TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.
● Italic script is denoted by _underscores_.
● Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors have been silently
corrected.
● Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
● Variations in hyphenation have been standardised.
ALL BUT LOST.
ALL BUT LOST.
A Novel.
BY
G. A. HENTY,
AUTHOR OF THE “MARCH TO MAGDALA” ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1869.
[_The Right of Translation is reserved._]
LONDON:
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.—WHO WILL WIN THEM? 1
II.—THE “LIVELY STUNNERS” 21
III.—A SLAP IN THE FACE 43
IV.—A LIGHT IN THE GLOOM 60
V.—SPRETÆ INJURIA FORMÆ 74
VI.—LOSING THE GLOVES 86
VII.—GATHERING CLOUDS 103
VIII.—THE ANNOUNCEMENT IN THE “TIMES” 123
IX.—GONE 132
X.—WHAT WAS IT? 145
XI.—STEPHEN WALKER DOES HIS WORST 157
XII.—FOLLOWING IT UP 176
XIII.—A DESPERATE GAME 190
XIV.—A SHOP TO LET 206
XV.—WHAT CAN IT MEAN? 220
XVI.—THE INTERCEPTED LETTER 231
XVII.—WAITING FOR THE ANSWER 250
XVIII.—A CUT DIRECT 263
XIX.—A CHANGE OF PLAN 270
ALL BUT LOST.
CHAPTER I.
WHO WILL WIN THEM?
TEDDY DRAKE'S answer to Frank's letter came by return of post,
and Frank at once went up to Prescott's rooms in a state of some
excitement to read him its contents. They were as follows:—
“MY DEAR FRANK,
“When I opened your letter and saw your signature I
was so overwhelmed with astonishment and delight that I nearly
upset the tea-tray, quite upset (I mean as regards temper) my
respected father, who hates excitement; and the affair would
probably have ended fatally, had not the girls administered
brandy in small doses. Seriously, Frank, I am truly glad to see
your fist again, and still more so to hear that you will come
down and see us, if invited. Please consider yourself invited
hereby. We are all agreed, father, mother, and girls, that you
will be received with open arms—that is by me. Fortunately,
this is of all others just the time for you to come, for
we are about to plunge into dissipation. My eldest sister,
Margaret, is just going to be married. The event comes off on
Thursday, and there are great killings of the fatted calf over
the departure of the prodigal. Now a wedding in London is, I
imagine, a serious, not to say heavy, business. Here it gives
rise to no end of fun and excitement, and is wound up by a ball
in the evening. You will be a great acquisition. Travelled
swells are scarce in these parts, and as Shakespeare says,
‘homekeeping folks have ever homely wits.’ So great things will
be expected of you. My people here know all about you, having
heard me speak of you a thousand times. So lose no time, but
put yourself into the train at twelve o'clock upon the day you
receive this. I shall be at the station, Stoke you know, at
half-past five to meet you; so let there be no mistake about
it. Shake old Prescott by the hand for me.—Yours very truly,
“TEDDY DRAKE.
Prescott laughed over the letter.
“I suppose you mean to go, Frank?”
“Of course,” Frank said. “This is quite an excitement. A country
wedding will be a relief indeed after these solemn London parties.
Well, I have no time to lose, and must go and get gloves and things
for the festive occasion. Keep your eye on Buttons, Prescott, and
make him useful.”
It was nearly six o'clock, and already dark, when Frank arrived at
the dingy little station of Stoke-on-Trent. Teddy Drake was upon the
platform to meet him, and was perfectly uproarious in his greeting.
“And so am I to see you, Drake, very glad. You are not a bit altered.”
“You are, Frank, tremendously. I should hardly have known you with
those big whiskers. Is that portmanteau all you have? That is right.
Here, porter, just put this portmanteau in my dog-cart.”
“This Trent valley of yours, Drake, is rather alarming to a
weak-minded man. All these flaming forges and kilns certainly give
one the idea that the crust of the earth must be of unusual thinness
hereabouts, and the hot regions unpleasantly near. I do not feel
singed yet, certainly, still one can't but think that _facilis
descensus averni_. The question is, ‘shall I hence unscathed go?’”
Teddy laughed.
“To another man I should have said that the bright eyes of the
Staffordshire girls were more dangerous than their fathers' fires;
but you, who have seen the beauties of Spain, Italy, and the East,
are not likely to be scorched by our lesser luminaries.”
“You see more pretty faces in a week in England than in a year
abroad, Teddy. How far is your place?”
“Only another hundred yards or so. There, you can see the lights
among the trees. Now, we are turning in at the gate. Mind your face,
Frank: some of these shrubs want cutting. Here we are.”
The front-door was opened as the dog-cart drove up, and the bright
light streamed cheerfully out into the damp evening. Mr. Drake was in
the hall.
