Captain Bradshaw returned to dinner in a greatly mollified state, and that meal passed off very pleasantly. The talk turned principally upon Frank and his doings, for Captain Bradshaw, as well as Alice, was anxious to know all that had occurred since they had been separated. It was very pleasant to them to be able to talk unrestrainedly upon a subject which they both had so much at heart, but which had been so long interdicted. Only once was Captain Bradshaw’s wrath kindled into expression.

“And do you mean to tell me, sir, do you mean to tell me, that that infernal little rascal, after cheating Frank out of his place here, induced him to go down to Yorkshire, kept him doing nothing until he had spent the little money he took down, and then kept him at work like a common foreman on two pounds a week?”

“Yes, sir, that is all Frank got.”

“I wonder Frank did not break his neck for him. I wonder how he stood it a single day.”

“How could he help it, sir? He had not a penny at the time; both he and his wife were too proud to write to her relations. I know from what he has told me, that over and over again he was on the edge of breaking out, but with his wife and children what could he do? As he told me, he ground his teeth and bore it. But it has a little changed Frank, Captain Bradshaw. It has made him rather sore, and I think you must prepare yourself for a little difficulty when you first meet him. Frank would have cheerfully borne anything himself, but it has tried him very much to see his wife suffer; and I can assure you, from what he has told me, that she has actually suffered. Katie was as bright as ever when she came up to London before starting, but there was no mistaking from her face that she has had a great deal to go through. Frank never told even me, to whom he told nearly everything, the shifts to which they were reduced; but there was a look of sharp pain came across his face when he spoke of those times, which told me more than any details could have done.”

There was silence for a short time, and then Prescott, desirous of changing the subject, said, “I may not see you to-morrow morning before I start for town, Captain Bradshaw; but I hope you will telegraph to me the instant the ship is signalled. I will come down by the next train.”

“Go up to town, Mr. Prescott! Quite impossible, my dear sir; we cannot spare you. I shall want you above all things to explain matters to Frank; because it’s as likely as not that he will not listen to me for a moment. Come, Mr. Prescott, it is Friday to-day; you cannot get up to town until to-morrow afternoon. The next day is Sunday, and the ship will very likely come in on Monday. Pooh, pooh! my dear boy; it is out of the question.”

“I really have a good deal to do,” Prescott said; “I told the clerk I should be sure to return by to-night’s mail; but, as you say, I should not gain much by it, and I would very much rather stay here. So, if you really think my presence is at all essential at the meeting between yourself and Frank——”

“I do think it most essential, my dear Prescott; he knows anyhow that you are his sincere friend, while he looks upon me as a despotic, savage, half-insane old man.”

And so Prescott remained, and was very happy for the next three days. It was so pleasant being with Alice, walking beside her, sitting with her, and having long quiet tÊte-À-tÊtes, while Captain Bradshaw read the paper or dozed in his chair. The wind still held to the south with a little west, and was very light and uncertain, and it was not until the morning of Tuesday, as they were at breakfast, that the messenger came in to say that a vessel was just coming into the roads, with the “Tasmania’s” number flying.

“Thank God!” Captain Bradshaw ejaculated, fervently; “now, Alice, finish your breakfast, my dear, and let us be off as soon as we can. The sooner we get it over the better; for I can tell you I feel as nervous as a schoolboy going up to confess a fault to his master.”

It was a long row out to the “Tasmania,” and seemed to them all even longer than it really was. They were very silent. As they neared the ship, round which several other boats were already lying, while others were, like themselves, approaching her, Prescott said—

“I think I can see Frank leaning over the bulwarks. I think it as well that he should not notice us until we are fairly on board. He will not know you through your veil, Miss Heathcote, and Captain Bradshaw and myself will keep our heads bent.”

As they neared the ladder, Alice put her hand on her uncle’s arm. “Dear uncle, you will not be hasty whatever he says to you? Remember how he has suffered, and how unjustly.”

“No, my dear; you need not be afraid; I have been too hasty already. Nothing Frank can say will be more than I know I deserve. You can trust me for once to keep my temper.”

They ascended the steps, and then Prescott pointed out to them a group standing a short distance off, looking at the land. Kate had baby in her arms, while Frank was holding Charley on his shoulder.

