Cover Note:
The cover image has been created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Transcriber's Notes.

• Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors have been silently corrected.
• Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
• Variations in hyphenation have been standardised.

ALL BUT LOST.

ALL BUT LOST.
A Novel.

BY

G. A. HENTY,
AUTHOR OF THE “MARCH TO MAGDALA” ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

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.
WHO WILL WIN THEM?

Teddy Drake' s answer to Frank's letter came by return of post, and Frank at once went up to Prescott's rooms in a state of some excitement to read him its contents. They were as follows:—

“My dear Frank,

“When I opened your letter and saw your signature I was so overwhelmed with astonishment and delight that I nearly upset the tea-tray, quite upset (I mean as regards temper) my respected father, who hates excitement; and the affair would probably have ended fatally, had not the girls administered brandy in small doses. Seriously, Frank, I am truly glad to see your fist again, and still more so to hear that you will come down and see us, if invited. Please consider yourself invited hereby. We are all agreed, father, mother, and girls, that you will be received with open arms—that is by me. Fortunately, this is of all others just the time for you to come, for we are about to plunge into dissipation. My eldest sister, Margaret, is just going to be married. The event comes off on Thursday, and there are great killings of the fatted calf over the departure of the prodigal. Now a wedding in London is, I imagine, a serious, not to say heavy, business. Here it gives rise to no end of fun and excitement, and is wound up by a ball in the evening. You will be a great acquisition. Travelled swells are scarce in these parts, and as Shakespeare says, ‘homekeeping folks have ever homely wits.’ So great things will be expected of you. My people here know all about you, having heard me speak of you a thousand times. So lose no time, but put yourself into the train at twelve o'clock upon the day you receive this. I shall be at the station, Stoke you know, at half-past five to meet you; so let there be no mistake about it. Shake old Prescott by the hand for me.—Yours very truly,

“Teddy Drake.

Prescott laughed over the letter.

“I suppose you mean to go, Frank?”

“Of course,” Frank said. “This is quite an excitement. A country wedding will be a relief indeed after these solemn London parties. Well, I have no time to lose, and must go and get gloves and things for the festive occasion. Keep your eye on Buttons, Prescott, and make him useful.”

It was nearly six o'clock, and already dark, when Frank arrived at the dingy little station of Stoke-on-Trent. Teddy Drake was upon the platform to meet him, and was perfectly uproarious in his greeting.

“And so am I to see you, Drake, very glad. You are not a bit altered.”

“You are, Frank, tremendously. I should hardly have known you with those big whiskers. Is that portmanteau all you have? That is right. Here, porter, just put this portmanteau in my dog-cart.”

“This Trent valley of yours, Drake, is rather alarming to a weak-minded man. All these flaming forges and kilns certainly give one the idea that the crust of the earth must be of unusual thinness hereabouts, and the hot regions unpleasantly near. I do not feel singed yet, certainly, still one can't but think that facilis descensus averni. The question is, ‘shall I hence unscathed go?’”

Teddy laughed.

“To another man I should have said that the bright eyes of the Staffordshire girls were more dangerous than their fathers' fires; but you, who have seen the beauties of Spain, Italy, and the East, are not likely to be scorched by our lesser luminaries.”

“You see more pretty faces in a week in England than in a year abroad, Teddy. How far is your place?”

“Only another hundred yards or so. There, you can see the lights among the trees. Now, we are turning in at the gate. Mind your face, Frank: some of these shrubs want cutting. Here we are.”

The front-door was opened as the dog-cart drove up, and the bright light streamed cheerfully out into the damp evening. Mr. Drake was in the hall.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Maynard. We have heard so much of you from Teddy that we all feel as if you were quite an old friend.”

“Come along, Frank; I will show you your room. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, so you had better go up at once, and then I can introduce you to the womankind.”

The room was a small one, for which Teddy apologised.

“You must put up with a small room, Frank, for to-morrow we shall have no end of people here,—bridesmaids and aunts, and that sort of thing.”

“You need not apologise, Teddy. After knocking about Europe and the East for the last two years I am not likely to quarrel with such a room as this. Now, you go off and dress while I am unpacking, and come in again as soon as you can, and talk to me.”

Teddy was not long absent.

“Now, Teddy, sit down while I am dressing, and tell me about every one; give me the consigne, as it were.”

“The present occupants of the house,” Teddy Drake said, “are, first, my father, whom you have seen—a dacent man, though I say it myself—acting partner in the great house of Painter & Co., porcelain manufacturers; an Englishman, quiet and matter of fact; has not a keen appreciation of a joke. My mother is Irish to the backbone, and we all take after her. Indeed, we spend a good deal of our time over there with her relations, and the brogue comes natural to us. I always use it myself, especially when I am talking with ladies; one can venture upon a tinder sentiment in the brogue which one could never hazard in Saxon. The only son of the above-mentioned couple——”

“Spare me that, Teddy,” Frank laughed; “I know more of him than is to his advantage already.”

“Now I call that unkind, Frank; I was about to have said some neat things about Edward Drake, Esq. My elder sister Margaret is to be married in two days, so you won't see much of her, and I need not bother you with a description. She is quiet, and takes after her father. Sarah is one of the jolliest girls you will meet in a day's journey, and Katie's a darling.”

“I remember your speaking of your two elder sisters at Cambridge, Teddy, but I do not think I heard you mention the youngest.”

“Oh, Katie is not a sister at all, Frank. She is a cousin—a downright Irish girl. She has lost her father and mother, and has been living with us for the last two years. Now, Frank, make haste with your dressing, and draw it as mild as you conveniently can, for the girls' sake. It is not fair, Frank; upon my life, it is not. I told them that you were really a good fellow, and they are prepared to like you upon my recommendation; but I said that, as far as looks went, you were nothing to speak of—in fact, rather the contrary—and now they'll think I've been humbugging them entirely.”

“I am very much obliged to you for your recommendation, Teddy,” Frank said, laughing.

“It's as true as the piper, Frank. You know you were not a bit good-looking—too thin and whipcordy; but now you have got so much broader, and those whiskers of yours alter your face altogether. Do you know, Frank,” Teddy said, critically, “you are really an uncommonly good-looking fellow.”

“Have you got any boxing-gloves in the house, Teddy?” Frank asked, laughing; “because, if so, we will put them on after breakfast to-morrow.”

“No, thank you, Frank, I know you of old; and at any rate no boxing for me till after the wedding. There, now you are ready; let's go downstairs. Dinner will be ready in three or four minutes.”

