CHAPTER X.

MADEMOISELLE'S LETTER.

"A parcel for you, sir."

"A parcel for me!" repeated Mr. Atkinson to his servant, some slight surprise in his tone. For he was not in the habit of receiving parcels, and wondered what was being sent to him.

The parcel was done up rather clumsily in brown paper, and appeared, by the label on it, to have come by fast train from Hereford. Mr. George Atkinson looked at the address with curiosity. It did not bear his name, but was simply directed to "The Resident of Eagles' Nest.

"Undo it, Thomas," said he.

Thomas took off the string and unfolded the brown paper. This disclosed a second envelope of white paper: and a sealed note, similarly superscribed, lying on it. Mr. Atkinson took the note in his hand: but Thomas was quick, and in a minute the long-lost ebony desk stood revealed to view, its key attached to it.

"Oh," said Mr. Atkinson. "What does the letter say?"

The letter proved to be from Mademoiselle Delrue, the former governess at Eagles' Nest. In a long and rather complicated explanation, written partly in French, partly in English, the following facts came to light.

When about to leave Eagles' Nest; things and servants being at that time at sixes-and-sevens there; the kitchen-maid, one Jane--or, as mademoiselle wrote it, Jeanne--a good-natured girl, had offered to assist her to pack up. She had shown Jeanne her books piled ready in the small study, and Jeanne had packed them together in several parcels: for mademoiselle's stock of books was extensive. After leaving Mrs. Raynor's, Mademoiselle Delrue had gone into a family who spent a large portion of their time in travelling on the Continent and elsewhere: much luggage could not be allowed to mademoiselle, consequently her parcels of books had remained unpacked from that time to this. She had now settled down with the family in Herefordshire, had her parcels forwarded to her, and unpacked them. To her consternation, her grief, her horror--mademoiselle dashed all three of the words--in one of these parcels she discovered not books, but the black desk, one that she well remembered as belonging to Major Raynor: that stupid Jeanne must have taken it to be hers, and committed the error of putting it up. Mademoiselle finished by asking whether she could be forgiven: if one slight element of consolation could peep out upon her, she observed, it was to find that the desk was empty. She had lost not an instant in sending it back to Eagles' Nest, and she begged the resident gentleman there (whose name, she had the pain of confessing, had quite escaped her memory) to be so kind as to forward it, together with this note of contrition and explanation, to Mrs. Raynor--whose present residence she was not acquainted with. And she had the honour to salute him with respectful cordiality.

"Don't go away, Thomas," said his master. "I want you to stay while I search the private compartment of this desk: I fancy those missing papers may be in it. Let me see? Yes, this is the way--and here's the spring."

With one touch, the false bottom was lifted out. Beneath, quietly lay the lost bonds; also a copy of Mrs. Atkinson's last will--the one made in favour of George Atkinson, and a few words written by her to himself.

"You see them, Thomas? See that I have found them here?"

"Indeed I do, sir."

"That's all, then. People are fond of saying that truth is stranger than fiction," said Mr. Atkinson to himself with a smile, as the man withdrew. He examined the bonds; ascertained, to his astonishment, that the money they related to had been invested in his name, and in one single profitable undertaking. And it appeared that Mrs. Atkinson had given directions that the yearly interest, arising, should remain and be added to the principal, until such time as he, George Atkinson, should come forward to claim the whole.

"Little wonder we could not find the money," thought he. "And now--what is to be done with it?" And taking only a few minutes for consideration, he addressed the letter spoken of in the foregoing chapter, to Frank Raynor. Which brought the latter down in person.

"I never heard of so romantic a thing!" cried Frank with his sweet smile and gay manner, that so won upon everybody; and was now winning upon George Atkinson, as he listened to the narrative on his arrival at Eagles' Nest. "I am sure I congratulate you very heartily. The hunts that poor Uncle Francis used to have over those very bonds! And to think that they were lying all the time close under his hand!"

"I expect that very little of the money would have been left for me had he found them," significantly remarked Mr. Atkinson.

Frank laughed. "To speak the truth, I don't think it would. Is it very much?"

"A little over twenty-one thousand pounds. That is what I make it at a rough calculation--of course including the interest to this date."

"What a heap of money!" exclaimed Frank. "You can set up a coach-and-six," added he, joking lightly.

"Ay. By the way, Mr. Francis Raynor, how came _you_ to treat me so cavalierly when I was playing 'Tiger' here?--the name you and Charles were pleased to bestow----"

"Oh, Charley gave you that name," interrupted Frank, his blue eyes dancing with merriment. "He took you for a sheriff's officer about to capture him. I'm sure I never was so astonished in all my life as when Charley told me the other day that the Tiger had turned out to be, not a Tiger, but Mr. George Atkinson.

"I can understand his shunning me, under the misapprehension. But why, I ask, did you do it? You were not in fear, I presume, of a sheriff's officer?"

Frank's face grew grave at once. "No, I was not in fear of that," he said, dropping his voice, "but I had fears on another score. I had reason to fear that I was being watched--looked after--tracked; and I thought you were doing it. I am thankful to say," he added, his countenance brightening again, "that I was under a misapprehension altogether: but I only learnt that very lately. It has been a great trouble to me for years, keeping me down in the world--and yet I had done nothing myself to deserve it. I--I cannot explain further, and would be glad to drop the subject," he continued, raising his eyes ingenuously to George Atkinson's. "And I heartily beg your pardon for all the discourtesy I was guilty of. It is against my nature to show any--even to a Tiger."

"As I should fancy. It gave me a wrong impression of you. Made me think all you Raynors were alike--worthless. It's true, Frank. I was ready to be a good friend to you then, had you allowed me. And now tell me of your plans."

Frank, open-natured, full of candour, told freely all he knew about himself. That he did not intend to remain at Mr. Max Brown's, for Daisy disliked the neighbourhood, and he should look out for a more desirable situation at the West End as assistant-surgeon.

"Why not set up in practice for yourself at the West End?" asked George Atkinson.

"Because I have nothing to set up upon," answered Frank. "That has been a bar all along. We must live, you see, whilst the practice is coming in."

"You could do it on seven thousand pounds."

"Seven thousand pounds!" echoed Frank. "Why, yes on half of it; on a quarter. But I have no money at all, you understand."

"Yes, you have, Frank. You have just that sum. At least you will have it in the course of a few days!"

Frank's Frank's pleasant lips were parting with a smile. He thought it was meant as a joke.

"Look here. This money that has come to light, of your aunt Atkinson's--you cannot, I hope, imagine for a moment that I should keep it. By law it is mine, for she willed it to me; but I shall divide it into three portions, and give them to those who are her rightful heirs: her brothers' families. One portion to Mrs. Raynor; one to that angel of goodness, Edina----"

"And she is an angel," interrupted Frank hotly, carried away by the praise. "How we should all have got on without Edina, I don't know. But, Mr. Atkinson, you must not do this that you are talking of: at least as far as I am concerned. It would be too chivalrously generous."

"Why not to you?"

"I could not think of taking it. I have no claim upon you. Who am I, that you should benefit me?"

"I benefit you as your father's son. Were he living, this money would be his: it will now be yours. There, say no more, Frank; you cannot talk me out of doing bare justice. You will own seven thousand pounds next week, and you can lay your plans accordingly."

"I shall not know how to thank you," cried Frank, with a queer feeling in his throat. "Eagles' Nest first, and twenty-one thousand pounds next! You must have been taking a lesson from Edina. And what will Max Brown say when he hears that I shall leave him for certain? He does not believe it yet."

"Max Brown can go promenading."