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
ill. The doctors recommend change of air and scene, and I trust that
they will restore him to health. He is an extraordinary young man. He is
of the highest intelligence, and has educated himself in a wonderful
way. Save that he is a cripple, you might well be proud of your
grandson.”
The old man groaned. “Oh, if I had but known it, if I had but known it!
Why did not Barton find out?”
“He did, Captain Bradshaw; he has known it all the time.”
“Impossible!” Captain Bradshaw exclaimed. “Impossible!”
“It is true, sir; he has never lost sight of him; he has been in the
habit of coming to see him every few months.”
“The atrocious villain! the infernal scoundrel!” Captain Bradshaw
exclaimed furiously. “Why did he not tell me?—what was his motive?”
“I can only imagine, sir, that he intended to keep it secret until the
boy came of age, in order to get him to promise a very large sum of
money upon being placed in possession of proofs of his birth.”
“The scoundrel! the villain!” ejaculated Captain Bradshaw, almost beside
himself with passion, “I will punish him, I will kill him. Mr. Prescott,
you are a lawyer, I will give ten thousand pounds to have him hung.”
“We will talk of that presently,” Prescott said soothingly; “in the
meantime the great point is to get your grandson here.”
“Of course, of course,” Captain Bradshaw said, the current of his
thoughts again changed. “I will tell Alice first,” and he went to the
door; “Alice! Alice! come down directly.”
Miss Heathcote soon entered the room, and was astounded at seeing her
uncle walking up and down the room, with the tears flowing down his
cheeks.
“Alice,” he said, “I am a miserable old man. I drove my daughter from
her home in a fit of rage. I tried afterwards to find her, but I never
heard of her until it was too late, and the news came to me she was
dead—had died of want, Alice, think of that!—and now I hear all, these
years afterwards, that she has left a son behind her, and he has grown
up a cripple, brought up by the charity of some poor people, whom,” said
the old man solemnly, “may God bless for their goodness!”
Alice was too surprised to make any comment upon this story, but could
only kiss her uncle soothingly. Then she turned to Prescott for further
explanation.
“Sit down, Captain Bradshaw,” he said, “for a few minutes and recover
your composure. I will tell you all I know about it.”
The two sat down, while Prescott related all he knew of the story,
beginning with his first meeting the lad; telling Mrs. Holl’s story as
nearly in her own words as he could recall it, at which point the tears
flowed fast again from the eyes of both the old man and Miss Heathcote.
He then simply said that the boy Evan, who was with Frank down in
Yorkshire, had recognised the crest, upon an old letter of Captain
Bradshaw’s, as being identical with the one owned by James’s mother.
When he had done, Captain Bradshaw said:—
“Thank you very much for what you have done in this case; and now how
shall we get the boy here?”
“I think, sir, if you will allow me, I will go down to the livery
stables at Knightsbridge and get an invalid carriage, and order it to
come round here at once with a couple of men. Then we will walk round
together, and I will go in first and prepare him for it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Prescott; thank you very much.”
And Alice Heathcote looked a thank-you which far more than repaid
Prescott for his exertions.
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