than any king who preceded him. France tried -it, and you can’t say much for the conduct of King Mob there; and at -last they came to the conclusion that an emperor was better than -mob-law. Yes, I see, uncle, America. America is a young country. She has -had, since her formation, no enemy near her to try her; she started with -every advantage, and what is the result? She has pretty nearly universal -suffrage—that is, every man has a vote—but what is the consequence? he -finds it of no use voting independently, and he therefore binds himself -to a party, and has a ticket given him with a list of names, which he is -bound to vote for. Look at Congress, no sane man could compare it, -either for intelligence, eloquence, statesmanship, or conduct, with our -own House of Commons; besides, above all is the President, who is really -very nearly independent of Congress, and is, indeed, as despotic as any -European monarch.” - -While James had been speaking, the others had been smoking in silence. -Mr. Barton was surprised, although he said nothing, and the others were -accustomed to his talk, which was indeed far beyond his age and station. -When he ceased there was a moment’s silence, and then John Holl said,— - -“Well spoken, James, spoken out like a man, ay, and a clever man, too. I -don’t quite know all you were saying, not having learning myself; but I -am proud to hear you, James, and I feel more than repaid, if it were -only to hear you talk like that, for any trouble we may have had with -you, my boy. Now, brother Will, you ain’t got nothing to say to that; -give it up, man, for Bessy’s sake if not your own; give it up, and go to -work again like a man.” - -“I have plenty to say against it if I choose, John,” William said. -“James talks very well, looking at it in the light he does, and, I will -say fairly, puts his side stronger than I ever heard it put before; but -he talks from books, and not from real life. He does not know how we are -put upon—how should he?” - -“Ah, that’s what you always fall back upon, uncle,” James said, -laughing. “You are put upon; it is very vague, and therefore, -unsupported as it is by a single fact, very difficult to disprove. How I -wish I was like other people. I should like to go to one of your -meetings, and speak there. You get together, you are all the same side, -and you talk and talk, and back each other up, till you think there is -nothing to be said on the other side of the question.” - -“Lor bless you,” Perkins said, “they wouldn’t let you speak; don’t you -go to think that; if you didn’t agree with them they wouldn’t hear a -word you had to say, and you might think yourself very lucky if you got -out of the place as whole as you went in. I’ve been to some of these -sort of places, but the more I find they talk about liberty, the less -they will give it to any one else.” - -“Do you know, Perkins, I should like to go to one of these Chartist -meetings. I have heard James talk it over so often, that I think I could -tell them a thing or two.” - -“Look here, John,” the prize-fighter said, “I don’t like these things, -but I should not mind it for once for a lark. So if you go, here’s one -with you. What do you say, William, will you take us?” - -“I don’t know when there will be one,” William Holl said, evasively, -glancing at A 56. - -“You need not mind me, William Holl,” the policeman said; “we’ve no -instructions about you yet. When we have, be as cunning as you like, we -shall soon find out all about your goings on; but if you will take my -advice, you will drop it. James has put it very straight and right, and -I drink his health, and it would be better for some of you if you had a -little of his sense. You will find yourself in the wrong box one of -these days.” - -William Holl only shook his head, and then rose, saying it was past nine -and it was time to be off. So his wife put her bonnet on, and all took -their leave, including Mr. Barton, who had, as was his wont, spoken very -little, but who had listened attentively, especially when James was -speaking, as if desirous of judging as far as possible of the lad’s -character. - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - THWARTED PLANS. - - -Frank Maynard had by no means forgotten what his friend Prescott had -said to him upon the subject of Alice Heathcote. He had thought it over -constantly and with increasing annoyance, Frank could have been easily -led to do almost anything, but he was one of the worst men in the world -to drive, and this he considered to be an attempt to force him into a -marriage for which he had not the least desire. He was the more annoyed -because he was really very fond of Alice in a cousinly sort of way, and -he felt that he could never again be upon the same pleasant footing with -her as before. Had he believed for an instant that