AVENGED.
Another fortnight went on, and the beneficial effect which the
excitement of the change had effected in the health of the cripple boy
began to disappear, and a short irritating cough constantly harassed
him. Captain Bradshaw called in the best medical advice, and their
verdict proved the death knell of his hopes. His grandson’s lungs were
seriously affected. He might of course live for a long time. Yes, change
might be beneficial. Torquay? Yes, Torquay would be just the place. And
so to Torquay it was decided that they should proceed in a few days.
One morning Alice Heathcote was talking alone with the invalid, when the
name of Fred Bingham was mentioned.
“Do you like him, Alice?”
“No, James,” Miss Heathcote said; “to tell you the truth I do not like
him at all. But my uncle is very fond of him, and so I keep my dislike
to myself.”
“I am glad you don’t like him,” James said. “I took a dislike to him, I
don’t know why; he was very kind and friendly, but I did not like him. I
was afraid perhaps I was prejudiced, but if you don’t like him, I am
sure I was right.”
“I am not infallible, you know, James,” Miss Heathcote said, half
smiling; “but in this case I am pretty sure that my dislike is well
founded.”
James thought for a time.
“I have heard the name of Bingham before, and I was trying to remember
when. It has just struck me, a Mr. Maynard, whom Evan Holl is at work
with, is under a Mr. Bingham, a contractor down in Yorkshire.”
“It is the same Mr. Bingham,” Alice said, quietly.
“Why, how can that be, Alice? Mr. Bingham is a cousin of Mr. Maynard,
and in that case grandfather would be Maynard’s uncle too.”
“Yes, he is, James; but there has been a quarrel between them.”
“Has there?” James said; “I am sorry for that. I knew Mr. Maynard, he
came twice to mother’s, and he was so frank and cheery, and so
kind-hearted too. Why, it was he who sent out, at his own expense, Bessy
Holl—she was mother’s sister, you know—to Australia to join her husband.
I never saw such a fine fellow, so generous and kind. Evan would lay
down his life for him. And he is very poor now, very, Evan said so in
his letter. He lost all his money when the Great Indian Bank broke. What
could grandfather have quarrelled with him about? Why, Alice, you are
crying. I have not offended you, have I? I beg your pardon.”
“No, no, James, I am foolish, that’s all. And now, James, I will tell
you a secret. Once I loved Frank Maynard, loved him with all my heart. I
thought he loved me, but it was all a mistake. You understand, James, he
was not the least to blame. Well, when I found out my mistake I tried
hard to cure myself, and had come, when he married, to look upon him
quite like a brother. Well, James, we found out—at least uncle found
out, and told me—that he was not what we had thought him, and that he
had done a very wicked thing. I can’t tell you what it was, James. Well,
uncle wrote to him, and he never answered, never tried even to excuse
himself. It was so bad a thing, James, we could never esteem him or know
him again. It almost broke uncle’s heart, and it made me suffer very
much too, James, just as if it had really been a brother who had done
it. When we heard he had lost all his money, we sent some to a bank for
him without saying who it came from; but I suppose he guessed and so
would not accept it—anyhow he sent it back. I know he is very poor, and
that it must be dreadful to be under Fred Bingham. Everyone speaks well
of Frank. Mr. Prescott likes him so much, you tell me how kind he was,
and I know, yes I know, how frank and straight-forward and true he was,
James, and I do so wish it could be made up and forgiven. He has been
punished, and his conscience must have punished him more than uncle’s
anger could do, but we ought not to cast him out all his life for one
sin, I was as angry and sorry as uncle was at first, James, but I do so
grieve over it, I do so fret when I think of him, and how he wants a
friend now. I cannot ask uncle to forgive him. I have been as hard as he
has, but would you, James? He will not refuse you anything; you could
put it on the ground of what he did for your aunt when she was in
distress. Poor Frank, I do feel for him so.”
And Alice, who had tried hard to speak steadily, again broke down.
“Certainly I will ask it, Alice. I do not think my grandfather will
refuse me,” and James sat for some time with a look of sad thought on
his face. “I will speak to him to-night, after dinner.”
After dinner, accordingly, James refused to go upstairs as usual with
Alice, and had his chair wheeled close to his grandfather. For some time
they talked upon ordinary subjects, and then there was a pause. James
sat toying with a dessert-knife in his thin hands, and coughed once or
twice with the short hacking cough that went to his listener’s heart.
“May I tell you a story, grandfather?”
“Certainty, James,” Captain Bradshaw said.
“Some time ago, uncle, nearly three years now, I was at work at my
flower-making, you know, when a very tall, good-looking gentleman, came
in about some business with mother. He was very kind, and talked for
some time in a bright, cheery way. He bought some of my flowers, and
sent me down a great box of books to study.”
“God bless him!” Captain Bradshaw said, interjectionally.
