All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 3 of 3Henty, G. A. (George Alfred)
General
All But Lost: A Novel. Vol. 3 of 3
Henty, G. A. (George Alfred)
Fiction
“My dear sir,” Prescott said gently, “I must prepare you for this
meeting. The boy when very young had an accident which injured his
spine, and he has been a helpless cripple ever since. He is now very
ill. The doctors recommend change of air and scene, and I trust that
they will restore him to health. He is an extraordinary young man. He is
of the highest intelligence, and has educated himself in a wonderful
way. Save that he is a cripple, you might well be proud of your
grandson.”
The old man groaned. “Oh, if I had but known it, if I had but known it!
Why did not Barton find out?”
“He did, Captain Bradshaw; he has known it all the time.”
“Impossible!” Captain Bradshaw exclaimed. “Impossible!”
“It is true, sir; he has never lost sight of him; he has been in the
habit of coming to see him every few months.”
“The atrocious villain! the infernal scoundrel!” Captain Bradshaw
exclaimed furiously. “Why did he not tell me?—what was his motive?”
“I can only imagine, sir, that he intended to keep it secret until the
boy came of age, in order to get him to promise a very large sum of
money upon being placed in possession of proofs of his birth.”
“The scoundrel! the villain!” ejaculated Captain Bradshaw, almost beside
himself with passion, “I will punish him, I will kill him. Mr. Prescott,
you are a lawyer, I will give ten thousand pounds to have him hung.”
“We will talk of that presently,” Prescott said soothingly; “in the
meantime the great point is to get your grandson here.”
“Of course, of course,” Captain Bradshaw said, the current of his
thoughts again changed. “I will tell Alice first,” and he went to the
door; “Alice! Alice! come down directly.”
Miss Heathcote soon entered the room, and was astounded at seeing her
uncle walking up and down the room, with the tears flowing down his
cheeks.
“Alice,” he said, “I am a miserable old man. I drove my daughter from
her home in a fit of rage. I tried afterwards to find her, but I never
heard of her until it was too late, and the news came to me she was
dead—had died of want, Alice, think of that!—and now I hear all, these
years afterwards, that she has left a son behind her, and he has grown
up a cripple, brought up by the charity of some poor people, whom,” said
the old man solemnly, “may God bless for their goodness!”
Alice was too surprised to make any comment upon this story, but could
only kiss her uncle soothingly. Then she turned to Prescott for further
explanation.
“Sit down, Captain Bradshaw,” he said, “for a few minutes and recover
your composure. I will tell you all I know about it.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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