THE OWNERS OF WYVERN HALL.
Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott, after leaving Stephen Walker standing
bewildered upon the pavement, did not pursue their way along
Knightsbridge, but turned at once into Lowndes Square. They walked the
length of this, and stopped at one of the three or four houses which
form the end of the square, or rather oblong. It belonged to Captain
Bradshaw, Frank’s uncle, with whom the young men were going to dine.
Harry Bradshaw was the younger of two brothers, sons of Reginald
Bradshaw, of Wyvern Park, in Oxfordshire. It was a fine property.
Indeed, there were not many finer in the county—with its noble old
mansion, its wide park, and its stately trees—and had been in the family
for centuries. During all this time—if tradition is to be believed—the
Bradshaws had been a hearty, honest, hard-riding, and deep-drinking
race; and Reginald did not belie his ancestry, but drank as deeply and
rode as hard as the best of them could have done.
But stately as was Wyvern Hall, and wide and fair as was its park, the
Bradshaws were by no means a wealthy race. Previous to the rebellion
they had been so, but the Bradshaw of that time had thrown himself heart
and soul into the Royalist cause. He had lost everything but life, and
lived abroad with his Prince in France, until, at the death of Cromwell,
men once more shook off the iron Puritan yoke from their necks, and
welcomed their King home again from his long exile. With him returned
Marmaduke Bradshaw. More fortunate than many, he succeeded in regaining
his family estate, and in ousting the pious corn-factor of the
neighbouring town, who had, by the fervour and lengthiness of his
prayers, and the strength of his right arm, fought and prayed himself
into possession of the domain of the malcontent and godless follower of
the man Stuart. But although Marmaduke succeeded in thus regaining
possession of the mansion and park, he was not so fortunate as to the
various outlying farms and properties. Some, indeed, he recovered, but
the greater part were in the hands of surly iron-fisted men, who had won
them on the fields of Marston and Naseby and Worcester, and who were by
no means men to unclose their hands upon what they had once grasped.
Force was not to be tried. The King was engaged in endeavouring to make
himself popular to all parties, and had very difficult cards to play
between them, Marmaduke Bradshaw, therefore, settled down in the family
mansion with a greatly diminished rent roll, but still thinking himself
lucky in comparison to many others, whose devotion in times of adversity
to their King was but ill rewarded on his return to power.
The mansion and estate were strictly entailed, and the Bradshaws had
hard work, with their horses and their hounds and their lavish
hospitality, to keep up their establishment in accordance with their
apparent wealth, and to hold their own among the county families, with
perhaps far larger means and less expensive domains. Nor indeed could
they have done so, had it not been the rule and habit of the family to
marry well. They were a good-looking, fine-grown race; and to be
mistress of Wyvern Park was no unenviable position; consequently the
Bradshaws had nearly their choice among the county heiresses. Thus by
constant additions of fresh property the lords of Wyvern Park were able
to maintain their position and reputation. Reginald Bradshaw had, in
accordance with the family tradition, married a neighbouring heiress,
and for some years kept almost open house. But by the time that his
eldest son came of age, and Harry was seventeen, money began to run
short with him. The property his wife had brought him was mortgaged
nearly to its full value. To his grievous dissatisfaction and disgust,
therefore, he found that he could no longer retain his mastership of the
hounds, and that it was absolutely necessary considerably to retrench
his expenditure. Harry was offered a choice among the professions; the
church, the army, or navy, or an Indian cadetship. He selected the
latter, and started a few months later, with his father’s blessing, a
light heart, a hundred pounds in his pocket, and permission to draw for
two hundred a year as long as he required it.
The times were troublous and promotion rapid; and when at the age of
six-and-twenty he heard first the news of his father’s death, and, four
months later, of that of his brother, who was thrown from his horse
returning from a hunt dinner, he was already a captain. He returned to
England at once; for his brother had died unmarried, and he was now
therefore the owner of Wyvern Park. In another year he married a pretty,
quiet girl, possessed of considerable property; with this new accession,
and under his auspices, the property improved greatly. Although he had
been only eight years in India, the climate had during that
comparatively short residence sufficed to ruin his constitution, and to
send him home a confirmed valetudinarian. He found himself therefore, to
his great disgust—for he was passionately fond of field sports—obliged
to give up all horse exercise. Fortunately he was not prevented from
shooting, and in the season would spend all his time in the fields with
his dogs and gun; but he was entirely debarred from the hunting field,
and was forbidden to indulge to any extent in the pleasures of the
table. But although all this was an intolerable grievance to the master
of Wyvern Park, yet Wyvern Park throve upon it greatly. In a few years,
instead of mortgaging his property as his ancestors had done, Harry
Bradshaw found himself in a position to clear off many old standing
liabilities on the outlying properties, and to be able to add others to
them. Although unable to join in the hunting field, or in the
deep-drinking bouts and jovial meetings of the period, there was hardly
a more popular man in the county than Harry Bradshaw. He was by no means
of the ordinary big burly Bradshaw build, but was a light active figure,
with an open kindly bronzed face, clustering black hair, a merry
infectious laugh, an inexhaustible fund of fun and anecdote, an
inveterate habit of swearing—then a far more common habit than now—a
very quick fiery temper, and an intense objection to anything like
dictation on the part of others.
