Claud Prescott

Front matter

BY JAS. E. ARNOLD AUTHOR OF "THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE," " PAUL DOBSON'S PRICE-LIST," "the seven golden keys," etc. LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. DYING IN THE NIGHT I II. A WELCOME CHANGE - - - - II III. KINGSFORD EXHIBITION - - 24 IV. CLAUDE LOSES A BENEFACTOR - - 36 V. IN A LONDON HOME - - - - 49 VI. THE TORN PORTRAIT - - - - 6l VII. FOLLOAVING A CLUE - - - - 75 VIII, AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY - - 87 IX. GENEVA CRESCENT - - - - 102 X. LOVE'S CONFESSION - - - Il8 XI. AN UNPLEASANT RENC .'TRE - - - 132 XII. CONSPIRACY - - - - 145 XIII. A DISQUIETING LETTER - - - 1 58 XIV. UNDER SOUTHERN SKI - - - 170 XV. A RESCUE FROM THE SEA - - - 1 86 XVI. IN THE ETERNAL CITY - - - - 199 XVII. JACOB BARNSLEY'S DISCOVERY - - - 211 XVIII. UNDOING A WRONG - 222 XIX. A FLIGHT AND ITS SEQUEL - - - 237 XX. SUNSHINE AT LAST ... -

Chapter I. Dying In The Night

It was a dark night in winter. Not one of those nights of deep darkness when the starry heavens shine forth with a glory unknown to summer-time, but one when the whole earth seems wrapt in a suffocating pall of cloud, and mist, and snow. From early morning the soft, white flakes had been coming down silently and pitilessly. Under the force of the keen east wind, which had risen since noon, the heavy drifts were heaping up in all directions — beneath the bare hedge-rows, and the long stone walls, and the cottage windows. The village street was well-nigh deserted, and only at very distant intervals might the dull, A muffled thud of a passing footstep be heard, as some belated wayfarer plodded wearily on through the snow. It needed all the best of home comforts — of bright fires, and cosy rooms, and of loving, cheery faces most of all — to bid defiance to a night so utterly desolate and inclement as this.

Somewhat back from the main thoroughfare of the village, in a short by-lane, which ended in a small frozen duck-pond and a half-snowed-up field stile, stood a row of some three or four cottages, old fashioned, humble-looking tenements of the poorer class, with low thatched roofs, coarse whitewashed walls, and diamond-paned windows. At this hour — the village church clock of Cloverleigh had just chimed half-past ten — all was still, and every light had been put out in each dwelling in the row, except in the last one only. Here a lamp was burning in an upper room, and on the closely-drawn blind a passing shadow might have been observed from time to time from outside, flitting noiselessly to and fro, as of one that watched and tended within. So it had been for several weeks past, not at this hour only, but at all hours more or less of the long, long night.

The room above was a sick-chamber — nay, it was more than this, it was the chamber of the dying, for within its narrow walls a life was fast ebbing away. Let us pass within. The room was poorly furnished, but scrupulously neat and clean. Even in the disposition of such humble accessories as the room contained, there was a certain quiet evidence of taste and even refinement, which one would scarcely have looked for amid such surroundings. A man in the full prime of life lay on the bed. It needed no long-continued glance at the sufferer's face to divine that the end was not far distant. There was no great pain endured just then, for nature was much too weak to do more than passively await the coming of the final hour. The face of the dying man showed both intellect and strength of character, and though sadly reduced by long illness and distress, it still retained the stamp of a noble and gifted mind.

Sitting close by the bedside, shading tearful eyes with one hand, while the other held one of the wasted, emaciated hands of tlie sufferer, was a lad of some fourteen summers — a son with the father. Between the two there was a striking resemblance : the same lofty fore head, the same finely-cut features, the same look of firm decision, yet of perfect refinement. Though the boy was clad in homely garb, and appeared to be no stranger to hard and rough work, there was something that marked him out as very different from the ordinary lads of a countryside. About the room hovered quietly a pale, elderly woman of no kin to the others, but a good-hearted neighbour from the cottage adjoining, who had spent much time ungrudgingly in such offices of kindness as lay within her power. "I'm afraid father's almost gone, Mrs. Naylor," whispered the boy sadly, as he took a long glance through his tears at the still form before him, from which scarcely a perceptible sign of breathing could now be heard.

