CHAPTER XIV

WAITING FOR THE SHIP.

“Where is Captain Bradshaw?” was Alice Heathcote’s first question, as, escorted by Mr. Walker and the footman, she entered the house.

“In the dining-room, Miss Heathcote.”

Alice entered, followed by Mr. Walker.

“Oh, uncle,” she said, passionately, “we have been so cruel and so wrong. It has been such a terrible mistake after all, and poor Frank is quite, quite innocent. Oh, uncle, I’m so happy, so, so glad.” And she threw her arms round Captain Bradshaw’s neck.

Her uncle was too much surprised to speak at first. “Innocent, my dear!”

“Yes, uncle, quite, quite innocent. Here is Mr. Walker to tell you.”

“Sit down, Mr. Walker,” Captain Bradshaw said, rather stiffly, for he believed that the present was some scheme on the part of the old man to prove that Carry had not gone wrong at all. “Let me hear what you have to say. I can hardly understand, I confess, how my nephew can be innocent in this matter; although I have heard to-day, and with pleasure, that your daughter was still alive.”

“Well, sir,” Mr. Walker began, in his usual nervous hesitating way, “it seems it was a mistake altogether. I thought of your nephew—I knew him to be your nephew—and I did not know the other was your nephew at all. So you see you thought I meant the wrong one—that was how it was.”

Captain Bradshaw looked at Alice in bewilderment.

“Damme, Alice, if I can make head or tail of what he says, or what he means.”

“He means this, uncle. He knew you had a nephew, but he only knew you had one nephew. He came to accuse that nephew as the destroyer of his child. That man whom he accused was not the nephew you were thinking of. It was Fred Bingham who had done this thing, and not Frank Maynard. Frank never went there again after that evening when he spoke to you. They never knew he was in any way related to you. It was Fred Bingham he spoke of. He was the man Mr. Walker knew to be your nephew, and who had ruined his daughter.”

Captain Bradshaw sat thunderstruck. He looked helplessly at Stephen Walker, who corroborated what Alice had said by putting in,—

“Yes, sir, that is what I meant to say. When I came to you, I came to ask for vengeance against the Mr. Bingham I knew to be your nephew. I never thought of Mr. Maynard; I did not know he was your relation at all; I only knew him as the man who had saved my life.”

Captain Bradshaw listened as a man in a dream, then leaping on his feet with his quick, hasty way, he exclaimed,—

“Then Frank never had anything to do with it at all?”

“Nothing, uncle, nothing at all.”

“He is quite innocent?”

“Quite, uncle—as innocent as we are.”

“My God,” exclaimed the old officer, “what have I been doing? Oh, what a miserable old man I am, Alice. Was it not enough for me that I turned a daughter out to die in the street? And now I have left Frank, my dear, dear boy, to struggle for a living, to sail thousands of miles away to work for his wife and children with his own hands? Oh, Alice, why did I ever believe it? What shall I do? You are happier than I am, Alice, for you never believed him quite guilty. You always said it was impossible; while I never doubted it for a moment. My poor boy, my brave, noble Frank!” and he sat down again in his chair, and cried unrestrainedly, “how you must have suffered. Why did you not write—why did you not demand, as you had a right, why you were thrown off? But there, after that letter of mine, who can blame you? As for him,” and the old man leaped up again in one of his furies of rage, “as for him—” and he walked up and down the room. “But there,” he said, presently, “we can talk of him afterwards. The great question is Frank. Is it too late to stop him, Alice?”

“He sailed yesterday, uncle,” Alice said sadly.

“Yes, yes, Alice. So James said; but many of those emigrant vessels touch at Plymouth. We may stop him yet. We will start there in the morning. What is the ship’s name, Alice?”

Alice did not know.

“Never mind, I will go down to the station,” and he rang the bell violently. “James, go out and get a carriage. If the places are shut up, wake them up, say I will pay anything—I must have a carriage down to the station. I will telegraph to Prescott to meet me at Plymouth to-morrow, my dear. Yes, it is late; but I will find out where the telegraph clerk lives. He will be glad enough to get up and send a message to London for a ten pound note.”

Very much astonished was Arthur Prescott at being awakened at two o’clock in the morning by a loud and continued knocking at his door, and still more, when he opened it, on seeing a railway porter standing there.

“Beg pardon, sir,” the man said, touching his hat, “message just come up from Torquay; past usual hours. Clerk thought it might be special; offered to bring it down.”

