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

by G. A. Henty

“What is it, uncle?” Fred asked, with an effort; for he was far more alarmed at this tone of quiet sadness on the part of his uncle than he would have been at the most furious burst of passion.

“Yes, Fred; I will tell you the circumstances. An old man called upon me the night before last. He was half beside himself with grief and anger. The man's name was Walker—Stephen Walker. I remembered the name, because I had heard it before under peculiar circumstances. One day last winter, it seems he slipped down in Knightsbridge, and your cousin Frank picked him up just as an omnibus was going to run over him. Perhaps you remember hearing of it?”

Fred could only nod. His uncle had mentioned the fact to him with great glee at the time, but had not mentioned the name, and he was until now ignorant that it was Stephen Walker whom Frank had rescued. He did not, however, speak; he was too anxiously preparing for the blow which he felt sure his uncle was reserving as the climax for this prolix story.

“Some little time afterwards, Frank came in one evening, and told me he had been to see this man, and that he had a pretty daughter—a very pretty daughter. I told Frank he had better not go there again—it was dangerous—and Frank saw it, and promised not to go again.”

The drops of perspiration stood on Fred Bingham's forehead as his uncle went on. This slow approaching to catastrophe was almost more than he could bear, and he had a great mind to throw himself at his uncle's feet and cry for mercy; but before he could determine upon the expediency of such a move, his uncle went on.

“The night before last, as I told you, this man came here to cry for justice and vengeance. He had just come up from Gravesend, where he had been to see the body of his daughter, who had drowned herself in the Thames, and who had been seduced under promise of marriage by that infernal scoundrel, Frank Maynard!”

Fred Bingham had half risen from his seat with the intention of throwing himself at his uncle's knees, when the substitution of Frank's name for his own astonished him into a sharp cry of surprise.

“Frank Maynard!”

“Ah, you may well be astonished, Fred. I would not have believed it—no, I would not have believed it possible. But there was no doubting the man; he was too terribly in earnest.”

Fred Bingham sat in stupified astonishment. The shock was too great and too sudden for even his constitutional coolness. His first thought, when he did think, was,—was this a mere ruse on the part of his uncle, or was he really deceived? As he looked at the old man's serious face, and remembered his perfect simple-mindedness and frankness, he saw at once that his uncle was acting no double part—that he really believed it was Frank, and not himself, who had been the offender. Fred remembered, too, that the servant had said Alice was ill and keeping her room, and he was very certain that the news of his own downfall would not so affect her. It was evident that Frank was really looked upon as the offender. Once conscious of this, a whirl of thought flashed through his brain. How could this extraordinary mistake have occurred?—and, more important still, should he profit by it and keep up the error, or should he confess the fault was his own, and throw himself on his uncle's mercy? While he was yet debating the question, Captain Bradshaw went on.