“Well, Fred, I must congratulate you on having made as nice a mess of your affairs as could well be imagined.”
“There, it's too late to talk about that now,” Fred said, shortly. “I've made a fool of myself, and you can't tell me that more strongly than I feel it myself. The question is, what is to be done? My own idea is, that I had better go and see Captain Bradshaw at once—of course knowing nothing about what has taken place. He will do the indignant, and I must be penitent; then, of course, I shall urge youth, inexperience, artful woman, crafty old father, and so on; create as good an impression as I can, profess regret for loss of his good opinion more than that of future fortune; take my leave much depressed, and leave things alone for a few weeks before I approach him again. I suppose that is about the line you recommend?”
[192]
“Yes, Fred; I don't know that you want much advice from me,” his father said, dryly. “By the way, you must say the same sort of thing to your mother when you see her. She was in the room, and heard it all, and has been terribly put out, but of course she does not blame you.”
Fred looked annoyed.
“I am sorry the old lady heard it. We must talk over the best way to shut that madman's mouth. Well, I shall go and get the business over at once. I will come in to Hans Place after I leave him, and let you know the result.”
It was not with very comfortable feelings that Fred Bingham knocked at Captain Bradshaw's door, for he felt that it was by no means improbable that orders might have been given that he was not to be admitted. The footman, however, opened the door and admitted him as usual.
“How are you, James? My uncle in?”
“Yes, sir, he's in; but he's not well—something wrong, sir,” he added, with the privileged loquacity of an old domestic.
“Oh, indeed!” Fred said, carelessly. “And [193] Miss Heathcote, is she in?”
“She is in, but you won't see her, sir; she's poorly too—kept her room all yesterday and to-day. Master is in his study, sir.”
Fred Bingham braced himself up for a scene as he followed the footman to the study. The servant opened the door, and announced “Mr. Bingham.” Fred entered.
Captain Bradshaw appeared to have been dozing in his easy chair. He looked up, and to Fred's astonishment, instead of saluting him with a torrent of invective, he merely said,—
“Why, Fred, you are soon back again in town. Tired of your honeymoon already?”
Fred was too much surprised to answer at once, and was rapidly revolving in his mind whether this manner was a mere mask assumed by his uncle. However, after a moment's pause, he answered,—
“Not tired at all, uncle; but I had to run up to town for a day on business. I go down to Cromer to-morrow again.”
“I think you might have told me you were going to be married, Fred.”
“Well, uncle, I hate a fuss about these things, [194] and we were married as quietly as possible; so I thought I would say nothing about it until I could tell you that it was all over.”
“Well, well, every one to his taste, every one to his taste,” Captain Bradshaw said, evidently thinking of something else, and then sat in moody thought.
Fred Bingham looked at him in astonishment. What could this mean? Did his uncle intend to keep him in ignorance of his knowledge of the affair of Carry, or was it possible that he did not know after all—that Stephen Walker had only intended to frighten him, and had not been to Captain Bradshaw at all? This hope was dispelled by the old man's next remark.
“The fact is, Fred, I am out of sorts. I have heard a piece of news which has upset me terribly.”
“Indeed, uncle?” was all Fred could say.
“Yes, Fred, a very bad affair; so bad that I can hardly realise it.”
He paused again.
“What is it, uncle?” Fred asked, with an effort; for he was far more alarmed at this tone of quiet sadness on the part of his uncle than he [195] would have been at the most furious burst of passion.
“Yes, Fred; I will tell you the circumstances. An old man called upon me the night before last. He was half beside himself with grief and anger. The man's name was Walker—Stephen Walker. I remembered the name, because I had heard it before under peculiar circumstances. One day last winter, it seems he slipped down in Knightsbridge, and your cousin Frank picked him up just as an omnibus was going to run over him. Perhaps you remember hearing of it?”
Fred could only nod. His uncle had mentioned the fact to him with great glee at the time, but had not mentioned the name, and he was until now ignorant that it was Stephen Walker whom Frank had rescued. He did not, however, speak; he was too anxiously preparing for the blow which he felt sure his uncle was reserving as the climax for this prolix story.
“Some little time afterwards, Frank came in one evening, and told me he had been to see this man, and that he had a pretty daughter—a very pretty daughter. I told Frank he had better not go there again—it was dangerous—and [196] Frank saw it, and promised not to go again.”