" Poor man, I do fear it's nearly over with him," said the woman, stepping lightly to the bedside, and looking also searchingly at the face of the dying : " but there, my good lad, don't cry too much, if you can help it. Your father's ready to go, that's one comfort, and if God wrants to take him away — well, he'll look after you too, don't be afraid of that." But life was not quite gone : there was a slight movement of the head, a deep-drawn sigh, and an opening of the half-closed eyes, which now rested fully and steadily upon those of the son. " Claude, my dear boy," said the father, in a voice that rose little above a whisper, yet clear and firm in its tone—" you will soon be alone in the world— quite alone. I am going home— yes, home to God. But there, you must not grieve — it is all right with me, and I have no fear for you.

God bless you, Claude : be sure you love Him and trust Him. Good-bye, good-bye." " Oh, father, father," sobbed the boy, as he threw himself on the bed, " stay with me a little longer. You will not die yet, will you ? " But to the passionate appeal there came no re sponse. The lips moved and quivered a little as if vainly attempting to frame some words of reply : the eyes closed again, and the head fell back on the pillow from whence for a moment it had been raised. Another sigh, but so faint this time as scarcely to be heard — then all was over, and the spirit of Henry Prescott had passed away to its rest. Yes, away from the wild winter's night, away from snow and storm and darkness, to that land where the sun never goes down, and the summer glory abides from age to age. Sad and pitiful had been the history of the past five years to Claude Prescott's father.

At the com mencement of that period he had been a thriving and prosperous tradesman in a distant part of the country. No one in the busy town of Elsworthy was more respected or seemed more likely to lay the foundation of a splendid competency. Happy in the companionship of a gentle and loving wife, and with all a father's pride for the bright, in telligent boy who was growing up in the household circle, the prospect in life appeared a fair and pleasant one indeed. But a change came over all this with an almost startling suddenness. In Mr. Prescott's employ as cashier, was a young man of the name of Robert Lawson. Though scarcely out of his teens, his sharp and adroit business talents soon rendered him almost indispensable to his master, who trusted him to the fullest extent. But under all his plausible exterior there lurked an utter unscrupulousness of character, and he soon took advantage of his position to carry on a long series of secret and successful frauds.

When at last he had danger to apprehend that a full dis closure of his delinquencies must soon take place, he took a bold and desperate step. Succeeding by some means in getting into his hands a very large sum of money, which represented, in fact, the greater part of Mr. Prescott's entire possessions, he suddenly absconded. So well were his plans laid, that not a trace was ever discovered of his where abouts, though every means which the law afforded was set in operation for his capture. There was reason to believe that he had put the Atlantic Ocean between himself and his followers, but nothing definite ever came to light on the subject. The misfortune proved a crushing blow to Mr. Prescott. He was not a man who had set his heart on money-getting, for his was a nature too noble to be enslaved by a master-passion of that kind.

But apart even from the very serious loss he had sustained, his sensitive temperament had received a shock from which it never recovered. The ex citement and anxiety consequent upon the steps taken to discover his fraudulent cashier weighed heavily upon him, and he felt himself no longer equal to the requirements of his own business. The tide of fortune set against him little by little, till at length, by repeated losses, nearly all he had in the world was gone. The end of it was, that he gave up business, leaving himself, when all his creditors were paid, only a very few pounds to call his own. During the three years that followed, he suc ceeded at intervals in filling a few situations as clerk in several parts of the country, but none even of these ill-paid positions proved a permanency.

Had it not been for the cheering and brave counsels of the wife who loved him so dearly, and who secured also some little employment for her needle to eke out their scanty income, he might easily have given way to despair. At last, wearied out with the uncertainty that had attended his later endeavours, he came to Cloverleigh, seeking work as a common carpenter, a trade which he had learnt in his youth. This was about two years be fore our story opens, and hardly six months more had elapsed when a sorrow more bitter than all the rest befell the ill-fated husband, and a grave in Cloverleigh churchyard closed over the remains of the true-hearted helpmeet of his life. So the father and the son were left alone : the one to struggle on with fast-fading health and sad, crushing memories of the happier past ; the other, a boy whose intelligence and abilities were far beyond his years, to have no higher prospect, for the present at least, than the rough, uncongenial life of a farmer's lad.

Claude had left school some twelve months ago, for the precarious health and equally precarious work of his father had made it necessary that he should do something for his own livelihood. A place on Hilltop Farm was all that offered itself at the time, and a brave sense of duty towards his father, together with a hopeful, buoy ant spirit, that ever looked forward to brighter days, led the boy to accept uncomplainingly his undesirable lot. Undesirable it certainly was, for the whole soul of Claude Prescott had been drawn out towards art, even from early childhood. To be a painter, to " touch the kindling canvas into life '' with the inspired pencil of the artist — this was already the youth's greatest ambition, his most fondly cherished dream. As a school-boy, he had won many a time the highest distinctions for drawing, and his talents in that direction had rapidly developed under the training of a good teacher, and fostered by a father's warmest encouragement.

