FINDING A CLUE.
And so Frank set to work. He was not a man to do things by halves, and
threw himself with all his energies into it. Every morning soon after
half-past four he was up; after he was out of bed he lit a small
spirit-lamp, made his coffee, and had his early breakfast when he was
dressed. Then, at a little after five he started for his three mile walk
to his work, at which he always arrived before six. Then a turn along
the line and back again to his starting-point by half-past eight, when
the men stopped work for half an hour to breakfast. Then Frank would go
into a little turf hut by the side of the cutting and eat, with an
appetite sharpened by the keen morning air, the breakfast he had brought
with him. Another turn up and down the line, and then, at twelve
o’clock, he would have a fire lit in his hut and warm up his dinner;
then up and down again until six, or, if the men were working overtime,
until eight, and then three miles home again. It was very hard work, and
Frank had sometimes to sit down by the roadside of that last steep pull
up to his cottage. Once there, however, he was strong and cheery again,
for the bright face was always on the look out for him, and his
slippers, and his easy coat, and his hot water, and his tea, and the
cheerful smile, better than all, were sure to be ready for him. Few of
his old London friends would have known Frank now, in his rough
shooting-coat, his gaiters and navvy boots, and the beard which he had
allowed to grow since he came down to Yorkshire. During this time Frank
and his wife suffered far more for each other than for themselves. Kate,
bright and cheerful as she was when Frank was with her, fretted much
when he was away. More especially of an evening she would picture him to
herself, toiling along the dark road, so tired, that as she well knew he
could hardly drag himself along. Frank, too, worried about his wife; for
himself, hard, terribly hard, as his work was, he did not so much mind;
it was the thought of her sitting at home by herself all those long
hours worrying about him which troubled him. His only satisfaction was
that he was doing his best, his very best, to earn her a living. Frank’s
was immensely popular with his men. Some men have the knack of getting
on with working men, and this knack Frank possessed in the highest
degree. He had a cheery word and a ready jest for each when he passed
him. He was strict with his work, and soon thoroughly understood it, but
the men knew he never blamed unless blame was really deserved, and they
looked up to the “gaffer,” as Frank was termed, with all the rough
affection of which navvies are eminently capable. At first one or two
rough fellows, not knowing their man, had ventured to be insolent when
Frank reproved them, and were summarily dismissed. When they had been
paid, he told them that now they were no longer in his service, they
were his equals, and could treat him as such; and so, taking off his
coat, he gave them a tremendous thrashing. After that he had no trouble
whatever; and the rest of his men liked him all the better for it.
A few days after work had begun, Katie had gone down to call upon Mrs.
Fred. Mrs. Fred had been very glad to see her, and promised to come up
in a few days; but her husband, when he heard of Kate’s visit, told his
wife that he did not choose that she should visit his inspectors’ wives,
and that he forbade positively her going up to the cottage, a
prohibition which his wife, though with many quiet tears, was forced to
obey. Fred Bingham by no means made himself popular with the people of
the neighbourhood, and after a time they ceased to call. Frank, although
reticent to Kate as to his grievances, was outspoken enough to the
doctor and his other friends, and Fred Bingham got a bad name in the
place. Although he himself did not care about visiting, it annoyed him
exceedingly on Sundays, when they came out of church, to see that Frank
and his wife were greeted warmly by all the people of the place, while
they merely drew by to let himself and his wife pass with a distant bow.
Frank and his wife soon found that twenty shillings a week was an
impossible sum to live on, and in spite of her utmost economy, the bills
accumulated in a way which caused Kate many a weary hour of anxiety.
Indeed, they could not have held on had it not been that three times
they received assistance. The first was when their second child was
born, about five months after the work began. When the event was
approaching, Frank had written to Prescott, and his friend had sent him
twenty pounds. The second help was a week or two after baby’s advent,
when a letter arrived from Mrs. Drake, who was quite in ignorance of the
state of their circumstances, and sent a present of twenty pounds also
for christening things for the new-comer. The third present came three
months later, and for this they had to thank, though unwittingly, Fred
Bingham.