“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Maynard. We have heard so much of you
from Teddy that we all feel as if you were quite an old friend.”
“Come along, Frank; I will show you your room. Dinner will be ready
in twenty minutes, so you had better go up at once, and then I can
introduce you to the womankind.”
The room was a small one, for which Teddy apologised.
“You must put up with a small room, Frank, for to-morrow we shall
have no end of people here,—bridesmaids and aunts, and that sort of
thing.”
“You need not apologise, Teddy. After knocking about Europe and the
East for the last two years I am not likely to quarrel with such a
room as this. Now, you go off and dress while I am unpacking, and
come in again as soon as you can, and talk to me.”
Teddy was not long absent.
“Now, Teddy, sit down while I am dressing, and tell me about every
one; give me the _consigne_, as it were.”
“The present occupants of the house,” Teddy Drake said, “are,
first, my father, whom you have seen—a dacent man, though I say it
myself—acting partner in the great house of Painter & Co., porcelain
manufacturers; an Englishman, quiet and matter of fact; has not a
keen appreciation of a joke. My mother is Irish to the backbone,
and we all take after her. Indeed, we spend a good deal of our time
over there with her relations, and the brogue comes natural to us. I
always use it myself, especially when I am talking with ladies; one
can venture upon a tinder sentiment in the brogue which one could
never hazard in Saxon. The only son of the above-mentioned couple——”
“Spare me that, Teddy,” Frank laughed; “I know more of him than is to
his advantage already.”
“Now I call that unkind, Frank; I was about to have said some neat
things about Edward Drake, Esq. My elder sister Margaret is to be
married in two days, so you won't see much of her, and I need not
bother you with a description. She is quiet, and takes after her
father. Sarah is one of the jolliest girls you will meet in a day's
journey, and Katie's a darling.”
“I remember your speaking of your two elder sisters at Cambridge,
Teddy, but I do not think I heard you mention the youngest.”
“Oh, Katie is not a sister at all, Frank. She is a cousin—a
downright Irish girl. She has lost her father and mother, and has
been living with us for the last two years. Now, Frank, make haste
with your dressing, and draw it as mild as you conveniently can, for
the girls' sake. It is not fair, Frank; upon my life, it is not. I
told them that you were really a good fellow, and they are prepared
to like you upon my recommendation; but I said that, as far as looks
went, you were nothing to speak of—in fact, rather the contrary—and
now they'll think I've been humbugging them entirely.”
“I am very much obliged to you for your recommendation, Teddy,” Frank
said, laughing.
“It's as true as the piper, Frank. You know you were not a bit
good-looking—too thin and whipcordy; but now you have got so much
broader, and those whiskers of yours alter your face altogether.
Do you know, Frank,” Teddy said, critically, “you are really an
uncommonly good-looking fellow.”
“Have you got any boxing-gloves in the house, Teddy?” Frank asked,
laughing; “because, if so, we will put them on after breakfast
to-morrow.”
“No, thank you, Frank, I know you of old; and at any rate no boxing
for me till after the wedding. There, now you are ready; let's go
downstairs. Dinner will be ready in three or four minutes.”
As Frank Maynard crossed the drawing-room, he came to the rapid
conclusion that Teddy's sister Sarah was a tall, handsome girl, with
good features, and a happy, good-natured expression like that of her
brother. Katie was short and rather plump, with large eyes, which
Frank noticed, with amusement, opened a little wider in surprise
as he entered. Teddy had evidently drawn his portrait in most
unflattering colours, for the introduction over, Sarah's first remark
was,—
“I should not have known you in the least, Mr. Maynard, by Teddy's
description. You are not one bit like it; is he, Katie?”
“No,” Katie said; “not in one bit. Teddy, what did you take us in
that way at all for?”
“'Pon my life, Katie, it's as true as could be. It's the whiskers
have made the difference to him.”
“Nonsense, Teddy. Don't believe him, Miss Drake; he has been making
fun of you on purpose. Teddy was always great at romancing.”
“Don't you mind what these young people say, Mr. Maynard; they are
very rude,” Mrs. Drake said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Drake, I am pretty well able to take care of myself,
and I know Teddy of old.”