Alice regarded him in -any other light than that in which he thought of her, he might have -acted differently: but Frank had not the least personal vanity, and it -never entered his mind that Alice ever thought of him except as a sort -of brother. Altogether it was very unpleasant, and he consequently -stayed several days away from Lowndes Square, instead of paying his -almost daily visit. At last he felt that it would seem strange if he did -not go, and so started with an uncomfortable feeling, and a dogged -resolution that if he had the least opportunity he would enlighten his -uncle as to what his own views upon the subject were; knowing Captain -Bradshaw’s peppery disposition, however, he had no doubt that he would -be exceedingly irritated at finding his wishes thwarted in a matter so -very near his heart. On arriving at Lowndes Square he found his uncle -alone in the drawing-room. It was a large room, with folding-doors. -These on ordinary occasions stood open, but in cold weather were kept -closed, as Captain Bradshaw said the large room made him cold. Alice, on -her part, liked the arrangement, as the back drawing-room made a sort of -snuggery, where she could work or paint undisturbed by visitors. In the -front room Frank found his uncle. - -“Well, Frank, I thought you were lost. Where have you been all this -time? It is nearly a week since you were here.” - -Frank said, rather confusedly, that he had been a good deal engaged. - -“Nonsense, engaged! You may be out of an evening, but you could surely -manage to run down some time in the day to see us.” - -Frank knew that this was one of Captain Bradshaw’s weak points; that he -liked attention, and could bear anything better than being neglected; so -he said that he was sorry he had let so many days pass without calling, -but would come oftener in future. - -“That is right, Frank,” Captain Bradshaw said, mollified. “You know we -don’t see many visitors here, and you brighten us up. It is not for -myself, but for Alice’s sake, that I like you to come down often. You -ought to be more attentive there.” - -Frank thought that this was a good opportunity to express his opinion -upon that point, and he said, rather coldly;— - -“I really do not see, uncle, why I should be specially attentive to -Alice. I do not think it likely that she interests herself in the -slightest degree as to my comings and goings.” - -Now Captain Bradshaw was just as anxious to have a talk with Frank upon -this subject, as Frank was himself. For years this marriage between his -nephew and niece had been his pet project. He had so thoroughly settled -it in his own mind, that he believed they were equally agreed, and that -although no actual love-making might have taken place, it was a sort of -tacit engagement. He had often during Frank’s absence joked Alice about -him, and the girl’s rising colour and evasive answers more than ever -confirmed him in his opinion. Since Frank’s return, however, things had -not gone quite as he had anticipated. It was not that he doubted in the -least that all was right, for he was a good deal accustomed to have his -own way, and had beside an old-fashioned idea that in these matters -young people should do as their elders recommend. Still Frank was not so -attentive as he ought to have been under the circumstances, and it was -Captain Bradshaw’s opinion that now his nephew had had his fling, the -sooner he settled down and married Alice Heathcote the better. He had -therefore quite made up his mind to intimate his wishes to him upon the -first opportunity. - -“I hardly know what you mean, Frank. If I were a young man in your -place, I should think that it would be only right and proper, under the -circumstances, that she should take a good deal of interest in what I -did.” - -“What do you mean, uncle, by ‘under the circumstances?’” Frank asked, -shortly. - -“Mean, Frank? Damme, I mean, of course, in the relation in which you -stand to each other.” - -“I am your nephew, uncle Harry, and Alice is your niece; but I imagine -that the relationship between us is something very slight.” - -“Pooh! nonsense, man!” Captain Bradshaw said, irritably; “you know what -I mean; but I will put it plainly for you, if you like. I think it -natural that Alice should feel some interest in your goings-on, -considering that you are some day going to be man and wife.” - -“Man and wife, uncle? What are you thinking about? Alice and I have -about as much idea of marrying each other as we have of flying.” - -“Damme, sir!” Captain Bradshaw commenced, fiercely; “but no, I will not -get angry;” and then he continued, in a tone of concentrated rage, which -showed far more than any gesticulation could have done, how angry he -was: “Do you mean to tell me, seriously, Frank Maynard, that you do not -intend to marry your cousin, Alice