FOLLOWING IT UP.
STEPHEN WALKER turned away from Lowndes Square with a feeling of
stern satisfaction. At least, the destroyer of his daughter would not
go unpunished. He should pay with the loss of his expected fortune
for the damage he had wrought. So far, Stephen Walker thought that
his success had been all that he could have wished for; but his
task was but begun yet. He had resolved upon blighting his enemy's
prospects through life. He had determined that he would devote
his whole life to this purpose; that he would everywhere dog his
footsteps; that wherever he went, whatever he did, he would follow
him, and tell the tale to all who would listen to him. Fred Bingham's
friends, his work-people, everyone with whom he associated, should
know that the pleasant, laughing young gentleman was a heartless
scoundrel. “No doubt he had imagined that there was nothing to fear
from Carry's father, that the nervous old man would do him no harm,
would give him no trouble. Ha, ha!—we shall see.” And Stephen Walker
laughed fiercely aloud, and shook his clenched fists as he strode
along across Sloane Street into Hans Place. With the dignity of a
great passion in him, he felt, and was, more of a man than he had
ever before been during his life. He stopped at Mr. Bingham's house
and rang, sent in his name, and was shown into the study, where Mr.
Bingham was engaged upon some plans. He looked up.
“Ah, Mr. Walker; is it you? Haven't I paid your last quarter's
account for newspapers?”
“I do not come about bills, Mr. Bingham; I come upon a very different
matter.”
“Ah, indeed; and what may that be?” Mr. Bingham asked, looking up
keenly at his visitor, for he saw at once, by his manner, that he had
come upon no ordinary business.
“I will tell you, Mr. Bingham,” the man said, shortly.
“Will you take a seat?” Mr. Bingham put in, more and more surprised,
but still bland and tranquil in his manner.
“I will not,” Stephen Walker said; “no—not if I never sit down
again.”
Mr. Bingham said nothing; he still preserved his bland smile, but he
felt that it was something very serious now.
“You have been to my shop, sir, and you have seen my daughter.”
Mr. Bingham made an assenting gesture; but the smile left his face.
He guessed somewhat of what was coming.
“She was all I had to love in the world, and I did love her with all
my heart and soul. She had grown up all I could wish her—tender,
loving, happy, and bright. A villain came to the shop—a smiling,
smooth-tongued villain—who told her that he loved her, promised
to marry her, and who deceived and ruined her; her, so innocent of
the world; her, who trusted him as she trusted her God. He married
another, and she read it in the paper and went mad—went mad, and
even doubted my forgiveness! I, who would have taken her to my heart
and comforted her, and pitied her. She went mad, sir; and her body
was picked up in the Thames yesterday! The scoundrel who did it was
your son, Frederick Bingham!”
Mr. Bingham had listened throughout without moving, without changing
a muscle. The bland expression had died out from his face; otherwise
he manifested no emotion. But all the time Stephen Walker had been
speaking his brain had been busily at work. Mr. Bingham was not
a very hard-hearted man, but his susceptibilities had been much
blunted with long contact with the world; and he was accustomed in
his business to what the world calls sharp practice. Under ordinary
circumstances, he would have been greatly shocked at the story he had
just heard. Perhaps he was now, but the feeling was merged in the
more pressing one of actual danger. This man was dangerous. In his
present state he was capable of doing any mischief. But what could he
do? How would he act? And how could he be met?
These thoughts passed rapidly through his mind during the few seconds
Stephen Walker was speaking; nor had he determined what course to
take, when he was unexpectedly relieved by the entrance of Mrs.
Bingham, who, not knowing that her husband was engaged, had opened
the door and entered in time to hear the closing sentence of Stephen
Walker's speech. As a hen will defend her young ones when attacked by
a hawk, so did Mrs. Bingham blaze out in defence of her son.
