page 258

Chapter XXVIII.

However anxious to reach Auckland for their own private reasons Bernard and Jack Stanley might be, yet they looked forward to their arrival in that town with very mixed feelings; for farther than Auckland Colonel Bradshaw could not go with them. He purposed remaining in the city for a short time in order to visit some friends, and returning to his own part of the island by the river, as more time had been consumed upon the road than he had calculated upon, through the circumstances of Jack Stanley's adventure, and, as we know, his own fruitless return home in search for him.

Both Stanley and Bernard had become attached to the Colonel more than they themselves were aware of until the time drew near that they must separate. Colonel Bradshaw had made himself so completely one of them in his good-natured wish to make the journey pleasant— his conversation had been such a constant source of page 259 interest and amusement—that when the thought occurred to the minds of the young men that before long they would be without him, they felt quite dispirited.

“I do not know,” said the Colonel, on the day before they arrived in Auckland, “what your plans may be after leaving the town, whether to go still farther north; but if you return by the coast, I should advise your stopping for a time at New Plymouth; there is a number of hot springs in the neighbourhood, and volcanic formations of a very interesting kind. How long shall you stop in Auckland?

Jack Stanley glanced at Bernard, and said after a pause, rather awkwardly,

“I have some business in Auckland; I do not know how long it may take me. Hope is coming in search of his father, I believe.”

“In search of his father?” said Colonel Bradshaw, laughing; “has he lost him, then?”

“Jack has such an odd way of expressing himself,” interposed Bernard. “He means that I hope to find my father here. He had left Wellington, and I was told he had gone on to Auckland.”

“Well, I hope you will come across each other at once, my boy,” said the Colonel, kindly. “Do you know any one in Auckland?”

“No one, sir.”

“You had best make inquiries of the missionaries; they are the kindest fellows possible. If I can help you of course you will let me; won't you?—either Bernard in page 260 his search—though there can be no difficulty there, for your father must have put up at one of the hotels; or Jack in his ‘business.’ I don't fancy business is quite in friend Jack's way, somehow.”

Here was a difficulty: Jack did not wish to be questioned as to his object in visiting Auckland: he could not tell the Colonel what it was—he felt sure that he would disapprove of it; yet it seemed so ungracious to be reticent after all Colonel Bradshaw's kindness to him. It gave an awkwardness to his manner which could not but be observed. He was unusually silent that evening, for this little conversation had revived again in full force the old feeling. He tried to get away from his companions, that he might think; and with that intention he slung his sketching materials over his shoulder and wandered off into the forest as if going on a painting excursion.

Once more he thought over all the past—as he had been unable to think of late, through the rapid change of scene and varying interests through which they had been passing: his father's broken health and spirits and premature death, and his own loss of The Beeches; and he took from his breast the pocket-book which held Maitland's letters. Yes, they were condemnatory enough, and soon, very soon now, Jack Stanley would have in his power the ruin of his father's and his own enemy. He was close to Auckland. Maitland was to be found there. Jack slowly folded up the letters again, replaced them in the book, and the book whence he had taken it. He page 261 did not know that some one watched him: he did not see Hope Bernard step back amongst the trees as he himself rose and moved to the village where he had left Colonel Bradshaw.

That night, as Jack Stanley was sleeping, Hope Bernard walked to his bed-side and looked at him. Jack's hand was in his bosom, where he always kept the packet of letters. There seemed a struggle going on in the mind of Bernard, for twice he returned to his own bed and sat down upon the edge of it, and twice went back to the side of his friend. At length he said in a very low voice, as if speaking to himself,

“There can be nothing dishonourable in it in such a case as this: it must be justifiable.”

But at the moment that he was about to put his hand into the bosom of Jack's shirt, the latter started up in bed, fully awake, and exclaimed,

“Why, Hope, old fellow, what is it? What are you doing out of bed?”

“I have been out of bed some time,” replied Bernard, slowly. “I have not slept at all this night.”

“No wonder,” said Jack, “with such myriads of fleas. I have hardly slept myself.”

Bernard smiled at the good faith with which Jack made the assertion, the which he fully believed, when he remembered how peacefully Stanley had slept regardless of fleas until the instant before. However, he said nothing, but went and lay down upon his own bed. The cause of page 262 his own restlessness had been the words which Jack had used with regard to his coming to Auckland. He had hoped that he had forgotten his purpose of revenge, simply because Stanley had ceased to talk of it. Jack could not avoid observing that there came a change over the manner of Bernard from that moment: he was constrained and silent.