Fred had been up in London, and, as was his invariable custom upon these
occasions, had called upon his uncle. Captain Bradshaw was out, but Miss
Heathcote was at home. Now, between Alice and Fred there was a feud
which had existed ever since she had rejected him. He had never forgiven
her for refusing him, and indeed, next only to Frank Maynard, hated her
beyond any living thing. Alice, on her part, despised him. She had
looked upon him with absolute contempt, not unmingled with fear, since
the occasion when he had taunted her with her love for Frank. It was
only for Captain Bradshaw’s sake that she bore with him, but so great
was her love for her uncle that she would not, by look or word, say
anything before or to him to shake his confidence in Fred. She knew he
liked Fred; not as he had loved Frank, but with a passive sort of
liking, and that he looked upon him as his only possible heir. Fred
perfectly understood her motive for silence, and showed himself to her
as he really was, in a way he did not often show himself to any one
except his wife. Upon the present occasion he went in.
“How are you getting on down in Yorkshire, Fred?”
“Pretty well, Alice; nothing to grumble about.”
“Fred,” Alice said, “I have been waiting to get an opportunity of
speaking to you alone. I want to ask you how Frank Maynard is getting
on; I have no one to ask but yourself.”
“I know it is an interesting subject,” Fred sneered.
Alice’s eyes flashed.
“Yes,” he continued, “you need not look angry, Alice. He is getting on
as well as he could expect, I suppose.”
“And how well is that, Fred?”
“Well,” said Fred, carelessly, “he is a sort of inspector.”
“And what are an inspector’s duties, Fred? What does he have to do?”
“Well, he has to be on the work at six o’clock—unfortunately he lives
three miles away, but that’s his business—he has to be there at six and
he has to look after the men all day till six in the evening; that is,
if the men ain’t working overtime—if they are he is there till eight.”
“And has he a horse, Fred?”
“A horse!” Fred said, scornfully; “no, thank you, I don’t have my
inspectors riding about on horseback.”
“Do you mean to say, Fred, that Frank Maynard has to walk to work three
miles of a morning and back at night, and to be on his feet all day?”
“Of course,” Fred said; “what would you have?”
Alice bit her lips until the blood nearly came.
“And how much do you pay him per week for work like this?”
“Two pounds a week.”
“Really two pounds a week?”
“Yes, that is the exact figure.”
Alice Heathcote drew her breath hard. Then she got up and rang the bell.
The servant came.
“James, show Mr. Bingham to the door; and, remember, he is never to be
admitted unless my uncle is at home.”
Fred Bingham hesitated, but there was a look of white anger in Alice’s
face that warned him she was perfectly in earnest, and as she stood
looking more even than her natural height in her passion, with her
compressed lips, and little clenched hands, Fred thought that for once
he had gone too far, and without a word, went out.
When James had left the room, Alice walked up and down for a few times;
and then, throwing herself upon the sofa, cried bitterly. Presently she
rose, went up to her room, and wrote a note:—
“DEAR MR. PRESCOTT,
“The matter on which I write is between ourselves alone, and
I rely upon you to keep it so. Although matters have occurred
which make it impossible that the breach between your friend and
us can ever be healed, still it pains me beyond description to
hear that he is working down in Yorkshire from morning to night
upon pay which can scarcely keep him and his family from
starvation. I would do anything to save him from this wretched
state; but he will, I know, accept nothing at my hands. I
enclose three ten pound notes. You will understand that I
enclose this sum only, because I know that he would not receive
more. Will you do me the very great kindness to manage it as a
loan from yourself? It is a harmless fraud, and I can think of
no other method. Will you tell him you have had a heavy case on,
and are enabled, without hurting yourself, to offer him the
money without inconvenience? Please do this, Mr. Prescott. I ask
you, both for your friend’s sake, and in the name of the long
standing regard which has always existed between yourself and
yours sincerely,
“ALICE HEATHCOTE.”