“Thank you,” Prescott said. “Wait till I strike a light. Here is half-a-crown for yourself. Good night,” and Prescott returned to the table to read the telegram. It was quite characteristic of the man who had sent it.

“Infernal mistake about Frank. Damned old fool. Must stop him. Does his ship put in at Plymouth? I start there at once. Telegraph to me at Royal Hotel name of ship. Come there yourself by first train in the morning. Walker is an incoherent ass, not so great an ass as I am. Who’d have thought it? Fred Bingham a knave and a scoundrel. You will understand.”

“I can’t say I do,” Prescott said to himself, as after examining a “Bradshaw” he again got into bed. “It seems that it is all coming right at last; but why, or how, or who Walker is, or what Fred Bingham has got to do with it, or what the mistake was, I have not the least conception. At any rate my course is to go up to the office to inquire whether the ship will put into Plymouth, to telegraph to Captain Bradshaw, and to go down to Plymouth by the eleven o’clock train. I wonder whether Alice Heathcote will be there; he says yes.” And, wondering upon this point, Prescott fell asleep again.

Captain Bradshaw arrived with Alice Heathcote at the Royal Hotel, Plymouth, at eleven in the morning. They had telegraphed, before starting from Torquay, to order rooms at the Royal. It had hardly been a pleasant journey for Alice, for she would like to have sat quiet without talking. She was anxious about the question of catching the emigrant vessel, but even this was a matter of minor importance to her. Her one great emotion was joy that Frank was worthy of her esteem and love, that she could think of him again as her girlhood’s trusty friend, as her brother. That it might be a year before they met again, was as nothing now; even had she known she would never meet him again, it would have been scarce a drawback to her pleasure. The only cloud on her sunshine was the feeling of self-reproach for having doubted him. Still, severe upon herself as she was disposed to be for this reason, she could not but allow that under the circumstances she could hardly have thought otherwise, and she consoled herself, that even against the apparently crushing evidence, she had always uttered a sort of protest of disbelief. With this feeling then of happiness and confidence, she would have liked to lie back in her corner of the railway-carriage, and to enjoy her thoughts, but her uncle was in a most excitable mood. He was as glad as Alice was that his favourite was innocent of the fault which had so long been laid against him, and he was far more anxious than she was, as to the chance of arresting his journey. His gladness and anxiety were both alternated with bursts of reproach against himself for having been so hasty in believing Frank to have been guilty, and in fits of furious anger against Fred Bingham, against whom he fulminated threats of all kinds, mingled with little outbursts of petulance against Alice herself for her indifference. Upon driving up to the door of the Royal, Captain Bradshaw leaped hastily out of the carriage with the agility of a man of thirty.

“Any telegram for me? Captain Bradshaw.”

“Yes, sir; I believe there is, up in your room.”

“Come along, Alice,” her uncle said, hurrying her movements. “Telegram has come,” and then he followed the waiter, muttering angrily at the “infernal stupidity of people taking a telegram upstairs,—why the deuce couldn’t they have it ready for me at the door? Just like them.” Here they reached the sitting-room and tore open the envelope of the telegram.

“Ship’s name ‘Tasmania.’ Captain has open orders, his putting into Plymouth will depend upon the wind. I come down by eleven train. Delighted matters are cleared up.”

“How is the wind?” and the captain turned abruptly to the waiter.

“Wind, sir? Don’t know, sir.”

“Then go and see, sir,” the captain roared, wrathfully; “damme, what are you here for except to know what way the wind is?”

The man returned looking rather sulky.

“The wind is southerly, sir.”

“Southerly, is it?” Captain Bradshaw said; “well, I am no wiser, as far as I know, than I was before.”

“I think, uncle,” Alice said, gently, “the best plan will be to go down to the sea; the sailors there will know what wind a ship is most likely to put in here with, and how long she will be with such weather as this in coming round from London.”

“Certainly, Alice; let us start at once.”

The questioning was, at Alice’s request, left to her, for her uncle’s impatient hastiness would have rendered it a far more difficult process. They went up to a sailor, leaning upon the seawall, and looking through a telescope at some vessels in the offing.

“Would you kindly tell us whether vessels sailing from London to Australia, and not being bound to put in here, would be likely to do so with the wind blowing as at present?”

The sailor touched his hat.

“Well, my lady, they might, and they might not. Of course it would depend partly upon the number of passengers, and the sea stock they had on board.”

“This is an emigrant ship,” Alice said.