As Frank Maynard crossed the drawing-room, he came to the rapid conclusion that Teddy's sister Sarah was a tall, handsome girl, with good features, and a happy, good-natured expression like that of her brother. Katie was short and rather plump, with large eyes, which Frank noticed, with amusement, opened a little wider in surprise as he entered. Teddy had evidently drawn his portrait in most unflattering colours, for the introduction over, Sarah's first remark was,—

“I should not have known you in the least, Mr. Maynard, by Teddy's description. You are not one bit like it; is he, Katie?”

“No,” Katie said; “not in one bit. Teddy, what did you take us in that way at all for?”

“'Pon my life, Katie, it's as true as could be. It's the whiskers have made the difference to him.”

“Nonsense, Teddy. Don't believe him, Miss Drake; he has been making fun of you on purpose. Teddy was always great at romancing.”

“Don't you mind what these young people say, Mr. Maynard; they are very rude,” Mrs. Drake said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Drake, I am pretty well able to take care of myself, and I know Teddy of old.”

When they were fairly seated at dinner, Frank had time to examine his new acquaintances more accurately. Miss Drake was something like her sister Sarah in appearance, but was more quiet and subdued. Sarah, he thought, was really very pretty, and seemed as full of spirits and fun as her brother. Kate O'Byrne was, as has been said, short and rather plump. Her hair was jet black, and her head set gracefully on to her neck. Her features were not particularly good, but her eyes were beautiful; large eyes of uncertain colour, now hazel, now grey, generally very soft and trusting in their expression, but frequently lighting up with an arch ripple of fun, and when indignant flashing out defiantly; eyes which in repose, shaded by the long black eyelashes, were soft and thoughtful, but which looked up so earnestly and straight for an answer, that he would have been a bold man who would have ventured upon an untruth to their owner. A soft, plump cheek, lips slightly parted, a pretty chin with a little double roll beneath it, a soft and very musical voice, a very small, well-shaped hand, and, as Frank afterwards noticed, tiny feet. Katie O'Byrne was not nearly so pretty, so far as prettiness went, as her cousin Sarah: hers was one of those faces which do not strike greatly at first sight, but grow gradually upon one. A face with a good deal of character and firmness; altogether, as Frank said to himself at the end of the evening, “a very loveable face.”

The conversation at dinner was sustained with unflagging spirit, principally by Frank, Teddy Drake, and his sister Sarah. Miss O'Byrne did not talk much, and indeed, Frank found afterwards that she seldom took much share in general conversation.

Frank did not sit long over his wine, but soon joined the ladies in the drawing-room, and was speedily engaged in an animated skirmish with the two girls. Then they had some music, and Miss O'Byrne sang some Irish melodies in a pure, rich, contralto voice, which had been thoroughly trained, and with a feeling and expression which delighted Frank. The ladies retired early, as the next was to be a fatiguing day, and Frank and Teddy sat up smoking and talking of college days, until a very late hour indeed.

The next day the house filled with guests, and great were the preparations for the event of the day following. Frank and Teddy were in great request, and found full occupation in assisting the bridesmaids to fill the vases, &c., with flowers. Furniture, too, had to be moved, and many arrangements improvised, for the ball in the evening. Very gay was the wedding, and the whole town of Stoke made holiday. The wedding festivities were followed by much general gaiety,—dinners, small dances, and balls. The Drakes' house continued full of guests, and Frank had great opportunities in the midst of all these gaieties to indulge in a very extensive amount of flirtation. After his long absence on the Continent, there was a great charm in the unrestrained and familiar intercourse with a number of young English girls as lively, innocent, and fearless as young fawns. But if he flirted, he flirted generally, dividing his attentions with perfect impartiality among the bridesmaids, and, with the assistance of Teddy Drake, keeping up a perpetual state of fun and laughter with them. Miss Drake and himself were great allies. After the first few days they had, by mutual consent, taken to call each other Frank and Sarah. With her cousin Frank never attempted a similar step, but addressed her as Miss O'Byrne, in a formal manner, and took excessive pleasure in teazing her in that and other small matters, especially in respect of her brogue, to her no small indignation. For Katie was a staid little person in her way, and stood rather on her dignity, and she chafed not a little under the feeling that even when Frank was professing the utmost deference to her opinion, he was really quietly bantering her. One evening, when Frank had been there nearly three weeks, and was talking of leaving in a few days, he had been specially teazing. Katie had fought hard as usual, but had been conscious of being worsted, and when she went upstairs for the night, she said to her cousin,—

“I am really glad Mr. Maynard is going, Sarah. I begin almost to hate him.”

Sarah opened her eyes in astonishment.

“What nonsense, Katie. You don't mean it? Why I do think he is the very nicest fellow I ever met.”

“Yes, I suppose so, Sarah; and his opinion of you seems to be equally good.”

“I hope so,” Sarah said; “one always wishes to be liked by people as one likes them.”

“Stuff, Sarah! My opinion is,” Katie said, positively, “that we shall have another wedding here one of these days.”

“Perhaps so, Katie,” Sarah answered composedly; “but I do not think we should name the same person if we were to guess.”

“Well, Sarah, I will bet you half-a-dozen pairs of kid gloves upon it.”

“Very well, Katie, I bet. Now who do you name?”

“Frank Maynard and you, of course.

“That's your idea, Katie, is it?” Sarah said, provokingly cool.

“Yes, it is, Sarah,” Katie said, sturdily. “Now, Sarah, you don't think you can deceive me. Never mind, dear, though he does make me mad with him, he's a very good fellow, and you have my full consent and approval.”

“Thank you, dear—wait till you're asked.”

“It won't be so very long, Sarah.”

“Yes, it will, Katie. Frank and I are the best friends in the world, but if he were stopping here for the next ten years we should never be anything more.”

“Now, Sarah, you name your couple. It must be one of the bridesmaids you know, or at any rate, some one down here.”

“It is one of the bridesmaids,” Sarah said quietly.

“Well, which?” Katie said, impatiently.

“Katie O'Byrne.”

A flush of colour came into Katie's face, and she said, indignantly,—

“Sarah, you're making fun of me!”

“No, I am not, my dear. That's the couple I name for six pair of kid gloves against the other.”

“Ah, well,” Katie said, “then if what you say about yourself is true, our bet will never be decided. He dislikes me, I'm sure of it, and certainly I dislike him. Why, he's always making fun of me. He never even says a civil word to me, and I'm sure I don't want him to.”

“My dear Katie, I don't say the affair is coming off at once. I don't even say that I believe, or rather that I have any reason to believe, that Frank is in love with you. I only say, as you challenged me to fix on one of the bridesmaids, I fix upon you. He makes no distinction between the others; he flirts with them miscellaneously. You are the only exception. He certainly does take pleasure in teazing you, and in making you indignant, but that shows at least that he thinks you worth the trouble of teazing. He almost always manages to get next to you out walking and at meals, quite accidentally, Katie, or else wonderfully well managed.”

