SQUARING ACCOUNTS.
It was a happy party which sat down to dinner that day at the Royal.
Captain Bradshaw was delighted with his newly-found niece, and Kate on
her part was no less pleased with the cheery, warm-hearted, kindly old
Indian officer. So much did they take to each other that both Alice and
Frank laughingly declared that they should be jealous. They had dined
early, for Prescott’s business absolutely obliged him to go up by the
mail train to London. For the present they had formed no plans; but it
was arranged that at any rate for a fortnight they should go down to
Torquay, where Prescott promised to join them in a few days. Frank
walked with him down to the railway station and saw him off, and upon
his return found his wife and Captain Bradshaw vying with each other in
their praises of his friend. Alice was sitting by thoughtfully, with a
flush upon her cheek.
“I do wish I could do something for him, Frank, but legal promotion is
not in my line.”
“I am afraid Prescott is hardly eligible for a place on the bench yet,
uncle. He is very hard working and clever, but the bar is slow work.”
“I suppose he has not much beyond his profession?”
“Very little, uncle; I know his income was not sufficient to keep him
before he got any practice, and he was obliged to draw upon his capital.
But he told me last year that he was paying his expenses now, which was
highly satisfactory considering he had only been called four years. Dear
old Prescott,” Frank said, enthusiastically, “I wish he could get some
very nice girl with plenty of money to marry him.”
Frank had at the moment spoken without any special meaning; but Kate,
who had long known from Frank where Prescott had given his heart,
glanced up at Alice, and saw that the colour had mounted up to her very
forehead. Kate drew her own conclusions from this, and at night confided
to Frank that she thought that Alice Heathcote would some day carry out
his wish regarding Prescott.
“Do you mean that you think she will marry him, Kate?”
Kate nodded.
“He’s an awfully good fellow, Katie; I only hope you may be right. If
she does she will have to ask him, for I feel pretty sure Prescott will
never summon up courage sufficient to ask her. In spite of Alice being
an heiress, and Prescott a poor man, I shall consider her to be a lucky
girl.”
“I think so, too, Frank; it’s lucky for you he did not come down with
you that time into Staffordshire, for there is no saying that I might
not have taken a fancy to him.”
“Ah, Katie! but he might not have taken a fancy to you.” Frank laughed.
“He has been thinking of Alice for I don’t know how long.”
“Well, Frank,” Kate said, looking round the room, “the ‘Tasmania’ was
well enough, you know, but this is more comfortable after all.”
“I should think so,” Frank laughed, “and thank goodness there will be no
deck-washing over our heads at five o’clock to-morrow morning.”
The next day the party were installed at Torquay. James greeted Frank
Maynard with a quiet warmth. He had been rather better during the time
that his uncle had been away, and seemed very happy under the quiet
nursing of Carry Walker. She came to him every day after breakfast,
walked out beside his chair, and went home again to her father during
the afternoon, which James spent in the drawing-room with his friends.
Dinner over he went up to his room, and there Carry and usually Alice
Heathcote chatted or read to him until he went to bed. Evan had now
taken the place of his former attendant, and drew him in his chair when
he went out. And many were the visitors of Torquay, who looked pityingly
back at the evidently dying cripple, and at the quiet sad-looking young
lady in mourning who walked beside him.
Prescott came down according to promise three or four days after the
others, and upon the morning after his arrival, Captain Bradshaw took
him aside.
“Now, Mr. Prescott, I want to ask your opinion and advice. I have had a
letter this morning from that rascal, Fred Bingham. He says that he is
not particularly busy at present, and that he intends to come down here
to stop a day or two. He will arrive, he says, to-morrow, in the middle
of the day.”
“Do you think of stopping him?”
“No, no,” Captain Bradshaw said, exultingly, “on no account whatever. I
only wish I could invite the whole of Torquay to be present at the
meeting. I am only debating in my mind whether I will horsewhip the
scoundrel or leave it to Frank.”