“Well, miss,” the sailor said, turning round again to the sea, as if to assure himself that no change had taken place, “I should say yes; it’s a very light breeze, you see, and they will be a week or so coming round from the Downs, if it does not freshen, and they would be likely to put in here to fill up again with water before she takes her departure. I can’t say for sure, you see, miss,” he said, seeing how anxious his questioner was. “Some captains are more given to putting in here than others are. But I should say if this wind holds, it’s odds he comes in; and if it shifts to the south-west, which is likely enough, it makes a foul wind of it, and then he’s pretty sure to run in. When did she sail, miss?”

“She left Gravesend early on Tuesday morning.”

“Ay, and this is Friday. Well, miss, she is likely enough to be here on Monday or Tuesday, if the wind holds as at present.”

“And how are we to know if she comes in?” Alice asked.

“Well, miss, if you want to catch her directly she drops anchor, your best plan will be to go to the signal-station, and ask them to send a man down to your hotel directly she is sighted. Thank your honour, God bless you,” as Captain Bradshaw dropped a half-sovereign into his hand.

“Well, upon the whole, Alice, that is as good as we could have expected.”

“Yes, I think so, uncle; we have nothing to do but to wait.”

In the afternoon, Prescott arrived. Alice was looking from the window when the fly drew up, and she said to her uncle,—

“I will go to my room, uncle, while you explain the matter to Mr. Prescott.”

“My dear Mr. Prescott, I am most glad to see you. I find we have a good chance of stopping Frank. What a mistake it has all been to be sure. I always said I was an old fool, but I never really thought so until now.”

“I am indeed glad, Captain Bradshaw, that the mistake has been cleared up; but I shall be very glad if you will tell me what it has been about, for to myself, as well as to Frank, the whole affair has been a perfect and complete mystery.”

“It must have been so, indeed, Mr. Prescott. What did you think it was, for I suppose you must have had some opinion upon it?”

Prescott hesitated.

“Speak out, Mr. Prescott, I want to know what poor Frank really thought of it.”

“Well, Captain Bradshaw, the only thing in which Frank could conceive that he had displeased you, was in thwarting your wishes with regard to Miss Heathcote. He had hoped that you had ceased to feel any anger upon that point before he married; but when he received your letter, his only conclusion, and I own my own agreed with his, was that you had brooded over the matter until it had become a sort of hallucination with you. In fact, that upon that point you had, to speak frankly, gone a little out of your mind. I held that opinion until I saw you at the time your grandson was discovered. By the way in which you spoke, and also by the manner in which Miss Heathcote expressed herself with regard to the breach between you and Frank, I saw that my suspicions were altogether wrong; and that there was some, to me altogether unknown, and perfectly inexplicable, cause of complaint against Frank. I was convinced at the time that it must be an error. I have so perfect a faith in Frank. I have known him so closely and so intimately for so many years. He is so perfectly frank and open with me about I may almost say every thought, that I was certain he could wilfully have done nothing to forfeit your esteem and that of Miss Heathcote. You refused to explain, and I was forced to put it down to one of those extraordinary mistakes which sometimes occur, and which one can only leave to time to solve. And now I hope, Captain Bradshaw, that you will tell me what this supposed error of Frank could have been?”

“I will tell you, Mr. Prescott. You remember coming one night to me, and telling me that Frank had picked a man up from almost underneath the wheels of an omnibus, and had had a narrow escape of being run over himself?”

“Yes, I remember perfectly; his name was—let me see—ah—Walker.”

“Just so, Mr. Prescott. Some little time after, Frank came in one evening and told me that he had been to see Mr. Walker, that he was a superior person for his station of life, and that he had an extremely pretty daughter. I am a man of the world, Mr. Prescott, and I know how these sort of things end. I remember I told him that they were certain to end badly, that a man either made a fool of himself and married her, or a rascal of himself and seduced her. Frank was at first inclined to laugh at my advice, but at last he owned that I was right, that the girl was a pretty, loveable sort of girl, and that it would be just as well perhaps that he should not call again.”

“I remember perfectly,” Prescott said, “Frank coming up to my rooms and telling me. I know he said, ‘Uncle’s a good old boy, and I won’t go there any more.’ And I really don’t think he did. Frank is as open as the day, and he would have been certain to mention it to me.”