“Oh, you wicked—wicked man! Oh, you bad, abominable person! To come
here to say such things against my Freddy, the dearest and best
fellow in the world. What does he mean, Richard?” She turned to her
husband. “Why don't you give him in charge of the police?”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Mr. Bingham said, testily, although he really
felt grateful for the opportune interference of his wife. “Do be
quiet and reasonable. This is Mr. Walker. A very sad business has
taken place: his daughter has made away with herself, and he accuses
Fred of having seduced her under promise of marriage.”
“Oh, you villain!” Mrs. Bingham said, turning again upon Stephen
Walker, as he stood impassive before her. “Oh, you bad, story-telling
man! My Freddy, indeed! who would not hurt a fly, to be accused of
doing such wicked things as this. Richard, go out directly and get
a policeman. I am ashamed of you, sitting there doing nothing. Why
don't you knock him down, or kick him, or do something?”
And then, from indignation and helplessness, Mrs. Bingham sat down
and began to cry. By this time Mr. Bingham was sufficiently recovered
from his first shock to continue the conversation.
“I suppose, Mr. Walker, before you came here to bring forward such
a serious accusation as this, you were quite sure of what you are
stating?”
“Quite,” Stephen Walker said, gravely.
“I am heartily sorry, Mr. Walker—more sorry than I can say.
Unfortunately, there is nothing that I can say or do to alleviate
your distress. Is there anything you can possibly suggest that would
afford you any satisfaction?”
Stephen Walker waved his hand scornfully.
“I called, Mr. Bingham, to tell you this history—to let you know
what this son of yours really is. Will you tell him, from me, that
I pray God to curse him for the ruin he has brought upon my house.
Tell him that, although I am an old, feeble man, unable to save my
daughter, I will devote the rest of my life to avenge her. That
wherever he goes, with whomsoever he associates, I will take care to
let them know this story. The men who work for him I will see; the
men he does business with I will write to. He thought me harmless and
helpless; he thought me incapable alike of protecting Carry, or of
avenging her. He will find out his error. This is the second visit I
have paid this morning. I have been to Lowndes Square, and have seen
Captain Bradshaw, and your son one day will find that he has paid
very, very dear for his frolic.”
Thus saying, and without waiting for any reply whatever from Mr.
Bingham, Stephen Walker left the room. Mr. Bingham sat in a blank
stupor of dismay.
“I have been to Captain Bradshaw,” he repeated; “and your son will
some day find that he has paid very, very dear for his frolic.”
There was no mistaking the meaning of that. As far as his uncle
was concerned, Fred was ruined. A splendid fortune was lost in one
stroke, and beside this, there was to be a perpetual persecution and
scandal. The madman had said that he would follow Fred everywhere,
and denounce him to all. This was terrible, and Mr. Bingham leaned
back in his chair with a positive groan of dismay. In the meantime
Mrs. Bingham continued to cry hysterically.
“What a shameful, vile man,” she sobbed at last, “to go about telling
stories about poor dear Freddy—the kindest and best fellow in
the world. He would not have harmed a worm. If he did do it, I am
quite sure it was not his fault. He must have been led on by that
shameless, wicked hussy. It was very wrong of him, of course, very
wicked and sinful. But not, my dear——”
Mr. Bingham broke in,
“Nonsense, wicked. If it had been fifty times as wicked I should not
have minded; but it was madness, sheer madness.”
“Richard, I am shocked at you,” Mrs. Bingham began in a tone of
absolute horror.
“Well, well, my dear, you know I do not mean that; but I am almost
beside myself to think of Fred's madness.”
“Ay, madness, indeed,” Mrs. Bingham said; “it must have been just
that, Richard, a sudden madness which made him fall into——”
“There, there, my dear,” Mr. Bingham said, “that is quite enough for
the present; do go away, and let me think over this affair. It is
enough to drive me out of my senses. Do go up to your own room and
compose yourself. There is no occasion to tell the girls, and the
servants, and everyone else about it.”
“As if I were a fool, Richard!” Mrs. Bingham began indignantly; but
Mr. Bingham waved his hand so impatiently, that she said no more, but
rising with an extremely injured air, left the room.