“No, no, Captain Bradshaw, his punishment will be heavy enough. Not that
I pity him, for I do not think any possible punishment would be too
great. If I thought horsewhipping would increase his punishment, I would
say horsewhip him as much as you please; or rather let Frank do it; but
I think quiet contempt, and the utter downfall of all his schemes, will
be a punishment greater than any severe personal pain could give him.”
“I am sorry you are not in favour of horsewhipping,” Captain Bradshaw
said, discontentedly; “my fingers, old as they are, are itching for it.
Don’t you think—eh?”
“No, indeed, sir,” Prescott said, laughing; “besides he would have his
action for assault and battery, and we should have a public scandal,
which for all our sakes, but more especially for the sake of Miss
Walker, we ought to avoid.”
“Yes, yes,” the old man said, “I forgot the poor girl. Of course you are
right. What should you advise then?”
“I should say, sir, let him come up into the drawing-room, where just
yourself, James, and I shall be. Then I leave it to you to state the
facts. I would tell Miss Heathcote and Katie that he is coming; but I
would not let Frank know anything about it. Keep him out of the way
somehow, else we shall have a violent scene. Frank is an easy-going man,
and I never saw him but once or twice fairly roused; but when he is,
Captain Bradshaw, he is terrible, and strong as he is, the whole of us
together would hardly keep him from nearly killing Fred Bingham if he
once got near him.”
“Serve him right too,” Captain Bradshaw muttered to himself. “Well,
Prescott, arrange it as you like.”
Alice and Kate were accordingly warned; but Prescott had some difficulty
in persuading the latter to agree that Frank should be kept in the dark,
her sentiments being entirely in accordance with those of Captain
Bradshaw in the matter of horsewhipping. At last, however, she
reluctantly gave way to the arguments of Alice and Prescott, and agreed
to keep the matter from Frank. It had been arranged that nothing should
be said to James until the morning, as they did not wish to excite him.
That evening, as Carry and Alice came together out of the room of the
invalid, Alice said, “Please come to my room, Miss Walker, for a moment;
I want to speak to you alone. I think it right to tell you, in order
that you may leave earlier than usual, so as to avoid any risk of a
meeting, that he, you understand who I mean, will be here to-morrow at
one o’clock.”
Carry turned a little pale. “I am not afraid to meet him, Miss
Heathcote. It is not I who have to be ashamed, now I know him as he is.
My only shame is that I should ever have loved him, ever have been
deceived by him. I have long ceased to think of him as anything to me.
Now I despise him utterly. Thank you all the same, Miss Heathcote, but I
am not afraid of meeting him;” and with an air of pride, which sat
strangely upon her usually quiet figure, Carry Walker went home to her
father.
The next day, at a quarter to one, Alice Heathcote—for Kate had
obstinately refused to have any hand whatever in getting her husband out
of the way—said, suddenly, “By the way, Frank; I want you to do a
commission for me.”
“Certainly, Alice, what is it?”
“I wish you would go down to the music-shop at the other end of the
esplanade, and ask if they have got the ‘Isabella Waltzes.’”
“Very well, Alice; but won’t this afternoon do? We can all walk down
there together.”
“I particularly want them to try after lunch, Frank. I have a particular
reason.”
“Oh, very well, Alice,” Frank laughed; “if you have got a particular
reason, of course there’s an end of it. Come along, Prescott, you may as
well walk with me, you have nothing to do.”
“Yes, Mr. Prescott has, Frank; I want him here.”
“Oh, you do, Alice? You appear to me to have become a species of despot
this morning. Well, I suppose I must do as I am told.”
Kate beat the ground impatiently with her foot, and would have spoken
had not Alice looked imploringly at her.
“You savage girl,” Alice said, when Frank had gone out of the room, “you
were very nearly stopping him.”
“I was,” Kate said, resolutely; “and I’m sorry I didn’t. You may laugh,
Arthur, but I’m quite in earnest. I consider it’s cheating Frank
shamefully.”
Alice did not answer, but turned to Prescott.
“Now, Mr. Prescott, will you wheel James in here from the next room?
Come, Katie, you will be glad afterwards we have not let you have your
own way.”
A few minutes afterwards there was a sharp knock at the door. The
footman, who had been previously instructed by Prescott to say nothing
about the presence of the Maynards, led the way to the drawing-room. As
Fred Bingham left the hall, he heard a loud burst of childish laughter.
