A CHANGE OF PLAN.
JOHN HOLL'S habitation had not changed very greatly since the night
that Frank Maynard had gone there with his friend Prescott to help
Bessy Holl in her time of trouble. Bessy had long since started to
join her husband—sooner, indeed, than she had ever hoped to do—for
eight months after he had sailed, a letter arrived from him, with
good news for his anxious wife. He told her that at first his life on
board ship had been very miserable. His companions were principally
ruffians of the lowest class, but it happened that the officer in
command wanted a clerk, and had employed him for some hours each day
in writing. This officer had taken a liking to him, and had granted
him the great indulgence of sleeping apart from the general herd of
convicts, who had before made his life miserable by their perpetual
blasphemies and disputes. When the voyage was half over they had
attempted a rising, with the object of murdering the warders and
seizing the ship. In the short fray which followed he had been able
to be of some assistance, and had received a severe blow, intended
for the commanding officer, from a belaying pin, which had laid him
up for some time. Upon landing, the officer had reported so strongly
in favour of his conduct, that the governor of the establishment
had written to the home authorities in mitigation of his sentence,
and had promised him a ticket of leave at the end of six months,
employing him in the meantime in the office. He therefore told Bessy
she could at once sail for Adelaide; he would be able to join her
upon her arrival.
Frank had been down staying at the Drakes' with his wife, and
therefore did not see the grateful woman before she started. With
this exception, things went on as before. The only change was in the
cripple. He had altered greatly. He still worked at his wax-flower
making, and studied at his books, but it was no longer with the keen
interest with which he had formerly worked. He was no longer cheerful
and even gay, but would sit at his work for hours without speaking.
He was much thinner than he had been, and his face had the expression
of great suffering, which is often to be seen in deformed people. He
could no longer swing himself upstairs to his bedroom, but slept in
the little room on the ground-floor, which John Holl and his wife
had resigned to him. Sarah Holl grieved sadly over the change; she
loved the lad more than her own children; for had she not done more
for him? Palpably, James was fading. He was not dying of a broken
heart, but he was giving up life because he no longer cared about
living. He had loved Carry, as an ordinary man could not have loved
her. Other men would have their pursuits and their pleasures, and
their duties; he had only her. He knew that she was not for him. He
never dreamt of her in that way. It was a devotion such as a Parsee
might pay to his great god of heat and light. She was as far out of
his reach, and yet she lighted and gladdened his life. With her loss
all its light had gone out. It never entered his thought to blame
her. The fire worshipper would as soon blame the sun-god when a cloud
has passed between him and the earth. He cursed her destroyer; cursed
him with all the intense bitterness of impotence, for none knew who
was this man who had brought ruin to the quiet home in New Street.
And so all his life changed to bitterness. Why was he ever born? he
asked himself, over and over again; why was he sent into the earth to
be a mere weight upon other people? Oh, that he was strong, if only
for a little time; if only for long enough to find out and to kill
this man who had murdered Carry. He could die then; die quietly and
happily; ay, even upon a gallows, with the world jeering at him and
cursing him. But he was a cripple, and helpless; he had nothing to
do but to die; after that it might be different. He would not be a
cripple then; all his trouble would be over. Yes, the sooner he died
the better.
With this feeling in his heart, it is little wonder that the cripple
faded fast, and that the medicine which Sarah Holl insisted upon his
taking had no salutary effect. With his adopted parents he was always
gentle and affectionate. He was as ready to help the children as
formerly, as thoughtful and as unselfish, but the bright smile was
gone; and Sarah Holl, as she looked up from her washing-tub at the
quiet figure, with his work before him—but with his nimble fingers
sometimes pausing awhile, while his thoughts were far away—would
stop to wipe her eyes furtively with her checked apron. With a
woman's discernment she had felt the reason of the change; the short
cry, the ghastly pallor with which he had received the first news of
Carry's flight; the wild outburst of passion; the subsequent quiet
sadness, were enough for her. She knew then how he had worshipped
Carry. She had communicated her thoughts to John, and had ordered
the children never to allude to the subject of Carry's absence
under pain of the severest punishment. And so the girl's name was
never mentioned in the little house which her presence had so often
brightened.
One thing only of notability had occurred, and this had been of so
extraordinary a kind, that it had upset all Mrs. Holl's calculation
of time. Mr. Barton had made his usual call, and had evidently
been struck with the great change which had taken place in James's
appearance. He had not, however, spoken upon the subject, but had
come again after only a month's interval, and had been palpably moved
and excited at the sight of James's increasing weakness. He had
even, when the others were talking, entered into a little private
conversation with Mrs. Holl, and had inquired of her what was the
cause of the illness of the cripple. Mrs. Holl had honestly told him
that she did not know, and that the doctor, who had made two visits
to the lad, had been unable to say what his ailment was. “Poor boy,”
she added, “I fear he will not be with us long.”
Mr. Barton had been palpably affected, and had promised to call again
soon to see how his young friend was getting on. What was really
passing in his mind, was evident from his conversation with his wife
upon his return home, after two or three subsequent visits to the
Holls,—
“You have got away sooner than usual, Barton,” that lady said, when
he entered.
“Yes,” he said. “No use stopping.”
“Is the boy worse?” she asked anxiously.
“He is, Rachel. He is dying, there is no doubt about that. He may
live a year or two; it all depends; but he is breaking up. Of
course, the great question with us is, will he hold on till he is
one-and-twenty? He wants nearly two years of it yet.”
“One-and-twenty won't do, Barton,” his wife said decidedly. “What is
the use of getting a bond for ten thousand pounds from a boy who is
going to die before he comes into his property? Who is going to pay
it? After what has happened it is not likely his grandfather would
pay a penny. The bond would not be worth the paper it's written on.
No; if the boy is really dying, the whole game is up.”
“Yes,” her husband said, stroking his chin, “but I don't quite
despair of making a good thing out of it yet. You see, the old man
has two nephews, who, of course, if the boy is not heard of, are
his natural heirs. One of these nephews he has, I find, quarrelled
with, but what about I cannot discover; and I have tried every way I
know. However, it is a regular split, and he is altogether out of it;
so the other expects to step into the old man's shoes. Now for the
last three months, seeing that the boy is dying, I have had Benjamin
at work, finding out about this other one. He is a hard-fisted,
sharp young fellow, and he is said to be a 'cute hand at a bargain;
and about as hard a chap to get over as you could want. A regular
grinder. He has got some big works on down in the country, and his
men hate him like poison. Benjamin says he don't know that he ever
knew a young one so hated. Now I should think I might work him a bit.
Just tell him the heir is alive, and that I can produce him. I don't
know after all that it would not be as good as the old thing, and no
fear of a blow up. What do you think, Rachel?”
“Well, it might do,” his wife answered. “Don't you let him find out
where the boy is, Barton, or he would wait till he died, and then
snap his fingers at you.”
“Thank you, Rachel; I am not quite a fool,” her husband said grimly.
“In a matter like this, which I have waited and planned for, for
twenty years, I am not likely to make a mistake.”
“And you have quite made up your mind, Barton, that it will be better
to try with the next heir?”
“Quite, Rachel; I have thought it over in every light, and I don't
see that there is any chance now of getting anything out of this boy
after all these years of watching.”
END OF VOL. II.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.