WHAT CAN IT MEAN?
IT was evening when Frank Maynard arrived home from his honeymoon
with his wife. He had taken a house in the then new neighbourhood,
Thurloe Square, Brompton; and Katie, despite the fatigue of the
journey from Paris, insisted on immediately going over it all, and in
admiring all its arrangements. Very proud was the young husband of
the trim little figure, as it tripped through the rooms.
“You are a dear, dear thoughtful old boy,” she said when, her
survey completed, she returned again to the dining-room, and took
her seat in all the state and dignity of her young matronhood, to
make tea for the first time. “Everything is very nice, Frank, and
my little special den is charming; I will give you another kiss
for it presently; but there are too many rooms, Frank, and I shall
feel quite lost.” Frank smiled, and Katie, catching his look as
she glanced up from her tea making, changed the subject of the
conversation hastily. “Sure, Frank, and what a pile of letters there
are on the mantel, don't read them all to-night.”
“No, Katie, I won't even look at one of them, this first night
at home I don't want to think of anyone or anything, but you and
my happiness.” And so it was not until the next morning after
breakfast that Frank set to to examine the pile of letters which
had accumulated during his absence. His wife sat down close to
him, and listened on amused while he read out an epitome of each
communication. Those first opened could be classified under two
heads. Letters of congratulation and cards from friends, and the
circulars of advertising tradesmen. Presently, however, he came upon
a letter with a stiff precise handwriting, and sealed with a coat of
arms. “This is from my uncle Bradshaw,” he said, “I wonder whether
he is in town?” Frank opened the letter, and the careless expression
of his face changed, as he read the first line, into intense
astonishment, which deepened into anger as he went on.
His wife, who was watching him, noticed the change in his face, and
when she saw he had read it through, asked, “What is the matter,
Frank?”
“Wait, dear,” Frank said, and again read the letter carefully
through. “Either he has gone mad, or I am dreaming,” he said at last.
“May I see, Frank?” Katie said, coming across and putting her hand
upon his shoulder.
Frank hesitated. “Well, Katie, perhaps better not; it is some
extraordinary mistake, and would only worry you.” Katie went back
to her seat without a word. “Here, darling,” Frank said, after
a moment's thought, “I wish to have no secrets from you, I only
hesitated because I did not wish to worry you; come and sit down on
my knee and read this.”
Katie sprang over gladly, and took her seat. Frank gave her over
the letter, which she, as he had done, read carefully twice through
before she spoke. Frank watched her face closely, at first it
expressed indignant anger only, then the colour faded a little, and a
pained thoughtful look came into it. The letter was as follows:—
“Frank Maynard, I have loved you from a boy, and would have
wagered my life upon your honour. I find that you are a
dishonourable scoundrel. You see I don't mince matters with
you, I don't give it mild names, I leave the matter to your
own conscience. When you learn what has happened, you will,
unless you are even more heartless than I even now take you to
be, bitterly regret your conduct. Palliation or excuse for you
there is none. You were warned, but you shut your ears to the
warning. As for me I have done with you. I never will see you
again; you have disappointed all my hopes; you have turned out
a heartless reprobate; and I have done with you for ever.
“Your indignant uncle,
“RICHARD BRADSHAW.”
Frank spoke first. “It seems to me, Katie, that the old gentleman has
gone out of his mind. What he means I have not the remotest idea. I
am awfully sorry, Katie, for I like my uncle very much, he has been
the kindest friend to me. As for his money, I have enough for us,
dear, and he may do what he likes with it; but I am awfully sorry
that he has gone out of his mind. I can only suppose he has been
thinking over that Alice Heathcote affair, which I told you about,
Katie, till he has fairly gone cranky.”
Katie was silent still, then she rose quietly from her husband's
knee, and looked him fully in the face with those clear honest eyes
of hers. “Frank, dear, you are my husband now, and I know you love me
very truly, whatever you may once have done any other. Frank, dear, I
am not a child, I know men—do things—before they are married—you
know what I mean, Frank? Don't speak, please, or I can't go on. Now,
Frank, if you have done any wrong thing—there can be no mistake what
your uncle means—if you have deceived, it is no use mincing words,
Frank, some one who had loved and trusted you, please tell me. I
shall be sorry, Frank, very, very sorry. You will not be quite the
same to me; I cannot think of you as I have thought of you before,
but I can quite forgive you, because I know you love me now. But,
Frank, I must have it from your own lips. I am your wife now, Frank,
and nothing you did before you married me can make me cease to love
you, if you only trust in me and tell me. But if I have it from other
lips, Frank, if I find you deceive me, I must go away, Frank, even if
it break my heart.” Katie's voice trembled now, and her eyes filled
with tears.
Frank had once or twice tried to interrupt her, had tried to draw
her towards him, but there was a sad dignity about the little figure
which checked him until she finished.