The drops of perspiration stood on Fred Bingham's forehead as his uncle went on. This slow approaching to catastrophe was almost more than he could bear, and he had a great mind to throw himself at his uncle's feet and cry for mercy; but before he could determine upon the expediency of such a move, his uncle went on.
“The night before last, as I told you, this man came here to cry for justice and vengeance. He had just come up from Gravesend, where he had been to see the body of his daughter, who had drowned herself in the Thames, and who had been seduced under promise of marriage by that infernal scoundrel, Frank Maynard!”
Fred Bingham had half risen from his seat with the intention of throwing himself at his uncle's knees, when the substitution of Frank's name for his own astonished him into a sharp cry of surprise.
“Frank Maynard!”
“Ah, you may well be astonished, Fred. I would not have believed it—no, I would not have [197] believed it possible. But there was no doubting the man; he was too terribly in earnest.”
Fred Bingham sat in stupified astonishment. The shock was too great and too sudden for even his constitutional coolness. His first thought, when he did think, was,—was this a mere ruse on the part of his uncle, or was he really deceived? As he looked at the old man's serious face, and remembered his perfect simple-mindedness and frankness, he saw at once that his uncle was acting no double part—that he really believed it was Frank, and not himself, who had been the offender. Fred remembered, too, that the servant had said Alice was ill and keeping her room, and he was very certain that the news of his own downfall would not so affect her. It was evident that Frank was really looked upon as the offender. Once conscious of this, a whirl of thought flashed through his brain. How could this extraordinary mistake have occurred?—and, more important still, should he profit by it and keep up the error, or should he confess the fault was his own, and throw himself on his uncle's mercy? While he was yet debating the question, Captain Bradshaw went on.
[198]
“The old man asked for justice and punishment on the destroyer of his child, and he shall have it. Until now, Fred, I tell you fairly, Frank has been my favourite nephew. From the time he was a child, I have looked upon him as my son and heir, and I had left him two-thirds of all my property, the remainder to yourself. I yesterday wrote to my solicitor, requesting him to draw out a new will, leaving everything to yourself.”
Fred was decided now. He would risk it. It was evident that if he confessed the fault, he should get nothing; if he could keep up this extraordinary mistake, he should get all; and he really risked nothing, for if he were found out, he should be no worse off then than if he confessed now. It was worth trying for, at any rate. A host of dangers rose up before him, but he put them aside to consider and meet them as they might occur. It was a great stake he was playing for. The whole of Mr. Bradshaw's estates, or nothing; for if he confessed, he should certainly get nothing. He spoke coolly and collectedly.
“I thank you for your kind intentions, uncle, but I can hardly think of this now, I am so [199]> surprised, so shocked at this terrible story. I could not have believed that Frank would do such a thing. I knew he was rash and headstrong. I heard, indeed, some stories whispered about him at Cambridge, but I could never—no, not for a moment—have believed him capable of such a cold-blooded villany as this seems to have been. Oh, uncle, there must surely be some mistake.”
“No, Fred; there is no mistake. It is too true. There was no mistaking the man's manner. He was terribly in earnest.”
Fred Bingham said no more for a while, but sat thinking deeply on the course to pursue. At last he said,—
“And what do you mean to do about Frank, uncle? Do you mean to write and tell him what you have discovered?”
“I have been writing this afternoon: I have not sealed the letter. There, you can read what I have said. If he has any excuse to offer for himself—not that he can possibly have any—he will write and urge it.”
Fred Bingham took the letter and read it through very slowly, in order to give himself the more time to think. The letter recapitulated the [200] incidents connected with Frank's first knowledge of the tobacconist, recalled the warning given to him respecting the pretty daughter, and his promise not to call there again, and then recited Stephen Walker's visit, and the terrible charge brought against him. It concluded by cutting off all connection whatever with him, and forbidding him ever to speak to his uncle again.
Fred saw at once that Frank, upon the receipt of this letter, would insist upon an explanation, would go to the tobacconist and bring him round in triumph to prove his innocence, and that his own guilt would infallibly appear.
“Well, Fred, what do you think of that letter?” his uncle asked at last. “It is conclusive, is it not?”
“Quite so, uncle. Nothing could be better. But——”
“But what, Fred?” Captain Bradshaw asked.
