CHAPTER XXVII.

A HELPING HAND.

To make up one's mind, to vow to find a young woman who has disappeared without leaving a trace, is one thing -to find her is another. The world is a place of considerable size, and chance meetings are not so common as the confiding novel reader is asked to believe. Such was at least the experience of two men, who, from different motives, were equally anxious to find the fugitive. The first, Maurice Hervey; the second, Frank Carruthers.

Hervey, who, having paid a second visit to Oakbury, had in some way managed to learn that Beatrice, the boy, and the nurse had gone to London, bade a hasty adieu to Blacktown and returned to the capital. The more he studied the situation the more apparent it became that—to use his own words-he was in a cleft stick. So long as Beatrice could conceal her whereabouts from him, so long was he utterly helpless. He could, of course, compass a certain amount of revenge, but the cost would be too terrific. However sweet a thing may be, it may be bought too dearly. He could walk boldly up to Sir Maingay Clauson and proclaim himself his son-in-law. He could go to these Talberts and show them that he married their niece when she was little more than a schoolgirl. But what good would this do? His bolt would be shot, and his quiver held no other. It might bring down Beatrice but not her money. He would have to deal with men of the world instead of a woman, over whom he held the terror of exposure. He had one article to sell-silence. There was one customer for it-his wife. With her he could trade to advantage,

but the moment he broke luck for another market his commodity became all but valueless.

Again, there was that cursed clause in old Talbert's will. Hervey could easily prove that Beatrice was his wife, but in doing so he also proved that she had married, when under age, without her trustees' consent, and the said trustees could do almost exactly as they liked with her fortune. Probably they would throw him two hundred a year so long as he kept out of the way. What was two hundred a year when we know that had he not insisted on bringing some one's head down to the dust he might have had ten times the amount? Why had he not taken the money and foregone his revenge?

In fact, Beatrice's flight, although not effected for strategical reasons, was a masterpiece; a move which bound her enemy hand and foot. Savagely he looked forward to the time when circumstances would force him to take the best offer made him. Well he knew that the moment Beatrice nerved herself to reveal the truth to her friends, the moment she elected to confess her girlish folly, and face what shame and blame might be due to her, every shred of power he held would be gone. It was, therefore, imperative he should find Beatrice and re-open negotiations upon a basis more favourable to her. Reflection and the risk he now ran of losing everything made him inclined to lower his demands. He would take fifteen hundred, even a half of his wife's income, and if she wished it, would enter into a regular deed of judicial separation. He would be silent so long as the money was paid, or so long as it paid him better to be silent.

What if he gave out that he was dead and waited until she had married again? Then his sway would be supreme. But to gain this advantage he must lie silent, it might be for years, and in the meantime must somehow make a living. Perhaps, after her former experience, she would not marry again. Any way the state of his exchequer put a veto on the waiting scheme.

He expected no unextorted help from her. He looked for no mercy. He had shown none. He had blasted

her life; robbed her years of early womanhood of their sweetness; he had traded on the romance which lies in the heart of every young girl, then, for mercenary purposes, had turned and crushed it out. He had shown her, nay, had, in brutal words, told her that he had married her to raise money in order to save himself from the penalty due to his crime. He well knew what he had done, and knowing this he had not even ventured at attempting to cajole her when they measured strength at Blacktown. Had it been needed, the stern set of her features, the scorn of her manner, would have told him that he had no mercy to expect, that it was a duel between the two.

He must find her! As the months went on the necessity of finding her became more and more obvious. He had, after the manner of a gambler, who feels that any hour may bring the great stroke of luck, lived luxuriously. money had by now so diminished that he saw he must shortly do one of three things-find Beatrice, earn money, or starve.

His

The first, the most desirable course in every way, seemed impossible. He had made, both in person and vicariously, such inquiries at Sir Maingay's house as could be made without exciting comment and suspicion. He had even been down once more to Oakbury, seen the Talberts, but had learnt nothing to his advantage. So course number one could not be counted upon to meet the emergency.

