CHAPTER XIII

NOT GUILTY!

Captain Bradshaw had now been down at Torquay for nearly two months. The haughty coldness with which Alice Heathcote had for some time treated the invalid boy, after his refusal of the prayer she had made him on her knees, had now worn off. He was evidently sinking fast, and Alice’s offended pride faded into pity at the sight of his worn looks and failing strength. The invalid had for some time talked but little, and tears often came up into his eyes as he sat silent and abstracted. One day, especially, after he had received a letter from London, he sat more silent even than usual, and looked several times wistfully across at Alice, who had palpably been crying, for a short note from Prescott had told her the same news which James had heard in a letter from Evan.

At last he spoke. “Alice,” he said, softly, “I do not think I shall live very long: would you mind kissing me?”

Alice’s tears flowed again now, as she bent over the pale face and kissed him.

He took her hand and looked up. “Forgive me, Alice, I have been very hard and wicked. I have thought it over, what you said that evening. Ever since, I have been sorry, and yet I could not give way. I had so longed, I had so prayed that I might have vengeance, that I was blinded and mad. I know now I was wrong. What am I, a poor dying cripple, that I should carry my vengeance to the grave? I feel now that you were right, Alice: she would have forgiven, and I forgive now for her. I could not do it before—I could not do it while he was in England. I could not have borne to have seen him; but now that I know he has sailed, I can do it. It is a grudging forgiveness, you will say. It is, Alice. I have had a very hard fight with myself, and I think I could have gone down to the grave without doing it, if it had not been for your words. If it is any satisfaction to you, Alice, it is you who have won it. He can come back again if he likes, when he arrives out there. I shall be gone long before he can even get the letter.”

Alice bent over him and kissed him again. “Thank you, James; you have made me very happy.”

When Captain Bradshaw came in, Alice, with a glance at the invalid, rose to leave the room; but he said, “No, please stay, Alice. Grandfather, you love me, do you not?”

“Yes, indeed, my boy, I do,” the old man said, earnestly.

“Grandfather, you would like to know I died happy?”

Captain Bradshaw nodded affirmatively, he could not trust himself to speak.

“I shall not die happy unless you grant my prayer, Alice’s prayer and mine. Frank Maynard sailed to-day for Australia. Write and tell him to come back again. I let him go, because I could not have borne to have seen him; but tell him to come back,—tell him that you and Alice forgive him; tell him that I, who loved Carry so much,—that I feel that I can speak in her name, forgive him too—fully and wholly. Will you do this, grandfather? Do it for my sake.”

“Yes, my boy,” the old man said, his voice trembling; “I forgive him for your sake.”

“Write kindly, grandfather; he has suffered enough. Send him plenty of money to come home at once, and tell him my place here is vacant for him. Take him again to your heart. I cannot but think with Alice that, except in this one great sin, he is good and honest. And now, please, I should like to be quiet a little while.”

The next morning James went out as usual in his chair, Alice Heathcote walking alongside. They went down to the beach, and there stopped awhile, James looking out over the sea. “How quiet and how beautiful it is, Alice! I am very, very glad that I have been able to see it. I think I should have known about the country from books, but no book could give me an idea of the sea. Shall we go back now?”

The chair was turned homewards, until, passing a small circulating library, Alice said, “I want some note paper, James; do you mind stopping a minute while I get it?”

“No, Alice, and ask them to send me out some books to look at. I always like to see the books before I choose them.”

Alice Heathcote went into the shop. An old man was behind the counter. “I want some note-paper, and please will you take a few of the last novels to the gentleman in the invalid carriage at the door, that he may choose a set.”

As Alice spoke a young woman came forward, selected several books, and went with them to the door.

Alice heard a strange hoarse cry from James, “Carry!” and then there was a dull sound, as the young woman fell heavily on the floor.

Alice ran first out to James, who was deadly pale, and gazing with a strange fixed stare into the shop. “What is it, James, tell me, what is the matter?”