The little portfolios of sketches which Claude had accumulated one after an other gave most abundant promise of a brilliant future. But how would it be with him now — now that the loving, kind father, who had been all the world to him, had sickened and died — now that the home would have to be broken up and sold, and he might no longer come back to the cottage each evening to spend an hour or two before bedtime with his pencil or his books, and talking over with his father, with all a boyish enthusiasm, all his hopes and plans for coming days. No w7onder that on that wild winter's night, when Claude Prescott found himself an orphan, he should have wept and sobbed almost beyond control, as one who felt as though everything in life was as dark as the starless sky. Let us not blame him : we should have all done very much the same in his case, and a quiet, Arm trust in the great God of the fatherless will come to him before long.

We may pass over the history of the next few days. There was a funeral in the village churchyard, when an afternoon's sun was shedding a few sickly beams across the half-melting snow, and father and mother lay not far apart beneath the damp sod. Before another week was over, the cottage where two lives had passed away within the three years, stood empty, and Claude Prescott's entire earthly belongings were comprised in that one solitary wooden chest under the wTindow of a little back room at Hilltop Farm, where it was ar ranged for the present that he should take up his abode.

Chapter II

A WELCOME CHANGE. Three times have the icy chills of winter given place to the flower-laden spring, and the rich, warm glow of summer-tide, since the events of the last chapter. Claude has been trying hard to make the best of his lot under Farmer Potter, but he has been feeling of late sadly rebellious at heart. Few and far between have been his opportunities for any intellectual improvement, and as to his pencil, that had virtually to be laid aside from the time he came to Hilltop. At work as he was, from early morning till after sundown, and often till late at night, there was little chance for him to keep up any thorough acquaintance with his favourite pur suits. But the unquenchable will was still there, and the hand that grasped the plough-handle or wielded the flail had not lost its cunning.

Had Claude Prescott been placed with a man who could have felt any little interest or sympathy with his tastes, and could now and then have given him some moderate amount of spare time to indulge them, his lot might not have been quite so hard. But what was to be expected of a man like old Zachary Potter ? It was not that he was naturally unkind or evil-disposed, either towards Claude or anyone else, but he was one of those utterly dull and cloddish individuals whose " talk was of bullocks," and who could see nothing worth any special attention beyond his cattle and his crops. If his glance happened to be turned to the daily papers, it was the farming news and the state of the corn markets that engrossed him almost ex clusively. A good agricultural show was more attractive to him than all the fine art exhibitions that the world ever saw, and he entertained all the hearty dislike of our own George II. in relation to all " boetry and bainting."

Like the renowned Wouter van Twiller of Washington Irvine, he had lived a good many years on the earth without the least curiosity as to whether the sun revolved around it or it around the sun. Zachary Potter's autograph was a marvel of simplicity, consisting, as it did, of two shaky little lines in the form of a cross, adjoining the spot where some apter scholar than he had traced his name. Altogether, he was about as un likely a person to interest himself in Claude's artistic advancement as could well be conceived, and he gave himself credit for a vast amount of kindness in taking the lad under his roof, and for giving him a trifle of wages over and above his board and lodgment. Placed, therefore, with a man who cared as much about art as he did about the Great Wall of Chin?, Claude felt that for the present the golden gate way of life was closed against him.

Many a night, when alone in his little room, before going to rest, he would take out of his box the portfolio of drawings, and turn them over sadly one by one. They were among his most precious treasures, bringing back to him the memory of many hours of delight some working at school and at home. How fondly he would linger over some of them, on which per haps some amount of extra care had been bestowed, while his heart would beat more rapidly, and a flush of honest pride would rise to his face. " Never mind," he would say to himself some times, " I am going to break these fetters some day. I will be a painter. Yes, the world shall know what I can do before I am many years older." Ah, Claude Prescott ! The world is a large place for any one man to fill with the sound of his own fame — -you must be patient yet awhile, and all will work out as it ought to do in course of time.

