The house in Lowndes Square was hardly a pleasant abode about this time. Captain Bradshaw was irritable beyond measure. The servants led a dreadful life with him, and even Alice Heathcote had to take refuge in her own room, for Alice herself was scarcely able to withstand the excessive fractiousness and ill-temper of her uncle. She was looking very ill, and was really unhappy. Alice had truly ceased to love Frank Maynard. From the day when she had heard from his own lips that he did not love her she had striven hard against her own feelings, but it was not until she knew that he was engaged to another that she was able to quite win a victory over herself. She had been mercilessly severe with herself. She had pictured Frank as sharing his home and his love with another, [232] and had insisted upon rejoicing over his happiness; she had herself frequently brought the subject round in her conversation with Frank. And so it was, that by joining in her cousin's talk as to his future plans, and by entering into his happy anticipations, Alice gradually conquered herself and came to feel that she could look upon Frank quite as a brother, and rejoice in seeing him happy with another. As she thus gradually conquered her love she became more as she was before the first destruction of her hopes; she grew calm and self-possessed again, her step regained its elasticity, and her eye its steady light. When Frank had come to say good-bye before going down to his wedding, she almost regretted that she had refused his earnest request to be one of the bridesmaids, for she felt that she could now have seen him married with hardly a pang. But this new trial had once again broken her down. She could not bear to think that Frank, who had been her idol, whom she had looked up to as a model of all that was good and honest and honourable, could have done this thing. She did not think it. [233] She clung to the belief that he would clear it all up on his return; at any rate, only from Frank's own lips, or from Frank's own handwriting, would she believe it, and she counted the days to his return, when he would get her uncle's letter, and would, she was sure, repel the accusation.
Captain Bradshaw, too, was longing for Frank's return. Not that he doubted the facts. These, to his mind, were clearly established; but he hoped that Frank might be able to offer some sort of palliation or excuse; might somehow put his conduct in a more favourable light; might plead guilty to imprudence, but deny evil intention even when confessing the fault; might, in fact, in some way or other, enable him to forgive him, and after a due amount of scolding and lecturing, to restore him to at least a portion of his old share of his affection.
Fred Bingham, too, grew nervously anxious as the time for Frank's return approached. He came back to town a few days before Frank was expected, but he only called once upon his uncle; he felt that it would look better if he were not to seem too anxious to step into the [234] place of favourite, and had been very careful during that one visit to say nothing against Frank. He knew that his cousin had not yet received Captain Bradshaw's letter, for he had said on leaving that he should give no address upon the Continent, for that he did not know where he should go, and did not mean to be bothered with letter-writing while he was away. There was, therefore, no danger until Frank's return, and then Fred knew he would at once write to demand an explanation. He felt sure that his uncle's letter contained no direct allusion to the circumstances of which Frank was accused, and that therefore he could produce no proofs of his innocence, which, indeed, now that Stephen Walker had left New Street, was impossible. The great step then was to prevent Captain Bradshaw from receiving Frank's letter demanding an explanation. That once done Fred Bingham felt certain of his ground. He was playing a difficult game for high stakes, but he felt pretty confident in his own skill. His one fear was that Frank, in his indignation, might rush down to Lowndes Square and personally demand an explanation from his [235] uncle; but the letter had been so extremely offensive, that Fred Bingham hoped and believed that Frank would write. On the day upon which he knew Frank was to return, Fred Bingham called in Lowndes Square, at a time when his uncle would be from home.
“Is Miss Heathcote in?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; she is up in her own room. Shall I tell her you are here?”
“No, James, it is hardly worth while. I could only stay a few minutes. By the way, just step in here, I want to speak to you.” He went into the dining-room and the servant followed and closed the door. “You must have had rather a hard time with your master lately, James.”
“Awful, sir; I can't stand it much longer. Flesh and blood can't put up beyond a certain point, you know, sir. Do what I will, nothing pleases him. He does swear sometimes really awful to hear; but there, sir, I need not tell you; you know what master is.”
