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.
“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!”
“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.”