And so Frank received another thirty pounds from Prescott, which he
accepted without hesitation, believing that Prescott could spare it, and
knowing that under similar circumstances his own purse would have been
entirely at his friend’s service. For a time, therefore, the Maynards
were straight again. The tradesmen’s bills which had pressed so heavily
were paid off, and a few things which were most urgently required were
purchased.
All this while Fred Bingham had apparently been on friendly terms with
Frank: at times he was cold and distant with him, carrying his position
as master to the very extreme of what he saw Frank would bear; at other
times he chatted with him in the most friendly manner—and it is
difficult to say under which mood Frank found it most difficult to keep
his temper.
Sometimes he would go up on Sunday afternoon and smoke a pipe on the
seat in front of the cottage, chatting with Frank, and ignoring
altogether his wife’s short answers and evident dislike of his presence;
for Kate, when she did not like any one, made no secret of her feelings.
“You are very high and mighty, my lady,” he said to himself one day, as
he drove homewards in his handsome dog-cart, “but I’ll give you
something to think of before long.”
A few days afterwards he walked into Frank’s cottage in the afternoon,
to Kate’s great astonishment.
“Was just riding by, Mrs. Frank, and thought I would come in to have a
chat.”
“Thank you,” Kate said, “but I’m particularly busy to-day.”
“Oh, don’t mind me, Mrs. Frank. I’m no stranger, you know.”
“I wish you were,” Kate muttered, half audibly.
“I wanted to talk to you about Frank. You see this life is a very hard
one for him, and it is greatly to be wished that something could be done
for him.”
“It is not I that make it hard for him,” Kate said, pointedly. “I have
broken no promises. I didn’t tempt him to come down here, and then make
him work almost like a common navvy.”
“No, quite so, Mrs. Frank,” Fred said, composedly. “But that is not now
to the point. What I was thinking of, is, could not this unfortunate
quarrel between Frank and his uncle be made up?”
Kate looked full at him with her honest eyes. “I expect, Mr. Bingham,
you know more of the quarrel than we do.”
Fred Bingham coloured a little. “I suppose we both know pretty well all
about it, Mrs. Frank. It has been a most unfortunate circumstance, but I
should think that Captain Bradshaw by this time would be able to make
allowances and to overlook the past.”
Kate rose from her seat, her little figure looking grand in its
indignation. “I don’t know what you mean, Fred Bingham; but if you mean
that Frank has done anything which requires to be forgiven, or looked
over, you’re telling a lie, and I, Frank’s wife, tell you so.”
“What?” Fred Bingham said, in tones of surprise; “has Frank really kept
you in ignorance all this time of the cause of quarrel? I always thought
you were the most forgiving of women, but I see now by your manner that
you do not know.”
“I know all that Frank knows,” Kate said; “and that is just nothing.”
“Really I am sorry,” Fred Bingham began; “because if you are in
ignorance of this sad affair, it makes it so much the more difficult to
make it up with Captain Bradshaw; but I think that if you did but know
it you might be able to act as mediator, and I feel sure my uncle could
not bear malice any longer. I do so wish to see things made up, that if
you will promise solemnly to keep it a secret, painful as it is, I will
tell you the real cause of quarrel. You see——”
“Stop, Fred Bingham, stop!” Kate cried impetuously; “do not dare to say
a word to me. Not for fifty times Captain Bradshaw’s money would I hear
a word against Frank. And more than that, do you think, after what I
know of you, that I would believe you if you took an oath on the Bible?
Don’t speak, sir,” she said, passionately. “I warn you, if you say a
word, one single word, I will tell my husband; and if you know him as
well as I do, you will know that if he thought you were trying to make
mischief between us, he would beat you like a dog before all your men.”
“I only wished to put matters straight,” Fred Bingham said, cowed by the
might of Kate’s anger.
“You did not, Fred Bingham; you never wished to do anything of the sort.
I don’t believe you ever wanted to do a good action from the day you
were born. You simply wanted to make mischief. You only wanted to tell
me a lie under promise of secrecy.”
“I swear to you,” Fred Bingham said, “that what I was going to tell you,
Captain Bradshaw will corroborate if you write to him.”