He did not answer till she touched him. “Carry!” he said, “Carry! alive. Oh, thank God! thank God!”

The footman, by Alice’s direction, assisted the old man in raising the insensible woman, and carrying her into the parlour.

Alice waited until she recovered, and then returned into the shop, and beckoned the old man to follow her. “You are Mr. Walker, I presume?”

“Yes,” the old man said, “I am, madam; and let me implore you, do not mention to any one what has happened. If you only knew what Carry has gone through, I am sure you would not; and now, just as we were getting comfortable again”—

“You may rely upon me, Mr. Walker. But I must see your daughter, and ask her some questions. The happiness of a whole family depends upon her answer. I will come in at nine o’clock this evening.”

“Very well, ma’am,” the old man said, “but pray, pray say nothing about it.”

“You may rely upon me,” Miss Heathcote said.

James was very quiet and still upon his way home. “Only to think,” he muttered gently to himself, “Carry alive after all!” When he reached the door, he said to Alice, “Please tell grandfather. I shall go and lie down for a while.”

“Uncle Harry,” Alice said, “a very strange thing has happened. We went into a shop, and found Mr. Walker and his daughter.”

“What!” Captain Bradshaw said, perfectly astounded. “Mr. Walker and his daughter? Do you really mean her, Alice?”

“Yes, uncle, there is no mistake about it.”

“But I thought she was drowned, Alice?”

“We did think so, uncle; but you see she is not. I shall be able to tell you more to-night, uncle. I am going to see her at nine this evening.”

“Going to see her, Alice!”

“Yes, uncle; we have been acting too much in the dark all along. Part of the accusation against Frank is untrue anyhow. Thank God for it! And I am determined now to find out from her how much Frank really was to blame. I am afraid we have been very cruel, uncle.”

“Nonsense, Alice,” her uncle said, testily. “The old man’s daughter was missing, and he came to me after seeing what he certainly thought was her body. Fortunately, it was not. That misery is off our minds anyhow. I am quite ready to forgive Frank—in fact, I have forgiven him, and I really do not see any use in making any more inquiries into the matter.”

“I am very glad and very thankful too, uncle; but my point of view in the matter naturally differs somewhat from yours. Besides, uncle, I really want to see this unfortunate young woman.”

Captain Bradshaw looked intensely surprised.

“Yes, uncle, I want to see her for James’s sake. Poor boy! I fear, uncle, he cannot last very much longer, and I am sure it would make him very happy if he could have her to nurse him, and be with him to the end.”

“But, my dear Alice, do you remember——?”

“My dear uncle,” Alice said, gently, “I only remember how terribly she must have suffered. We are going to forgive Frank, and to take him back again; is it for us to throw this poor girl’s fault in her face?”

“My dear,” her uncle said, kissing her, “I beg your pardon. You are a dear good girl, and I am an old fool.”

At nine o’clock, Alice Heathcote, attended by a footman, went down to the library. The shop was closed, but the door was opened by Mr. Walker.

“She is in the parlour, ma’am, and please,” he said, nervously, “please don’t speak harshly to her, she has suffered so much.”

Telling the servant to wait outside, Alice went in. Mr. Walker remained in the shop, in which the gas was still burning, while Alice went through into the parlour beyond. Carry was sitting at the table, but rose as she entered. Carry had changed very much from the merry-faced girl, who, three years before, used to stand behind the counter in New Street. She was not yet twenty-one, but she had a look of quiet womanly sorrow on her face, which made her look years older. The golden tresses were hidden now beneath a plain widow’s cap. Her dress was entirely black, which set off the extreme paleness of her complexion. In manner she was quiet and almost dignified, and was still very pretty, but of an entirely different expression from the prettiness of old. She bowed gravely to Alice, and apparently waited for her to speak. “My name,” Alice began, “is Miss Heathcote. I am ward to Captain Bradshaw of Lowndes Square.” Carry paled a little at the name. “The gentleman you saw at the door in the invalid chair, whom you knew at Mr. Holl’s, has turned out to be Captain Bradshaw’s grandson. He is dying, I fear he cannot live more than a month or two longer, and one of my objects in coming to-night was to ask you to come and nurse him.”