“I am sure he is, Mr. Prescott; but like an old fool, as I was, I doubted him afterwards, and you must confess I had reason. Somewhere about a year afterwards, Frank was married, and went off on his travels. Well, a fortnight after that a man came to me, nearly out of his mind. He said his name was Walker, that his daughter had been seduced by my nephew under a promise of marriage, that he had promised solemnly to marry her secretly at once, and to make it public at my death, which, he thought, could not be far off. The old man offered to show me letters proving this, and said that his daughter had drowned herself at the news of my nephew’s marriage, and he had just been down to see her body. Now, Mr. Prescott, I appeal to you, how could I doubt that Frank Maynard was a miserable scoundrel?”

Prescott was perfectly thunderstruck.

“But it could not be true, sir. I will wager my life it was not true.”

“But it was true, Mr. Prescott; the proofs are undoubted; every word the old man uttered was truth, except that he was mistaken as to the body; for his daughter, after all, did not commit suicide, and is still alive. Now, Mr. Prescott, what could Miss Heathcote and myself think, but that Frank Maynard was utterly unworthy of our esteem?”

“I do not, of course, doubt what you say, Captain Bradshaw,” Prescott said, warmly; “I have no doubt you are confident in the proofs you have received; but only from Frank Maynard’s own lips will I believe this terrible charge against him.”

“Ah,” the old man said, sadly; “that’s what I ought to have done. I ought to have gone to Frank and said, ‘This is the charge. You shall be your own judge. Can you, after this, ever be anything to me again?’ But then, Mr. Prescott, you must remember, that much as I loved Frank Maynard, and well as I believed I knew him, you knew far more of him than I did. A father can know but little of his son’s private life. His familiar friend can judge him much better than a father can. You know what each other does; there are no secrets between you. Young men know young men as they are; old men only know them as they choose to be known. You see you had the advantage of me. Knowing Frank’s inner life, you consider yourself capable of being assured he would not do this. Knowing Frank only as an old man knows a young one, I was obliged to believe the evidence was true.”

“But, Captain Bradshaw, your telegram said it had been all a mistake, and yet you now say the evidence was perfectly true.”

“And both statements are correct, Mr. Prescott. Mr. Walker told me my nephew had basely seduced his daughter, under promise of marriage, and he spoke truly. I, knowing that Frank knew her, of course supposed that the accusation was against him. Mr. Walker did not even know Frank was my nephew, but yet he spoke the truth. My nephew did seduce his daughter, under promise of marriage; but only last night did I find out that the nephew who did it was Fred Bingham, who, as far as Walker knew, was the only nephew I had.”

“I see it all now,” Prescott said, delighted. “But do you mean to say, sir, is it possible, that Fred Bingham has all this time known the reason of Frank’s disgrace, has taken his place in your affections, and allowed him to be disgraced for his own crime?”

“He has done all that, Mr. Prescott, and he is a damned scoundrel. By Gad, sir,” the old man said, furiously, “I am an old man, but if I wasn’t his uncle I’d horsewhip him in the public streets—I’d put a bullet in his body—I’d, by Gad, sir, I’d have him flayed alive.”

“Indeed, he must be a great rascal, Captain Bradshaw; I never liked him; I always distrusted him, but I never gave him credit for such villainy as this.”

For some time longer they talked the matter over, and Prescott soothed the old man’s self-condemnation, by assuring him that he did not see that, under the circumstances, he could have doubted Frank’s guilt.

“But you ought to have seen him, sir; you ought at least to have given him an opportunity of defence.”

“So I ought, Mr. Prescott; but Frank was a little—just a little—to blame, too. He knew how I loved him, and he ought to have conquered his pride, and to have insisted upon knowing precisely what he was charged with. Ah! if he had but answered my letter, and demanded an explanation, all this misery and mistake might have been avoided.”

“But you seem to forget, Captain Bradshaw, that Frank did answer the letter, and that you returned it unopened, without a word of explanation.”

“Returned his letter, Mr. Prescott!—returned his letter unopened! You are labouring under some mistake. Frank never sent me a single line; so it was impossible I could have returned it.”

“I can only say, Mr. Bradshaw, that I know, from my positive knowledge, that Frank did write, because although I was away at the time, when he told me about it, he went to his desk and took out the letter and indignantly threw it upon the table, and said—‘There, Prescott, there is my only answer, my own letter returned unopened.’”

Captain Bradshaw sat stupefied; he could not doubt what Prescott said. After a pause he rose, without a word, and knocked at the door of Alice Heathcote’s bedroom, which communicated with the sitting-room:

“Alice, please come here.”

