Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

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.

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.

[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.