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.