Alice came in.

“Oh! Mr. Prescott, so you have heard it all. Poor Frank, have we not been cruel? and you always believed in him. But we will make it up to him now; won’t we, uncle?”

“My dear,” her uncle said, in a tone of mild despair, “another mystery has arisen in the course of this extraordinary circumstance, and I want you to tell me whether I or Mr. Prescott is dreaming. I was saying what a pity it was that Frank, knowing how I loved him, had not put aside his pride and written to me, demanding an explanation. Mr. Prescott asserts that Frank did write, and that I returned his letter unopened.”

“Oh, no, uncle; never. Not a line came from Frank. Do you not remember those three weary, weary days, after his return from abroad, when we waited—hoping, praying that Frank would write some line of extenuation, some prayer for pardon? Do you not remember, that at the end of the three days you said to me—‘It is no use waiting any longer, Alice, let us go abroad?’”

And Alice Heathcote’s eyes filled with tears at the thought of that sad time.

“No, no, Mr. Prescott, you are mistaken. Frank never wrote.”

“I am puzzled, Miss Heathcote, and of course credit your and your uncle’s assertion, that you never received the letter; but I must re-assert that Frank did write, for I saw his letter. It was returned unopened, in an envelope apparently directed, for I know his handwriting, by Captain Bradshaw, and sealed with his crest. By the way, it was the very seal on that envelope which, two years afterwards, Evan Holl recognised, and which led to the discovery of your grandson.”

Captain Bradshaw and Alice looked at each other in astonishment.

“This letter,” Prescott went on, after a pause, “must have reached your house, because it was returned in an envelope sealed with a seal kept in the house. You never received it. Who did? There must have been some treachery at work, Captain Bradshaw, and it is needless to point whose interest it was to suppress this letter; and to do it in such a way as to make it impossible for Frank, with any self-respect whatever, to write again. The exact effect, in fact, which it did have.”

“He never could have done such a thing as that, Mr. Prescott,” Alice Heathcote said, doubtingly.

“I do not know, Miss Heathcote; Fred Bingham was playing for high stakes. At that time James had not been discovered. Your uncle had told him that he had disowned Frank, and made him his sole heir. He had kept silent as to his own fault and Frank’s innocence. He knew, therefore, that the result of a meeting must be the eventual discovery of the truth, and his own absolute disgrace. Under the circumstances, then, he would of course have used every effort to prevent any letter Frank might write from reaching you. He might have bribed the postman to let him see all the letters before delivering them at the house, or he might have paid one of your servants to keep them back for him.”

“By Gad!” Captain Bradshaw said, in a violent passion, “I will get to the bottom of this business, whatever it costs me. No wonder Frank and you thought I was mad. They thought I was out of my mind, Alice. By Gad, I will have some one hung for it before I have done;” and Captain Bradshaw walked furiously up and down the room.

“Who was in the habit of taking the letters from the postman?”

“The footman,” Alice said; “he has been with us ever since—he went abroad with us—he is down-stairs now.”

“Will you let me speak to him, Captain Bradshaw? But if you do, please let me do it my own way. If we frighten him, he will of course say nothing.”

Captain Bradshaw rang the bell. “Tell my footman to come up.”

“We want to ask you a few questions, James,” Prescott said, when the man entered. “You have been in Captain Bradshaw’s service for some time?”

“Eight years, sir, altogether.”

“Now, James, I want you to answer my questions, just as if Captain Bradshaw were not here. You understand me? You are to speak just as you think. Well, James, you have found Captain Bradshaw a kind master?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, “he is a very good master.”

“A little irritable at times, James—eh?”

The man, who had some sense of quiet humour, replied—“Yes, sir, lets out a bit, but soon gets over it.”

Alice Heathcote smiled; and Captain Bradshaw, angry as he was, laughed outright.

“Just so, James—lets out a little, and soon gets over it. Still, on the whole, you get on very well with him, and would do anything in your way to serve him?”

“That I would,” the man said, earnestly, for he was really attached to his master.

Prescott saw that he meant what he said, and adopted his course of questioning accordingly. “Now, you remember the time before you went on to the Continent?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember anything particular about that time?”

The man was silent.

“Speak out, James; Captain Bradshaw wants you to speak the exact truth.”

“Well, sir, I remember it well, because master was awful cantankerous about that time, worse than he ever was before or since; I thought I should have had to have left him.”

“Have you any idea why Captain Bradshaw was more irritable than usual about that time?”

