“But, Frank,” the old man said, humbly, “Frank, listen to me; you have been cruelly wronged; but—”
“Be it so, uncle. My conscience absolves me from all fault. I am glad you have found out you are mistaken; glad to say good-bye kindly with you. But no, uncle, I am no longer a boy, and am not to be thrown off and whistled back again at the first call. Do you know what I have gone through, uncle? do you know I have not known how to pay for my wife’s daily food; do you know I have seen her exposed—” and Frank’s voice rose in his anger, “to hardship; do you know I have put up with indignities and insults, and have had to bear them in quiet for her sake; do you know that I have borne things patiently which I blush now to think of—insults for which, as there is a God in heaven, I would have killed him had it not been for her. And now you talk of a mistake, of staying here and forgetting the past—no, uncle. The past will never be forgotten. Things like this last till death, and while I live I will never forget or forgive. If ever in my life I meet him alone, I will kill him as mercilessly and pitilessly as I would a dog. I would, Prescott, so help me God!” And Frank strode backwards and forwards across the little cabin in a fury of passion.
Captain Bradshaw had not interfered in any way to check the torrent of Frank’s indignation. He felt by the passion with which he spoke how intensely Frank must have suffered, and his sympathies were wholly with him. When Frank ceased speaking, the old man made a gesture to Prescott to intervene.
“My dear Frank,” Prescott began, “you know, I hope and believe, that I am a true friend, and that I would not hesitate to give my life to serve you.”
“Yes, yes, old man,” Frank said, warmly; “you know that I rely upon you as upon myself.”
“I, Frank, have your welfare, and more, I have your honour, at heart as you have yourself. I ask you to sit down quietly and hear the story I will tell you. You will then see how the very natural doubt of your honour arose in your uncle’s mind; you will see how, indeed—and I your friend say it—it was impossible for him to have acted otherwise than he did. You will, when you have heard it, be the first to allow that you yourself, an impulsive man, would have acted exactly as he did; you will see that a tissue of falsehood has been thrown round you by Fred Bingham. Bad as you believe him to be, you know absolutely nothing of what he is capable. If you will but listen, Frank, fairly and dispassionately, you will, I am sure, grant that there is nothing which can prevent you with the highest feeling of self-respect, standing in the place as your uncle’s heir, from which Fred Bingham has been cast out for ever.”
The last words of Prescott had more effect with Frank Maynard than all that he had previously said.
“If that is the case, Prescott, I shall be easily satisfied. God knows I have never courted my uncle’s money; that I loved him for his kindness to me as a boy, and not with any idea of the money he might leave me. If I only know that Fred Bingham will not be his heir, I should care not one single scrap if every farthing were to go to the Charities of London.”
“Then you will give me a patient hearing, Frank?”
“Yes, Prescott, I will,” and Frank sat down resolutely to listen. Step by step Prescott went through the whole story, and explained every particular of the deep-laid scheme by which Frank had been made to bear the blame of another’s sin. Frank had promised to be a patient listener, but he hardly kept his promise. He constantly interrupted Prescott’s story with ejaculations of rage, questions, and furious outbreaks. When Prescott had finished, Captain Bradshaw said,—