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

by G. A. Henty

Fred Bingham had not calculated erroneously when he considered Alice Heathcote to be his most dangerous enemy. At first she had been completely stunned by the blow, and upon leaving her uncle, had gone up to her own room had thrown herself upon her bed, too bewildered, too stricken down even to cry, and lay there quiet and white, with her hand pressed to her forehead. “Frank, wicked! Frank, a scoundrel! It could not be, it could not be.” And yet her uncle who knew far more of the world than she did, and who had loved Frank too, seemed to have no doubt, no question upon the subject; nor, as she thought it over and over, did a single ray of hope present itself to her. That she had loved in vain, that he had married another, had been hard to bear, but that was as nothing to this. To know that the man in whom she had put all her faith, and trust, and love, was, after all, a bad, base man, was almost bewildering. If he were false, who could be true? And yet, although she in vain tried to find any solution—any escape—from this dreadful accusation, she did not really believe it. Her instinct seemed to tell her that Frank could never have acted altogether in this way. He might have been wicked and wrong—she feared there could be no doubt about that—but he never could have been so deliberately base as they said. Yet there was but one explanation which could in any way lessen his offence, an explanation which involved a grievous suspicion of another, and that other now lying dead. Still, Alice did not know her, and she believed even now that she knew something of Frank, and, woman like, was disposed to throw the blame anywhere so that the weight upon him might be lightened. She repeated to herself, woman's usual cry under the circumstances, it must have been her fault; Frank may have been wrong, and foolish, and weak, but he never, never, could be so deliberately wicked as they say he is.

“Poor thing!” Alice thought; “it is very sad to think such a thing now she is dead; but she must have been partly to blame, and to shield herself, she has invented this story of Frank promising to marry her at his uncle's death.”

This story Alice elaborated gradually in the intervals of throbbing pain in her temples, and having once elaborated clung to. Not, as she told herself, that it could make any difference to her. He was married, and she should never see him again, for she was certain that her uncle would keep his word. Still, now she might think of him sometimes, with sorrow and regret and pain, but without absolute horror. Her idol was terribly cracked and flawed, indeed, but it had not absolutely fallen to pieces. And having at last persuaded herself that it must be so, she fell asleep just as morning was breaking. For the next three days Alice kept her room, completely prostrated with headache, and feeling altogether unequal to going downstairs to talk upon different matters with her uncle. Still she clung to the belief that the version of the story she had imagined to herself, would turn out to be correct, and that Frank could not have been to blame as her uncle believed. The more she thought of his character ever since she had known him, the more positive she felt of his, at any rate, comparative innocence. Oh, if she could but find out the truth! and to do this there was but one way,—namely, to see Stephen Walker himself. She might then find out what foundation he had for his charges, whether he had absolute proof that Frank had promised to marry his daughter, or whether it was merely the poor girl's own assertion.

It was a strange step, perhaps, for her to take, but Alice rather despised conventionalities, and determined that she would not allow Frank to rest under this dreadful accusation, if she could clear it up. Besides, it would be another fortnight before Frank could arrive, and have an opportunity of clearing himself, and Alice, in her state of restless anxiety, felt that she could not wait for another fortnight. She resolved upon saying nothing to her uncle; so after he had gone to his club, she went up and put on her things, and telling the footman to follow her, started for New Street. Greatly disappointed was she upon finding the shop shut up; but being told that Mrs. Holl of 18, Moor Street, was likely to know Stephen Walker's address, she went there, followed in some wonderment by her attendant.

Mrs. Holl was, as usual, at home, but was unable to give Alice any intelligence as to Stephen Walker.

“Can I come in, Mrs. Holl? I want very much to ask you a question or two.”

“Yes, ma'am, and welcome; but the place is all in a litter, for it's my washing day, and I've been thrown a little back, for my eldest boy's had a sort of fever. He's better to-day, though, and the doctor says there's nothing fectious in it.”

So saying, Mrs. Holl showed Alice into the room, which was filled with a warm, soapy steam.

“Thank you; I will not sit down,” Alice said, as Mrs. Holl began to polish the seat of one of the chairs with her apron. “I have called to ask you about a very sad and distressing affair. I mean about Mr. Walker's daughter. As you know him well, of course you are aware of the circumstances.”