Generally popular in the county as he was, there were yet some by whom
Captain Bradshaw was looked upon with an eye of extraordinary disfavour.
Foremost among them was the Earl of Longdale, the patron, and, as he
considered, the owner of the little borough of Longdale, which had been
an hereditary appanage of his family from time immemorial. Very
aggrieved and highly indignant therefore was he when Harry
Bradshaw—whose estate adjoined the earl’s, and who had had a dispute
with his lordship respecting the right of shooting over a small piece of
waste land which lay wedged in between the properties—brought down from
London an unknown barrister of Conservative opinions, and at every
election contested the borough with his lordship’s Whig nominee. His
candidate never polled a dozen votes certainly, for as nearly the whole
property belonged to the earl, and none of his tenants dared to record
their votes against him, it was a hopeless struggle; still, it was none
the less provoking to the earl to read, in the county papers, the
fulminations against himself with which Harry Bradshaw wound up his
speeches on proposing his candidate, or to hear of the cheers with which
these orations had been greeted. For if his lordship’s tenants were
compelled to vote one way, they considered that they had at least the
right to shout as they pleased. And Harry Bradshaw’s speeches were
exactly of the sort to carry an audience away with him,—full of biting
truths, interspersed with humorous appeals and broad fun, dashed here
and there with bitter personal invectives, and spoken with a thorough
enjoyment and zest, and an earnest conviction of truth and right.
But the great climax of Harry Bradshaw’s offences was when the earl shut
up a public footpath leading across a pretty corner of his park.
The town of Longdale, although indignant at losing its prettiest walk,
would yet have sullenly acquiesced in it, had not Harry Bradshaw taken
the matter up, and with some of his labourers levelled the barrier which
had been erected. He then at his own expense fought the case from court
to court, until at last the right of the public to the walk was
triumphantly established, and the earl’s pet project defeated.
Captain Bradshaw had two sisters, both very much younger than himself.
The eldest, Alice, after she came of age, when on a visit to some friend
in London, met and fell in love with Richard Bingham, a young civil
engineer.
Very indignant was her brother when informed of what he considered such
an extremely derogatory proceeding. “The Bradshaws had always married
well, and why she should want to make a fool of herself he did not
know.” Alice appeared to give way to the storm, but when a few months
later she repeated her visit to London, she one day went out, was
quietly married to the man of her choice, and only returned to her
friends to bid them good-bye, and inform them that she was now Mrs.
Bingham. The first notification which her brother received of it was on
reading the notice in the columns of the “Times;” and had the feelings
of society permitted a man to fight a duel with his brother-in-law,
Harry Bradshaw would most unquestionably have called him out. As it was,
he was forced to content himself with solemnly denouncing his sister,
and writing a letter to her husband, expressing his sentiments towards
him, and these sentiments were of such a nature that no future
communication ever passed between them.
Shortly after, his younger sister married, with his consent, if not with
his absolute approval. Percy Maynard was a barrister, with a fair
practice and a moderate fortune, and although Captain Bradshaw had
rather that his sister had fallen in love with one of the neighbouring
proprietors, still, as he really liked the man she had chosen, he made
no serious objections to the match.
He himself had at that time been for some years a widower, having lost
his wife after only four years of happy married life, leaving him one
little girl.
Two or three years later he married again, but his second wife bore him
no children. His daughter, Laura, grew up a spoilt child, very loveable
in her happy home, but with more than all her father’s fiery temper, and
an almost sullen obstinacy, which was certainly no ingredient of his
disposition. So she grew up until she was eighteen, and then an event
occurred which changed all Harry Bradshaw’s hopes and plans, and
embittered his whole future life. Laura followed her aunt Alice’s
example. She formed an acquaintance with a lawyer’s clerk, who sometimes
came down instead of his principal to transact business with her father.