“Then, likely enough, Fred Bingham, you lied to him as well as to me;
you are quite capable of it. And now go: you may rely that for Frank’s
sake, though not for yours, I shall not mention that you have been here;
but if you ever come again when I am alone, and try to make mischief
between Frank and me, I will tell him, whatever the consequences may
be.”
Fred Bingham went away crestfallen, and never came up to the cottage
again.
Two more months passed. It is nearly a year since Frank began work at
Landfarn. Things are unchanged. It is a Sunday afternoon, which Frank
and Kate always look forward to during the whole week, as the one day
when they are happy together. After church, if it is fine, Frank sits in
front of the cottage, and plays with Charley, who is now two years old;
Katie sits by his side and reads to him, or talks of old days. They are
very happy there, and agree that on Sunday the works shall never be
alluded to. Evan does a little in the garden, or helps Jane to carry the
baby about. Evan has been on the works ever since they began. He is
eighteen now, and his navvy work has widened him out into a broad young
fellow. He does not live at the cottage; it is too far from his work;
but he comes up on Saturday afternoon, when the pay is over, and stops
until Monday morning, working in the garden, and making himself useful
in many little ways. On the day in question the afternoon was wet, and
Frank had, for want of anything else to do, been turning over his desk,
and tearing up the accumulated letters of months. Among other letters
which he had so treated was the one which he himself had written to
Captain Bradshaw, and which had been returned unopened.
“It’s no use keeping that any longer,” he had said to his wife; “it is
not a pleasant thing to stare one in the face every time one opens one’s
desk.”
Kate nodded, and the letter was torn to pieces, and with its envelope
thrown carelessly with the others.
Presently Evan came in with Charley on his shoulders, having been
engaged in a game of romps with him in the next room.
“Evan, will you take out all the scraps and burn them, and tell Hannah
she can lay the cloth.”
Evan gathered up the fragments, and left the room. In about five minutes
he returned with a serious face, and with an envelope in his hand.
“What is it, Evan?”
“Please, sir, I was dropping the pieces one by one into the kitchen
fire, when I see this envelope.”
“Yes, Evan, and what is there peculiar about that envelope?” Frank
asked, amused, for the lad looked so unnaturally serious that he could
hardly help smiling.
“Please, sir, there’s a seal on it.”
“Yes, Evan, it’s unbroken. Do you remember, Katie, my tearing the letter
open so as to show you the seal?”
“Yes, Frank, I remember it quite well.”
“Please, sir, isn’t the seal a hand?”
“Yes, Evan, it’s a hand.”
“But it’s only three fingers, hasn’t it, sir?”
“Yes, Evan, it has only three fingers; it’s a crest, but what is there
curious in that?”
“Well, sir, it’s curious because I never saw a hand with three fingers
on before; but I’ve heard mother say that Brother James, you know, sir,
him as is a cripple, when his mother died she had a seal round her neck
with only three fingers.”
“God bless me, Evan, that is very curious, very,” Frank said, very
interested. “If this should only turn out as I think, by Jove, Katie, it
would put that little blackguard’s nose out of joint, and no mistake.”
“What do you mean, Frank? I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I will tell you, dear. Let me see, Evan, how old is James now?”
“He’s rather better than twenty, sir.”
“Just so, Katie. Of course it may not be so, but if it is not it’s a
curious coincidence. You’ve heard me say that Captain Bradshaw had a
daughter who married and ran away from home, and that uncle never heard
of her till he heard she was dead, and had died in great want.”
“Yes; I remember, Frank.”
“Well, Katie, as nearly as I can tell that is about twenty-one years
ago. Now it is really possible that this poor woman who died at the
Holls was her, and that this is her son, whom Captain Bradshaw has never
known was alive. A three-fingered hand is not a common crest. I will
write to Prescott at once, and ask him to go into the affair. Oh Katie,
if it should turn out so, it will be glorious! Of course my uncle will
leave him a part anyhow of his estate. By Jove I can forgive uncle
having sent back my letter unanswered, if it is the means of finding his
grandson and doing Fred Bingham out of part of the fortune.”
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