“Nonsense, Sarah; I never remarked it.”

“Very well, Katie; but it is so for all that.”

Her cousin thought a little, and then said,—

“Well, if he does, Sarah, it is only because he sees I would rather he didn't, and wants to bother me. No, no; you may not have to pay your gloves, but you will never win mine. I never heard a more ridiculous idea in my life.”

“Well, Katie, we shall see,” Sarah said. “Now I must be off to bed.”

The next day they were out in the garden, looking for violets, for it was now the end of March. Frank and Miss O'Bryne were a little apart from the others, and he had just made an attack upon Ireland. The girl turned round upon him, suddenly,—

“Why do you always treat me like a spoilt child, Mr. Maynard? Why are you always teazing me and making me mad?”

“Not always, I hope, Miss O'Byrne?” Frank said, seriously.

“Yes, you are,” Katie said, indignantly; “you are laughing at me now. Why do you do it?”

“Do you really wish me to tell you, Miss O'Byrne?”

“Oh, I suppose you are going to invent some ridiculous compliment, but I won't believe it, Mr. Maynard.”

“Are you quite sure, Miss O'Byrne?”

“Sure and sure,” Katie said, resolutely.

“Well, I shall try to convince you,” Frank said. “Do you like the sea?”

“I don't see what that has to do with the question, Mr. Maynard. But, yes, I do like it—I love it dearly.”

“So do I, Miss O'Byrne. Are you a good sailor?”

“Oh, yes,” Katie said; “I always lived near the sea, and used to go out in yachts. Yes, I am a very good sailor.”

“Then, of course, you enjoy rough weather, Miss O'Byrne? I like, above all things, to see a storm.”

“So do I,” she said, enthusiastically. “I love being out when it is really rough.”

“I suppose, then, you will agree with me, Miss O'Byrne, that no one who does not really love the sea could enjoy a gale.”

Katie thought the proposition over for a second.

“No, I suppose not,” she said. “But I really don't see that this has anything to do with what I asked you—why are you always teazing me?”

“I have been answering your question the whole time, Miss O'Byrne. You have only to suppose you are the sea.”

The girl thought a moment, and then looked up indignantly, with a heightened colour, as she saw the application.

“What nonsense you talk, Mr. Maynard. You will try to persuade me next that to knock a person down is a sign of friendship. I shall never believe you again,” she said, as she turned to join the others.

“Yes you will, some day, Katie,” Frank said, following her closely.

Miss O'Byrne did not appear to have heard, but she had. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name, and it sounded strangely to her from his lips. Katie could not help colouring, and was angry with herself for doing so, and still more angry when she saw by a little quiet smile on Sarah's face that she noticed it. When she thought the matter over, she determined, on the first opportunity to tell Mr. Maynard she considered it to be a great liberty. But then she felt certain Frank would only laugh and say that he called her cousin “Sarah,” but that if Miss O'Byrne objected, he would apologise, and not repeat the offence. After all, too, there was no particular reason why she should object any more than Sarah. As to that talk about the sea, it was absurd.

“No one would care for a storm unless he loved the sea,” Katie said, thoughtfully; “and of course he meant me to suppose that he would not have cared about making me mad if he didn't—well, like me. What humbugs men are,” she exclaimed, indignantly; “I do think they imagine we girls are fools enough to believe any stuff they like to tell us.”

Frank Maynard did not repeat the offence of calling her by her Christian name until he said good-bye to her upon leaving.

“What impudence!” Katie said to herself, as she looked after the dog-cart; “what impudence, to venture to squeeze my hand, as he certainly did, just as if he would persuade me that all his rudeness is to go for nothing. Well, men are humbugs! I wonder whether he will ever come back again.”

CHAPTER II.
THE “LIVELY STUNNERS.”

After the first greeting between Frank Maynard and his friend Prescott, upon the former's return from Staffordshire, and when they had fairly sat down in Frank's room for a talk, Prescott said,—

“Now, Frank, let me hear all about what you have been doing. Your letters were not long, and you seemed enjoying yourself down there, Frank. I suppose Teddy is just about the same as he used to be.”

“Just the same,” Frank laughed; “he pretends to assist his father in the business, but I fancy the material advantage, derived by Painter and Co. from Teddy's services, is slight indeed. He went round the manufactory with me, and I find that his knowledge upon the subject of china is absolutely nil. I question if he would know the difference between Dresden and Sèvres, or between Limoges and Etruscan; and I should imagine his ideas on the subject of accounts, are, if possible, even more vague. No, he is just what he used to be—a careless, warm-hearted Irishman, and the best fellow in the world.”

“But Mr. Drake is not Irish, Frank?”

“Not the least in the world. A particularly practical, long-headed, sensible Englishman. His Celtic blood all comes from his mother. She is as Irish in her way as he is in his, and so is his sister.”

“Is Miss Drake pretty, Frank?”

“Yes,” Frank said, “very pretty; an awfully jolly girl, Prescott, not the least bit of nonsense about her—downright and straightforward, you know.”

Prescott glanced up. But he saw that Frank was too outspoken in his praise to be the least in love.

“Tall or short, Frank?”

“Tall,” Frank said; “a good deal like Teddy; fancy Teddy a pretty girl, and you've got Sarah.”

“And there was a cousin with an Irish name, Frank, wasn't there? You mentioned her in your first letter, but you did not allude to her afterwards. What was she like?”

Frank was longer in giving his answer this time.

“Well,” he said, slowly, “Miss O'Byrne would hardly be considered very pretty, at least I don't think most people would call her so. No, I should say not. She was rather short; and, yes, I should say, and plump.”

Prescott glanced across again at Frank, and a little amused smile came across his face at the cautious way in which he had spoken. But Frank was looking thoughtfully into the fire, and did not notice it.

“There were other young ladies staying in the house you said, Frank. Was there anything special about any of them?”

“No,” Frank said, carelessly; “they were a very jolly lot of girls; I had great fun down there.”

“Lots of dancing, and music, and so on, I suppose, Frank?”

“No end,” Frank said.

“Any of the girls sing well?”

“Katie sang splendidly; one of the finest voices I ever heard in my life,” Frank said, enthusiastically.

“Katie?” Prescott repeated questioningly.

“Miss OByrne,” Frank explained.

“Ah,” Prescott said, with a smile, “the stout little cousin.”

“Good heavens, Prescott,” Frank said, turning round with great indignation, “what are you talking about?—stout little—by Jove, what put such a ridiculous idea in your head?”