“Some time after, uncle, we were in great trouble. John Holl’s brother
William was sentenced to be transported as a head Chartist, and his poor
wife, Aunt Bessy, as I used to call her, was in terrible grief. The same
gentleman happened to hear of it, and came down and paid her expenses to
join her husband in Australia, which she did a few months afterwards.
This gentleman is now very poor, he has lost all his money, and has
quarrelled with a rich relative, His name is Frank Maynard. Grandfather,
it is of no use deceiving ourselves. I know I am dying, I know I cannot
live many months; let my one request to you be that for my sake you
forgive him, and let him be to you what I would have been.
“I will, I will, James,” Captain Bradshaw said, wiping his eyes. “I have
been thinking ever since you came here of forgiving him. I have had a
lesson heavy enough for any one man of the sin of unforgiveness. I will
forgive him, James. I will see him and tell him so, but he cannot yet
come back here to us. Perhaps some day, but not now. But at least I will
make him independent and comfortable. I loved him, James, very dearly,
and would have trusted him with my life, and when confidence like that
finds it is mistaken, it is very hard to heal. I know that all men would
not look at his fault as I did, but he did it deliberately. He told me
the first time he had seen her how pretty she was, and I warned him not
to go again, as mischief might follow. He took my advice in good part,
and I thought no more of it until her old father stood before me and
called for vengeance. He had that day been to see his daughter’s body,
which was——Good God, James, what is the matter?—what is the matter, boy?
Speak to me.”
James was sitting as if stricken with a fit. His thin face was as pale
as death, his eyes, unnaturally large, were fixed and staring; his hand
was clenched. At last he said,—
“Grandfather, was her name Carry Walker?”
“Yes, James, that was her name. Did you know her?”
“Know her?” the cripple lad repeated, with a ghastly laugh; “know her?
Look at me. Three years ago I was a cripple, as I am now, but I was
strong, and well, and active. I could swing by my arms like a monkey. I
was a cripple, but I was happy and light-hearted. A girl used to come in
to talk to me. She was an angel, as good and as beautiful as one. I
worshipped her, I could have kissed the ground she trod on. She was not
for me, a poor cripple, I never dreamt it, but I worshipped her as I
might have done an angel of light. And she knew it, but never looked
down upon me—never jeered at a cripple’s adoration, but was like a
sister with me. A scoundrel killed her. You know how. I never blamed
her, she was not to blame. I know she was as pure and as sinless as an
angel, but she was as trusting, and he deceived her. With her went my
life. I did not care to live, I longed to die, all my spirits and my
strength went. I only longed for one thing; I longed to know who had
done it—I longed to kill him. I once suspected. I had mentioned his
name, and she had changed colour and seemed confused, but I believed him
so good and so true, that I blamed myself for the doubt, and now I know
at last that those doubts were only the truth. Carry, Carry! I have
avenged you at last. Grandfather, the man who killed her has killed me.
For myself I could still say forgive him; for her sake I say cast him
out for ever.”
“I do, James,” the old man said, solemnly. “Henceforth he is dead to me.
Did I see him dying of want at my feet I would not stretch out a hand to
save him.”
“Thank you, grandfather,” the cripple said, with his face set in a
savage joy, and then it softened again as he murmured to himself, “At
last, at last, Carry, I—I, the poor cripple—have avenged you.” Then he
said to his grandfather, “Please go upstairs, uncle, and send Alice down
to me. She asked me to speak to you. I must tell her. Please ask her to
come down to me.”
In a minute Alice came down. At the sight of the lad’s face, of almost
ghastly pallor, she said,—
“Oh, James, I fear you have been exciting yourself too much. And I see
he has refused you. How could he?”
“No, Alice, he has granted what I asked him. Listen to me, Alice. I have
told him a story. I will tell it you. I loved, not as men love, but as
one might worship an angel, a girl who came to talk to me and cheer my
life. She was all that was good and bright and pure. I need not tell you
the rest—I see you can guess it. I have prayed and longed with a
despairing longing that I might some day punish this man. I knew not who
he was. The impotent rage, the intense longing, this sorrow and pity
have for months been killing me. At last I have avenged her. Frank
Maynard may die of want before grandfather would stretch out a hand to
save him.”
A look of deep pain, of horror, and of pity, succeeded each other on
Alice Heathcote’s face, until the closing sentence, and then she threw
herself on her knees by his side and took his hand.
“Oh, James! I am so sorry, I pity you so much, but do not say that.
Forgive, as you would be forgiven. It is his one fault. It is a terrible
sin, James—a dreadful, dreadful sin; but think what he must have
suffered, think what remorse he must have felt. She would say to you,
‘Forgive,’ James. Oh! have mercy upon him, for his poor wife’s sake, for
mine!”
“No, Alice, I can only think of Carry, and I will never, never forgive
him!”
The cripple spoke in a tone of bitter pleasure which there was no hope
of changing; his face looked into the distance with a strange smile of
gratified vengeance, and Alice Heathcote, without a word, rose proudly
from her knees, and, with a face as pale as his, left the room.
------------------------------------------------------------------------