All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 2 of 3

by G. A. Henty

And here Stephen Walker's warnings were put a stop to, for Carry's face, which had been bent down while he had been speaking, had become deadly white; her hand was pressed against her heart, and with a half sob, half cry, she leant forward; and her father, on stooping down, found that she was insensible. Very poignant were Stephen Walker's self-reproaches as he ran to get some water and endeavoured to bring her round.

“That is just like me,” he muttered to himself, “frightening the poor child, and telling her her love affair would come to nothing. As if I could not see that she worried enough about it without my making her worse. What an old fool I am, to be sure. And to think of her fainting, too—dear, dear.”

And so he wandered on, until, to his intense relief, he saw her open her eyes. She looked round in a frightened way.

“There, there, my dear; don't worry yourself, Carry. It is all right now. I have been wrong to frighten you, Carry, very wrong, and I have no doubt it will all come right. Why shouldn't it? A man who has once fallen in love with my Carry would not be likely to draw back. No, no, indeed. I thought I was talking wisdom, Carry, and I was an old fool after all.”

Carry smiled feebly, and stroked her father's hair as he bent over her.

“I am better now, father, but I am not very strong. You are quite right in what you say, as you always are, dear, dear, old father. But oh, I wish, oh I wish you had spoken before.” Then, after a pause, she said, “How foolish of me to faint! But I am better now. Kiss me, father, I will go up to bed.”

After Carry had gone upstairs, Stephen Walker sat for a long time in the parlour. His thoughts were not pleasant.

“Poor child, poor child!” he said, “I would have given all the little I have in the world to have saved her this. Why did she not fall in love with some one of her own station, some one who would have been proud of my bright, pretty Carry, who would have shown her to his friends with pleasure and pride? Carry would have been very happy in such a home as that. And now she must wait for years; and perhaps, after all, be deserted. For when the time comes friends will step in and dissuade him, and he will begin to think himself that he might choose a wife better suited to him than out of a tobacconist's shop. I hope he is not lying to her. He would, indeed, be a scoundrel who would lie to such an innocent child as Carry. But, at any rate, I will see if there is any Captain Bradshaw lives in Lowndes Square; and will find out, if I can, if he is really Mr. Bingham's uncle. If so, I shall feel more comfortable, and can wait. Perhaps, after waiting a bit, Carry too may get tired of it, and may not take it to heart if it is broken off at last. So, perhaps, no very great harm may come of it. But I am sorry, I am very sorry.”

If Stephen Walker could have looked into the room where Carry was lying on the bed, crying passionately, he would have been even more sorry than he was. For the next two or three days after this talk Stephen Walker was but little at home; for, having found out by a Directory Captain Bradshaw's address in Lowndes Square, he watched there for hours, until, on the third evening, he saw Fred Bingham enter. Having thus, found out that his story was true so far, he went home more satisfied.

There was another who was watching Carry as closely and as anxiously as did her father. She had been very restless lately, and had very often gone into Mrs. Holl's for a chat. Mrs. Holl was frequently out, and even when she was at home the conversation was principally between Carry and the cripple lad. To him Carry was as an angel of light. He almost worshipped her, and she knew it. Carry liked being admired, it was her nature; she turned as naturally for admiration as a flower for light. Besides, she pitied James. Had he been other than he was, a helpless cripple, Carry might have tossed her head a little loftily at the idea of an admirer who was an inmate of John Holl's cottage. As it was, she knew that his feeling had no idea of self in it, that it was as disinterested an attachment as that of a brother for a sister. Accordingly, she was very kind to the poor lad; and, indeed, enjoyed a chat with him greatly. He had read so much, and his whole current of thought and his earnest talk were so different from anything she ever met with elsewhere, that she could have listened to him for hours with pleasure.