Carry gave a start of surprise,—“Me!”

“Yes,” Alice said, gently, “he has always loved you, and it would be a great satisfaction to him to have you near him. You will be received as a friend by all. Will you come?”

Carry hesitated, and then the blood rushed into her face. “But do you know——?”

“Yes,” Alice said, “we know your sad history, and how you must have suffered. Still we say, will you come? Your father can surely spare you for a little, and you can if you like come back here every night. If you have any other ties—” and she hesitated.

“No, Miss Heathcote,” Carry said in a low voice; “my child died a year since. I will come to you; and, oh, thank you for speaking so kindly as you have done,” and her eyes filled with tears.

“And now,” Alice said, “I must ask, and I beg of you to answer me, painful as it is to both of us, a few questions about that wretched time. All we know is, that your father called upon my uncle, and accused his nephew of having deceived and deserted you, and said that he had seen your body.”

“He thought so, Miss Heathcote, but it was not. God spared me that sin. I went out blind and despairing when I read that he was married. I went out to drown myself; but when I got to the river, I thought of my father’s agony, and I felt he would forgive me; and though I would rather, oh, how much rather, have died, I resolved for his sake to live. But it was too much for me, and I was taken ill; I think I went out of my mind for a while, and came to myself in a hospital. Then I wrote to my father, and he came to me. We went down to Weymouth first, and took a shop there. Baby was born there. People thought I was a widow, and were very kind; but when baby died, I did not like it, and came here six months ago.”

“And now I must ask you a more painful question. You do not know the sorrow and misery this has caused me. He was to me as a brother, to my uncle as a son. We have never seen him since. He has been ruined, and has gone out to Australia to work for his living. Now that we know you are living, we can forgive him, but I esteemed him and thought so highly of him, that I would so like to know if there is not some little palliation. You will tell me, Carry?” and she took her hand in her earnestness. “For God’s sake tell me the truth, even if it is against yourself. I do so want, when I see him again, to find that though he has sinned, I may yet esteem him somewhat as I used to do. Was it in a moment of madness, or did he solemnly promise to marry you?”

Alice awaited the reply with an intense anxiety upon her face. Carry was very pale, and was a moment before she answered.

“Miss Heathcote, I wish I could tell you that it was as you hope. I have forgiven him, and wish him no ill. But it was not so. He over and over again promised to marry me. He swore it on the Bible. He said if his uncle did not die in a month or two, as he expected, he would marry me privately. I can show you his letter,” she added; “I have it still.”

“It is not necessary,” Miss Heathcote said, sadly. “I feel you are telling me only the truth. Oh, Carry,” and she burst into tears, “if you knew how I have hoped against hope—how I buoyed myself up all these years with the faith that when your father said that he had deliberately deceived you under promise to marry you, he said so only in his grief and anger. But it is all over now. Only from your own lips could I have believed that Frank Maynard would have——.”

“I beg your pardon,” Carry said, turning very white again, and trembling all over. “Who did you say?”

Seeing her agitation, Alice said hastily, “I beg your pardon for paining you by mentioning his name.”

“Who did you say?” again Carry asked.

“Frank Maynard,” Alice said, surprised at this strange conduct.

“Frank Maynard!” Carry said. “Is it Frank Maynard who has been accused all this time?”

“Yes, yes,” Alice said, the possibility of a mistake flashing across her, and leaping up, she seized Carry by the shoulders. “Oh, Carry, Carry, for God’s sake tell me it was not he—tell me, and I will fall on my knees and bless you. Tell me it was not he.”

“Frank Maynard!” again Carry repeated. “I never saw him but once. No; it was Captain Bradshaw’s nephew, Mr. Bingham.”

Alice gave a cry that was almost a scream of joy, and then fell on her knees.