“Well, uncle, I agree with you, of course, that nothing can be more base and heartless than Frank's conduct; but still—still, you see, he has only just married. I am not attempting, much as I wish I could do so, to urge any point in Frank's favour. At the same time, uncle, think [201] of the misery of his wife, if he gets that letter the first day he returns home, and opens it before her. He might, for instance, laughingly ask her to open his letters, and tell him what they were about; your letter especially, knowing your handwriting, he would suppose could contain nothing she might not read. Imagine the poor girl's feelings. Her happiness would be destroyed for life. Surely, uncle, Frank's punishment would be too severe. Now, if you were to write a letter, using any language you like towards him—abusing him as much as you please, telling him he has forfeited all place in your esteem, and is henceforth to be a stranger—such a letter would not have the same effect upon her. No doubt he would be able to make some excuse which would satisfy her, and at the same time his conscience would tell him the cause of your indignation, and he would be able to write and make any excuses he could for his conduct. If he did not write, you would know it was because he had nothing whatever to urge in palliation.”
“Very right, and very kindly thought of, my boy,” Captain Bradshaw said, warmly. “God [202] knows, there has been mischief enough done already. I do not wish to wreck another young creature's life. Yes, I will write exactly as you advise. As you say, it will leave it open for him to make any plausible explanation he likes to her, and his own conscience will tell him what it means. As for his making any excuses to me, I am afraid that is altogether out of his power.” And the old man sighed deeply.
“It is, indeed, a most distressing affair, uncle, and I am indeed sorry for your sake, and for that of Alice also, for I know she was very fond of Frank. Does she know of the sad business?”
“Yes, Fred; I was obliged to tell her. She must have been informed why all connection with Frank is to cease. She is terribly cut up, but clings to the hope that Frank may have some sort of apology or explanation to make. I confess I don't see that it is possible.”
“We must hope that he will, uncle. It is a sad business, and I am truly sorry for your sake. Good-night, now. I shall be up again in a week or so, and will then bring my wife to see you.”
“Do, Fred, do; I shall be very glad to see my new niece.”
[203]
Fred Bingham did not go straight to Hans Place, but walked several times round Lowndes Square, thinking deeply over this new and unexpected state of affairs. There was no doubt he had a difficult and dangerous game to play. He would not have willingly embarked upon it, but it had been in a way forced upon him, and he accepted the risks without flinching. He had every confidence in himself, and the excitement and intrigue exactly suited him. The stakes were worth playing for, and had a double value in his eyes, in that they were to be won at the expense of Frank. At any rate he had the consolation that if he were beaten he would be no worse off than if he had thrown up the cards as hopeless at first. His uncle would have cast him off at once, and he could do no more if he ever found out the truth. There could be no doubt, then, that he had chosen the only possible course. To think that this affair which had seemed destruction to his hopes, should now turn out to have established him as his uncle's sole heir, whereas he was previously to have had only a third. It seemed almost too good to be true. How that blundering old idiot, Walker, could have made [204] such a mistake, Fred could not at first imagine; but he came to the correct conclusion that he must have said nephew only, without mentioning names, and that Captain Bradshaw had jumped to the conclusion that the nephew was Frank. Now as to the future. There were two risks—the one from Frank, the other from Stephen Walker. As to Frank, he had already achieved the great point of having the letter worded ambiguously; and if Frank wrote to demand an explanation, he must somehow intercept the letter, and prevent it reaching Captain Bradshaw. Then he must himself see Frank, and do what he could to keep them asunder. Then, as to this madman, Walker. He would not be likely to go again to Captain Bradshaw. That was most unlikely. Nor would Captain Bradshaw be likely to go to him. As to his threat to dog him, and tell everyone about the affair, that was unpleasant—very unpleasant—and must, if possible, be put a stop to; but at any rate, it would not be likely to come to Captain Bradshaw's ears. None of Fred's friends were acquainted with his uncle; and if Walker were to see them all, and tell his story, his uncle would not come to hear of it from [205] them. What other danger was there?—Alice? Yes, Alice was certainly a danger. He did not exactly see how. But she disliked him, and was very fond of Frank. She was a thoughtful, earnest girl, and would be very likely to take some steps to inquire further. It was even possible that she might go and see Stephen Walker himself.
“Yes,” he thought, “Alice is quite capable of that; and if she does so, it is all up with me.”
Fred stopped in his walk at this new thought. This was, indeed, a danger—a danger against which he saw no prevention. In vain did he think over every possible plan, but nothing satisfactory could be imagined.
“No,” he said at last, as he walked on again; “if she does that I am lost. My only hope is to get him out of the way: and how that is to be done, I don't see.”