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.”
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