A SORROWFUL HOUSEHOLD--NEWS AT LAST.
Change we the scene to England, and to that particular part of the
island where old Jack and his friends were living.
Though surrounded by every luxury that money could procure, they were
not happy.
"No news yet!" was the first question that Mrs. Harkaway would ask her
husband in the morning, and he with a shake of the head, would
respond--
"None yet, my dear; but do not despond."
But the fond mother vainly endeavoured to hope against hope.
Little Emily, too, went about in a most listless, melancholy manner,
wondering why it was that Jack did not write, and Paquita, too, was
quite despondent at not hearing any thing of Harry Girdwood.
Dick Harvey did all he could to cheer up everybody, but it was a hard
task, for he was working against his own convictions, which were that
the youngsters had got into some trouble from which they were unable to
extricate themselves.
Letters had been written to young Jack at Marseilles, but these had
never reached him, having fallen into the hands of Herbert Murray, who
had applied at the post office, in the name of Harkaway, for them.
Paquita and little Emily, though still firm friends, were not in each
other's society so much as formerly, as they both preferred to endure
their sorrows in solitude.
Paquita, in particular, was fond of a sequestered nook in the grounds,
where, half hidden by shrubs, she could command a view of the long
straight road leading from the nearest railway station.
She had a notion that she would be the first one to see the absentees,
and had chosen that as a place of observation, where she would sit for
hours watching and trying to hope.
Harvey found out her retreat, and employed the photographer who took
Emily's portrait, to give a good likeness of the southern beauty.
Paquita knew nothing of this, so absorbed was she in her own
meditations, till a few days afterwards Uncle Dick, as she had learnt
to call him, gave her some copies of it.
She thanked him, and, hurrying off to her own room, enclosed one in an
envelope, which she addressed to Harry. There was no letter with it,
but underneath the portrait she wrote--
"_With Paquita's dearest love. As she waits for one who comes
not._"
This she posted herself, registering it for extra safety.
* * * *
Still came no tidings, as day after day passed, till one morning the
postman brought a large official-looking letter, addressed in a strange
handwriting, and bearing foreign post-marks.
Despite all his hardihood, Harkaway's hand trembled as he took it up,
and, eager as he was for news, it was some seconds before he could
nerve himself to break the seal.
His wife sat watching with breathless expectation, feeling convinced
that at length there was news.
"Are they safe?" she asked, when she had followed her husband's eye to
the conclusion of the lengthy epistle.
"They _are_ safe, for the _present_."
"Thank Heaven!" she exclaimed, giving way to woman's great
relief--tears.
"But _where_ are they?" she continued a minute afterwards.
"At Marseilles, where they have been for some time, so the British
consul tells me, and where they are likely to be till we go to release
them."
"Release them! What do you mean? Don't keep back anything from me, dear
husband."
"Well, if you must know the worst, they are in prison, on a charge of
coining."
"What an infamous charge to make against them?" exclaimed a couple of
indignant feminine voices, belonging to little Emily and Paquita, who
had just come into the room.
"Husband, you don't believe our boy to be guilty of such a crime?"
"No; but----"
"But what?"
"Appearances are very much against them, the consul says. The great
thing is to establish their identity, as the boy is supposed to have
assumed the name he bears."
At this moment Harvey appeared, and the news was instantly imparted to
him.
"It is a very serious affair, and it is certain we must go at once. But
really it is ridiculous to fancy old Mole and those black rascals
accused of coining."
"It will not be ridiculous, if they are condemned and sent to the
galleys, pa," said little Emily.
"True, little girl, therefore we will see about starting at once. You
see about packing my things, while I run up to town to get passports
for the lot of us."
"Passports are not required for travelling," said Emily.
"Certainly not for travelling; but what can establish our identity
better than passports signed by the British Secretary of State for
foreign affairs?"
There was no answering this question; so Dick started off for London,
while the rest busied themselves with preparations for a continental
trip.
Within forty-eight hours they were crossing the Channel; six hours
later they had entered Paris, where they took a brief rest, and then
continued their journey towards Marseilles.
For just as they were starting Harkaway received a telegram from the
consul at Marseilles--
"Come as soon as you possibly can, or you may be too late."
Need it be said that, after such a message, they lost no time in
speeding to their destination?