Heathcote?” - -“Most distinctly and clearly, uncle, I do not. I like Alice exceedingly. -I love her almost as a sister. She is a dear, good girl; but I have not, -and never had, the slightest intention of marrying her.” - -Captain Bradshaw sat down. He could not trust himself to speak for some -time; he knew how passionate he was, and that he should be sure to say -something which he would afterwards wish unsaid. At last, after a great -struggle with himself, he said, quietly;— - -“My dear Frank, you have upset me sadly. I always thought it was an -understood thing between you, and I had set my mind on it. For years I -have planned and hoped for this. What objection can you have? It would -make me very happy. You are like a son to me, Alice like a daughter; why -can you not come together?” - -“My dear uncle,” Frank said, “there is hardly anything that I would not -do to give you pleasure, but I can hardly change my present feeling for -Alice into the love I should give to a wife. I am sorry, very sorry, -that you are disappointed, but I never dreamed of such a thing. If you -had spoken about it some years sooner, I might have got to look upon it -in that way. But it is too late now.” - -“But I always thought you did understand, Frank. I have watched you both -closely, and I thought you loved Alice, and I was quite sure Alice——” - -Captain Bradshaw did not finish his sentence, for the folding doors -opened suddenly, and Alice Heathcote herself stood among them. Had not -the light of the winter afternoon faded out,—the room being only lit by -the deep red glow of the fire,—they would have seen that her face was -very pale, and that her cheeks were still wet with tears. However, she -gave them little time to notice this, for she moved hastily forward, and -stood between them with her back to the fire, so that her face was in -deep shadow. Then she said, trying to speak in a playful tone, but in a -voice which shook and wavered a little as she began;— - -“My dear uncle, if you gentlemen want to talk secrets you should not -choose a room with folding doors, through which every word can be heard. -Not that I am sorry I heard what you said, in the first place, because I -have a right to have a voice in a matter in which I am so much -interested; and in the second, because I am able to come in and join my -voice to Frank’s in asking you to let us each go our own way. You see, -uncle, we make very good cousins, but we have no inclination to exchange -that relationship for a nearer one. Let us have our own way, uncle: you -cannot make two people love each other who have no natural inclination -that way, and we could not love you better if we were married than we do -separately.” - -Captain Bradshaw was silent for a moment in astonishment, and then broke -out;— - -“Damme, Alice, if I understand you at all. I always thought——” - -Alice stepped forward, and laid her hands upon his shoulder, and -murmured very low, so that only he could hear her, “Hush, uncle, for -pity’s sake!” and then, more loudly, “you see, uncle, unfortunately, we -have been playing at cross-purposes; Frank and I have been caring for -each other in a brotherly and sisterly sort of way, and you, wanting it -to be something else, have all along misinterpreted what you saw. Now, -be a dear, kind uncle, as you always are, and let us have our own way.” - -“Just so, uncle,” Frank put in; “you see it has all been a mistake, and -I am very glad that Alice has overheard us, because she has been able to -assure you that she agrees with me.” - -Captain Bradshaw was silent for a moment, and then said softly to Alice -as he kissed her cheek;— - -“You are a darling, Alice; as for you, sir,” he said, turning fiercely -upon Frank, “my opinion of you, sir, is, that you are a young fool. Yes, -sir, damme, a thorough young fool,” and with this explosion of wrath, -Captain Bradshaw strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. - -Frank gave a long whistle. - -“Upon my word, Alice, this is too bad; Uncle Harry is turning a complete -tyrant in his old age. The idea of getting into a passion because you -and I, who have known each other for the last ten years, are not going -to fall in love with each other all at once to please him. It is too -absurd, upon my word.” - -“Very absurd, Frank,” Alice said, quietly; “and now I think you had -better go, and I will go down and pacify uncle.” - -Frank took up his hat, but paused as he went towards the door, and -said,— - -“I hope I did not say anything rude about you, Alice? You know how much -I like you as a sister; but I was obliged to protest against his making -us man and wife, when I know that neither of us had such an idea in our -heads. You are not vexed, Alice?” - -“Not vexed at all, Frank,” she said, quietly; “now, please go.” - -Frank went downstairs, and out into the