“Well, James, he has been a good deal put out lately. There is a man who fancies he has some claim upon my uncle, and he writes to him and threatens to make public some old [236] story which your master does not want talked about. Now, I am on this man's track, and I fancy I shall be able to find him in a day or two and put an end to all this. I expect he will be writing to-day or to-morrow to my uncle again, and I know it will make him so furious that he will be doing something rash. Now, I wish to prevent that letter reaching him until I have seen this man who is annoying him. I want you, therefore, to show me all the letters that come for the next day or two. I will come over twice a-day, so you will only have to keep them back one post. I only want to save him annoyance, and I can see he is quite wearing Miss Heathcote out. I will give you a five pound note if you will manage this, and you will be doing your master a real service. I know I can rely upon your holding your tongue. What do you say, James?”
“Lor' yes, sir, I would do anything to save master from annoyance. He is a real good master on the whole, though he is awful, sir. I can assure you he is downright awful when he is put out.”
“I am sure he must be very difficult to [237] manage, James. The best way to arrange this will be for me to call each day at nine o'clock in the morning and at three in the afternoon. He never comes down to breakfast until ten, and Miss Heathcote does not come down till half-past nine, so there is no chance of his knowing that I have come; you can be looking out of the hall window and can open the door when you see me. I will call again at three, after he has gone out, and I will get you to put on your hat and run round to Hans Place of an evening with any letter which may come by a late post. You understand, James?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Bingham! I will see to it. It is only for two or three days you say.”
The next day there was no letter from Frank Maynard, nor was there on the following morning; but when Fred Bingham called at three o'clock there was a letter, the handwriting of which he at once recognised.
“Ah! this is the letter, James. I am very glad I have stopped it, especially as I expect to see the man this evening and to put a stop to his annoying my uncle. Here is what I promised you, James. I need not tell you to [238] say nothing about it, for my uncle would not be pleased if he knew I was interfering in his affairs even for his own good.”
“You may be sure I won't say a word, sir, I do think master has been expecting the letter, for he has been very anxious about letters the last day or two, and savage, sir, that savage that one daren't as much as look at him. If he goes on like this I must make a change, sir. I can't stand it much longer.”
“I dare say he will be better, James, when, this annoyance is removed. I will go into the dining-room for a few minutes, I have a letter to write which I forgot before I started.”
Once in the dining-room Fred Bingham took the inkstand and writing materials from the side-table, and then produced from a large pocket-book an envelope upon which he had written Frank Maynard's name and address in a very accurate imitation of the peculiar hand of Captain Bradshaw. In this he enclosed Frank's letter, and, lighting the taper, sealed it with a small seal which was in the drawer of the inkstand, and which bore the three-fingered hand, the crest of the Bradshaws.
[239]
“There,” he said, with his unpleasant smile, “if that won't keep you apart, Master Frank, I am mistaken; you are a very fine fellow, no doubt, and Alice Heathcote liked you better than she did me; but I don't think you will have much reason to boast in the end. Now, if the old man does but go away for the winter, as he talks about, there is no fear of their coming together again, and he is too proud and too passionate, and Frank is too hot-headed and mighty ever to condescend to make the first advances. I don't think the old boy can live long.”
So, putting on his hat he went out, down into Knightsbridge and up the hill, dropping the letter into the post-office at the corner of Wilton Place. Then he sauntered on, smiling pleasantly as he went, and meditating not unflattering thoughts of himself.
“Yes, Fred Bingham,” he concluded, “deuced few fellows would have got, as you have, out of about as nasty a scrape as a man could want to get into. Made it turn out all to my advantage; why, I might have tried, and schemed, and flattered the old man, and listened to his endless stories about India, and at most I should only [240] have shared with Frank. Now I am as good as certain of it all. I am a lucky fellow,”—and here he gave a penny to a beggar-woman, who looked after him and blessed him for a pleasant-looking............