How Laura met him, what opportunities there were for their first casual
acquaintance to ripen into intimacy and then into love, Captain Bradshaw
never knew and never inquired. Undoubtedly their interviews had taken
place almost entirely during the three or four months of each year which
the family spent in London, where Laura was in the habit of frequently
going out attended only by her maid. However, by some accident he
discovered it, a stormy scene followed, Laura’s temper rose as quickly
as her father’s, she openly declared she had been for some weeks
secretly married, and was not ashamed to own it. This brought matters to
a climax, and Laura, half an hour afterwards, left the house never to
return.
Captain Bradshaw’s anger was seldom very long-lived, but on this
occasion he was far longer than usual before he got over it. However, at
the end of some months, he came to the conclusion that it was quite time
to forgive her, that is, to forgive her sufficiently to allow her a
sufficient income to live upon in comfort. He accordingly wrote to the
solicitors—with whom he had quarrelled, taking his business from their
hands immediately he had heard of Laura’s marriage—and requested them to
send him the address of their clerk. The answer he received was that he
had left their service in the same week that the exposure had taken
place, and that they had not seen or heard of him since.
Captain Bradshaw advertised, and tried every means to discover them. He
at last put the matter into the hands of the Bow Street authorities, but
months elapsed before any news whatever was obtained. When he did hear,
it was the worst news possible. His daughter was dead; had died in want
and misery, after surviving her husband two months. Harry Bradshaw was
fairly broken by the blow. He never inquired more. He shrunk from
hearing any particulars. She was dead. That was pain and grief
sufficient. Any further detail could but add to his remorse. He withdrew
from all society, and after a few months went abroad, where he remained
some three years, returning once more a widower. Then he again entered
the world, but as a changed and saddened man. The world, however, saw
nothing of this, it was only when alone that he gave way; with others he
was the same lively, amusing man as ever, his laugh gay and infectious
as of old,—it was his nature, and he could not be otherwise. He entirely
gave up country life now, closed Wyvern Hall, left the Earl of Longdale
in undisturbed possession of the borough, and took up his residence
permanently in London, spending most of his time at his Club—the
Oriental.
The younger and favourite sister lived near him. She had only one child,
Frank, to whom Captain Bradshaw took greatly, and came to look upon
almost as his own son. Under the influence of his present softened
feelings, he after some years made advances to young Frederick Bingham,
which, however, he could not bring himself to extend to the father and
mother.
The lad responded readily to these overtures, called at the house, and
was soon as much at home there as his cousin Frank. He spared no pains
to ingratiate himself with his uncle, who, although he still preferred
Frank, took a warm liking to him, and when the time came for his going
to the University, made him a handsome allowance to pay his expenses
there. When Frank was about seventeen he lost his father and mother
within a few weeks of each other, and after that, until he left College,
his uncle’s house was his home, and he spent his vacations entirely
there.
When Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott arrived at the house in Lowndes
Square, they found Captain Bradshaw in the drawing-room. He was still a
light active figure, although he walked rather bent; his hair and
whiskers were nearly white, and, until he spoke, he looked an old man;
but when he did so, his face lit up, his eyes sparkled, and his lip
played in a smile, and in the manner of his talk he was as young again
as ever. There was a fourth person present, of whom no mention has yet
been made. Alice Heathcote was a niece of Captain Bradshaw, the daughter
of his second wife’s sister, and to whom he was guardian. The mother had
died ten years before, and Alice, except when away at school, had lived
with him ever since. A tall girl, with a thoughtful face, and good
features; a broad rather than a high forehead, light grey eyes, a
profusion of brown hair, and a slight figure, which almost leant back in
its lissome grace. Her age was about twenty.
“That is right, Frank,” Captain Bradshaw said, as the young men entered.
“I am glad to see that all this wandering about over the continent has
not destroyed your habits of punctuality. Mr. Prescott, I am glad to see
you.”
“What on earth have you been doing with yourself, Frank?” Alice
Heathcote said. “Your hand is all cut, and you have a great scratch on
your cheek.”
Frank glanced at his hand. “Really, Alice, I did not know it. I tumbled
down, crossing Knightsbridge. It is a mere trifle: only the skin off. I
will run up to your room, uncle; I shall not be a minute.”