“Please wait here, and look over the side,” Prescott said, in accordance with their previously arranged plans; “while I find the captain.”

They did so, and Prescott speedily found the officer. In a few words Prescott explained to him that he had come off with a gentleman and lady to see Mr. Maynard.

“And a capital fellow, too,” the captain said, warmly; “one of the right sort, and no mistake, while as for his wife, she’s a trump, sir, that’s what she is; no grumbling, no discontent, takes everything as it comes, and is as cheery and as bright as if she had been accustomed to it all her life.”

“I am afraid, captain, you will not be pleased when I tell you our errand. An unfortunate mistake has led to a quarrel between him and his uncle, a very rich old gentleman, to whom he will be the sole heir. The mistake has been cleared up and explained since you left the river, and his uncle is here with me to take him home again.”

“I shall be sorry indeed to lose him, for he has been the life and soul of the passengers since we started; kept them in good spirits, got up games—just the fellow to sail with; but, if it’s for his advantage, I shall not grudge him his fortune. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, captain, I wanted to ask you if you would kindly let me have the use of your cabin for a few minutes?”

“With all my heart,” and the captain led the way to his cabin.

“This way, uncle.” And Prescott and Captain Bradshaw went into the cabin, which was on deck, while Alice remained looking over the bulwarks in her former position. Frank was romping with Charley, and keeping him in screams of delight by pretending to be about to throw him over the bulwarks, when one of the boys came up.

“Please, sir, the captain will be glad if you will step into his cabin?”

“Certainly,” Frank said, setting the boy down upon the deck. “There, Charley, don’t get into mischief. I expect it is about the luggage, Katie; I was asking him last night whether he would have some of it up on deck when we had anchored.”

Kate’s attention was thoroughly taken up now with the two children, for Charley evinced an inclination to toddle after his papa.

“Please stop Charley, Mr. Cairns,” Kate cried, laughingly, to a passenger near the child.

The gentleman addressed was on the point of seizing the child, when a lady, who was coming up, caught it up in her arms, and bore him struggling violently back to Kate.

“You little scamp,” his mother said; “if you don’t keep quiet by me, I must send for nurse;” and then, looking up and seeing that Charley was in the arms of a stranger, she stopped. She had never seen Alice Heathcote but once, and then only for a brief moment, and she did not in the slightest recognise the lady who stood before her.

Alice put the child down by her side, and said, “You do not know me. I am Alice Heathcote.”

Kate drew back then. She drew herself up haughtily. “I suppose you wish to see my husband, Miss Heathcote. I will send for him.”

“His uncle is in the cabin with him,” Alice said, quietly; “he has come on board to explain to——,” and Alice’s intuition taught her that Kate would not like to hear her husband’s Christian name from her lips, “to my cousin that a terrible mistake has taken place—and that—that—”

“Charley, come here,” Kate said, sharply, as the child was pulling at the strange lady’s dress. “It is rather late for explanation, Miss Heathcote. The time for that has long passed. Thank God! Frank and I can for the future depend upon ourselves.”

“Cousin,” Alice said, humbly, “will you listen to me—will you let me speak with you alone for a little while?”

Kate stood irresolute for a moment, and then seeing her nurse approaching gave the baby to her, and telling Charley to be a good boy, led the way to their little cabin. Kate was very sore with their visitor—sore because she remembered the cold, proud face with which she had passed Frank in Knightsbridge—sore because she had sent him money when he was in poverty. With these thoughts, Kate led the way with an air which might have befitted her had she been a queen and Miss Heathcote her bond slave. When they entered the cabin Kate said,—

“Now, Miss Heathcote, I am willing of course to listen to you; but, I tell you, I am sorry you have come. We have done with England. We have learned the true value of our friends, and we are content to be all in all to each other.”

“You have one friend still in whom you trust, I think,” Alice said; “Arthur Prescott is here with my uncle.”

“Yes,” Kate said, “he is a friend—yes, Frank trusts him, and so do I.”