“Great God, I thank thee!” she sobbed out. “Merciful God, I thank thee that thou hast taken this great burden off me—that thou hast cleared my brother from this accusation.”

Then, with her face on Carry’s knee, she cried more quietly for some time, Carry crying too, although she hardly even yet comprehended what had happened.

“And is it possible,” she asked at last, when Alice had a little recovered her composure, “that Mr. Maynard has been accused of this? How could such a terrible mistake have occurred?”

“Your own father accused him of it to Captain Bradshaw.”

“Impossible!” Carry said.

Then she rose, opened the door, and called to her father, who was walking nervously up and down the shop during this long interview, to come in.

“Father,” she said, “a dreadful mistake has somehow occurred. Miss Heathcote says that you went to Captain Bradshaw and accused Mr. Maynard—the Mr. Maynard who saved your life, you know, father—of being the cause of my death.”

“God bless my soul!” Mr. Walker exclaimed, in a state of extreme nervous astonishment, “the lady must be mistaken. I never thought of such a thing—it never entered my mind. Why should it?”

Carry looked at Miss Heathcote in perplexity.

“My father is a very nervous man, Miss Heathcote; but I don’t see how he could have made such a mistake as that. As he says, why should he?”

Alice, too, was puzzled.

“Can you remember what you did say, Mr. Walker?”

“I can’t exactly remember what I said,” Mr. Walker answered. “I always had a wretched memory. But I am pretty sure—yes, I am quite sure—I told him his nephew had caused the death of Carry; for I thought she was dead then.”

“That is how the mistake occurred,” Alice said, seeing at last the truth. “You said nephew; and he, knowing from Frank’s own lips, that he had called at your house and had seen your daughter, thought it was he. Probably he the more thought so, because Frank told him how very pretty your daughter was, and Captain Bradshaw warned him not to call again, because he might be losing his heart.”

“He never did call but once, Miss Heathcote,” Carry said, glad even now to know why Frank Maynard had never come again to see her. “But we never knew that Mr. Maynard was Captain Bradshaw’s nephew. Indeed, how should we? We always thought that—that he was the only nephew.”

“I see it all now, Mr. Walker. You thought Captain Bradshaw had only one nephew, and accused him. Captain Bradshaw knew one of his nephews had been to your house and admired your daughter, and naturally thought at once of him. Poor Frank, poor Frank!”

“But why did not Mr. Maynard defend himself, Miss Heathcote?”

“He never had an opportunity,” Alice said. “My uncle wrote to him a very violent letter, not, I believe, mentioning the exact offence, but turning him off for ever; and as they had not been,”—and Alice coloured a little,—“on very good terms for some little time before, I suppose Frank was too high spirited to reply. Though I wonder he did not write, too. Still, I can’t blame him for that. But oh!” she burst out, as the thought struck her,—“oh, the wickedness, the vileness of the other! He knew the fault for which Frank was turned off, and which made him my uncle’s sole heir, and yet all this time he has encouraged the mistake, and taken Frank’s place, while Frank has been working for his bread.”

“And has he really done that?” Carry asked. “Has he really let Mr. Maynard be accused all this time?”

“He has; and more, he has twitted me, who he knew cared for Frank as a brother, with his conduct.”

“Papa,” Carry said solemnly, turning to her father, “let me thank God that I did not marry this man. A thousand times better as it is, with the shame, and the disgrace, and the sorrow, than the life I should have led with such a wretch as this. To think,” she said bitterly, “that I could have loved him and believed in him. Thank God—thank God for my escape.”

“And now, Mr. Walker,” Alice Heathcote said, “it is very late, but I must ask you to come round with me to my uncle. I cannot rest until I have shown him what a terrible wrong we have committed towards poor Frank. You will come to-morrow morning to see James?” she asked Carry, taking her hand. “It will be an act of real kindness.”

“Yes,” Carry said, “I will come without fail. Here, papa, is your hat and coat, and mind how you come back.”