chilly evening air, with a -strong feeling of discontent at things in general. The whole thing was, -he assured himself, too ridiculous; still, somehow or other, he did not -feel as pleased as he had expected now that the affair was settled. By -the time he reached the Temple, however, he had recovered his usual good -temper; and going straight up into Prescott’s room, he sat down and gave -his friend an exact account of what had passed. Prescott listened with -great attention. When Frank came to the part where Alice appeared upon -the scene, Prescott almost held his breath to catch every word, and -murmured to himself,— - -“Dear Alice; dear, brave girl.” - -When Frank had done, he said,— - -“Now, Prescott, just give me your opinion of it all; it is too bad, is -it not?” - -“Do you want my honest opinion, Frank?” - -“Of course I do, Prescott.” - -“Very well, Frank; then I will give it you. I agree entirely with your -uncle. You are a fool, and a thorough fool.” - -It would have been a very dangerous proceeding for anyone else than -Prescott to have expressed this opinion of Frank to his face. As it was, -Frank looked for a moment as if inclined to be exceedingly angry, but -glancing at Prescott’s thoughtful face as he looked into the fire, his -brow cleared again, and he said,— - -“At any rate, old man, I was a fool to ask your opinion, for I might -have known beforehand what it would be. You had as good as said you were -in the plot with uncle, and advised me to marry Alice, so you are put -out by finding that you are ridiculously mistaken. I can only say, that -as you would have doubtless acted so much more wisely in the matter than -I have done, I wish you had been in my place.” - -“I wish to heaven that I had been, Frank,” Prescott said, with an -earnest sadness. - -“Upon my word, I wish you had, Prescott, for I do believe that you love -Alice; although why, if you do, you should have been urging me on to -marry her, is more than I can make out.” - -“I wished you to marry her, Frank, because, above all things, 1 should -want to see her happy.” - -“Then why in the name of fortune don’t you marry her, and make her happy -yourself, Prescott?” - -“Because she would not let me, Frank.” - -“Pooh, nonsense, Prescott! we know very well that she does not care for -me, thank goodness; and, therefore, it is all the more likely that she -may for you.” - -Prescott did not care to pursue the subject farther, for he did not wish -his friend to see that he felt any serious interest in the matter. - -When Frank Maynard had left the house in Lowndes Square, Alice Heathcote -did not for some time carry out the intention she had expressed of going -downstairs to pacify her uncle. As she sat in her low easy-chair before -the fire, not leaning back, but with her figure bowed, her hands -listlessly clasping each other, and a look of weary hopelessness upon -her face, she needed comfort too much to be able to dispense it. Alice -had suffered a severe shock; one of those shocks which cast a shade over -the whole life. The pain of a rejection—or, perhaps, more properly -speaking, the duration of that pain—is in almost exact proportion to the -amount of hope which was previously entertained. Instances are not -wanting, indeed, where a perfectly hopeless attachment has embittered a -whole existence; but those who so suffered must have been endowed either -with a peculiarly sensitive organisation, or an ill-regulated mind. - -It is the same thing in all relations of life. If a man hopes to attain -a large fortune by the death of a relation, or by a fortunate -speculation, or successful invention, he will form plans for the future, -and build greatly upon his expectations. It will be a great shock, then, -when he finds that the money is left to another, or the speculation or -invention turns out a failure; but it will not rankle in his mind, will -not permanently affect his whole career in life as it would do had a -banker, with whom he had placed a similar sum of money, failed. It needs -certainty, or that strong belief which is the same as certainty, to make -the loss of a fortune, or the failure of a love-dream, cast a permanent -blight over a life. Had Alice Heathcote doubted Frank’s feelings for -her, she might still have loved him truly, she might have dreamed happy -dreams, and built fairy castles of love and happiness. But she never -would have quite given way to her love; she would have known that her -dreams were but visions which might never come true, and that her -castles were but baseless fabrics after all. Had she then found out that -Frank did not love her, she would have felt it as a very great pain; she -would have mourned over her vanished dreams, and her ruined castles, but -the wound, deep as it might have been, would have healed over in time, -and left but a slight