He had been unable to resist another supply of the fiery fluid, early as it was, consoling himself with the reflection, "When I am on board I shall get over this unnatural craving for stimulants, and give up taking it."

But he had taken it once too often. His boxes were all on board, and he carried in his hand a carpet bag, containing among other things the fatal doc.u.ment which had already worked him so much evil.

He alighted from the cab, paid the driver, and proceeded towards the Australian packet, which lay alongside the wharf at a little distance from the sh.o.r.e. A plank stretched across from the gangway of the vessel rested on land, and men with boxes and other packages were pa.s.sing to and fro upon it. Arthur Franklyn waited till the way was clear, then he placed his foot on the plank and approached the vessel. A very small portion of this frail bridge pa.s.sed over water, the sh.o.r.e end resting on rising ground, and to a man with clear head and steady step there could be no possible danger.

But Arthur Franklyn's head was not clear, neither was his step steady, and as he approached the middle of the plank many persons on the bridge and about the wharf saw him totter and turn pale.

Speechless from alarm, and fearful of hastening a catastrophe by a warning word, no one moved or spoke as he raised his foot to go forward.

The next moment, amidst the screams and shouts of the lookers-on, Arthur Franklyn lost his balance and fell with his carpet bag into the water, which closed over him pitilessly, as if in his helpless condition every effort to save him would be useless.

There were running to and fro, cries for ropes, and many eager hands stretched out when he rose to the surface; but the drowning man had neither sense nor power to help himself or seize the offered aid.

By this time more than one swimmer was in the water diving for the drowning man. Minutes which seemed hours pa.s.sed, and then amidst the crowds of excited spectators Arthur Franklyn's apparently lifeless body was drawn from the water, hastily placed in a cab, and carried off across London Bridge to Guy's Hospital.

But the carpet bag had sunk to the bottom, to be drawn up weeks after by the Thames' searchers; while in one corner, soaked into a pulp by the action of the water, lay the fatal doc.u.ment which had brought upon Arthur Franklyn such terrible results.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

UNCONSCIOUS RIVALS.

June again at Oxford, and the year for grand Commemoration is again attracting numbers to the famous old city.

Three years have pa.s.sed since Charles Herbert walked down the High Street with his friend Horace Wilton on his way to the station to meet Mary Armstrong.

The Fellow of Balliol is now wandering in Christ Church meadows with another very old friend, whom he is vainly trying to persuade to remain at Oxford till after Commemoration.

"You have seen so little of the place, Reginald," said Horace; "and if you have decided to exchange into a regiment going to India, you should not miss being present for once on such an occasion."

"It's no use, Horace," was the reply, free from the "aw-aw" so detrimental to Reginald Fraser's speech when addressing ladies, or suffering from nervousness. "It's no use; I couldn't remain now after all you told me last evening about Miss Armstrong's visit; perhaps she may be at Oxford again this year, and I wouldn't meet her for the world.

How strange it seems that you should be acquainted with her."

"It was scarcely a week's acquaintance," he replied; "and in all my visits since to the home of my friend Charles Herbert, in Park Lane, I have never met Miss Armstrong there, which is still more singular. But do you really consider your case hopeless?"

"Indeed I do, although, as I told you, Mr. Armstrong gave me every encouragement."

The young man paused, and then exclaimed, with a sudden effort--

"Wilton, I'll tell you all about it. I wanted to do so last night, but I thought an old bachelor like you would not care to listen to a love story."

Horace Wilton stifled a sigh. The man of thirty-five was generally supposed to be wedded to his books, and to avoid the society of women from choice.

The youthful undergraduates of the University would have wondered greatly had they been told some little of the romantic history attached to the erudite student's early days. Only a very few of his most intimate friends, Charles Herbert amongst the number, knew any of the circ.u.mstances. Yet, while reticent respecting his own experiences, his manner with his friends excited confidence, and in none more readily than Reginald Fraser, whom Horace had known from a child.

"I am quite ready to hear the whole story," he said, with a slight smile; "probably it will be a relief to you to confide in one upon whose silence you know you can safely rely."

"Indeed it will," said the weak-minded but amiable young officer. "You know our fellows would chaff me awfully if I talked to them as I did to you last night. But you know I felt sure of winning any girl if I could only muster up courage enough to pop the question, because of my money and all that. And when I'd got over what I thought was the worst bother, it was hard to be refused."

"And what was the worst bother?" asked his friend, with a smile.

"Well, I hardly know, but I spoke to Mr. Armstrong first; he invited me to dinner, and made me believe it was all right, and the next morning came a letter from him, advising me to wait a few months, and then write to Miss Armstrong. Oh, I say, old fellow, writing that letter was the worst bother, and no mistake. I declare I'd rather face the enemy on the field of battle than write another."