“Now, Frank, tell me the truth, you may trust me, dear, to hear it, I
am your wife.”
“My own darling Katie,” Frank said, rising and standing before her,
“my own loving little wife, how dare you doubt your husband?”
Katie felt at once by the tone of his voice that her suspicions were
groundless, and stopped him by falling crying upon his neck, “Oh,
forgive me, Frank, forgive me, for doubting you. I was wicked and
wrong, Frank. Oh, my husband, how could I doubt you? Don't say a word
more, Frank, please, please don't; I never should have dreamed it,
only I have heard that men look at these things in a different way to
what we do. Say you are not angry, Frank, say you quite forgive me
for doubting you.”
“You silly little darling,” Frank said, putting her back on her old
place upon his knee, “there is nothing to forgive. It was natural
enough for you to suppose that my crazy uncle must have had some
reason for writing such an epistle as that. But it is not so, pet. I
give you my word and honour that I have got into no scrape whatever,
and that I have not the remotest conception in the world what he
means or alludes to, except that absurd Alice Heathcote business. Are
you quite satisfied?”
“Yes, yes, Frank, only I am so ashamed of myself for having doubted
you.”
Katie required a good deal of petting before she could be reconciled
to herself, and it was some time before the conversation again came
round to the subject of the letter.
“It is really a very serious business, Katie. I never built upon
Uncle Bradshaw's money, although if I had been asked, I should
certainly have answered that I expected him to leave me, at any rate,
half. Well, four or five thousand a year is no trifle, Katie. We have
enough to live upon, darling, but for the sake of our heirs we must
regret it.”
“If you talk nonsense, Frank, I shan't listen to you.”
“I did not know I was talking nonsense, Katie; a man surely may talk
of his heirs. Well then, for their sake one naturally does not care
suddenly to lose all chance of a fine fortune simply because one's
uncle has gone out of his mind.”
“And you can't think, Frank, that he has made a mistake about
anything else? I mean that it may be something else besides this Miss
Heathcote, whom I cannot but think you must have behaved shamefully
to, sir; yes, you may shake your head and say no indeed, but I am
sure you must have done.”
“No, Katie, I cannot think of anything else; and you need not be
jealous of Alice Heathcote, I never cared for her, that is not to
love her, for a moment. The whole thing was exactly as I told you, a
mere crotchet of Captain Bradshaw's.”
“Well, Frank, if he is not really out of his mind, he must be a very
wicked old man to write such a letter to you.”
“No, Katie, he certainly is not a wicked old man at all. He is a
passionate old gentleman if you like, but he is as good-hearted a
man as you will meet with in all the course of your life. I tell you
what, Katie, this afternoon I will put on my hat and go down to my
club, I am sure to meet someone there who will tell me whether it
is publicly known that the poor old man has gone out of his mind. I
can't go to his house to call after such a letter as that.”
“I should think not, Frank,” Katie said indignantly.
Frank went up to town in the afternoon, and came back to dinner,
looking vexed and annoyed.
“Well, Frank, what news?”
“I can't make head or tail of it, Katie. Captain Bradshaw is, as far
as I can hear, as sensible as either you or I. Several of the men I
spoke to had met him within the last day or two, and they said he
seemed as usual, except, perhaps, that he had not been very lively
lately. They were perfectly astounded when I asked whether anyone had
noticed anything queer about him, and evidently thought I must be mad
myself to ask such a thing. No, he seems all right enough, and that
makes the whole affair more strange than ever. What is to be done,
Katie? What do you advise?”
“I should say, Frank, that you can do nothing. If he is not mad, how
dare he write to you in that way? It is infamous,” Katie said, very
indignantly, “and I would not condescend to take any notice of it.”
“No, Katie, I can't do that. Captain Bradshaw has always been a very
kind friend to me. He is an old man, dear, and I can't put up with
such an accusation, and with the loss of his affection, without
making at least an effort to clear up the mystery. I will write and
say I have received his letter, that I really cannot conceive what he
means, and that I must insist upon his explaining himself, as I have
a right at least to know what my accusation is. Now, Katie, don't let
us worry ourselves about it any more, it is time to dress for dinner.
I will write the letter this evening, and post it in the morning. I
have half a mind to go down and see him myself; but he is so awfully
passionate, and my temper is not of the best, that I believe if he
went on again about that absurd Alice business, which I suppose is
somehow at the bottom of it all, I should say things which would make
a quarrel we should never make up. No, I think writing will be the
best, Katie; don't you?”
“Yes, I think so, Frank; besides you know much better what your uncle
is like than I can; I know I should not keep my temper with him.”
“I don't think you would, Katie,” Frank laughed, “I always said you
were a terrible little spitfire, you know.”