scar. But she had believed, believed surely, that -her love was returned, and so had given her whole heart, and nursed her -love until it had become a part of her very being. Many things had -assisted to cause this delusion. For so many years, almost ever since -she could remember, she had looked up to him as her protector and -adviser. He had always seemed fond of her, and, having no sister of his -own, had petted and made very much of her; and Frank had a warm kindly -way about his manner and talk which might very well deceive a young girl -into the belief that his affection was love. While he was abroad, too, -he had written so often and so affectionately, that, judging his -feelings by her own, she had believed that he loved her. But most of all -she had been deceived by her uncle’s manner and talk. The little hints -and innuendos he frequently threw out, the way in which he had seemed to -consider that it was a settled thing, had impressed her with the idea -that Frank had spoken to him upon the subject before he left England, -and was only waiting until his return to ask her formally. And so she -had given her whole heart, trustingly and confidingly, and it was now a -terrible shock to find that she had been mistaken after all. She could -not blame him; she knew now that her eyes were opened, that he had never -spoken or looked as a cousin, thrown with her as he had been, might not -have done. Nor could she blame herself; for she felt that it would, -under the circumstances, have been next to impossible for her not to -have misinterpreted him. She could only lament her mistake, and feel -with grief and bitterness, that her bright hopes and dreams had all -faded away, that her castles which had seemed so solid had fallen, and -that there was nothing to take their place; that dreaming and hoping -were over for her, and the light of her life gone out for ever. So she -sat there, and looked with a dull pain into the fire; the slight fingers -twined in and out round each other, the lips, folded together to keep in -the cry of grief she could hardly repress, yet quivering restlessly, -while from time to time great tears rolled down from the long lashes. -For a long while she sat thus; sometimes quite quiet, at others swaying -herself backwards and forwards. At last, when the clock upon the mantel -struck six, she roused herself with a weary sigh that was almost a wail, -passed her hands slowly across her forehead and back over the hair by -her temples, and then, dropping them listlessly by her side, passed out -and up to her own room. She did not come downstairs until the dinner was -announced; but when she did there were few signs upon her face of the -hard struggle she had gone through. Captain Bradshaw, on the other hand, -had by no means recovered the equability of his temper. He was -throughout dinner in a state of explosion. He swore at the footman in an -unusual way, and sent fiery messages to the cook, until she was, as she -expressed it, so flustered she did not know what she was doing. Even the -footman, accustomed as he was to his master’s outbreaks, felt aggrieved. - -“He is just the very image of an Indian tiger, cook. I have been with -him a good many years now, but I never did know him so awful -cantankerous as he is to-day. He ain’t a bad master, the Captain, -noways, but flesh and blood can’t put up with him; not white flesh and -blood, black might; I shall tell him in the morning he must provide -himself elsewhere.” - -“Why didn’t you tell him now?” the cook asked sarcastically. “I would, -right off.” - -“I don’t think you would now, cook; I wouldn’t, no, not if he were to -swear ten times wuss at me. He’s a regular old tiger, when his temper’s -up, he is; and if any one were to say anything to him it would be a -dreadful business; pretty nigh as much as one’s life were worth, I -should say. Lor’ bless you, he would think nothing of taking up a poker -or a candlestick, or a soup tureen, or anything which happened to come -handy to him at the time.” - -“And what does Miss Alice say to it all, James?” - -“She is a right down good one, she is,” the footman said, admiringly; -“she does all she can, but to-day he’s too fierce even for her. She -ain’t looking quite herself neither. She did try once or twice to smooth -him down a bit, but, bless you, when he’s in such a tantrum as he is -to-day, nothing short of a strait-waistcoat and a cold bath would smooth -him down.” - -While this conversation was passing below, Alice Heathcote was having by -no means a pleasant time of it upstairs. Captain Bradshaw had taken his -usual place by the fire, with his port wine upon a small table beside -him, while Alice sat down opposite, with a piece of fancy work in her -hands as an excuse for idleness. For a little time after the servant had -left the room, there was