A DESPERATE GAME.
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, façades of churches, plans of
hospitals, railway bridges, viaducts, and many other things. Here,
too, piled on shelves or leaning against the walls, 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?”
“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 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, 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 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 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 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.
“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 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 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 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 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.”
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 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 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.”