As for Mr. Bingham, he walked backwards and forwards on the
hearthrug, with the air of a man astounded. Once or twice he sat
down at his desk, took up his pen, and then throwing it down with a
gesture of almost despair, renewed his walk. As has been said, Mr.
Bingham was not a really hard-hearted man. He had very frequently
interposed in favour of defaulting tenants, and had endeavoured
to mitigate the severe measures Fred was disposed to put in force
against them. At any other time he would have been greatly shocked at
the news he had heard. Now he quite lost sight of the heartlessness
and cruelty of Fred's conduct in the imminence of the danger.
His whole thoughts were devoted to the consideration of the best
course to be pursued under the circumstances. He could arrive at
no conclusion however, except that he had better summon Fred back
to town at once. At last, therefore, he sat down in earnest to
write, saying, solemnly, as he did so, “Well, after this, I will
believe anything. To think that my son, Fred Bingham, could have
acted in such an insane way as this—with a girl, too, in his own
neighbourhood—and, above all, should have allowed his connection
with Captain Bradshaw to be known to her. It is beyond all human
comprehension.” With this reflection he drew some paper towards him,
and wrote, in his beautifully neat handwriting, in which no one could
have detected the least sign of haste or agitation, as follows:—
“MY DEAR FRED,
“If anyone had asked me an hour ago whether I considered
you capable of acting like a fool, or a madman, I should have
given them one answer; if I were asked now I should give
altogether another one. Mr. Walker has been here, having
previously visited Captain Bradshaw, to whom he mentioned that
his daughter had drowned herself in the Thames, and that you
were not altogether unconnected with the circumstance. To me
he announced his intention of devoting the rest of his life
to the occupation of keeping your friends, acquaintances, and
work-people, _au fait_ in the matter. I should say that he is
likely to carry out that intention. I make no comment whatever,
but should suggest your early return.
“Your affectionate father,
“R. BINGHAM.”
Not a pleasant letter for a man to receive with his breakfast within
a fortnight of his wedding-day. Fred Bingham was staying at Cromer
when the letter reached him. He was laughing and talking to his young
wife as he opened his father's letter; and the first glance at its
contents, froze the words on his lips. He never had any colour to
speak of, but his face turned a ghastly pallor. The first thought
that shot through him was horror at the news of Carry's death. The
second was consternation at its consequences to himself. His wife was
startled and alarmed at his face; but he made a gesture to her not to
mind him, and even in the short fortnight which had elapsed since her
marriage, she had learnt that he must be obeyed. Fred Bingham rose
from the table and walked to the window; then he came back again, and
said,—
“I have got some troublesome news from town, Margaret; I shall go out
for a walk and think it over. You take your breakfast. I shall have
mine when I come back.”
For an hour Fred Bingham paced up and down upon the sands. Here were
all his plans and hopes destroyed, and all by his own carelessness.
How could he have been fool enough to tell Carry Walker about his
uncle? Still she had promised not to tell her father, and even had
he supposed that her father might have found it out, who could have
dreamt that that old imbecile would have ever turned round and
become dangerous. Everything had turned out unfortunate. There was
Carry. Well, yes, he was very sorry for her, very sorry indeed. But
what did she do it for? It really looked as if it was just out of
perverseness, when he had intended to have acted kindly to her, and
made her comfortable, thus to upset everything, drive her father into
a sort of madness, and destroy all his chances in life. It was too
provoking. However, one thing was evident, he must take his father's
advice, and go up at once to London. He must see Captain Bradshaw—of
course it would be a most terrible interview—but it must be got
through. Perhaps after a time he might be able to put matters in a
better light. Of course any promise of marriage must be denied. There
were no proofs whatever of that, except that last letter of his,
and any assertion Carry might have made. He should of course plead
temptation. Yes, it was a terribly bad business, but something might
be got out of the fire. Thus thinking, he at last went back to his
hotel, ate a hearty breakfast, and told his wife that he must go up
to London on imperative business for twenty-four hours. He said that
she must stay where she was, for the house would not be ready for
them for another week, and she would only be in the way. He should be
back the next evening without fail. So, after breakfast, he went up
to London.