“Why, my dear Frank, you said she was rather short and plump.”

“Pooh, nonsense,” Frank said; “she is rather short, perhaps, but has a charming little figure; just a little plump; but—” and muttering the obnoxious word over to himself, he smoked away in short angry puffs.

Prescott could hardly help laughing aloud at the success which attended his ruse.

“So Miss O'Byrne is not to be talked of lightly, eh, Frank?”

“Oh, nonsense,” Frank said. “Of course one doesn't like to hear a girl like Katie talked of as a stout little—but there, of course you couldn't tell.”

“And do you ever mean to repeat your visit, Frank?”

“Well, yes, Prescott, I expect I shall go down there again; at least I hope so.”

“And may I ask, Frank, if you have any intention of bringing Miss O'Byrne back with you?”

Frank put his pipe down, and looked at Prescott, who was evidently greatly amused; then, after a moment's pause, he said,—

“You have guessed it, Prescott, sure enough. If Katie will come, I will bring her up.”

“Really, Frank?”

“Really, old man. I should have told you sooner or later. I am quite in earnest. I will marry Katie O'Byrne if she will have me.”

“I am very glad, Frank, very glad indeed;” and Prescott shook his friend warmly by the hand. “I always hoped you would do it sooner or later, Frank. You are only leading an idle useless life, and a wife will be the making of you. Of course she is very nice, Frank.”

“My dear fellow,” Frank said, quite inclined to be communicative now that the ice was pan> broken, “she is the most loveable girl in the world.”

Prescott laughed.

“But not pretty, eh, Frank?”

“Well, Prescott, I suppose most men wouldn't call her pretty at first; I don't think I did; but I think her so now. Not pretty, perhaps, but loveable; that's the only word that expresses it, Prescott; just loveable, with the most trusting eyes you ever saw. She is full of fun, Katie, and has got a very decided will of her own. Not a bit of a muff, you know, Prescott.”

“No, I don't think you would be likely to fall in love with a muff, Frank. Well, and what does the young lady think of you, Frank? Was it a very strong flirtation?”

Frank laughed.

“No, Prescott, not a bit of it. It was perpetual war. I am afraid I was very hard on her, but I did like teazing her, and making her indignant. Katie has rather a will of her own, you see, and can hit very hard when she likes; and she was immensely angry at being made fun of. I do think, sometimes, she almost hated me. I don't think she has the least idea I care for her; but I don't know, Prescott, I hope that in the end I shall win her.”

Prescott smiled at Frank's description of his love-making.

“Well, Frank, and what do you propose doing with yourself this evening?”

“I hardly know, Prescott. I feel too restless to sit still, and a theatre would be just as bad. What with drives, and dinners, and parties, and a constant state of light skirmishing when I was with Katie, and an extreme amount of thought and restlessness when I was alone, I have been kept in a state of constant excitement for the last three weeks. I was always wondering whether anything would come of it; whether it was a mere case of strong flirtation, such as I have been engaged in fifty times before, or whether I was seriously in earnest. And then at last I arrived at the fixed and settled determination that of all the women I ever met, Katie was the one most certain to make me perfectly happy. Altogether I have been regularly worked up, and it would be quite impossible for me to sit still. I want something to let off the steam. A row would suit me admirably. It would be an immense satisfaction to hit out from the shoulder. Suppose we go to the ‘Stunners.’ There is sure to be some sparring going on; and if there's no one else, I can put on the gloves with Perkins. What do you say, Prescott?”

“Anything you like, Frank, so that I am not called upon to bail you out.”

So after dinner they went up to the “Lively Stunners.” The “Stunners” was a public-house, situated in one of the small streets lying above the top of the Haymarket. Not an aristocratic neighbourhood, indeed the reverse; but the “Stunners” did a good business, as even Perkins was ready to allow. Perkins was behind the bar in his shirt-sleeves, and was very busy indeed when the young men entered.

“Ah, Mr. Maynard, I am glad to see you, sir.”

“How are you, Perkins? Anything going on upstairs?”

“Not much, sir. It's not the night for sparring. We've got harmony to-night, sir.”

“I want a set-to with the gloves, Perkins. What do you say?”

“Well, sir, I should be willing enough, but I am going out for a spree. Just the thing to suit you if you are in the humour.”

“What is it, Perkins?”

“Well, sir, you must keep it dark, or it wouldn't do me any good in my business; but the Slogger and I are going,”—and here he bent over the bar with an air of great mystery,—“we're going to a Chartist meeting to-night. The Slogger knows a fellow who is hot about it, and he's put him up to the pass-word. So we're going, and if you and Mr. Prescott are game, you can go with us. We can easily get up a row if we like, and it's hard if us four can't fight our way out of it.”

“The very thing, Perkins; as you say, it's hard if we can't get up a row somehow. What do you say, Prescott?”

“Anything you like, Frank. A black eye will not look strictly professional, but as I have no case on in court it won't much matter. I have not used my fists since that last town and gown row we were in together at Cambridge; and I have no objection to a row for once in a way.”

“Well, Mr. Maynard, we are not to start till half-past nine, it's no use getting there too early, so if you don't mind going upstairs for an hour, I will tell you when it is time to be off.”

“If there's no sparring going on, Perkins, I think we'll go out for a stroll, and come back at the time you name. I can't stand the bad tobacco smoke, and the bad singing.”

“Now, gentlemen, if you're ready,” Perkins said, when they returned, “I'm with you.”

They went into the bar-parlour, where the Slogger, a powerful man, with the unmistakeable look of a prize fighter, was awaiting them.

“You are not thinking of going like that?” he asked. “Lor', they'd never let you in, not if you'd twenty pass-words, and if they did, they'd pitch into us directly we were in the light. No; if you mean to go, you must go like working men.”

“Have you any clothes you could lend us, Perkins?”

“Well, sir, I've an old greatcoat which would cover you well enough, and I dare say I can rummage out something for Mr. Prescott. As for hats, your best way is to send out and buy a couple of cheap billycocks. You can pull them down over your eyes. I think that with that, and if you take off your collars, and put a black handkerchief or a bird's eye round your necks, you will pass well enough.”

The transformation was soon effected, and the two young men could not help laughing at each other's altered appearance.

“You'll pass very well for a bricklayer out of employ, Frank.”

“Well, Prescott,” Frank retorted, “I could swear to you as a disreputable-looking tailor anywhere.”

A cab was at the door, and the party were soon off.

“Now,” Perkins said, “if there is a shindy, we must all keep together, and then we shall be as right as ninepence, whatever comes of it. I'd back the Slogger and you and I, Mr. Maynard, to clear the roughs out of any room in London in about five minutes. Mr. Prescott's very handy with the gloves, but he hasn't weight, and in a close fight weight tells.”