“James!” he called, but the man did not appear to hear, but went on to
the door which he opened.
“I wonder who the devil that child is,” passed through Fred Bingham’s
mind in that short instant. “I hate children. That fellow’s face had a
sort of malicious grin on it. What can be up?” And then he advanced,
with his usual pleasant smile, towards his uncle. “How are you, uncle?
you are looking wonderfully well, and James, too, is——” And here he
stopped abruptly, startled by the look of deadly hate and rage which sat
on the cripple’s pale face.
“James has been rather better lately,” Captain Bradshaw said. “He does
not look well now, for he is a little excited; but he has got a new
nurse, who suits him admirably, a most excellent young woman, and an old
friend.”
“I am very glad to hear it, uncle,” Fred stammered, seeing that some
serious danger, the nature of which he could not comprehend, threatened
him. “An old friend, did you say?”
“Yes, Fred, an old friend. I daresay you would remember her name if I
were to mention it.”
“Indeed,” Fred said, the thought of all his possible enemies flashing
through his mind. “What is it?”
“I will answer,” a voice said; and, to the astonishment of the others,
as well as that of Fred Bingham, a lady in black entered. “Carry Walker,
Fred Bingham! Do you remember her?”
Fred Bingham recoiled as from a heavy blow.
“Carry,” he gasped, “alive!”
“Yes, alive, Fred! You thought me dead, you thought the secret safe,
and, secure in your own position, let the punishment fall upon another.
Oh, it was a brave act, Fred; a brave act to deceive a trusting girl,
who had no friends but an old father—a brave act to marry another and to
leave her to die—a brave act to let the blame rest on your cousin, and
to take his place, believing that I lay in my grave. But God spared my
life, spared it that I might frustrate all your hopes and plans, and
cast you down when you thought your success was certain. Fred Bingham,”
she said, advancing a step towards him, and rising grandly above him in
her indignation, as he shrank back from her, “I despise myself that I
ever loved you—I loath myself that I ever listened to you; but at last,
Fred, my wrongs are avenged—the helpless, friendless girl you deceived
and deserted has her hour of triumph at last. Heartless, pitiless, mean,
Fred Bingham, since I have known you as you are, I thank God daily for
one thing—I thank Him that at least I am spared the misery, the
degradation, of being the wife of such a creature. And now, good-bye,
Fred Bingham. I never thought to see you again. I once trembled at the
thought of meeting you, now I feel only contempt. We have met twice,
Fred Bingham; the first time you had your victory—now I have mine. I
pray God we may never meet again.”
And Carry, actually majestic in her indignation and contempt, swept from
the room. None of the other actors in the drama had spoken—to them all
it had been a surprise; and they were all, but most of all the invalid
boy, astounded at this burst of really grand passion on the part of the
ordinarily quiet and gentle woman. Fred Bingham seemed to writhe under
the girl’s words. His face was ashen pale, his natty figure almost
trembled; in vain he tried to speak, the words faded on his lips, the
room seemed to swim around him, as he felt the utter extinction of his
plans and schemes. When Carry had left the room he endeavoured to rally,
and would have spoken, but Captain Bradshaw interrupted him.
“Go, Fred Bingham; attempt no excuses, we know all, even to the fact of
your tampering with my servants and sending back Frank’s letter. And now
let me give you one piece of advice. Frank and his wife are here—yes,
back in their proper places. Frank is at this moment out, but he may
return at any moment. If you value a whole skin, I should say go before
he does return; and one last word,” and here the old man strode forward,
“if I ever catch you in my house again, damme, if I don’t have you
whipped out by the maids.”