On their arrival in the town of Auckland, Colonel Bradshaw put an end to one difficulty by saying at once,

“Now, I think, boys, we must go our own ways. I cannot, I am sorry to say, take you to my friend's house, for he is a great invalid, and cannot see anybody. I shall be every morning while here at the Reading Rooms, and there you will always find me. Let us first go and have a farewell dinner together at an hotel, and we will then talk over anything we care to talk about. Come on.”

They followed him, and the dinner was eaten, and then the Colonel warmly shook hands at parting, but with a promise soon to meet again.

“Now, Jack,” said Bernard, when they found themselves alone, “what are your intentions?”

“You know my intentions perfectly well,” answered Jack Stanley, with some temper; “and I am quite aware that you do not approve of them; but if you talked against them for half a century, it would make no difference in my views of my duty. I do not expect you to sympathize with me in the matter. Perhaps you do not page 263 feel warmly enough on any subject to enter into my feelings. You do not know what it is to have loved a father.”

“Whatever you think of my want of sympathy or want of warmth,” replied Bernard, with gentleness, “at any rate there is no need for us to quarrel.”

“I did not mean to quarrel, Hope,” exclaimed Jack, starting up and catching Bernard by the hand; “but you provoke my ill temper by your coldness. Let us each go our own way, and do our own work. We need not be the worse friends because we differ on this one point.”

Bernard sighed deeply, but gave no answer, and shortly afterwards Jack Stanley took his hat and left the room.

His first course was, as at Wellington, to inquire at the shipping offices for Mr. Maitland; but, although the name was well known, he could get no satisfactory particulars. Mr. Maitland had not while in Auckland entered into any business. It was believed that he had left the shipping line. He was a man of large property. His private house was quite away from the wharves—indeed, in the fashionable quarter of Auckland.

“A leader of fashion, no doubt,” thought Jack, with an internal sneer; “rolling in wealth: somewhat a contrast to the dingy lodging in which my father spent his days.”

He hurried to the other part of the town, and came amongst handsome houses, showing even externally signs page 264 of wealth. He inquired of more than one passenger for the residence of Mr. Maitland, and was directed to a house, which he reached after some difficulty.

Yes, he was there at last! upon the very door-step of his enemy. There was no mistake, for on the iron gate, which opened upon a garden, was a brass plate with the name “Mr. William Maitland.” Jack Stanley paused to breathe. As he did so, the sounds of music and laughter reached his ears, and he became aware that there was some festivity in progress. Moving a little to one side of the house, he could look through a slight flowery hedge over the grounds which lay at the back of the house. There was a sloping lawn and a flat croquet-ground, upon which was placed a large marquee, and where ladies in gay muslins and gentlemen were playing, and a little farther stood a small band, from which the music came, while some were dancing upon the grass to its melody. Jack Stanley looked until he grew savage. It was not a scene under usual circumstances to provoke a person's anger, for everything was pretty and in keeping; but to his wrought-up feelings this merrymaking seemed a fresh insult added to the injury sustained by his father.

I suppose that Jack Stanley's figure was perceived as he stood looking from the other side the hedge of flowers, for after a short time a man-servant approached him, and civilly asked if he was wishing to see any one.

You must understand that Jack was not now in his bush travelling dress: he had accommodated himself to page 265 his fresh circumstances, and was doing at Auckland as Auckland does.

“I wish to see your master,” replied Jack, with an indignant air, as if the poor man who addressed him was also an enemy for being even remotely connected with Mr. Maitland.

“My master is very much engaged just at present, sir,” answered the man. “As you may have perceived, we have a large company this afternoon. Unless it is something very particular,” he added, presently—

“It is something very particular,” returned Jack, “and something which admits of no delay. Tell your master that Mr.—no, say that a gentleman desires to speak with him very urgently.”

The man stared, and no wonder, for there was an unusual and ill-suppressed excitement in Jack's face and manner; but he showed him into a waiting-room, and left him.