Alice hesitated, and then laying aside her previously quiet tone, she said, “Cousin Kate, Frank’s wife, listen to me! Do you know I love Frank as a brother; do you know—I can humble myself to you—that I once loved him more? Do you know, that I once so loved him that I could have gone through even what you have gone through to know that he loved me? I learned from his own lips that it was not to be, that he loved me as a sister, but nothing more. I accepted the fact, Kate, I fought against my love, and I learned to look at him only as a dear brother. Do you think I did not suffer? What have your sufferings been to what mine then were? You have borne disappointment, neglect, want, but you have had Frank always with you. You have known that he prized you beyond all beside. But I conquered myself; I heard that you had won his heart, and upon the day of his marriage I could have stood beside the altar and could have listened to his vows to you without a pang, and could have loved you as a sister for his sake. Then, Kate, I heard he was—oh, forgive me for saying so now! forgive me for believing it!—that he was wicked; that he had done a dishonourable, wicked action. You can smile proudly at the accusation, you are his wife, I was only his sister; I really never believed it in my heart, and yet my uncle told me that doubt was impossible. Still I hoped—hoped against hope—that it was not so. Frank came back, and no letter came in answer to my uncle’s reproach to him. Yes,” she said, in answer to Kate’s movement; “we know now that he wrote, but my uncle never got it, it was sent back by other hands. I will tell you how presently,—and then, Kate, all hope died out; we travelled abroad, and tried hard to forget the past. Now, only since you sailed from London we have learned the truth, have learned how unjustly and cruelly we have doubted Frank. Oh, cousin, make allowance for me! I know what you must have thought of us; but in our place we could not but have doubted. Kate, I have heard so much of you these last three days. I do so want to love you, and to be loved by you. I know you are so worthy to be Frank’s wife; can you not forgive me, Kate? can you not, thinking of what I have suffered, take me to your heart?”

Kate had listened at first coldly, and then tearfully, and at last, as Alice ceased she threw herself upon Alice’s neck, and cried, “Oh, Alice! why did we not know each other before?”

With the exception of Fanny Larpent, who was too young for Kate to confide her great troubles to, she had, since she married, had no female friend, and she had often longed for some one in whom she could really trust and confide all the feelings which she had so bravely concealed from her husband. When Alice began to speak, she had hardened herself against her. She had determined not to melt, but this cry for forgiveness of the stately woman before her had broken down the barrier she had set up; and Kate, when she once gave way, gave way altogether. To both women tears were a relief. Alice, who had cried most before, was the first to recover now.

“I must tell you the whole story, Katie. I may call you Katie, mayn’t I?”

“Yes, Alice, but I don’t want to know the story. I am content to know it was all a mistake, and I am glad to hear that Frank’s uncle has come to say good-bye to him; for Frank will, I know, always be glad to think kindly of his uncle, and of you, Alice,” she put in; “Frank never believed you were against him.”

“But, Katie,” Alice said, “we have not come to say good-bye at all, we have come to take you on shore. Yes, really, Katie,” she said, earnestly, as Kate made a motion of positive denial. “Poor James, uncle’s grandson, cannot live long, and uncle wants Frank and you to come and live with him and be his children.”

“He has got Mr. Bingham,” Kate said, coldly; “neither Frank nor I want to take his place.”

“Fred Bingham has turned out a very wicked man, Katie. It was for his fault that we have doubted poor Frank; but it has all come to light now, and uncle will never see him again.”

“Really, Alice?” Kate exclaimed. “It is very wicked, I know—but then I am not, not at all good—but I hate Fred Bingham; if I was a man I should kill him. You may look shocked, Alice, but I don’t care, I would kill him.” And there is no doubt that Fred Bingham would have fared but badly if he had fallen into Kate Maynard’s hands.

“And now, Katie, I will tell you the whole story; and I am sure, if you can forget for a moment you are Frank’s wife, and can put yourself in our place, you will allow that there is a good excuse for us in having believed what we heard, and having doubted all we had previously known of him.”

Very quietly and clearly Alice Heathcote went through the long and complicated story. Kate listened attentively to it, and when Alice had finished she said, frankly,—

“Indeed, Alice, I can’t blame Captain Bradshaw or you for believing this story. I am very, very glad it was not told to me, for I don’t see how I could have helped believing it myself.”