It is well for Claude too, well for the training of his own heart and character, that no mere thirsting after fame urges him to talk as he does, but a genuine love for art — a love for the true and the beautiful, and a consciousness that he is called to do his share in portraying them. There came one day of glorious summer beauty just about this time, when Claude was sent on an errand of some importance to Cloverleigh Rectory. From Hilltop Farm there was a pleasant walk of some two miles to take, leading down over wheat fields and through a fir-plantation till the bottom of the valley was reached, and the high-road was gained that went through the village. On the higher ground near the farm, the valley could be traced for miles, as far as the spot where the picturesque remains of Meldon Abbey could be seen, rising on a level peninsula of greensward formed by a winding sweep of the i*iver.

Not far beyond might be observed from time to time the white smoke of the train, as it would leave Meldon Station, for though the iron road did not pass through Cloverleigh, Meldon was too popular a resort to be left without such a convenience, and many a summer excursion, even from the distant metropolis, would bring crowds of tourists to the ancient pile of ruins which had graced the happy valley since the days of the early Plantagenets. To the mind of Claude Prescott, as he bounded lightly down the hill-side through the ripening corn, the whole scene was fraught with pleasing suggestions. He paused a few moments at the stile near the fir-plantation, casting a long and in terested glance at the varied features of the land scape before him. A high-sailing cloud swept just then across the sun, and darkened for a time the golden glow of nature.

What a little will sometimes change the current of thought within us, and it seemed as though the sombre shade that had fallen on the scene fell also upon the mind of its observer, as he lingered silently by the stile. " Only a farm-hand," he was murmuring, half sadly, half-indignantly to himself : " onhy a farm hand — that's what makes it so hard to bear. And then not a soul to care a pin for what I care for, or to help me even by a word. I wonder what the old farmer would say, though," he added, laughing a little bitterly, "if he overheard me talking like this — advise me to stick to my work, I suppose, and be content with the place which he thinks is quite high enough for such as I." " But there," he continued, as he jumped over the stile— the cloud had passed off the sun again by this time, " something may happen any day to lift me out of all this— to-day, perhaps, for ought that I know."

With a renewed elasticity in his step, and the cheeriness restored to his face, Claude plunged in among the firs, emerging by-and-by upon the dusty high road, and after a while gained the village. It was with a subdued, almost a reverent glance that he passed the corner where the old cottage came in sight; — the cottage beneath whose roof a father's and a mother's life had glided away. Never could Claude approach that well-remembered spot with out recalling that wild winter's night when he was left in the world alone. Through the long village street, and under the dark yew-trees that spread over the low churchyard wall, the youth walked briskl}' onwards, till he came to the large green gate that opened upon the Rectory grounds. Abroad gravel path, shaded with lilac and laburnum trees, led up to the quaint, old-fashioned, eighteenth century residence.

There was an air of substantial comfort about the place, with a certain quiet seclusiveness that had a charm of its own. Claude's ring was answered by the buxom, good tempered housekeeper, Mrs. Caldecott, who had for many years been the presiding genius of the Rectory, as far as all its domestic economy was concerned. For the worthy rector himself, the kind-hearted Dr. Sylvester, was an elderly bachelor of some three-score years and five, not at all likely now to contemplate any change of state. There was a grave in the village churchyard into which, forty summers before, had been lowered the remains of one of the fairest and sweetest maidens in Clover leigh. It was said by those who could remember, that Lily Thornton was to have been the young rector's bride, and that in a few weeks the bells were to have rung out a merry peal for a happy wedding-day.

But it was not to be, and the month that was to have ended with a bridal procession opened with a funeral cortege instead. The world had gone on very much in its usual way since then, but there was one saddened heart at least that would never outlive the memories of the past, and the void that was left had never been filled by another. The good rector was in his study that morning, deep in the perusal of one of the huge folio tomes of " Walton's Polyglot," a choice " red-line " copy of which occupied a place of honour on his well stocked library shelves, and was often exhibited to visitors with reasonable pride. Mrs. Caldecott's tap at the door broke somewhat abruptly the current of his thoughts, but a genial smile lit up his B face when he knew who it was that waited outside. " Oh, come in, Claude, my good lad," said Dr. Sylvester, heartily, for Claude Prescott wras very much of a favourite with him, especially since his father's death.

Claude entered the room, and having finished the errand on which he came, was on the point of de parture, when there was another tap at the study door. " Well, Mrs. Caldecott, what is the matter now ? " said the rector, as the housekeeper half-apologis ingly opened the door a little way. " If you please, sir, John Berry would very much like to see you outside for a moment or two," replied Mrs. Caldecott. " Oh, very well. I'll come out to him at once," answered the rector. " Just wait a few minutes, Clauder for I may want to speak to you again before you go." So saying, Dr. Sylvester quitted the room, and stepped out into the porch, where old John Berry, who had been gardener at the Rectory for ever so many long years, was standing with a rather troubled and vexed look on his weather-beaten face.