More signs of luxury. The furniture was costly; the shelves of the book-cases were filled with well-bound books; the walls were decorated with ornaments: everything was in painful contrast to the lodgings still so fresh in Jack's memory in all their shabbiness. At The Beeches his father and he possessed such luxuries as those he now looked upon. An old, dreamy recollection of the library at The Beeches came across his mind vividly for a moment; the next he glanced away from the books and the furniture, and looked out of the window. In a meadow, page 266 divided from the garden in front of the house by an invisible fence, there grazed a very small pony, evidently suited for a little child. Such a pony Jack had been used to ride in his early childhood days.

It seemed as if every circumstance contrived to work his mind into a state of indignant wrath with the possessor of all this comfort, when the door opened, and a middle-aged gentleman entered the room. He would have held out his hand in the friendly fashion of the colonies, but Jack Stanley's hands were immovable, and his face forbidding in expression. However, the stranger inquired in a pleasant tone of voice,

“Do you wish to speak with me, sir?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” said Jack. “I have come all the way from England to find you. I have searched Wellington for you, and not finding you there, have come on to Auckland. I have that to speak about which will interest you more than you anticipate.”

“Indeed?” said the gentleman. “Will you not be seated?”

“I have come to tell you,” continued Jack, without noticing the interruption, “that I am ready to proclaim you, who think you stand so high in colonial estimation, a scoundrel and a swindler!”

“Sir, be careful what you say,” said the stranger, advancing a step or two, and flushing red.

“I say nothing but what I can substantiate. I have proofs with me which will show you in your real colours page 267 to all here who have hitherto mistaken you for a gentleman and a man of honour.”

“Young man,” said the other, “again I entreat you to be careful. You must be under some great mistake, or you must be a madman, to enter a house, and insult the master of it in this outrageous manner. Be good enough to leave personalities, and explain what you mean before I insist upon your retracting every word of it.”

He spoke with wonderful calmness, like a man who was in the habit of exercising self-control; but his bright eyes flashed, and the clenched hand he had laid upon the table trembled with the effort he made to keep his temper.

“The explanation is simple enough,” retorted Jack. “You will hardly pretend that I am under an error, or that I am a madman, when I tell you that I am the son of the man you once called your friend, and then ruined by your rascality. I am the son of John Stanley. Do you hear, William Maitland?”

At this last name the stranger started: then, after a short pause, he said,

“I see it now; you are under a mistake. I am not Mr. Maitland.”

Jack stared aghast.

“Whether you would have been justified in using such language as you have to Mr. Maitland, I cannot say. As the insults were not intended, I presume, for me—”

“Who are you then, sir?” gasped Jack.

page 268

“My name is Tudor,” answered the stranger: “perhaps the plate upon the entrance-gate led to your mistake. Mr. Maitland did live in this house until about a month ago: I ought to have had the plate removed, but have been too much occupied.”

“Sir,” said Jack, bowed down with shame and contrition all at once, “what can I say to you? How can I apologize sufficiently humbly for my insolence?”

“Never mind apologizing, my dear boy,” said the stranger, good-humouredly. “As it was not meant for me, it goes for nothing, though I cannot think what poor Maitland can have done to provoke your indignation to such a degree.”

“You do not know him, sir, at least, in his real character: he is a scoundrel.”

“He is a very eccentric fellow, at any rate,” said Mr. Tudor. “He left Auckland without a moment's warning, and went no one knows whither.”

“Escaped again!” said Jack.

“And a good thing for him,” returned Mr. Tudor, laughing, “if he is to be accosted in such a very impetuous way as you accosted me.”

“I hardly know what to say, sir, in my own excuse,” resumed Jack. “What must you have thought of me?”

“I thought you a very hot-headed, rash young man; but now come out into the garden with me, and take some refreshment. I have some friends with me this afternoon.”

page 269

“I know it, sir,” answered Jack; “and there again I ought to apologize for keeping you in this way. Excuse me now, I could not wait for anything further; only say that you will try to forget my insolent language to you.”

You see what a mixture of contradictions Jack Stanley was. No one could be more courteous than he, when in his proper senses.

Mr. Tudor held out his hand and shook that of his companion heartily; then, accompanying Jack to the hall door, he left him and rejoined his friends upon the lawn at the back of the house.

Jack Stanley felt very uncomfortable as he descended the steps of the house. He had the unpleasant consciousness of having made a fool of himself. As he thus thought, he caught sight of a figure just a little in advance of him. Could he believe his own eyesight? Was it Hope Bernard?