CHAPTER VI

STRANGE TIDINGS.

Arthur Prescott was one day surprised at the receipt of the following letter from Frank Maynard:—

“MY DEAR OLD PRESCOTT,

“I am not a good letter writer, and when things are not going on well I don’t write at all. Things are not going on well, and I have not written. You and Katie and everyone else have been right and I have been wrong, and Fred Bingham is a damned scoundrel; but that’s no news, and I am not writing about that now. I am writing about a very extraordinary discovery which has been made here. This afternoon I was clearing out my desk, and tore up a lot of old letters and things. Evan, who is a first-rate lad and as true as steel, cleared up the letters, and, seeing a seal unbroken, looked at it. It was the seal of the last letter I had from Captain Bradshaw—his crest, you know, the three-fingered hand. Well, Evan asserts that the mother of the cripple lad had a seal round her neck with a three-fingered hand. If so, it is possible—nay, probable that this lad is Captain Bradshaw’s grandson. Whether he knows of it or not I cannot say. In spite of his inexplicable conduct to me I cannot believe it. This is quite in your line, old man, and I leave you to act as you think best. I think my uncle ought to be told in case he should be ignorant of it.

“Yours very affectionately,

“FRANK MAYNARD.”

Prescott read the letter through twice, and then, putting on his hat, went straight down to Mrs. Holl. He was greatly shocked at the striking change which had taken place in the appearance of the cripple lad; but after the first greeting said,—

“James, I want to talk to your mother; would you mind going into the next room for a few minutes?”

James wheeled his box into his room, and Mrs. Holl closed the door.

“How dreadfully ill he looks, Mrs. Holl.”

“Ay, sir, and he is ill; he frets and mopes here, and I fear nothing but change, which the doctor says he ought to have, can save him. Poor lad, I fear me he won’t be here long.”

“We must hope better things, Mrs. Holl, and the matter I have come about may lead to it.”

“Lor! sir,” Mrs. Holl said; “how can that be?”

“A curious discovery has been made, Mrs. Holl, which may, I don’t say will, lead to our tracing who his mother was.”

“You don’t say so, sir,” Mrs. Holl said.

“I do indeed, Mrs. Holl. I hear from Evan that his mother had a seal, with a three-fingered hand upon it. Have you got it?”

“Yes, sir; I have it locked up.”

“Please let me see it.”

Mrs. Holl produced from a chest a small bundle of clothes, and carefully done up in paper a small seal. Prescott examined it. There was no question that it was a three-fingered hand.

“Were these her things, Mrs. Holl?”

“Yes, sir; that’s all there were.”

“Now, Mrs. Holl, if I am right the linen will be marked L. B.; or, at any rate, L. something. L. B. were the maiden initials of the lady, and as she died little over a year after her marriage—for she was, I believe, married—it is probable her clothes would bear her maiden initials.”

“Yes, sir, sure enough, they are marked L. B. I remember it was L. B. because I looked particular to see if they were marked in full, in hopes of finding out about her. There it is, sir, L. B. clear enough.”

“And now, Mrs. Holl, have you any reason to suppose any one has ever had any interest, or watched the boy?”

“Yes, sir, that there has.”

And here Mrs. Holl related at length the history of the mysterious visits of Barton, and how they had found out that he had once been a Bow Street runner, but now kept a private detective office. Prescott looked serious.

“This is bad news, Mrs. Holl. It looks as if the boy’s friends knew of his whereabouts, but did not choose to own him. However, it may not be so,” he said, thoughtfully; “this man may have found it out accidentally, and kept it dark with a purpose of making money some day out of the secret. And now, Mrs. Holl, what year was it the poor woman came here?”

“In May, sir, 1831. Her child was about two months old then.”

“That will do, Mrs. Holl. Please lend me the seal, I will take great care of it. Do not say anything to James; I may be mistaken, and nothing may come of it after all. I will see you again to-morrow or next day.”

Prescott walked away very slowly, and went the whole length of Sloane Street, up and down, thinking over the best course to pursue. He then turned into Lowndes Square, and knocked at the door which was once so familiar to him. “Is Captain Bradshaw in?”

“Yes, sir.”

And Prescott was shown into the drawing-room. Captain Bradshaw and Miss Heathcote were both there; and Prescott, who in the thoughts of the important business in hand, had forgotten the possibility of his meeting Alice, stood for a moment irresolute. Captain Bradshaw frowned heavily for a moment, on hearing the name. Alice Heathcote turned a little pale.

“Mr. Prescott, I am glad to see you,” Captain Bradshaw said, coming forward and shaking hands. “Alice, you remember Mr. Prescott?” Alice did, and shook hands too, and really warmly; in the first place, because with a woman’s intuition she had known of old that he had loved her, and in the next place because he was Frank’s dearest friend. Why she should have liked him for the last reason she could not have explained even to herself. “Mr. Prescott,” Captain Bradshaw went on, “I am really glad to see you, and shall be always happy to do so; but only upon the condition, the absolute condition, that you make no allusion to past times, or to other persons. In fact that you come here as Mr. Prescott, to see an old friend, and not in the quality of an ambassador for other people.”