“Where is the place, Perkins?”

“In the New Cut, sir. It's a penny gaff at ordinary times.”

Arrived at the New Cut, they discharged the cab, and went on foot through the busy crowd with which that locality is always filled of a Saturday evening. Hundreds of men were standing about, their week's work finished, smoking and talking together. The women were busy shopping, and were engaged in examining the various goods before purchasing, and in chaffering with the shopmen and costermongers. The pleasure of shopping is by no means a monopoly of the rich, the poor enjoy it to at least an equal extent; and no lady can more carefully examine the texture of the silk dress which the shopman temptingly holds out before her, or turn over one article after another before making her selection, than does her poorer sister scrutinise the markings and colour of a piece of bacon, or turn over the heaps of cauliflowers and cabbages upon a costermonger's cart. Great is the noise. The touts at the second-hand furniture and Jew clothing shops, the butchers, and the itinerant vendors, vie with each other in their efforts to obtain customers. Half-price has just begun at the Victoria Theatre, which stands large and black at the corner of the New Cut, and numbers are flocking in to see the tragedy of “The Hangman's Stepdaughter; or the Murdered Mother of the Blind Alley.” Views of this drama, of thrilling interest and in bright colours, are placed beside the doors, and, illuminated by the bright gaslight, exhibit scenes of bloodshed and murder, highly enticing to the frequenters of the threepenny gallery. A few policemen are scattered among the crowd, but their services are seldom required, except when some drunken man insists upon fighting everyone, and, refusing all persuasion to return home, has to be taken to the station-house, in spite of his struggles and shouts, by two policemen. In the discharge of this duty, although undertaken solely for the protection of the public, the police are greeted with much jeering and hooting on the part of that ungrateful body. And then all goes on quietly for a time. The gaslights shine brightly out from the gin-palaces, and great business is in course of being there carried on. Numbers go in and out, and the glass-doors are ever on the swing. Through these doors glimpses can be caught of crowds of men and women standing at the bar drinking, and waiting to be served; while through the open windows of the room above sounds of singing and of violent thumping of pewter pots and glasses upon the table come out. Through all this the four companions slowly made their way, and presently stopped at the door of one of those establishments popularly known as a penny gaff,—theatres at which a suicide, three murders, four combats, two comic songs, and a ballet, are condensed into the space of a quarter of an hour, and are to be heard for the charge of a penny; dens in which a perspiring audience inhale a pestilential atmosphere and vicious ideas together, and which the strong arm of the legislature should either reform or sweep away altogether.

At present the establishment was apparently closed. The appalling pictures no longer stood before the doors. The illumination which usually blazed upon it was extinguished. No sound of music or laughter came through into the street. The doors were closed, and the whole place seemed deserted. Now and then, however, a man went up, knocked, and after a short parley was admitted, and then all was quiet again. At this door the party knocked. It was partially opened, and a voice said,—

“What do you want?”

“Universal suffrage,” the Slogger answered.

The door opened a little wider, and they all entered. They found themselves in perfect darkness, but the man who had let them in turned on the light of a bull's-eye lantern.

“You are late, mates,” he said, leading the way along the passage.

Opening a door, he admitted them into the main apartment, a sort of covered room or theatre. At one end was a raised stage, with the usual front and drop scene. The latter was now raised, however, and four or five chairs and a table were on the stage, and some ten or a dozen men were standing or sitting there. The aspect of the place was tawdry and dirty beyond description. The walls, originally white and decorated with flower wreaths, were now black with smoke and filth. What the ornamentation of the ceiling had once been, it was impossible to say. The place was lighted by two gas chandeliers, without glasses, and by a row of footlights in front of the stage. The room was full of men, who were mostly smoking short pipes, and the fog of tobacco smoke made it seem dingier and darker than it really was, while the close, noxious atmosphere, and the entire absence of any ventilation whatever, rendered it difficult for any one unaccustomed to such noxious atmosphere to breathe at all.

The new comers took their stand close to the door where they entered, and the seats having been removed and everyone standing, their coming was altogether unnoticed by anyone.

“I say, Prescott, the air here is poisonous; it makes me feel quite faint.”

“So it does me, Frank. We'd better light our pipes; we shan't feel it so much.”

They accordingly followed the example of all around them, and began to smoke, but even then they found the atmosphere almost overpowering.

“We can't stand this long, Prescott. We'll just listen to a speech or two, and then we will have some fun.”

The meeting, they soon found, was principally held for the object of informing the people of the arrangements which had been made for the great meeting to take place in a few days. All in the hall were evidently in their way leaders, and the speakers urged them to bring up their forces to the appointed place, to keep them well in hand, and to be prepared in case of resistance, for barricade fighting. Each was requested to notice particularly the addresses of the gunsmiths' shops, and even of second-hand dealers where a few firearms might be exhibited in the windows, and to tell off men upon whom they could rely to seize the arms. General instructions, too, were given as to forming barricades; and the noble example of the French was cited to them again and again.

“This is rather a serious business, Frank.”

“It's all talk, my dear fellow; an English mob has no idea of street fighting; a few hundred policemen would drive ten thousand of them.”

The speaker now finished amid a low murmur of applause. The man who followed him was of a less practical turn, and simply strove to excite his hearers by a speech calling upon them to strike for liberty, and to cut off the chains in which they were bound by a pampered aristocracy.

“Look out, Perkins, I'm going to begin,” Frank said; and then, at the top of his voice, he shouted out, “That's a lie!”

An immense confusion at once took place in the hall. There were shouts of “A spy!”—“Turn him out!”—“Hang him!”—“Lock the doors!” But those nearest who turned to carry these threats into execution, hesitated a moment at the sight of the three powerful men who guarded the door, which Prescott, as previously agreed, had opened, to prevent the man in the passage locking it on the other side. The hesitation was momentary, and then a tremendous rush was made by the exasperated crowd. Those in front, however, as speedily recoiled, or were beaten back by the tremendous blows of Frank Maynard and the two prizefighters. The assault of the Slogger, however, was not in the first place directed against those who attacked him, but against a man who was standing in front of him, and who had evinced no intention of taking part in the fray. He was a tall man, dressed as a bricklayer, with large whiskers and black hair. Soon after he had entered, the Slogger had noticed with surprise that these whiskers were false, for the upper part of one of them, owing probably to the heat of the room, had become detached from his face. The Slogger would not have thought much of this, as he supposed at first it was some one who had disguised himself, and come merely from curiosity, as he had himself, but something in the man's figure, and in his peculiar way of holding his head, reminded him of a man against whom he had a particular grudge, for having, only the week before, been the means of transporting the Slogger's brother. He determined immediately the fray began to find out if his suspicions were correct. Accordingly, the instant the rush was made, he commenced the assault, by striking the unsuspecting man in front of him a violent blow on the ear, which would have sent him to the ground had not he been kept on his feet by the crowd around him. His false whiskers, however, fell off, and the smoothly shaven cheeks were visible.