silence, and then Captain Bradshaw, after -drinking off a glass of wine, and pouring himself out another, said, -with great deliberation,— - -“And now, Alice, I shall be glad if you will give me an explanation of -all this; for, damme, if I can make head or tail of it.” - -“My dear uncle,” Alice said, cheerfully, “I don’t know that there is -anything to explain. You see, Frank and I do not want to marry each -other, and although I believe that parents and guardians have a right to -put a veto upon marriages of which they do not approve, I confess that I -do not think their power extends to the point of compelling two strongly -objecting parties to marry each other.” - -Captain Bradshaw rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief, and then -performed the same operation with great violence all over his head, -brushing up his short grey hair into a state of the wildest and most -aggressive looking confusion. It was not that he was actually hot, but -it was a trick he had acquired in India, and was a certain sign, with -him, of great irritation. - -“But I always looked upon it as a settled thing, Alice; I have set my -mind upon it for years, and I always felt sure that you were fond of -him. I don’t know what to make of it; but if you do care for him, Alice, -by Gad, he shall marry you, or, at any rate, he shall be made most -thoroughly to understand that not one penny of my money shall he ever -have if he does not.” - -“Thank you very much, uncle,” Alice said, smiling quietly; “but you see -I should not particularly care about being married to a man who only -took me as an incumbrance with my money and yours.” - -“But, Alice,” her uncle said impatiently, “I do not understand why you -took his part to-day, and so rendered all I said of no avail. I was sure -you cared for him. You never attempted to deny it when I spoke to you -upon the subject, and now you upset all the force of my arguments, and -confirm that young jackanapes in his refusal to listen to my wishes, by -saying that you are mutually indifferent to each other.” - -“My dear uncle,” Alice said, very gravely, “the whole of the unfortunate -position has been brought about by your deceiving yourself in the first -place; and in the second, by the very unfair and unjustifiable way in -which you have deceived me.” - -“Upon my word, Alice,” Captain Bradshaw said, astonished at this sudden -attack upon himself, and replacing untasted upon the table the wine he -was in the act of raising to his lips, “I do not understand what you -mean.” - -“This is what I mean, uncle. You all along thought and hoped that Frank -and I would some day take a fancy to each other. About that I have no -reason to complain, nor that you deceived yourself into believing that -things were turning out as you wished. What you were wrong in, my dear -uncle, was, to have spoken to me as you did about Frank. What could I -think? I could not suppose it possible that you were doing so merely -upon the strength of your hopes upon the subject. I naturally concluded -that you were in his confidence, that you had talked the matter over -before he left England, and that although he or you might have thought -it wrong to ask me to enter upon an engagement at the age of eighteen, -and just as he was leaving England for two or three years, still that he -perfectly intended to propose for me upon his return. What else could I -think, uncle?” - -Captain Bradshaw was silent. He felt that he had been wrong, and that -without sufficient cause he had led his niece to believe that Frank -loved her, and had thus greatly endangered the happiness of his -favourite. Once feeling himself to be wrong, no one could be more ready -to admit it than Captain Bradshaw. - -“Upon my word, Alice,” he said, earnestly, “I never looked upon it in -that light. I see that what you say is true, and that I have behaved -like an old fool, as I am, in the matter. But even now it may not be too -late—even now I may be able to persuade Frank——” - -“My dear uncle, you forget that I could not accept him under such -conditions, and beside that, few men are less likely to be persuaded or -forced in a matter of this sort than Frank is. It would be folly upon my -part to pretend that I do not like him very much. I always believed that -he cared for me; and I daresay, had he been very attentive when he -returned, and made pretty speeches, and behaved well, I should not have, -thrown any serious obstacle in the way of the fulfilment of your pet -project. As it is, I find now that I have been mistaken all along as to -the whole affair, and all I have to do is, to make myself as comfortable -as possible under the circumstances.” - -“I am afraid that I have done a great deal of harm,” the old man said, -sadly, “and I can only say that I did not do it wilfully, for I -certainly deceived