“I do not come here in the quality of an ambassador, Captain Bradshaw,” Prescott answered quietly, “although you would naturally suppose so from my coming at all. Nor do I come here to renew an acquaintance which I valued, and should still value, at the highest rate. Greatly as I value it, I could not accept friendship when my best, and truest, and most valued friend is excluded. I do not wish to discuss the point with you, Captain Bradshaw. I know what your feelings on the subject must be, when you can deliberately cast off a man whom I know you loved, but the origin of those feelings is to me an utter mystery. I respect them, however, and you I am sure will respect the friendship, the love I have for a man whom I have for many years looked upon as a brother. The business I have come upon is of an entirely different nature. I give you my honour it relates in no way to what we have spoken of. May I ask you to give me a few minutes’ private conversation?”

Alice Heathcote rose. “Thank you, Mr. Prescott,” she said warmly, giving him her hand, “for what you have said. I always believed in you, that you were honest and true. Thank you for your defence of your friend. I am glad, yes, I am glad to hear him once again spoken well of. Tell Frank—yes, uncle, I must speak now—tell Frank, that although I cannot struggle against certainties, still that I cannot believe the worst of him. Tell him that though our paths in life can never come together again, I wish him and his heartily well, and believe and trust that that life will atone, as far as atonement can be made, for his error.”

Before Prescott could speak, she had pressed his hand and left the drawing-room.

Prescott turned to Captain Bradshaw and was about to demand what Frank’s fault had been, that he should be thus spoken of, when the old man rose, and said gravely,—

“No, Mr. Prescott, I will not listen to you. I will not answer any questions. If you are ignorant of the cause of the division between myself and my nephew, a division which nothing can possibly heal, remain in ignorance. Frank has his own trials now, God forbid that I should say aught which might deprive him of a friend like yourself.”

“Nothing you could say would do that,” Prescott said gravely. “But now, sir, to the business upon which I came. It is, like the other, a painful, an extremely painful business, and you will, I know, believe that nothing but the feeling of its extreme importance could lead me to ask you the question with which I must begin. You had a daughter named Laura?”

Captain Bradshaw turned deadly pale, a look of extreme pain came across his face, and he gasped hoarsely, “Forbear, sir, forbear, you do not know what you are saying. It is twenty years since I heard her name mentioned. How dare you call her up again?” and he laid a trembling hand upon Prescott’s shoulder.

“Forgive me, Captain Bradshaw; I know, at least I can guess, the pain I am causing, but I must do it. Pray sit down, sir, and pray answer my questions. I will ask as few as possible, I will simply relate facts; if I am wrong, stop me.”

Captain Bradshaw sank back into his chair, conquered by the steady calmness of his visitor, and buried his face in his hands.

“At the end of the year 1829, or at the beginning of 1830, you discovered that she had made a marriage with a person much beneath her. She left the house, and I believe you never saw her again. You never forgave her.”

“I did, sir,” the old man said passionately; “I did forgive her. I searched all England through for her, but I never heard of her until, God help me, I heard she was dead.”

“Thank God for that at least,” Prescott said. “The man, or one of the men, you employed to trace your daughter was a Bow Street runner named Barton?”

“It was,” the old man said, feebly, “though how you should know, I cannot tell.”

“Now, Captain Bradshaw, for my last question. This Barton told you, and told you truly, that your daughter was dead; but did he ever tell you she had left a child behind her?”

“A child!” the old man almost screamed, “a child! Laura left a child? Don’t say it, don’t say it; have I not been punished enough for my cruelty by knowing that my girl, my only girl, Laura, died of want? And now you say she left a child, a child in misery and want, and I, rolling in wealth, have never helped it; oh, my God, my God, it is too much.” And the old man sank down in his chair, sobbing like a child.

Prescott did not interrupt him, indeed he was too much affected at the sight of the old man’s agony to be able to trust himself to speak. At last he said, “It is not so bad as you imagine, sir. The child has been brought up in poverty, but not in want. He has been kindly nurtured and cared for by the poor people in whose house his mother died. All that love and kindness could do for him has been done. As they took the mother in and cared for her and nursed her to the last, so they adopted the child as their own. They never knew who he was. It has been discovered now only by accident. This seal, sir, which was the sole article of value she possessed—do you recognise it?”

The old man took it, and his tears fell more gently as he looked at it. “Yes, it was hers,” he said; “I gave it her when she went to school. Poor child, poor child!” Then starting up, he went on, “But why do we wait here?—why do we not go to fetch him?”

“My dear sir,” Prescott said gently, “I must prepare you for this meeting. The boy when very young had an accident which injured his spine, and he has been a helpless cripple ever since. He is now very