Mr Abbot was not a man of business. He did not at once realise what being the registered owner of these fifty shares meant. He denounced the roguery of the directors, and vowed that if ever again he had money to spare, into land it should go, nowhere else. He had an idea that no more than the money which he had invested would be lost; but when, after a few days, he gathered from the newspapers the true meaning of unlimited liability, his heart grew sick within him. The rental of his estate was about six thousand a year; so, when call after call was made on the shareholders, William Abbot knew that he was a ruined man, and lamented his folly for not having entailed the estates. Lands, house, furniture, plate, all came to the hammer; and so far as county people and landed gentry, the Abbots were extinct. Mrs Abbot had a jointure of some five hundred a year, on which the unfortunate couple were fain to live as best they could. They took a house at Weymouth, and in that retired watering-place mourned their woes in genteel obscurity.
So Frank Abbot came back from Switzerland to begin the world on his own account, with nothing but a college degree, a perfect constitution, and a few hundred pounds scraped together by the sale of his personal effects. How should he earn his living? He was sorely tempted to emigrate. He had the frame and muscles for hard work, and outdoor life would suit him. Yet he shrank from the idea of giving up as beaten in his native land. Other men had made their way; why should not he? He felt a consciousness of a certain ability which necessity might force into full play. His mother suggested the church. ‘A clergyman of good family can always marry a rich wife, and that you are bound to do now.’ Frank shrugged his broad shoulders, and thought sadly of his promised wife, so many thousands of miles away. Eventually, he decided to read for the bar. He knew it would be slow and dreary work to win success there—that for many years he must be prepared to endure penury; but a career might be made. If a hundred fail, one succeeds—why should he not be that one?
Millicent must be told the bad news. He had no right to keep a girl’s love during all the years which must elapse before he could offer her a home. He must at least release her from her vows. If—and as he believed it would be—she refused to be released, they must wait and hope. Now that the reality of marrying on nothing came home to him, he saw what it meant—what misery it must entail. Now that the earning his own living, of which he had spoken so bravely when there was no need of his doing so, was forced upon him, he became quite aware of the sacrifices he must make. He was no desponding coward, and indeed had little doubt as to his ultimate success. He felt that he could bear hardship himself; but he could not bear it if Millicent must also share it. At anyrate it was right she should know the change in his fortunes. So he wrote a few words: ‘My Darling—We are all ruined. I am going to try and make a living as a barrister. Of course I must now release you from every promise.’ He signed his name; but before sealing the letter, could not help adding: ‘But I love you more than ever.’ Then he sent the letter to Millicent’s aunt, and begged that it might be forwarded to her niece.
That letter never reached its destination. Whether it was mislaid or misdirected—whether a mail-bag was lost either on the voyage or on the long land journey—whether Miss Keene’s aunt, who had learned what reverses had befallen the Abbots, simply threw it on the fire, will never be known. All that can be said is, Millicent never received it; and after months had passed, Frank, who was looking eagerly for the overdue answer, grew very miserable, and began to doubt the love of woman.
Five long years have passed by. Frank Abbot is now a barrister of nearly three years’ standing. He works hard, is frequently on circuit, and if, as yet, he has not achieved any brilliant forensic triumph, he is neither briefless nor without hope. Some small cases have been intrusted to him, and he finds the number of these slowly but surely increasing, and knows that if the opportunity comes, and if, when it does come, he may be able to seize it and make the most of it, success may soon be his. Even now he makes enough to supply the modest wants to which he has tutored himself. But for some time after the last of his little capital had vanished, he had been hardly pressed. Indeed, in order to live at all, he had been compelled to accept some aid from his parents’ reduced means. They gave this readily enough, as, with all their faults, they loved their son. Even to this day, Frank looks back with a shudder upon one or two years of his life.
The five years have changed him from a boy to a man. He is handsome as ever, but his look is more serious; his features express even more character. He has given up all dreams of the woolsack; but is conscious of possessing fair abilities, a good address, a commanding presence, and a great deal of ready self-confidence. He feels that in a few years’ time he may have a home to share, if the woman he loves is still willing to share it. He has not again written to her. He has heard nothing from her, although the time by which he promised to claim her has long passed. He is, however, resolved that as soon as he sees the future fairly promising, he will seek her, and learn whether she is still true to him; or whether the sweetest episode of his life must be linked with the memory of a woman’s faithlessness and inconstancy. He sighs as he thinks of the time which has elapsed since she waved him that last farewell at Plymouth. ‘She may be married, years ago,’ he says, ‘and have three or four children by now.’ Then he thinks of her steadfast eyes, and knows that he wrongs her—blames himself for his mistrust. To sum up, Frank Abbot’s constancy remains firm; but he is obliged to do what thousands of other men must do, hope for better days, working, meanwhile, with might and main to bring the dawn of those better days near.
Does he regret the loss of his fortune much? Of course he does, being neither a fool nor of a superhuman nature. Many a day, as he sits in wig and gown in the stifling court, listening to learned arguments on cases in which he has not the remotest interest, his soul longs for a day with the pheasants, a run with the Duke’s hounds, or a ride round the home-farm; and he anathematises all joint-stock banks as roundly as his father may be supposed to have done. But, nevertheless, Frank is not a soured man. He is somewhat grave and self-contained, but pleasant company enough to the few men whom he chooses to call his friends.
He has not been near Chewton Hall since the family downfall. It had been bought, with a great part of the furniture, by a rich London merchant, whose name, although he had heard it at the time of the sale, had slipped from his mind. Frank cared little who held it. He knew it is only in romances that a ruined family regains possession of its kingdom. Some day he intended to run down and have a look at the old place which he had loved so well; although he feared the sight would not improve the tenor of his mind, or make him less inclined to rail at Fortune.
Just about this time Frank made a new acquaintance. It was long vacation. The Lord Chief-justice was yachting; his brother-judges, Queen’s Counsel, and learned leaders, were recruiting their jaded energies as it best pleased them; gay juniors had thrown their wigs into their boxes, and were away on various holiday pursuits. Frank, however, who had recently succeeded in getting some occasional work on a journal, and who hoped to get more, was still in London. One morning, a gentleman, who wished to see Mr Abbot, was shown into his chambers. The visitor was a tall middle-aged man, strongly built, well dressed, and with pleasant features. He looked like one who had led a hard life, and lines on his brow told of trouble. His hands were large and brown—it was evident they had not been idle in their day. Not, perhaps, quite a gentleman, as we conventionally use, or abuse, that word, but a noticeable, out-of-the-common man. He gave Frank a sharp quick glance, as if trying to gauge his intellect and powers. Apparently satisfied, he took the chair offered him, and explained his errand. He had a lawsuit pending, and wished Mr Abbot to conduct the case. Frank interposed smilingly, and told his new client that it was etiquette for his instructions to come through a solicitor. He explained that a barrister and the man whose cause he pleaded must communicate through a third party. His visitor apologised for his ignorance about such matters, and said he would see his solicitor. However, after the apology was accepted, instead of bowing himself out, Mr John Jones—for by that name he called himself—entered into a general kind of conversation with Frank. He spoke easily and pleasantly on a variety of topics, and when at last he left the room, shook hands most cordially with the young man, and hoped he should meet him again soon.