"Of course the young lady answered you?"

"Oh, yes; but I almost wish she hadn't, for her letter made me more wretched than ever; I knew it was all over then. It is a kind letter, though, and she tells me how sorry she is, and all that. You may read it if you like, if only to show you how clever she is."

And as he spoke he took the letter from his pocket-book.

Horace Wilton would have refused to avail himself of similar confidence from most of his young men acquaintances, but Reginald Fraser was a.s.sociated with many of his youthful memories, and he could not grieve him by refusing. He therefore held out his hand for the letter which had caused Mary Armstrong so much pain to write, as well as tears of regret.

The character of the young girl with whom he had a.s.sociated during that week at Oxford three years before presented itself clearly to his mind as he read--kind and regretful was the tone; yet the refusal, though couched in gentle and courteous words, was too plainly expressed and too decisive to admit of future change.

"Well," said Horace, as he folded the letter and returned it to its owner, "nothing can more completely destroy all hope of winning Miss Armstrong than this letter, kindly as it is written. But, Reginald, take my advice--do not grieve over what is inevitable. You are still young, and the change you contemplate to a foreign land may eradicate a little of that _mauvaise honte_ which places you at such a disadvantage in society, in spite of your wealth and position. But come," he added, rising from the seat they had occupied in Christ Church meadows, and looking at his watch, "we had better wend our way homewards, it is nearly five o'clock."

For some little distance the gentlemen were silent. Reginald spoke first.

"Wilton, I'm so glad I've told you all; I feel more easy on the subject already, and I hope, as you say, that going abroad will drive the nervousness out of me. But please don't ask me to stay; I'm awfully afraid of meeting any one acquainted with Miss Armstrong, for if her name should be mentioned I am certain to betray myself."

"You shall go to-morrow or the next day, if you wish, but on condition that you neither think nor speak of the subject again while you stay with me. When you were a little frightened boy at Eton, Reggie, you always did as I bid you!"

"Ah! yes, no wonder," he replied. "I have not forgotten the great boy who pretended to make me his f.a.g because the other fellows shouldn't ill-use me. You were my best friend then, Wilton, and so you are now, and I mean to take your advice."

As the young man spoke Horace Wilton's memory flew back to the time when a small delicate boy of ten was committed to his care by one of the masters:--

"Wilton, I wish you would look after this little chap; he is evidently a nervous, timid child, and much to be pitied. He has never known a mother's care, and his father died about three years ago. I fear he has been harshly treated and neglected at the house of his maternal grandfather, who has never forgiven his daughter for marrying against his wishes."

The youth of seventeen had glanced at the fair, delicate child, who looked up at him with awe, not unmixed with alarm, and in his heart he formed a resolve that the boy thus placed in his care should be protected from the overbearing oppression to which a f.a.g at a public school was in those days so frequently subjected.

Perhaps the rougher discipline might have tended to harden and strengthen the character of Reginald Fraser, and yet the cold neglect and harsh treatment he received in the house where his mother had once been the only and cherished daughter had increased the natural timidity of the boy. The highly nervous temperament which he inherited from his mother had developed into mental weakness and painful reserve, which even the experiences of a public school could not eradicate.

Some such reflections as these pa.s.sed through the memory of Horace Wilton, and caused him to pause ere he replied--

"I do not forget old days, Reginald, and I am glad we have had this opportunity of talking over matters, but you must learn to rely upon a higher strength than your own if you wish to gain the power of bearing earthly disappointments with patience and submission."

Reginald Fraser, in his dread of meeting Mary Armstrong, or any one who knew her, evinced a nervous anxiety to leave Oxford by an early train the next day, but this very anxiety defeated his purpose.

It was increased by a letter from Henry Halford, which Horace on that morning had received, stating that he hoped to reach Oxford by the train which arrived there at 2.15.

Reginald had put off so many little matters to this last morning that he failed to be in time for the 12.30 express, and there was no other alternative than for him to remain with the new arrival till the evening, or leave by the 2.25. He chose the latter.

A desire, for which he could not at first account, that the young men should remain strangers to each other haunted Horace Wilton on that Sat.u.r.day morning.

Suddenly, as the memory of a week so eventful to Mary Armstrong arose before him, a thought flashed across his mind that Henry Halford might be the successful rival who had unwittingly caused so much unhappiness to Reginald Fraser.

On reflection, however, he dismissed from his mind any apprehension of awkwardness should the two gentlemen meet at the station, as each would be quite unconscious of the position in which they stood to each other, even if his own suspicions had any foundation.