“Ha! Mr. Barton,” the Slogger shouted, as he dealt tremendous blows right and left at the assailants who rushed at him, “it's my turn now. You shan't go out from here with a whole skin. A spy!—a spy!” he shouted; but the tumult was too great for his voice to be heard. For some little time the three men had easily beaten off their assailants, but matters were momentarily becoming more serious. The men on the platform were breaking up the chairs and tables, while others tore down portions of the woodwork to form weapons. These now pressed forward through the crowd as they fell back in dismay from their formidable opponents.

“I think it's about time to make a bolt, sir.”

“All right, Perkins,—come along.”

In the meantime, Prescott had had a quiet encounter of his own with the door-keeper—who had been signally worsted, and had run out into the street—and was now holding the door ready to close it as the others retreated. After a rush upon the assailants, in order to drive them back, and gain time for the manœuvre, the three men made a hasty retreat through the door, which Prescott instantly closed and locked behind them, and in another instant they were out in the New Cut.

“Come the other way, sir,” Perkins said, “there's a cab-stand under the railway-arch, and if them fellows get out and find us, they'd be as likely to knife us as not.”

In another minute they were in the cab.

“That was a sharp fight, Perkins.”

“And no mistake, sir. As good a turn-up as I've had for a long time. There'll be some smartish black eyes in the morning.”

“Do you think there is really going to be a row with these Chartists, Perkins?”

“I don't think so, sir. They don't mind the bobbies, but they'll never stand against the red coats. I'm going to-morrow to get sworn in as a special. I ain't going to have them coming in to the ‘Stunners’ to help themselves without pay. I don't know, and I don't care, a rap about the charter, and I don't believe one in fifty of them knows theirselves. What they want isn't the charter so much as their neighbour's goods. Well, they won't get my beer till some of 'em have gone down. They'll find that they have to pay for it one way or the other. Here we are, sir, and I ain't sorry, for I don't know that I was ever so dry in my life.”

“So am I, Perkins; the heat and stench in that place was tremendous. The fighting, too, was warm while it lasted. I don't think any of us got hit.”

“Hit!” said Perkins, contemptuously; “no, nor we shouldn't have been if we had stopped there all night. Not as long as we could have kept them at arm's length. The worst of that sort of row is, that the fellows who are behind always want to get close, and they push the chaps in front on so that at last one gets jammed up into a heap, and can't use one's arms. No, I think we just stopped long enough. The leg of a table is a nasty sort of thing to come down on your guard. Now then, sir, what's your liquor?”

CHAPTER III.
A SLAP IN THE FACE.

Frank Maynard's departure for the country had been a relief both to Captain Bradshaw and Alice, and when he returned they were able to start anew upon something like their old footing. He was not at the house, however, as much as he had before been, for the London season was now beginning in earnest, and he was out nearly every night. Captain Bradshaw and Alice too were a good deal out, for although the old man would have greatly preferred to remain quietly at home, yet for Alice's sake he went into society, and when there enjoyed it perhaps more than she did. He would have a quiet rubber for a while, and would then go into the dancing room and look on with pleasure at the admiration which Alice attracted. And, indeed, Alice had many admirers, for she was a strikingly elegant girl, and an heiress, and not a few of the government clerks, who form so large a proportion of the dancing men of London, would have willingly enough exchanged their arduous duties of copying and endorsing letters, for the charge of Alice Heathcote and her fortune. But Alice gave but slight encouragement to any of them. She was one of those girls with whom a partner very soon gets upon pleasant terms. She was perfectly natural, straightforward, and unaffected; sensible herself, and expecting some amount of sense from others, the sort of girl with whom a flirtation is next to impossible. Nor upon those evenings, when they had no engagements, were Captain Bradshaw and Alice often alone; for in proportion as the visits of Frank had decreased in frequency during the last three months, those of Fred Bingham had increased. Very pleasant did he make himself upon these evenings; full of amusing anecdotes, and rattling on with a constant stream of fun and nonsense, he aroused Alice, and kept Captain Bradshaw in a state of good temper. Indeed Alice felt really grateful to Fred Bingham, for she rather dreaded these evenings alone with her uncle. He amused and interested her too with his talk, for Fred was undoubtedly clever; and yet, she could hardly explain to herself why, she did not like him. It was partly an old standing feeling. From the day when he had first come to the house, a lad of sixteen, she, a child of twelve, had felt a sort of jealousy of him for her playfellow Frank's sake, which Frank had never felt for his own. Either from some passing remark she had heard from a servant, or from some other reason, she had come to entertain the feeling that he had interfered with Frank's position. Children are keenly jealous. She had always looked upon Frank as her guardian's son and heir, and she considered this new comer to be a rival of Frank's. All along she had cherished this impression, all along had thought that Fred was trying to supplant his cousin in Captain Bradshaw's affection. She could scarcely have given a reason for her belief. It was not what he actually said or did, it was his way. True Fred Bingham never spoke ill of his cousin in any way; on the contrary, he frequently praised him; but in Alice's jealous ears there was a current of implied blame in the very praise; she would rather that he had abused Frank openly to his uncle than praise him as he did. Then too, he was always fond of drawing Frank into an argument when his uncle was present, and Frank never showed to advantage in these wordy conflicts. He was greatly deficient in quiet suavity; he could not hear views which he considered vicious expressed, and either hold his peace or dissent quietly. Frank gave his opinion with energy and heartiness, even with vehemence. He plunged into an argument as if he were personally aggrieved by the opinions stated upon the other side. He denounced and scouted them as heresies dangerous to mankind. A strong conservative, he hated radicalism with a personal hatred. He would willingly have buckled on armour and have settled the matter by a combat to the death between himself and the champion of the other party. In these conflicts then, which Fred was constantly provoking, Fred with his quiet sneering manner would greatly gain the advantage. His straight thrusts would be too fine and delicate for his cousin's slashing two-handed blows, and they not unfrequently ended by Frank's losing his temper.