myself as much as I did you; but that is a very poor -consolation to me when I reflect that my thoughtless folly has made you -miserable.” - -“Not miserable, uncle,” Alice said, speaking as cheerfully as she could, -though she had very hard work to prevent herself from breaking down and -going off in a fit of crying. “Not quite so bad as that. It has been a -little shock for me, but I shall soon get over that. But, please, do not -speak about it any more. At any rate, Frank is not to blame in the -matter. You could not renew it with him without letting out that we have -both been deceiving ourselves about it; and it would, of course, be very -painful for me to know that he even guessed that it was so.” So saying, -Alice went across and kissed her uncle. “That is settled, then?” - -“Ay, ay, Alice. I do not see that I can say no to you. I have made so -much mischief that the least I can do is to let you have your own way -now. As for Frank, I repeat what I told him to-day—that he is a thorough -fool not to have fallen in love with the dearest and best girl in the -world.” - -Alice was satisfied, for she had gained more than she had anticipated, -knowing well how obstinate her uncle was when he had once set his mind -upon anything. Indeed, it was only the thought, that the pain he knew -Alice must be feeling was caused by his own error, which made Captain -Bradshaw, as a sort of reparation, give up his long-cherished plans and -hopes. - -And so, as far as taking active measures were concerned, the matter -dropped; but not from the thoughts of either. Captain Bradshaw could not -forgive Frank all at once, for having thwarted his plans, and made Alice -unhappy; nor could he forgive himself for the share he had taken in the -affair. For although Alice tried hard to seem cheerful when with her -uncle,—though she talked more, and smiled more frequently than had been -her wont,—she could not deceive him, now that he was really watching -her. Her voice was not always steady and under her command; she spoke in -a forced way, very unlike her former merry talk; and above all, the -smile never went farther than her lips—never lit up the rest of her -face. Over that a cloud had fallen. It was difficult to say what the -change was, but it was as if the light had suddenly gone out. Her uncle -tried to be very kind to her, but at this time he did not make matters -easy for her. The very tone of kindness and commiseration in which he -spoke to her was in itself a trial; while with every one else he was so -terribly bad tempered that he made the lives of all around him a burden -to them. - -Frank called a few days afterwards, and Captain Bradshaw hardly spoke to -him; but Frank had made up his mind that his uncle must be allowed time -to work off his disappointment, and appeared to take no notice of this, -but chatted with Alice as usual. - -These first visits of Frank’s were a great trial to Alice, but she had -at least the satisfaction of knowing that he did not even guess what the -state of her heart was, and was therefore able to get on with him better -than she had expected to have done. At first, too, Frank made his calls -as short as possible, for with his uncle in a state of extreme -irritation, they were by no means pleasant visits. After a fortnight or -so Captain Bradshaw began to calm down, and things gradually resumed -their old footing, except that Alice still looked pale and wan, and her -voice was no longer to be heard singing snatches of old ballads as she -moved about the house. But of this Frank knew nothing, and put down her -altered looks partly to the annoyances he conceived that she had to bear -from his uncle’s temper. - -It was after one of these visits he said to Prescott,— - -“I think, Prescott, it would be a great thing if I were to go away for a -little while. I have been thinking on my way back, that if I were to -write to Teddy Drake, and offer to pay him a visit, it would be very -good fun, and would give my uncle time to get into a better temper. As -long as I am in town I must call regularly, and that keeps the sore -open; whereas, if I go away only for a fortnight it will calm him down a -little. I shall be very glad to see Teddy, too, for I have not seen him -since I came back.” - -“I think it is a very good plan, Frank. Do you know his address?” - -“Oh, yes. Teddy and I exchange letters once a year or so. I will write -at once, Prescott. I shall be very glad to get away for awhile, for I am -heartily sick of this London life.” - - - END OF VOL. I. - - - BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Changed ‘easily lead’ to ‘easily led’ on p. 264. - 2. Silently corrected typographical errors. - 3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of All But Lost Vol 1 of 3, by G. A. 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