Fred Bingham, on his arrival in town, drove to the office where he had telegraphed to his father to meet him. The Binghams' office was in Salisbury Street, Strand. There they had two rooms on the ground floor. The one behind was occupied by two articled pupils and a clerk, whose business it was to draw the details of plans and designs, and to make calculations as to quantities and estimates. The front room was a comfortable office. Here was a large drawing table, where Mr. Bingham designed and drew plans. Here was his writing table piled with engineering works. Upon the walls hung architectural and engineering plans of all sorts, fa?ades of churches, plans of hospitals, railway bridges, viaducts, and many other things. Here, too, piled on shelves or leaning against the walls, [191] were plaster friezes, drain pipes, encaustic tiles, valves, short sections of railway rails, models of bridges and tunnels, and many other engineering odds and ends. Mr. Bingham was standing in his favourite position on the hearthrug, with his back to the empty fireplace, when Fred entered. “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. Fr............