All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 1 of 3

by G. A. Henty

“My life, sir, is of no great value to myself or to any one else except to my daughter here, but for her sake I thank you very much for saving it. And now, sir, it is very long since any gentleman has honoured my roof with his presence, but if you will come in for half an hour, and smoke a cigar, I shall take it as a favour.”

Frank willingly accepted the invitation, and rather surprised at the manner in which it was given, went into the little parlour, Stephen Walker pausing for a moment to speak a word or two to his daughter. He then produced his best cigars, lit one himself instead of his usual pipe, and when Carry came in with two bottles of spirits, she was surprised to find her father and his guest talking together like old acquaintances.

Stephen Walker seemed for once to have laid aside that nervous timidity which had cost him so much during his life, and which had become almost a part of his nature; he chatted with Frank quietly and cheerfully, as one gentleman with another. The conversation turned upon travels, and Frank found to his astonishment that there was hardly a place he had visited in Europe that his host did not know as well as he did himself. As for Carry, she could hardly believe her senses. Was this her dear, nervous old father? She had heard him say incidentally that he had travelled when he was a young man, but she had had no idea of the extent of his journeyings. As the conversation went on, her blue eyes opened wider and wider, and at last she was so convinced that she must be dreaming, that she ran the needle, with which she was pretending to work, into her finger, to assure herself that she was awake. Frank remained for about an hour in conversation with Stephen Walker, and then took his leave, promising that he would call again. With Carry he had hardly exchanged a word after his first entrance; indeed he had been so much interested in his conversation with her father that he had quite forgotten the motive he had in first declaring himself. As for Carry, she was far too much surprised at her father’s change of manner, to think of speaking at all. After Frank had gone, Stephen Walker went back into the little parlour, while Carry locked the door and closed the shop for the night. When she had done this, she went into the other room, and found her father sitting in his chair with his head bent down, and his empty pipe, which he had mechanically taken down, lying across his knees. Carry paused a little, and then seeing that he did not raise his head, she went up to him, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said, “Who is this person? Have I been dreaming, or has this been my old father who has been talking here for the last hour?”

For more than a minute her father did not answer. His fingers played nervously, with his pipe; then he looked up and said, hurriedly,—

“No, Carry, no. It was not your old father who was speaking then. Not his real self, but quite another being. It was one who might have been me, but not myself as I am. No, no, child, don’t think it, don’t think it.” And he moved his hands nervously, as if to wipe away the thought.

“Don’t think what? pappy dear,” she said, coming closer to him and putting one arm round his neck, while with her other she stroked his thin grey hair. “I only am thinking what a bad naughty pappy it has been, when it could talk like that, and knew all these things, never to let poor little me know anything about it. To think that all these years this bad thing should have hidden what it really was, and let me have my own way, and be mistress, and scold it and talk to it as if it were a child, when it was all the time so clever and wise. Naughty, naughty pappy.” Carry talked playfully, but it was evident that she was very much in earnest, for the tears stood in her eyes.

“No, no, Carry, whatever you do, do not think that I was ever as I was to-night; do not think that the one you have always known is a pretence, and that this one was the real thing. I was never like that. Do not think that misfortune,—you know I was better off once—has so changed me that I have become what I am from that. I never was so, dear; I might have been so, but I never was. Had I always been as you just saw me we should not be here as we are now, and all would have been quite different; but that other nature went away when I was quite little, scared by harsh treatment, and never came back again except for a little little time till to-night. Why it did come back to-night I cannot say, only to raise doubts between my child and me,” and Stephen Walker wrung his hands in feeble despair.

“No, no, father dear,” Carry said, throwing her arms round his neck and kissing him, “not doubts. I was very pleased and proud, but very surprised too, to hear my old pappy talk like that, and a little ashamed when I thought how much I had underrated you. Not that I should have loved you more, had you been the cleverest man in the world, not one bit more; but I should have looked up to you more, and felt somehow differently towards you.”

“That is just it,” Stephen Walker said, helplessly; “she would have felt differently. She is not going to be my little Carry any more. That other one has come in between us, and frightened her away.”

“No, no, pappy,” Carry said coaxingly, and seating herself upon his knees, “this is your little Carry, is it not? There, look up, and don’t hang your naughty head down. Is not this little Carry? Come, speak, sir, or I shall scold you dreadfully.”