“Frank has just been doing a very gallant action,” Prescott said, when
his friend had left the room; “he saved a man’s life, at the risk of his
own, and a very near thing it was, too.” And he then related what had
taken place.
Captain Bradshaw listened with eager interest, and Alice, whose cheek
had paled when she first heard Prescott’s announcement of the risk Frank
had run, flushed up with pleasure and excitement at the particulars. The
story was just finished, and the questions which arose from it answered,
when Frank came downstairs again.
“Well, Frank, Prescott here is telling us that you have been risking
your life in the most reckless way, and becoming an amateur member of
the Humane Society. Joking apart, my dear boy, it was a very plucky
thing, and the speed with which it had to be done shows that you have a
cool head as well as a strong arm and good pluck.”
“What a fellow you are, Prescott!” Frank said, in a tone of indignant
remonstrance, and colouring up as a girl might have done. “Prescott has
been making a mountain out of a molehill, uncle. A man slipped down, and
I picked him up. It was a mere impulse; nothing could be simpler or more
natural.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Frank! you saved the man’s life; it showed pluck
and presence of mind, and the fact that you were knocked down speaks for
itself what a very near thing it was. I am proud of you, my boy, and so
is Alice, ain’t you, Alice?”
“I think it was very brave of Frank,” Alice Heathcote said, quietly—much
more quietly, indeed than might have been expected from the previous
glow of enthusiasm upon her face. “Who was the man you picked up, and
did he tell you his name?”
“He seemed a poor nervous sort of creature, and hardly knew whether he
stood upon his head or his heels, after he was safe on the pavement. As
to who he was, I have got his card; here it is—
STEPHEN WALKER,
TOBACCONIST,
Stationery of all kinds at the lowest prices.
_Newspapers and periodicals punctually supplied._
“Stephen Walker!” Captain Bradshaw said, “there was a man of that name,
a major in my regiment, when I first joined. He was killed in a
skirmish, I remember quite well.” And here the captain’s reminiscence
was cut short by the servant announcing dinner.
“Alice, take my arm. These two young fellows are neither of them
strangers.”
“I should think not, sir,” Prescott said, “considering that it is eight
or nine years since I first used to come here from Westminster to spend
Saturdays and Sundays with Frank.”
The dining-room was a large well-proportioned room, with a dark red
paper; and with large prints of Conservative statesmen, in heavy oak
frames, looking down at the proceedings. In the daylight it was an
undeniably gloomy room, imperfectly lighted, and very dark; but with the
curtains drawn, and in the warm soft light of the wax candles, it was a
very snug room indeed.
“It is a mere form my sitting down to dinner,” Captain Bradshaw
continued, when they had taken their seats, “for I dare not eat
anything.”
“You are not worse than usual, I hope, uncle?”
“I am as bad as I can be, Frank; my liver is all but gone. I can’t last
much longer, my boy, quite impossible; I am going as fast as I can.”
“I hope not, uncle,” Frank said, gravely; but he was not much alarmed,
for he had heard nearly the same thing almost as long as he could
remember.
“I tell you, Frank, it is impossible. I have no more liver than a cat. I
can’t understand why I have gone on so long. Damn it, sir, it is flying
in the face of Nature. I was down at the Club, to-day, and met Colonel
Oldham, who was a youngster with me in India. I told him that as he was
going away for three or four months upon the continent, I would say
good-bye to him for good, for it was quite impossible I could hold out
till he came back again.”
“What did Colonel Oldham say, uncle?”
“Well, Frank, between ourselves, the old fool said that he should say
nothing of the sort, for that I had made him the same speech ten years
ago.” Captain Bradshaw joined merrily in the laugh against himself.
“I should not be surprised, uncle, if you make the same speech to him
ten years hence.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Frank, the thing is impossible. Damn it, sir, I am
a living miracle as it is—a man living without a liver. I intend leaving
what there is left to the College of Surgeons, that is, if they can find
it. It won’t take up much room, for I would lay odds that a half-ounce
phial will contain it, with room to spare.”
“My dear uncle,” Miss Heathcote said, “pray do not talk so very
unpleasantly. You have gone on as you are for a very long time, and we
all hope that you will for a long time more.”
Harry Bradshaw shook his head, and went on with his dinner. He really
believed what he said; and yet he had uttered these forebodings with a
cheerful voice, a merry laugh, and a sparkling eye. He could not speak
seriously upon any subject, even such an one as this, unless he was in a
passion, and then he could be very serious indeed.