When they were fairly seated at dinner, Frank had time to examine his
new acquaintances more accurately. Miss Drake was something like her
sister Sarah in appearance, but was more quiet and subdued. Sarah, he
thought, was really very pretty, and seemed as full of spirits and
fun as her brother. Kate O'Byrne was, as has been said, short and
rather plump. Her hair was jet black, and her head set gracefully on
to her neck. Her features were not particularly good, but her eyes
were beautiful; large eyes of uncertain colour, now hazel, now grey,
generally very soft and trusting in their expression, but frequently
lighting up with an arch ripple of fun, and when indignant flashing
out defiantly; eyes which in repose, shaded by the long black
eyelashes, were soft and thoughtful, but which looked up so earnestly
and straight for an answer, that he would have been a bold man who
would have ventured upon an untruth to their owner. A soft, plump
cheek, lips slightly parted, a pretty chin with a little double roll
beneath it, a soft and very musical voice, a very small, well-shaped
hand, and, as Frank afterwards noticed, tiny feet. Katie O'Byrne
was not nearly so pretty, so far as prettiness went, as her cousin
Sarah: hers was one of those faces which do not strike greatly at
first sight, but grow gradually upon one. A face with a good deal of
character and firmness; altogether, as Frank said to himself at the
end of the evening, “a very loveable face.”
The conversation at dinner was sustained with unflagging spirit,
principally by Frank, Teddy Drake, and his sister Sarah. Miss O'Byrne
did not talk much, and indeed, Frank found afterwards that she seldom
took much share in general conversation.
Frank did not sit long over his wine, but soon joined the ladies in
the drawing-room, and was speedily engaged in an animated skirmish
with the two girls. Then they had some music, and Miss O'Byrne sang
some Irish melodies in a pure, rich, contralto voice, which had been
thoroughly trained, and with a feeling and expression which delighted
Frank. The ladies retired early, as the next was to be a fatiguing
day, and Frank and Teddy sat up smoking and talking of college days,
until a very late hour indeed.
The next day the house filled with guests, and great were the
preparations for the event of the day following. Frank and Teddy
were in great request, and found full occupation in assisting the
bridesmaids to fill the vases, &c., with flowers. Furniture, too,
had to be moved, and many arrangements improvised, for the ball
in the evening. Very gay was the wedding, and the whole town of
Stoke made holiday. The wedding festivities were followed by much
general gaiety,—dinners, small dances, and balls. The Drakes' house
continued full of guests, and Frank had great opportunities in the
midst of all these gaieties to indulge in a very extensive amount
of flirtation. After his long absence on the Continent, there was
a great charm in the unrestrained and familiar intercourse with a
number of young English girls as lively, innocent, and fearless as
young fawns. But if he flirted, he flirted generally, dividing his
attentions with perfect impartiality among the bridesmaids, and, with
the assistance of Teddy Drake, keeping up a perpetual state of fun
and laughter with them. Miss Drake and himself were great allies.
After the first few days they had, by mutual consent, taken to call
each other Frank and Sarah. With her cousin Frank never attempted
a similar step, but addressed her as Miss O'Byrne, in a formal
manner, and took excessive pleasure in teazing her in that and other
small matters, especially in respect of her brogue, to her no small
indignation. For Katie was a staid little person in her way, and
stood rather on her dignity, and she chafed not a little under the
feeling that even when Frank was professing the utmost deference to
her opinion, he was really quietly bantering her. One evening, when
Frank had been there nearly three weeks, and was talking of leaving
in a few days, he had been specially teazing. Katie had fought hard
as usual, but had been conscious of being worsted, and when she went
upstairs for the night, she said to her cousin,—
“I am really glad Mr. Maynard is going, Sarah. I begin almost to hate
him.”
Sarah opened her eyes in astonishment.
“What nonsense, Katie. You don't mean it? Why I do think he is the
very nicest fellow I ever met.”
“Yes, I suppose so, Sarah; and his opinion of you seems to be equally
good.”
“I hope so,” Sarah said; “one always wishes to be liked by people as
one likes them.”
“Stuff, Sarah! My opinion is,” Katie said, positively, “that we shall
have another wedding here one of these days.”
“Perhaps so, Katie,” Sarah answered composedly; “but I do not think
we should name the same person if we were to guess.”
“Well, Sarah, I will bet you half-a-dozen pairs of kid gloves upon
it.”
“Very well, Katie, I bet. Now who do you name?”
“Frank Maynard and you, of course.
“That's your idea, Katie, is it?” Sarah said, provokingly cool.
“Yes, it is, Sarah,” Katie said, sturdily. “Now, Sarah, you don't
think you can deceive me. Never mind, dear, though he does make me
mad with him, he's a very good fellow, and you have my full consent
and approval.”
“Thank you, dear—wait till you're asked.”
“It won't be so very long, Sarah.”
“Yes, it will, Katie. Frank and I are the best friends in the world,
but if he were stopping here for the next ten years we should never
be anything more.”
“Now, Sarah, you name your couple. It must be one of the bridesmaids
you know, or at any rate, some one down here.”
“It is one of the bridesmaids,” Sarah said quietly.
“Well, which?” Katie said, impatiently.
“Katie O'Byrne.”
A flush of colour came into Katie's face, and she said, indignantly,—
“Sarah, you're making fun of me!”
