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