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

by G. A. Henty

“If the man is drunk, Uncle, had you not better tell James to wait at the door?”

“Pooh! my dear,” the old officer laughed. “I fancy he's nearly as old as I am. If I want James, I can ring the bell.”

Then he rose and went into the library, into which the visitor had already been ushered.

Stephen Walker was standing by the table. He was silent for a minute after the door was shut, looking steadily at Captain Bradshaw, as if to read his character. Captain Bradshaw, in return, looked at him. He saw at once that the footman's surmise was unfounded, but he saw too by the compressed lips and flashing eye that the man was from some cause in a state of extreme agitation and fury; indeed for a moment the thought occurred to him that his visitor was mad. This idea was at once dismissed when Stephen Walker began to speak.

“Captain Bradshaw, I have come to tell you a story. It is a sad one, sir, but not an uncommon one—not an uncommon one. I, such as you see me, was once a gentleman. My circumstances changed, and I took a very small shop in New Street, where I sold tobacco. I was not, as you see me now, a determined man—perhaps even a dangerous one. I was a broken-down, nervous old man, with only one stay, one hope, one pleasure in the world. I had a daughter, sir; a bright, happy, innocent girl. A man came to us, over and over again, and he won her heart. The old story, Captain Bradshaw, of love and trust. He promised her marriage—over and over again he promised it. But he had an uncle”—Captain Bradshaw started violently; he saw what was coming now. He remembered the conversation he had had with Frank upon this very subject of the tobacconist's daughter. He remembered the warning he had given, and Frank's promise not to go there again, and he grew very pale and faint as his visitor went on—“he had an uncle, sir—an uncle from whom he expected to inherit great wealth—and he dared not risk his anger by an open marriage with my child. He told her that the uncle could not live long, that at his death he would marry her openly, but that if he lived he would at any hazard marry her privately in a short time. Accidentally I gained her secret, and to test the truth of the story I watched for days outside that uncle's door, until I saw the man enter there; then, seeing that the story was true so far, I hoped for the best. You see what a poor, nervous, simple man I was. Even then he had ruined her. I never dreamt of it, or I, old and feeble as I am, would have killed him. A fortnight since, my child saw in the paper the marriage of this man with another. To-day, Captain Bradshaw, I have been down to Gravesend to identify the body of what was once my child. Were I a young man, I would take vengeance with my own hands; but I am old and helpless, and I call on you to give me justice. That man is your nephew, and he is a damned scoundrel!”

Captain Bradshaw sat for a minute or two as if stunned. The old soldier, though passionate and hot tempered, was a man with a great heart, and this sin was one he held in extreme horror. The story of the man who stood before him would, under any circumstances, have greatly moved him—would have filled him with burning indignation. As it was, the blow fell upon him almost as heavily as upon Stephen Walker. He had lost a son as entirely and finally as the other had lost a daughter. For he loved Frank Maynard as a father might do. True, he had for a few months past treated him with some coolness, but his affection had been unshaken, and he had fully resolved that upon his return from his wedding tour he would take him thoroughly into favour again. To hear now that he was a cruel and cold-blooded seducer, to know that he was utterly worthless, this was to lose him for ever. He hid his face in his hands and groaned. Then with a quick movement, as one determined to throw aside all regrets, he rose to his feet and took Stephen Walker's hand.

“Mr. Walker,” he said, “may God help us both! for we suffer nearly equally. I loved that boy as you loved your daughter. He was my heir and the hope of my old age. But what you have told me separates him from me as completely as if he were dead. You ask me for justice,” and here the old man's voice grew sharp and clear, “and justice you shall have. From this hour he is dead to me. Not one farthing of my money shall he ever have. Never again will I speak to him. There, sir, you have my word for it.”

“I thank you, sir. As you said, God help us both!” And without another word Stephen Walker turned and left the room.

Alice Heathcote had been rather alarmed by what the servant had said, and had listened with some anxiety for the departure of the strange visitor. Presently she heard his step come along the passage from the study, and then the closing of the front door as he let himself out. She waited two or three minutes, but heard no sound of her uncle coming from his study. Becoming alarmed she went to the door, knocked, and opened it. The old man was still sitting in the chair into which he had sunk while Stephen Walker was telling his story. His hands lay listless beside him, but there was a quick, nervous movement of the fingers. His face was sad and very pale, a grief all the more painful to see that it was tearless. Alice saw at once that something very serious had happened, the nature of which she could not even guess. Her uncle did not look up at her entrance, and alarmed at this terrible depression, this silence so different from the fits of impatient anger to which Captain Bradshaw was given when put out, she went up to him, took one of his hands in hers, and laid her other upon his shoulder.

“My dear uncle, what is the matter?”