During Frank's absence abroad Fred had been a great deal at Lowndes Square, and had, at least so Alice thought, tried hard to gain the place of first favourite with Captain Bradshaw. In this he had not succeeded. At present, however, while his uncle was still smarting under the overthrow of his pet plans, Alice had fears that Fred Bingham's attention and adroit flatteries were attaining their effect. Indeed, for the time being, he became prime favourite with his uncle, and in his absence Captain Bradshaw would sound his praises loudly to his ward, generally coupling them with disparaging remarks of the disgraced Frank. At first Alice had listened in silence, but finding that it was becoming a favourite theme with her uncle, she spoke out warmly in Franks defence, declaring roundly that there was more truth and honesty in his little finger than in his cousin's whole composition. Her uncle, as was his wont, although nowise convinced, was yet fain to let the matter drop for the present. In addition to her championship of Frank, Alice had another reason for speaking out so decidedly. She had for some time felt that Fred was endeavouring to make himself specially agreeable to her, and she now thought that her uncle was inclined to favour his efforts. Now Alice had, as has been said, a positive dislike to Fred Bingham, and although she could not help being amused by his talk, she yet believed that all this jesting and fun was a mere cloak which concealed a scheming and crafty disposition. After all these years of careful watching, she was convinced he was playing a deep game for his uncle's fortune, and she now saw at once that in the same way he was wishing to add her fortune to his pile. That he cared in the slightest degree for herself she did not for a moment believe.

Now of all these thoughts, suspicions, and opinions on the part of Alice Heathcote, Fred Bingham had not the remotest conception. Shrewd as he was, keenly alive to everything which concerned his own interests, he was yet completely in the dark as to Alice Heathcote's sentiments regarding him. Women in general he knew but little of, and understood even less: beside this he was intensely vain. He had been made a little god of at home, his mother and sisters looked up to him as the best of human beings, and were never tired of doing him homage. Over and over again his mother had said in his hearing that Freddy ought to marry well, for that any girl must feel flattered by his attentions, and Fred's own experience when he did go into society was that girls were amused by his fun and caustic humour. He was profoundly ignorant of the fact that girls very seldom do fall in love with men who amuse them.

Fred Bingham then had long looked upon his success with Alice Heathcote as a certainty, only awaiting his making up his mind. Before Frank had left England, indeed, Fred had rather doubted whether Alice Heathcote did not prefer his cousin to himself, but he believed that his long absence had quite put him beyond the pale as a rival; and when, upon Frank's return, he had observed that there was a sort of reserve on Alice's part towards him, and that this reserve apparently increased rather than lessened with time, he considered his own success as secured. Then, too, with great pleasure he had seen that Frank was somehow in disgrace, and took the opportunity of his absence to make the greatest progress possible. What was the cause of Frank's disgrace, Fred was ignorant, as Captain Bradshaw had upon no occasion even hinted the cause of his displeasure. Had he done so, Fred would have done all in his power to keep them apart: as it was, he was obliged to let matters take their course. The sole reason why Fred Bingham had not long before proposed to Alice Heathcote, was because he was doubtful about himself. Not doubtful as to whether he loved her, for upon that point he had no question at all; indeed, he had no belief whatever in love, and looked upon it as an absurdity quite out of place in business. If two people liked each other, and could get on well together, and the match was mutually advantageous, what more could be desired? The question in his mind was, should he get on well with Alice Heathcote? He liked her well enough, yes, he really liked her very much, and the match would be an advantageous one, but he was not quite so easy in his mind as to whether he should get on well with her. Now Fred's idea of a wife who would get on well with him was a woman who would do just as she was told, who would never set up her opinion against his, who would in fact be a species of bond slave to his will. Now he had great doubts whether Alice Heathcote would do all this. He was in fact a little afraid of her. There was a quiet decision and firmness about her which made him feel uncomfortably that the combat between them would be a hard fought one; then too she was tall, and Fred did not like tall women. He fancied sometimes that if he got into a passion with her—and he allowed himself that he had a hasty temper—she would look down coldly contemptuous at him. There was another difficulty which presented itself, and which had for some time kept Fred Bingham in a state of uncertainty. Alice Heathcote's fortune was he knew about £50,000, and also that it was her own absolutely, and Fred felt certain that Captain Bradshaw would see that the greater part, if not the whole of it, were settled upon herself at her marriage. Now Fred Bingham was very much pressed for ready money; he was embarking with his father in several extensive affairs in which capital was all-essential. More than once his thoughts had turned to a young lady he had met near Manchester, who had lost her father, whose mother was old and weak, and who had a fortune of about half the amount of that of Alice Heathcote at her own disposal. Miss Farrer was pretty, but with a weak prettiness which would not stand time. Her appearance did not belie her character; she was an affectionate and amiable, but weak girl. Fred had been very attentive to her, and had completely won her mother's heart by playing many games of cribbage with her, and losing almost invariably. So that altogether he felt sure of his ground there. It was not that he had actually any idea of marrying Miss Farrer, he felt too sure of success with Alice to think seriously of the other; but he was a cautious man, and liked to have a second string to his bow in case of accidents.

It was one morning after breakfast, about three weeks after Frank's return from the country, that Fred Bingham made up his mind to propose formally to Alice. He had been chatting with his father as to a contract, concerning which they were in treaty.

“The margin of profit is not as large as we could wish, Fred. If we were working with our own capital it would be different, but all this discount and advance work makes a large hole in the margin of profit.”

“I should think it did,” Fred said, shortly, “it is not to-day that we have found that out.”

“I think, Fred, that if I were you I should bring your affair with Miss Heathcote to a head. You have been going there now for a very long time; you tell me that you think you are pretty safe, and even if you do not touch any of her fortune, you would be able to borrow upon better terms as the husband of a rich woman; and, however things went, you would fall upon your feet. Besides, as the husband of Miss Heathcote, you would stand better with Captain Bradshaw.”

“Yes, that's all true enough,” Fred said, “and I've thought it all over a thousand times. I suppose it ought to be done, but I would rather remain as I am. However, needs must, I won't put it off any longer. I will settle it this afternoon. There, don't talk about it, it's bad enough to have to do it.”

Half an hour afterwards Fred Bingham went out. First down to New Street, where he bought some cigars, as usual, and stayed for some time in the shop smoking and talking with Carry. Then he went out and turned towards Knightsbridge. “She is an awfully nice child,” he thought to himself. “I wish to goodness she was in Alice's place, and Alice in hers. I shouldn't mind even if she had that girl Farrer's money, I would marry her to-morrow. I wish I had never seen her, it would have been better for both of us. Well, it's no use thinking of that now, I must go through with this other business. The old man will have gone up to his club by this time. The sooner it is over the better.” And so he went on to the house in Lowndes Square, where, as he expected, he found Alice Heathcote alone.

“Good morning, Alice, I have not gone up to town to-day, so I thought I would come in for a chat. You are not looking very well this morning. I miss the usual roses—I do not mean that lilies are less becoming—I only notice the change of flowers.”

