It was only upon the question being repeated, that he looked up.
“Poor Alice!” he said, “you will feel it as much as I do.”
More and more alarmed, Alice knelt down by the old man's side.
“What is it, uncle? Please tell me.”
“I would keep it from you if I could, Alice; but you must know it. I am grieving, Alice, because I have lost a son. Yes, Alice, it is so,” he went on, sadly, in answer to Alice's look of surprise. “I loved him as a son. I looked upon him as my heir, and now he is lost to me for ever.”
“Frank!” Alice gasped, with a feeling of sickening dread.
“Yes, my dear,—Frank. He is alive, Alice; alive and well, as far as I know,” he said, quickly, for by the ashen pallor of her face he saw that she imagined that he had heard of Frank's death; “but I would far rather have heard of his death. From this moment he is dead to me,—worse than dead. Had he been really dead, I could have mourned him, as a father might mourn the dear child of his old age; better, far better that, than to know that he is a base, dishonourable scoundrel.”
As Captain Bradshaw finished, Alice Heathcote leapt to her feet with a start, as rapid as if she had been struck. Her blood rushed to her cheeks, her eyes flashed, and she exclaimed, vehemently,—
“It is false, uncle!—it is false! I would stake my life on Frank's honour! Who dares to say that of him? Frank a base, dishonourable scoundrel! And you believe it? Oh, uncle! uncle! after all these years, to doubt Frank!”