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

ALL BUT LOST.

ALL BUT LOST.

A Novel.

BY

G. A. HENTY,

AUTHOR OF “THE MARCH TO MAGDALA,” ETC., ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.

1869.

[The Right of Translation is reserved.]

LONDON:

BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

CONTENTS.

ALL BUT LOST.

CHAPTER I.
ARCADES AMBO.

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

“Private Enquiry Office.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fred Bingham made a gesture of impatience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had nothing to do with the quarrel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should say it was a lie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fred Bingham rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II
RUINED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sure we shall, Katie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it very bad, Frank?”

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

Prescott sat down in consternation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank was silent. After a pause his wife spoke.

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

Prescott hesitated; he was too straightforward to equivocate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III
PROFFERED AID.

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

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

“Very,” Captain Bradshaw said, curtly.

“You had no shares in it, I hope?”

“Not a penny,” Captain Bradshaw answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, Alice; I hope not.”

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

“Yes, Alice, a very good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I quite agree with you there, Alice.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Alice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it, Frank?”

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

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

Kate looked thoughtfully into the fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank was silent a short time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, what do you say, Katie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV
SHOWING THE HOOF.

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

“When do we begin, uncle?”

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

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

“Anything the matter, uncle?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did you hurt yourself, Frank?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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