Course number three, if the simplest, was the most unpleasant, so he was constrained to adopt number two; at least, provisionally.

Before his disgrace Hervey had occasionally done some work for illustrated periodicals. As this branch of his late profession seemed to offer him the best chance of supplying his needs, he called upon two or three people whom he had known in former days, and who, moreover, knew what had caused his protracted absence. He simply said he was anxious to redeem the past and begged for a helping hand. Selfish as the world is supposed to be, there are many willing to help a fallen man on to his legs. Hervey received one or two promises which might or might not lead to remunerative work.

The months passed very dismally and drearily for the second seeker, Frank Carruthers. He knew not where to turn, where to look for Beatrice. However, he was better

off than Hervey, for he had direct intelligence from her. Once a month she had written to her uncles, but her letters gave no clue that could be followed. They bore no address; they were posted in London; they mentioned no places, not even a country. She said she was living an exceedingly quiet, calm life. She longed to see dear old Oakbury again, and wondered if it would ever be her lot to do so. In each letter she regretted the necessity for the step she had taken, and hoped that if ever her uncles knew her true reason for it they would forgive her. She trusted, never

theless, that they would never learn it. The only hints at locality in any one of her letters were that she mentioned that the weather was bitterly cold, and also that she spent much time studying art-was, indeed, learning to paint in oils.

These letters Herbert, who felt sympathy for his cousin, sent on to Frank, and Frank perused them again and again, endeavouring by the light he had gained to read between the lines. And the more he read the more mystified he became. If Mrs. Rawlings's tale was true, there was something which Herbert and Horace never could, never would forgive; yet Beatrice wrote as if forgiveness was not an impossibility. Moreover, it struck Frank that her words. expressed a doubt as to whether her uncles had learnt the reason for her flight. When should he find her? When should he learn the whole truth?

He searched her letters in vain for his own name, for any message to him. The omission troubled him, not because he thought himself forgotten, but because it showed him that Beatrice felt there was a fate, which nothing could overcome, keeping them apart. So her letters gave him no hope.

Had he been an idle man Frank Carruthers could never have borne those months of suspense.

very hard at work on a second book.

But he was hard,

Believe me, a man

does not write his worst when his heart is sad. A deficiency

of the gastric juice or a superabundance of lithic acid may ruin a man's work, but not necessarily grief. Toothache

may prove fatal to inspiration, but heartache need not So pending the appearance of his first book, which had for some reason been delayed, Frank was busy with a successor.

About that first book, a satirical semi-political novel, which, by the bye, made a great hit, Mr. Carruthers, like all new writers, was as nervous and fidgety as a young husband whose beloved wife is for the first time about to increase the population. One day it struck him that the great work would be more taking if adorned with illustrations. He mentioned his idea to the publishers, who quite agreed with him, only adding that six full-page illustrations would cost so many pounds, an expense they did not feel justified in incurring. But if Mr. Carruthers liked to bear the cost, well and good. Frank, who had money to spare, said he would see for how much he could get them done.

He called upon a friend, a Mr. Field, who knew all about such matters, and inquired where he could find hands competent yet not too costly. And this friend happened to be one of those from whom Maurice Hervey had begged a helping hand. So it will be seen that the hereinafter-mentioned meeting between Carruthers and Hervey was, like all so-called chance meetings, when traced back to its cause, quite a natural sequence. Indeed, it is hard to see how things could have happened otherwise.

"There, a fellow called on me a day or two ago," said Mr. Field, " a fellow who's down on his luck now. He might suit you."

"Can you recommend him? What is his name?" "I don't know that I can recommend him, but you may give him a trial. He calls himself Henry Morris. He's down on his luck, as I said."

"Write him a line and ask him to call on me," said Carruthers, who liked to help men down on their luck. "Is he clever ?"

"He's been idle so long I can't say. Look here, Carruthers, make him do the drawings on approval; and if I were you I wouldn't give any money on account.'