“My uncle is out,” Alice said, ignoring the compliment. “He started for the club rather earlier than usual.”

“I rather hoped he would be gone, Alice, for I was anxious to see you alone.”

Alice saw what was coming, but her mind being fully made up upon the subject, she felt no nervousness, as she would have felt had she had the slightest belief that he really cared for her.

“The fact is, Alice, I want to ask you to marry me. I don't know how it's usually done, but that's what it comes to whichever way it's put. I have liked you very much for years now, I am sure we should suit each other very well, and I don't think the old gentleman would make any objection. What do you say, Alice?”

Fred Bingham had spoken in his usual off-hand way, but there was a little nervousness in his tone which showed that he felt distrust as to the result of his question.

“You put it in a very straightforward way, Fred,” Alice said quietly, but with a little tinge of sarcasm; “and I am glad that you do so, as it makes it easier for me to say that I differ from you entirely as to our mutual suitability; and, therefore, must decline the honour you propose doing me.”

“But I am quite in earnest, Alice; it is only my way, you know.”

“I suppose you are in earnest, Fred, and I can assure you that I am at least equally so.”

Fred Bingham paused for a moment, and then said, much more earnestly than he had spoken before,—

“I am afraid, Alice, that I am not going the right way about this. I love you very much, and have done so for years. You must have seen it. I know that usually men put all this in a sentimental sort of way, but that is quite out of my line. But I am not the less in earnest. I do love you very much, Alice. I always thought you knew it.”

“I will be as frank with you, Fred, as you are with me. I have had an idea for some time past that you intended some day or other to make me an offer. Had you made love to me in the usual sort of way I should assuredly at once have shown you by my manner that the thing was out of the question. But you have never done so. You have been very often here. You have been very chatty and amusing. I could not show you that I did not wish you to come so often. I was obliged to wait. Had I believed, or did I now believe that you loved me, I should feel very great pain in refusing you; but, although I did, and do believe that you wish to marry me, I do not believe that you have the slightest love for me in the real meaning of the word any more than I have for you.”

Fred coloured up deeply now, and looked mortified and angry.

“But I tell you I do love you, Alice, and I suppose I know my own heart.”

A little scornful smile crossed Alice's face.

“You may think you do, Fred. If it is so I am sorry; but I do not think that your heart has taken any share whatever in the proceeding. Neither of our hearts are in the slightest degree affected in the question, and there is, therefore, no occasion for me to feel sorrow, or for you to feel pain. It is a simple matter of opinion. You are of opinion that we should suit each other well, and that a marriage between us would be for our mutual benefit and gratification. I differ from you entirely upon both these points.”

Alice was so perfectly cool and composed that Fred felt that any further urging would be useless. His rage and mortification were excessive, and he was far more angry at having been so completely read and seen through by Alice, when he had believed himself so safe, than at the overthrow of his plans.

“May I ask,” he said, bitterly, “if you have any other reasons beyond those you have given?”

“You certainly may not,” Alice said, with spirit. “I have already given you for answer that I do not love you, and I conceive that to be quite sufficient answer for any gentleman.”

Fred Bingham stood irresolute for a moment, and then turned to go; but his temper got the better of him, and he said, with a sneer,—

“I was a fool to have asked for the reason, Alice, when I know it as well as you do yourself. If it had been Frank——”

He did not continue, for Alice Heathcote leaped from her seat as if she had been struck with a blow, her cheeks flushed with a sudden flame of colour and her eyes flashing, but before she could speak Fred Bingham was gone. His last hit had been almost a random one, for he had never really suspected Alice of caring for Frank. He had been too well satisfied with his own chance to imagine that he had a serious rival in Frank. Even now he was not sure. Alice's indignant look might be explained by her natural anger at his own taunt. “I was a fool to let my beastly temper get the better of me,” he said to himself; “the matter was bad enough as it stood without making an enemy of her. Not that she'll do me any harm. She can't well go and tell my uncle what I said. However, it was a foolish thing to do. It's been a nice morning's work altogether. To think she should have been all this time laughing at me. Evidently I don't understand women. I believe she cares for Frank. That's another notch to your score, Master Frank. If I ever get a chance to wipe them out, look out, that's all.”

It was with bitter mortification and anger that Fred Bingham returned to Hans Place, and briefly told his father that Alice Heathcote had refused him. He gave no details, nor did Mr. Bingham ask for any, for he saw that Fred was in one of those moods when he was better left alone.

CHAPTER IV.
A LIGHT IN THE GLOOM.

The great bubble had burst at last. Those who blew it had worked so hard, and had blown up such a bulky affair that they had really forgotten that it was all wind and suds, a mere baseless fabric which would burst and leave nothing behind it at the first resistance of a solid substance. But so it was. The great Chartist conspiracy had swelled and swelled, unmolested by Government, until, relying upon its bulk, it sought to assert itself. Government stood firm, and the bubble collapsed. The affair, however, had been of too serious dimensions to be altogether passed over, and a few of the most conspicuous among the Chartist leaders were taken, tried, and condemned to transportation. At their trial they found, as conspirators have almost always done, that there had been a traitor in their midst, that the whole details of their intended movements were as well known to the Government as to themselves. Who the traitor was they did not discover. The evidence was ample without calling him personally, but many and deep were the vows of vengeance sworn against him should he ever be discovered. Among the condemned was William Holl, who was sentenced to seven years' transportation.

Evan Holl learnt the news one afternoon when he had asked leave to go down to Knightsbridge. He came back before the hour at which he usually returned from his father's. Frank himself let him in.

“You are early, Evan.”

“Yes, sir.”

Frank noticed that the boy did not speak in his usual cheery tone.

“Anything the matter, lad?”

“Yes, sir; there is a terrible upset at home. Mother's crying, and Aunt Bessy's crying fit to break her heart, and everything is upside down.”

“That sounds bad, Evan; come into my room and tell me what is the matter.”

Prescott was there, as was his custom in the evening, when Frank was at home.

“Now, Evan, tell us all about it.”

“If you please, sir, Uncle Will has got transported.”

“Got transported, Evan! Why, what has your Uncle Will been doing?”

“Please, sir, he's been going and being a Chartist.”

“Oh, is the Holl who was tried to-day your uncle, Evan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whew,” whistled Frank, “that is a bad business; how the deuce could the man have made such a fool of himself?”

“Please, sir, I don't know,” Evan answered, taking Frank's ejaculation as a direct question addressed to himself.

“No, I don't suppose you do, Evan, and I don't suppose he does himself, which is more to the point. The question is, what is to be done?”