Again the man was silent.

“Come, James, it is a matter of importance to your master—I may say of great importance. I am not asking these questions for amusement.”

“Well, sir,” the man said, “I believe master was bothered by letters from a man who was threatening him.”

Captain Bradshaw and Alice Heathcote uttered simultaneous ejaculations of surprise. But Prescott made a sign to them to be quiet, and proceeded with his cross-examination.

“Quite so, James; your master was troubled by a letter-writer, who threatened him. Well, James, Mr. Bingham, when he told you that, told you that it was important, for your master’s sake, that he should not receive these threatening letters.”

The man turned very pale.

“Come, James, you acted for the best, I have no doubt; you meant to do your master a service, and Captain Bradshaw will not be angry with you, if you do but speak the truth. You see we have all the particulars, we only wish to receive the corroboration from your own lips. Mr. Bingham told you that, for your master’s sake, it was important he should not receive these threatening letters, and he asked you to show all that came by post before giving them to your master?”

“Yes, sir, that was just it; he said he had found out the man who was sending the letters, and that he would be able in a few days to put a stop to it, and save master from being bothered. The day the letter did come, he told me I need not trouble any more, for that he was to see the man that night, and that master would not be annoyed in future.”

“The infernal scoundrel!” Captain Bradshaw broke out; “the infernal scoundrel!”

“One more question, and I have done, James,” Prescott said. “Did you see what Mr. Bingham did with the letter?”

“No, sir; he said he wanted to write a letter, and he went into the dining-room and stayed there a few minutes. He did write, I remember; at least the inkstand was on the table, and the taper had been alight; I remember, because there was a blot of sealing-wax upon the cloth, and I had a deal of trouble in getting it out.”

“That is all, James; Captain Bradshaw will quite believe that you did it for the best, and acted under Mr. Bingham’s instructions in the matter. But let it be a lesson to you never again to tamper with letters, when I tell you that Captain Bradshaw’s annoyance was caused entirely because that letter had not arrived as he expected it; that it was entirely because he did not receive it that he went on to the Continent, and that the very greatest unhappiness has been caused in his mind, and in that of other people, by his not getting it. That will do, James.”

The man retired without a word; for he saw by Captain Bradshaw’s face that anything he could say would only make matters worse. He went down-stairs in a state of great despondency, for he was much attached to his master. Late in the evening he was taken up to bed in a state of maudlin intoxication—for the first time since he had been in Captain Bradshaw’s service—and with many entreaties that they would only bring that little beggar here, and see what he’d give him. There was a silence after he had left the room.

“The whole mystery is cleared up, you see,” Prescott said.

“Don’t talk about it,” Alice Heathcote remarked; “it is too shocking and unnatural.”

“I must go out,” Captain Bradshaw said. “If I stop here and can’t thrash some one, I shall have a fit. I must walk it off. Mr. Prescott, please amuse my niece, I shall be back by dinner time.”

And so he went out; and anyone who saw him as he paced up and down the esplanade with the most rapid steps, striking with his cane viciously at every post he passed, must have come to the conclusion that he was a terribly excitable old gentleman indeed.

There was a little silence after Captain Bradshaw had left, and then Alice Heathcote said, “Now, Mr. Prescott, I want you to tell me all about Frank and his wife; you are aware I know nothing whatever of their life for the last three years. I only know the Bank failed, and poor Frank lost all his money, and that they went down into Yorkshire on a railroad. Please tell me all about them.”

Prescott told all the story; how happy they had been together, and how well they had borne the loss of their fortune; and how brave and hopeful and true Frank’s wife had been.

“Dear Katie; I shall love her so much,” Alice said. “How happy Frank has been in having such a brave heart to stand by his side in his misfortune. How proud he must be of her.”

“Yes,” Prescott said; “his wife is indeed one in a thousand, Miss Heathcote. Frank has been a very lucky man, in spite of his troubles.”

“This quite reminds me of old times, Mr. Prescott, when you were a boy at Westminster; Frank’s faithful Achates, as he used to call you.”

“Yes; that’s a long time back now, Miss Heathcote; you used to call me Prescott in those days.”

“Ah, I was a little girl in those days, Mr. Prescott, with short frocks, and a small development of respect. There is six o’clock striking; I must go up and dress for dinner.”

Prescott sat quiet for some time. It was a long time back. Twelve years; and he had loved her ever since; might he yet hope to win this great prize some day?