Without a single word Fred Bingham staggered out of the room, felt his
way, rather than walked, down-stairs, and, mechanically putting his hat
upon his head, went through the open door which James, with mock
civility, held wide open for him. As he was going down the steps,
however, a gentleman, walking rapidly, turned up them. He stopped, and,
with almost a cry of exultation, exclaimed,—
“Fred Bingham!” Then he went on with an unnatural coolness which was
more deadly than the fiercest outburst of fury would have been. “So,
Fred, we have met again at last. The time for wiping out a little of our
score has arrived. No,” he said, as Fred shrank back, “I will not touch
you with my hands. Had we met in another place, I would not have
answered for you. I will punish you as I would punish a dog. James,” he
said, grasping his enemy by the collar with a force from which he would
have been powerless to escape had he had ten times his natural strength,
“fetch me that riding-whip which I bought yesterday, out of the hall,
and tell my wife to come here.”
Fred Bingham had recovered now from the shock he had suffered.
Physically, he was not a coward, and he faced his powerful opponent with
the courage of despair. For a moment, he made a tremendous effort to
escape; but Frank held him without moving a muscle, as if even
unconscious of his struggles.
“You shall repent this outrage,” Fred Bingham hissed between his teeth.
Frank Maynard only smiled, he smiled again when the servant brought him
out the heavy riding-whip, which he grasped with his right hand. Then he
waited immoveable. A light rapid step was heard in the hall, and Kate
stood at the door.
“Katie, time was when you urged me to do this, for your sake I refused.
Now, dear, my time has come. I am going to thrash him to within an inch
of his life.”
“No, Frank, no. Let him go. He has been punished enough.”
Kate and Alice had gone again into the drawing-room when they had heard
Fred Bingham go down-stairs. They had just began to speak when the
servant entered,—
“Please, ma’am, you are to go down-stairs to Mr. Frank; he has got Mr.
Bingham, and I do think he will kill him.”
For the man had been frightened at Frank’s expression when he took the
whip from him. All the party rose and made a movement.
“Oh, Katie!” Alice burst out.
“Stop!” Kate said, very pale, “stop, all of you, I will go down alone. I
know Frank. None of you could turn him, not a hair’s breadth, now. I do
not know whether I can. I will try.”
“No, wife,” Frank answered her appeal, “he has been punished for
cheating his uncle, he has been punished for Carry, but he has not been
punished for you, I—I, your husband, Kate—take that in my own hands.”
Frank had not looked at his wife while he spoke; his eyes, wide with a
savage glare, looked down upon his victim, and his powerful arm was
slowly but steadily raised. Kate clung to him.
“Frank, oh, Frank, I forgive him!”
“Yes, Katie, you forgive him for yourself, but I don’t forgive him for
my wife. Stand aside, Katie!”
There was something so menacing, so deadly, in the cold calmness of his
tone, that Kate shuddered, while Fred Bingham, although he had
despairingly nerved himself for the ordeal, yet felt the blood tingling
in every vein.
“Oh, Frank, if you love me, if you care for me, let him go.”
“Katie, for the last time, stand aside.”
Kate threw her arms closer round him.
“Frank! husband! look at me! Have I been a good wife to you? Have I ever
once murmured? Have I tried hard to make your life happy? Frank, since
we have been married I never asked you any great favour. I ask it now,
Frank, for this wretched man—not for his sake, but for mine—for the sake
of your little wife, who so loves you. Oh, Frank, Frank,” and Kate’s
eyes closed, and had not Frank’s right arm closed round her, she would
have fallen.
Frank’s face had softened as she spoke, and as the little figure drooped
more heavily upon him, his fingers unclosed from their vice-like hold of
Fred Bingham. Then, without a word, without any apparent knowledge of
the man he had released, he raised his wife and carried her into the
house.
Two days after this, Captain Bradshaw was sitting alone with his
grandson, when, after a pause, the invalid said—
“I want you to give me some money, grandfather—something I can do as I
like with.”
“God bless my soul, my boy,” Captain Bradshaw said, hastily, “why did
you not ask before? How much do you want?”
“Oh, I want a great deal, grandfather. When I die I want to know that
Carry is provided for; she was so kind to me in the old days. She would
not take money from you,—she would not take it from me—but when I am
dead, if I leave it to her, she would, I think, take it. It would make
me very happy, grandfather.”
“Yes, yes, my boy,” the old man said, wiping his eyes hastily, “I will
transfer an amount to your name, and then you can do with it what you
like. I will write up to-day to my broker to sell out. How much shall I
say, James?—£5000, and to invest it in stock in your name. Will that
do?”