“And if Frank hesitates, if he will not make friends with my uncle, Katie, will you persuade him?”

“Yes, Alice; I have been willing enough to go with Frank, but I love the old country, and shall be very, very glad to stay here.”

Frank Maynard had entered the captain’s cabin, and there had at once seen Prescott.

“My dear old man,” he exclaimed, “this is kind of you; come to say a last good-bye, eh? Well, I can tell you we are as jolly as possible. Katie is a capital sailor, and the cubs are as good as—” and here he stopped abruptly, seeing the third person in the cabin, whom, standing a little behind the door, he had hitherto not noticed. For a moment an indignant flush flew up over his face, and then his expression softened, and he said,

“Uncle, you here! Well, I am glad. You were a very kind friend in old days, and I am glad to find you have come to say, God speed you on your journey.”

The old man was much affected.

“Oh Frank, Frank! it has all been a mistake; a cruel mistake; but it is not too late, my boy; I will make it up.”

“Stop, uncle,” Frank said, coldly, “I wish to have no excuses. You have believed you had good reasons for casting me off. That is all past now. You have come to say good-bye, and I am ready to say good-bye, uncle, with all my heart. I wish to carry no regrets with me in my new life. We will shake hands, if you please, without any excuses.”

“No, no, Frank, you do not understand me. It has all been a terrible mistake, but it is all cleared up now, I want you to come back with me and live with me, to be my heir, and—”

“Thank you,” Frank said, bitterly, “I have had enough of trusting in others. I have done with it. Fool as I was, I believed that men I loved and trusted, loved and trusted me. I have done with that—I believe in my own right arm now, and trust to that alone. Please God, I will earn a living in future without thanks to any man. No, uncle, I go on my own path, and trust to myself alone for the future.”

“But, Frank,” the old man said, humbly, “Frank, listen to me; you have been cruelly wronged; but—”

“Be it so, uncle. My conscience absolves me from all fault. I am glad you have found out you are mistaken; glad to say good-bye kindly with you. But no, uncle, I am no longer a boy, and am not to be thrown off and whistled back again at the first call. Do you know what I have gone through, uncle? do you know I have not known how to pay for my wife’s daily food; do you know I have seen her exposed—” and Frank’s voice rose in his anger, “to hardship; do you know I have put up with indignities and insults, and have had to bear them in quiet for her sake; do you know that I have borne things patiently which I blush now to think of—insults for which, as there is a God in heaven, I would have killed him had it not been for her. And now you talk of a mistake, of staying here and forgetting the past—no, uncle. The past will never be forgotten. Things like this last till death, and while I live I will never forget or forgive. If ever in my life I meet him alone, I will kill him as mercilessly and pitilessly as I would a dog. I would, Prescott, so help me God!” And Frank strode backwards and forwards across the little cabin in a fury of passion.

Captain Bradshaw had not interfered in any way to check the torrent of Frank’s indignation. He felt by the passion with which he spoke how intensely Frank must have suffered, and his sympathies were wholly with him. When Frank ceased speaking, the old man made a gesture to Prescott to intervene.

“My dear Frank,” Prescott began, “you know, I hope and believe, that I am a true friend, and that I would not hesitate to give my life to serve you.”

“Yes, yes, old man,” Frank said, warmly; “you know that I rely upon you as upon myself.”

“I, Frank, have your welfare, and more, I have your honour, at heart as you have yourself. I ask you to sit down quietly and hear the story I will tell you. You will then see how the very natural doubt of your honour arose in your uncle’s mind; you will see how, indeed—and I your friend say it—it was impossible for him to have acted otherwise than he did. You will, when you have heard it, be the first to allow that you yourself, an impulsive man, would have acted exactly as he did; you will see that a tissue of falsehood has been thrown round you by Fred Bingham. Bad as you believe him to be, you know absolutely nothing of what he is capable. If you will but listen, Frank, fairly and dispassionately, you will, I am sure, grant that there is nothing which can prevent you with the highest feeling of self-respect, standing in the place as your uncle’s heir, from which Fred Bingham has been cast out for ever.”

The last words of Prescott had more effect with Frank Maynard than all that he had previously said.