“No, I am not, my dear. That's the couple I name for six pair of kid
gloves against the other.”
“Ah, well,” Katie said, “then if what you say about yourself is true,
our bet will never be decided. He dislikes me, I'm sure of it, and
certainly I dislike him. Why, he's always making fun of me. He never
even says a civil word to me, and I'm sure I don't want him to.”
“My dear Katie, I don't say the affair is coming off at once. I
don't even say that I believe, or rather that I have any reason
to believe, that Frank is in love with you. I only say, as you
challenged me to fix on one of the bridesmaids, I fix upon you.
He makes no distinction between the others; he flirts with them
miscellaneously. You are the only exception. He certainly does take
pleasure in teazing you, and in making you indignant, but that shows
at least that he thinks you worth the trouble of teazing. He almost
always manages to get next to you out walking and at meals, quite
accidentally, Katie, or else wonderfully well managed.”
“Nonsense, Sarah; I never remarked it.”
“Very well, Katie; but it is so for all that.”
Her cousin thought a little, and then said,—
“Well, if he does, Sarah, it is only because he sees I would rather
he didn't, and wants to bother me. No, no; you may not have to pay
your gloves, but you will never win mine. I never heard a more
ridiculous idea in my life.”
“Well, Katie, we shall see,” Sarah said. “Now I must be off to bed.”
The next day they were out in the garden, looking for violets, for it
was now the end of March. Frank and Miss O'Bryne were a little apart
from the others, and he had just made an attack upon Ireland. The
girl turned round upon him, suddenly,—
“Why do you always treat me like a spoilt child, Mr. Maynard? Why are
you always teazing me and making me mad?”
“Not always, I hope, Miss O'Byrne?” Frank said, seriously.
“Yes, you are,” Katie said, indignantly; “you are laughing at me now.
Why do you do it?”
“Do you really wish me to tell you, Miss O'Byrne?”
“Oh, I suppose you are going to invent some ridiculous compliment,
but I won't believe it, Mr. Maynard.”
“Are you quite sure, Miss O'Byrne?”
“Sure and sure,” Katie said, resolutely.
“Well, I shall try to convince you,” Frank said. “Do you like the
sea?”
“I don't see what that has to do with the question, Mr. Maynard. But,
yes, I do like it—I love it dearly.”
“So do I, Miss O'Byrne. Are you a good sailor?”
“Oh, yes,” Katie said; “I always lived near the sea, and used to go
out in yachts. Yes, I am a very good sailor.”
“Then, of course, you enjoy rough weather, Miss O'Byrne? I like,
above all things, to see a storm.”
“So do I,” she said, enthusiastically. “I love being out when it is
really rough.”
“I suppose, then, you will agree with me, Miss O'Byrne, that no one
who does not really love the sea could enjoy a gale.”
Katie thought the proposition over for a second.
“No, I suppose not,” she said. “But I really don't see that this has
anything to do with what I asked you—why are you always teazing me?”
“I have been answering your question the whole time, Miss O'Byrne.
You have only to suppose you are the sea.”
The girl thought a moment, and then looked up indignantly, with a
heightened colour, as she saw the application.
“What nonsense you talk, Mr. Maynard. You will try to persuade me
next that to knock a person down is a sign of friendship. I shall
never believe you again,” she said, as she turned to join the others.
“Yes you will, some day, Katie,” Frank said, following her closely.
Miss O'Byrne did not appear to have heard, but she had. It was the
first time he had called her by her Christian name, and it sounded
strangely to her from his lips. Katie could not help colouring, and
was angry with herself for doing so, and still more angry when she
saw by a little quiet smile on Sarah's face that she noticed it. When
she thought the matter over, she determined, on the first opportunity
to tell Mr. Maynard she considered it to be a great liberty. But
then she felt certain Frank would only laugh and say that he called
her cousin “Sarah,” but that if Miss O'Byrne objected, he would
apologise, and not repeat the offence. After all, too, there was no
particular reason why she should object any more than Sarah. As to
that talk about the sea, it was absurd.
“No one would care for a storm unless he loved the sea,” Katie said,
thoughtfully; “and of course he meant me to suppose that he would
not have cared about making me mad if he didn't—well, like me.
What humbugs men are,” she exclaimed, indignantly; “I do think they
imagine we girls are fools enough to believe any stuff they like to
tell us.”
Frank Maynard did not repeat the offence of calling her by her
Christian name until he said good-bye to her upon leaving.
“What impudence!” Katie said to herself, as she looked after the
dog-cart; “what impudence, to venture to squeeze my hand, as he
certainly did, just as if he would persuade me that all his rudeness
is to go for nothing. Well, men are humbugs! I wonder whether he will
ever come back again.”