A silent pressure of the hand was the answer.
“I do not think I shall live to be of age, grandfather, but you will not
dispute my will,” and he smiled contentedly.
Another two days, and it is the eve of their leaving Torquay. They have
all gone down to the rocks. Frank, Kate, and Captain Bradshaw, are
engaged in assisting Charley to hunt for small crabs. Alice Heathcote
and Arthur Prescott are sitting a little apart.
“Of course we shall see a great deal of you in London, Mr. Prescott?
Frank and Katie are going to stay with uncle till they find a house to
suit them.”
“I will come as often as I can, Miss Heathcote; but I must go back in
earnest to work now. I have been having a long holiday.”
“It has been a pleasant one, has it not?” Alice asked shyly.
“Very pleasant—too pleasant—I shall have hard work to put it out of my
head, and to settle down to work again in my chambers.”
“I have been thinking, Mr. Prescott, that now we have settled into our
old friendly terms I must go back to my girl’s habit and drop the
Mister. Uncle, and Frank, and Katie, and every one call you so; so in
future I shall say Prescott.”
Alice spoke jestingly, but she coloured.
“Thank you very much, Miss Heathcote—thank you very much. But you are
mistaken, Kate calls me Arthur.”
Alice hesitated. This time the colour flooded her whole face, and she
said in a very low voice—
“But you call her by her Christian name. I cannot call you Arthur,
unless you call me Alice.”
Alice did not look up when she spoke. She knew what she had said: she
was offering herself to him. She knew he would not ask her. A rush of
happiness came into Prescott’s heart. Was this great prize he had loved
and waited for all these years his after all? He took her hand.
“Alice, I have loved you ever since I knew you. I loved you with a boy’s
adoration: I have loved you with a man’s love ever since. I have never
ventured to hope until lately—never even dreamt that you could return
it. Is this great happiness mine after all? Oh, Alice, do you really
love me?”
A minute afterwards Charley ran up to his mamma.
“Mammy, I want to whisper.” Kate lifted him up. “Mammy, Uncle Arthur is
very naughty. I saw him kiss Aunt Alice.”
“And quite right, too,” Kate said, heartily. “If he had not been a
bashful goose, he’d have done it a fortnight ago. It’s all right,
Charley; but don’t say anything about it. Here, take your basket and run
off to grandpapa, he’s caught a crab.”
Three weeks after this time Fred Bingham’s name appeared in the Gazette,
and on the very same day, among the announcements of deaths was that of
his wife. Beyond the fact that he went to America, nothing was ever
heard of him for certainty afterwards; although two or three years
later, at Kate’s request, Frank made an effort to trace him in order to
settle a small annuity upon him. He never succeeded in hearing of him
with certainty. The only clue was that a person answering his
description was shot in a card-room in a low gambling saloon in New
York.
John Holl is a happy and a flourishing man. He does not exert himself
greatly now, but prefers sitting by his fireside and smoking his pipe.
The real management of the business lies in the hands of his son Evan,
who is shortly going to take a wife to himself, and Kate Maynard is on
the look-out for another nurse.
Down in a pretty cottage, near the New Forest, live an old gentleman and
his daughter, a very pretty but very quiet woman, whose tender love and
care for her father have won her the esteem of all around. Many offers
has she had, but she has gently refused them all, and it is generally
understood that the young widow will never marry again. Years on,
perhaps she may, but at present every thought and affection are centred
in her father.
Frank Maynard and his wife live in Lowndes Square; with them resides
their uncle, who is still alive, although now a very old man. He thinks
a little sadly sometimes of a grave down at Torquay, within sound of the
murmur of the waves, where, according to his wishes, sleeps the cripple
boy; but generally he is as bright and cheery as ever, and spoils Kate’s
children, and she has four, immensely.
Arthur Prescott lives in Wilton Place, so that the friends are as
intimate as ever; and Kate, on the strength of her superior knowledge
upon the subject of children, is in great request with Alice at Wilton
Place.
THE END.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).