All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 3 of 3

by G. A. Henty

CHAPTER V
FINDING A CLUE.

And so Frank set to work. He was not a man to do things by halves, and threw himself with all his energies into it. Every morning soon after half-past four he was up; after he was out of bed he lit a small spirit-lamp, made his coffee, and had his early breakfast when he was dressed. Then, at a little after five he started for his three mile walk to his work, at which he always arrived before six. Then a turn along the line and back again to his starting-point by half-past eight, when the men stopped work for half an hour to breakfast. Then Frank would go into a little turf hut by the side of the cutting and eat, with an appetite sharpened by the keen morning air, the breakfast he had brought with him. Another turn up and down the line, and then, at twelve o’clock, he would have a fire lit in his hut and warm up his dinner; then up and down again until six, or, if the men were working overtime, until eight, and then three miles home again. It was very hard work, and Frank had sometimes to sit down by the roadside of that last steep pull up to his cottage. Once there, however, he was strong and cheery again, for the bright face was always on the look out for him, and his slippers, and his easy coat, and his hot water, and his tea, and the cheerful smile, better than all, were sure to be ready for him. Few of his old London friends would have known Frank now, in his rough shooting-coat, his gaiters and navvy boots, and the beard which he had allowed to grow since he came down to Yorkshire. During this time Frank and his wife suffered far more for each other than for themselves. Kate, bright and cheerful as she was when Frank was with her, fretted much when he was away. More especially of an evening she would picture him to herself, toiling along the dark road, so tired, that as she well knew he could hardly drag himself along. Frank, too, worried about his wife; for himself, hard, terribly hard, as his work was, he did not so much mind; it was the thought of her sitting at home by herself all those long hours worrying about him which troubled him. His only satisfaction was that he was doing his best, his very best, to earn her a living. Frank’s was immensely popular with his men. Some men have the knack of getting on with working men, and this knack Frank possessed in the highest degree. He had a cheery word and a ready jest for each when he passed him. He was strict with his work, and soon thoroughly understood it, but the men knew he never blamed unless blame was really deserved, and they looked up to the “gaffer,” as Frank was termed, with all the rough affection of which navvies are eminently capable. At first one or two rough fellows, not knowing their man, had ventured to be insolent when Frank reproved them, and were summarily dismissed. When they had been paid, he told them that now they were no longer in his service, they were his equals, and could treat him as such; and so, taking off his coat, he gave them a tremendous thrashing. After that he had no trouble whatever; and the rest of his men liked him all the better for it.

A few days after work had begun, Katie had gone down to call upon Mrs. Fred. Mrs. Fred had been very glad to see her, and promised to come up in a few days; but her husband, when he heard of Kate’s visit, told his wife that he did not choose that she should visit his inspectors’ wives, and that he forbade positively her going up to the cottage, a prohibition which his wife, though with many quiet tears, was forced to obey. Fred Bingham by no means made himself popular with the people of the neighbourhood, and after a time they ceased to call. Frank, although reticent to Kate as to his grievances, was outspoken enough to the doctor and his other friends, and Fred Bingham got a bad name in the place. Although he himself did not care about visiting, it annoyed him exceedingly on Sundays, when they came out of church, to see that Frank and his wife were greeted warmly by all the people of the place, while they merely drew by to let himself and his wife pass with a distant bow. Frank and his wife soon found that twenty shillings a week was an impossible sum to live on, and in spite of her utmost economy, the bills accumulated in a way which caused Kate many a weary hour of anxiety. Indeed, they could not have held on had it not been that three times they received assistance. The first was when their second child was born, about five months after the work began. When the event was approaching, Frank had written to Prescott, and his friend had sent him twenty pounds. The second help was a week or two after baby’s advent, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Drake, who was quite in ignorance of the state of their circumstances, and sent a present of twenty pounds also for christening things for the new-comer. The third present came three months later, and for this they had to thank, though unwittingly, Fred Bingham.

Fred had been up in London, and, as was his invariable custom upon these occasions, had called upon his uncle. Captain Bradshaw was out, but Miss Heathcote was at home. Now, between Alice and Fred there was a feud which had existed ever since she had rejected him. He had never forgiven her for refusing him, and indeed, next only to Frank Maynard, hated her beyond any living thing. Alice, on her part, despised him. She had looked upon him with absolute contempt, not unmingled with fear, since the occasion when he had taunted her with her love for Frank. It was only for Captain Bradshaw’s sake that she bore with him, but so great was her love for her uncle that she would not, by look or word, say anything before or to him to shake his confidence in Fred. She knew he liked Fred; not as he had loved Frank, but with a passive sort of liking, and that he looked upon him as his only possible heir. Fred perfectly understood her motive for silence, and showed himself to her as he really was, in a way he did not often show himself to any one except his wife. Upon the present occasion he went in.

“How are you getting on down in Yorkshire, Fred?”

“Pretty well, Alice; nothing to grumble about.”

“Fred,” Alice said, “I have been waiting to get an opportunity of speaking to you alone. I want to ask you how Frank Maynard is getting on; I have no one to ask but yourself.”

“I know it is an interesting subject,” Fred sneered.

Alice’s eyes flashed.

“Yes,” he continued, “you need not look angry, Alice. He is getting on as well as he could expect, I suppose.”