“If that is the case, Prescott, I shall be easily satisfied. God knows I have never courted my uncle’s money; that I loved him for his kindness to me as a boy, and not with any idea of the money he might leave me. If I only know that Fred Bingham will not be his heir, I should care not one single scrap if every farthing were to go to the Charities of London.”

“Then you will give me a patient hearing, Frank?”

“Yes, Prescott, I will,” and Frank sat down resolutely to listen. Step by step Prescott went through the whole story, and explained every particular of the deep-laid scheme by which Frank had been made to bear the blame of another’s sin. Frank had promised to be a patient listener, but he hardly kept his promise. He constantly interrupted Prescott’s story with ejaculations of rage, questions, and furious outbreaks. When Prescott had finished, Captain Bradshaw said,—

“There, Frank, now you see how I was deceived; can you forgive an old man for having been taken in by a scoundrel, and for having doubted you?”

“My dear uncle, my dear, dear uncle,” Frank cried, leaping up and taking the old man’s two hands; “forgive? There is nothing to forgive! I am so glad to find that it has all been a mistake, and that as I am restored to you, you are restored to me. I don’t care a rap for the property, uncle; leave it to whom you like; but I am very happy to feel that we are to each other what we used to be.”

“And you will leave the ship, Frank, and come ashore with us?”

“I don’t know, uncle,” Frank said, doubtingly; “My Katie’s a very proud little woman in her way, and she has been sorely tried. I am quite ready to forget all the past, but I cannot answer for her. She will not move an inch for the sake of position or money—indeed they will, I know, make her more resolute to go than she might otherwise be. I shall tell her the story, uncle, and leave it in her hands.”

“Quite right, Frank, but you need not tell her the story. I think she knows it by this time. Alice is with her.”

“Mind, uncle,” Frank said, leading the way out, “I leave it with Katie; if she is the least sore—and you know she will naturally be less ready to make allowances than I am—if she is the least sore; if she says to me, ‘I would rather go, Frank;’ I go. I shall be very, very glad to know that I go friends with you, uncle—that this miserable misunderstanding is cleared up; but, whatever the pecuniary consequence to me, however much you may be grieved or offended, I abide by Katie’s wishes. Halloa, Charley boy,” he broke off, as his child came running up to him, holding up his arms to be lifted up. “Where’s mamma?”

“Down in cabin, Pappy; left Charley here with Jane; gone down with lady.”

Frank went down-stairs with his uncle and Prescott. He went to his cabin door, and opened it. Kate was sitting on the berth, with her arms round Alice Heathcote’s waist. Both had evidently been crying.

“Come in, Frank; here is a friend.”

There was no hesitation on Alice’s part. She rose from her seat, and fell crying into Frank’s arms. “Oh, Frank, Frank, can you forgive us?”

Frank kissed her cheek, and said, “There is nothing to forgive, Alice. It has been a cruel mistake, but none of us are to blame; it is all over now.” Then releasing her, he turned to Kate. “Kiss me, darling. Thank God all this is over, and we are all friends again. This is my uncle.”

“Will you kiss me, Katie?” the old man said, “I have been an old fool, but Frank has forgiven me. Will you forgive me, too?”

“Yes,” Kate said, kissing him frankly; “it is all over now.”

“It is left to you, Katie,” the old man said. “All our future is in your hands. Frank is my heir in any case; in any case he will have an income at once to live here, or wherever he chooses. It is for you to decide, Katie. Frank has left it entirely in your hands. Will you go out to Australia, and be happy in each other, or will you stay here and cheer an old man’s life?”

This time Kate gave a kiss without being asked, and said simply, “I always hated the thoughts of going out of England. If Frank really wishes to stay, I shall be very, very glad.”

And so it was settled. A short conversation only was necessary to arrange as to details. Captain Bradshaw himself proposed that as the things they had got could be of no possible use to them in England, it would be the best plan to divide them among the emigrants. The captain being called in, agreed to get them on deck during the voyage, to put them all up to auction, and divide the proceeds among the poorer emigrants. And then summoning the astonished and delighted Evan and Jane, the party—after a great hand-shaking, and many good wishes between Frank and Kate and their late fellow-voyagers—got into their boat, and, amid three hearty cheers from the emigrants, pulled for shore.