Claude was left alone for the time, and somehow or other the rector's last words remained uppermost in his mind. Why did he wish to speak to him again ? Was it merely to take back some further message to the farm, or was it something that had reference to himself? His heart beat a little faster as the latter thought suggested itself to him, for on more than one occasion had Dr. Sj'lvester evinced a most kindly interest towards him, and he was by no means ignorant of Claude's hopes and wishes for the future. Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before the rector again entered the room, during which time Claude could hear a somewhat animated colloquy proceeding outside, though with no distinct under standing of its nature. However, it seemed, from old John Berry's tone of voice, that he had begun rather complainingly, but had gone off* at last much better satisfied.

" And now, Claude," said Dr. Sylvester, when he had once more crossed the threshold, "I want to have a few words with you. But, first of all, how are you getting on at Hilltop, and is everything there to your liking, or not ? " For a moment or two Claude paused, considering what it would be best for him to say. " Thank you very much, sir, for asking me," he replied at length, " but I am not where I want to be, or what I want to be, at all." " Ah, I suppose so," said the rector, smiling good naturedly; "you are ambitious, Claude. You don't care much for cows and horses, and ploughing and sowing — useful matters though, all of them, and we should fare very poorly without them. But your taste lies another way, doesn't it ? You would much rather be an artist, and paint pictures for the Royal Academy, eh ?

" So direct and pointed a mention of Claude's great dream of life made the face of the youth kindle with enthusiasm. " I would do anything, sir," he answered warmly, "anything whatever, if it would only open my way for that. But there seems to be no chance for me where I am now, and no one to give me even a word of encouragement." " Well, Claude, I was thinking about you only this morning, and just now something has occurred which may, perhaps, give me some little opportunity of helping you ; at any rate, of making a suggestion to you, which you may do well to consider." Claude listened most eagerly to the rector's words, and waited anxiously for what should follow. " It is just this," continued Dr. Sylvester, " my gardener has had to complain to me pretty often lately about young Tom Andrews, whom I keep to assist him.

All that I have had to say to him myself has made him no better, and I have to put him down as incorrigibly idle and saucy. He will have to go, for John Berry tells me plainly this morning that he can put up with him no longer, and I am of the same mind. Now, Claude, what should you think about taking his place ? It won't make a painter of you, but you will be here under my care, and make your home under my roof. I should see, too, that you had some reason able amount of time to yourself to cultivate your tastes, for I am desirous to find out what you are capable of doing. So what do you say about the matter ? " Claude's heart was too full to speak for a few moments. What a thrill of pleasure ran through him as he thought of all to which this proposal might lead! Under such a kindly oversight, placed with the only friend who had really sj'mpathised with his wishes since his father's death, who could tell how much this might mean to him ?

" I shall be very glad, very glad, indeed, sir," he said at length, " if I can be here with you. I could wish nothing better." " Very well, then," replied the rector, " I will take it for granted that you accept my offer. I told John Berry what I thought of doing, and he says he would sooner have you with him than any one he knows. To-morrow I shall be calling at the farm, and shall tell Mr. Potter all about the matter; so as soon as he can well spare you, you shall come and settle in your new home." Dr. Sylvester put his hand kindly on the lad's shoulder as he spoke, and walked with him as far as the door, where he bid him good-day, amid heart-felt expressions of gratitude on the part of Claude. Back again through the long village street : plunging with buoyant step into the shady fir plantation, and mounting with joyous and elastic tread up the sunlit slopes of the corn fields, Claude Prescott pressed on, as in a happy dream, towards Hilltop Farm.

Never had the birds seemed to sing so sweetly, or the earth and sky to look so smilingly beautiful as they did now. The fetters of what had been little less than slavery to him were about to be broken, and a path was opening which, in course of time, might lead him to that goal so earnestly desired. True to his promise, the rector called the next day at the farm, and had a chat with Zachary Potter. The old farmer was at first rather disposed to look with disfavour upon Claude's evident readiness to turn his back upon Hilltop. However, he offered no particular opposition to the proposed change, though growing a little contemptuous when the youth's artistic proclivities were alluded to, for he " couldn't see for his life what good could come of them things : the biggest painter going wasn't worth a plain, honest farmer."