Dinner passed off cheerfully. The principal part of the talk was
supported by Frank and his uncle. The latter, indeed, kept up a steady
stream of chat, mingled with many anecdotes of his Eastern experience,
most of which the other had heard before, but they were always fresh and
amusing from the humour with which they were told, and the glee with
which the old officer related them. After dinner, they drew round to the
fire. The servant placed a small table before them, to hold decanters
and glasses, and Miss Heathcote took out some fancy work, as it was a
rule of her uncle’s that unless strangers were there she should remain
with them.
“Don’t spare the wine, boys, I must not drink more than a glass or two
myself, but I may at least have the pleasure of seeing you do so. And
now, what have you been doing with yourselves this afternoon?”
Frank, in reply, related the episode of the saving the dog’s life at the
Serpentine.
“By Gad, Frank, that must have been a fine little fellow. I should like
to have been there. I would have given a five-pound note to have seen
it. Did you say you took his address?”
“Yes, uncle; I thought I might have an opportunity of doing the boy a
good turn some day or other.”
“Then, Frank, when you go to see him, I should be glad if you would give
him that sovereign for me. Poor little brute! I mean the dog, not the
boy. It must have been a painful scene. I never shall forget a thing
which happened to me on my way home from India. Your saying how pitiful
it was to see the dog drowning and being able to do nothing for it,
reminded me of it. There was a little cabin boy on board, I should say
he was about twelve years old, one of the sharpest and jolliest little
fellows I ever saw. He waited on us at mess, and we all quite took to
him. Well, sir, we were becalmed down near the Cape. It was very hot
weather, and the crew asked permission to bathe. Of course it was given,
and in five minutes half the men were in the water, among them Curly
Jack, as we used to call the boy, who could swim like a fish. Well, sir,
they had been in the water some time, when the mate gave the word for
them to come out, and most of them had climbed up the side, but there
were still a few in the water, and all were close to the ship’s side
except little Jack, who was some distance off, eighty yards or so.
Suddenly a man called out, ‘A shark!’ Where he came from or how he got
there I don’t know. He had no right to be there at that time of year,
and we had not seen one before. However, sure enough, there he was. Of
course it was only his back-fin that we saw, cutting along the surface,
but there was no mistaking that. He might have been two hundred yards
off when we saw him, and he was making directly for the boy. What we all
felt I cannot tell you. My heart seemed to stand still, and a deadly
feeling of faintness came over me. I would have given worlds to have
looked away, but I could not if my life had depended upon it. There was
a shout of ‘Swim, Jack, swim for your life!’ and then a great splashing
in the water, and I believe that every man who had been bathing jumped
in again and swam towards him, splashing and hallooing in hopes of
frightening the shark. But he gave no signs of hearing them, and the
black fin cut through the water in a straight line towards poor Jack.
The boy knew his danger, and I could see that his bright ruddy face was
as pale as death. He never said a word, but swam as I never saw a man
swim before, and for a moment I hoped he might reach the men who were
swimming in a body towards him, before the shark could overtake him. But
I only hoped so for a moment, the beast came nearer and nearer, he was
close upon him. I would have given worlds to have been able to shut my
eyes, but I could not. Suddenly I saw the boy half leap out of the water
with a wild cry, which rang in my ears for weeks, and then down he went,
and we never saw a sign of him again.”
“How dreadful, uncle! how shocking! Please never tell me that story
again,” Alice Heathcote said. “I shall dream of it. Poor little boy!”
“That was a most horrible business,” Frank said. “By Jove! I would not
have seen that for any money that could be given me. I do like a row, or
danger of any sort if one’s in it oneself, but to stand quiet and look
on is more than I could do.”
“Let us go upstairs, if you will not have any more wine; Alice will sing
you a song or two before you go.”
And so they went upstairs. Alice Heathcote took her place at the piano,
and glanced for an instant towards Frank to see if he were coming to
choose a song. Seeing, however, that he was telling his uncle an
alligator adventure he had met with up the Nile, she took the first
which came to hand, and opened it before her. Prescott, seeing that
Frank was making no sign of going towards the piano, took his place by
the side of her, and turned over the leaves. She sang one song, and
then, getting up, said that she was quite out of voice, and could not
sing any more, that story of the sailor boy had, she supposed, upset
her. Then, taking her work, she sat down by her uncle and worked
quietly, joining very little in the conversation, and only glancing up
occasionally at the speakers. Soon after tea the friends took leave,
and, lighting their cigars, walked back to the Temple.