“I would have spoken as confidently and as warmly as you do, Alice, ten minutes ago; but I can do so no longer. There is no doubt now in my mind, none at all. I must tell you the story, Alice,—you have a right to know it. Sit down, dear, by me, and listen quietly.”
Alice, secure as she felt in Frank's honour and faith, yet felt a cold chill creep over her, at this tone of quiet conviction upon the part of her uncle. Had he been in a passion she would not have believed what he said, but the tone of deep, quiet sorrow frightened her. She put a stool by his chair, and sat down on it, looking up into his face as he spoke, every vestige of colour fading out of her own as he went on with his story.
“You may remember, Alice, last winter Frank and Mr. Prescott coming in here, and our hearing that Frank had picked a man up from almost underneath the wheels of an omnibus, at the risk of his own life. The man gave Frank one of his cards, which he showed to us. His name was Stephen Walker, tobacconist.”
Alice made a slight sign of assent. She remembered the circumstance well.
“A fortnight or so afterwards, my dear, Frank came in here and told me, laughing, that he had been to see this man; that he had apparently been once a gentleman; and that he had a very pretty daughter, who was, of course, very grateful to Frank for having saved her father's life.”
Alice felt what was coming now, and a feeling of almost terror crept over her.
“As a man of the world, my dear, I spoke to Frank about it. I warned him that he had better not go there again. The girl was very pretty, he said, and very grateful. If he went again, mischief might come of it. My words to him were, if I remember rightly,—‘In these cases, nothing but harm can come: a man either makes a fool of himself and marries the girl, or he makes a rascal of himself and does worse.’ Frank did not like what I said, at first, but finally agreed in its justice, and promised to go no more. So you see, Alice, he was warned; after that there could be no accident—it was done deliberately. I never heard or thought any more of it until I came into this room this evening. Then when I saw the state of terrible agitation he was in I guessed the truth. He came to call for justice. Frank had won her under promise of marriage. He had said that I was very old, and that he could not marry her openly until my death; but he promised a secret marriage.”
“No, no, uncle,” Alice said, vehemently, “I will not believe that; I will not believe it. It is not true. Frank might, though I do not think it, have done what the man accuses him of, but I feel sure he did not. But, uncle, Frank is not mercenary. He never built on your death. No, no, uncle; nothing in the world will make me believe it of him. I am as certain as I am of my own life that he did not.”
“My dear Alice,” the old man said, sadly, “do you think I should be apt to believe anything against Frank rashly? But there can be no question here. Do you think a man would come from the side of his dead daughter to tell me lies?”
“Oh, uncle! uncle!” Alice cried, pitifully.