“Most likely, Katie.”
“Now, Frank, don't be vexed, but I won't talk of it again. I own I do not see how he could have done you any harm in this matter, but I feel sure he would if he could. Please, please, Frank, don't trust him. He is not good, I am sure of it.”
“There, Katie, I won't be vexed because I promised. But you are wrong, dear. However, right or wrong, Fred can do me no harm. If my uncle comes to his senses again, I am sure he will be heartily sorry for what he has done, and I know Alice will bring things round if she can. At the same time I do not deceive myself. Harry Bradshaw is not a man very easily to get an idea out of his head. He is a most kind-hearted man, but as obstinate as a mule. He has never spoken to his sister since she married Mr. Bingham. Did I ever tell you about his only daughter, Katie?”
“No, Frank, I did not even know he had any children.”
Hereupon Frank told what he knew about Captain Bradshaw's daughter having made some low marriage, of his having sent her off, and of her having, as Frank had heard from his parents, died somewhere in great poverty. And Katie, after hearing it, made up her own mind that Captain Bradshaw must be a very cruel man; and that, except as to the money, the loss of his acquaintance was no great matter. As for Alice Heathcote, of course she was very sorry for her; but perhaps on the whole it was just as well—of course, for her sake—that she and Frank were not to meet again. These opinions, however, Katie wisely kept to herself.
These three days had passed very slowly to the inhabitants of Lowndes Square. The first day Captain Bradshaw had sworn more violently than ever; the second day he was more quiet; and the third day he was very sad. Alice, too, had suffered terribly, her eyes were swollen with crying, and the colour faded altogether out from her cheeks. On that day, after dinner, he said suddenly, after a long silence,—
“It is no use waiting any longer, Alice. Let us go away for a bit.”
Alice's eyes filled with tears. Neither she nor her guardian had ever spoken of Frank's fault since that first day, but each perfectly understood the other's thoughts; both knew how they had longed for Frank's return, and how they had hoped that he would offer some protest against his sentence, would urge some point in mitigation of his offence; that, at least, he would have cried, “I have sinned, and I am deeply punished; have pity upon me.” Alice then knew what her uncle meant. It was no use waiting any more. Frank had nothing to say, nothing to urge; he would not even write to express sorrow. He was separated from her for ever, more than time or place, more even than death could have divided them. Her tears fell fast, but she tried to speak steadily.
“Yes, uncle, please let us go abroad.”
“Yes, Alice,” and his voice too shook as he spoke; “suppose we go to Rome for the winter. I have often thought of taking you; and then next spring, you know, we can go to Jerusalem, and the Nile, and all sorts of places. We can be away as long as we like, my dear, no one will miss us here.”