THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.
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, 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.
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 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 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 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 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 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.
“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
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 young
gentleman—“very lucky; to think of old Walker never mentioning my
name! That was a fluke indeed! Savage old brute, who would have
thought it of him? Poor Carry.” And here the smile passed away from
his face, and he went on angrily, “A little idiot, I would have made
her comfortable, and settled her in some snug little place, and she
upsets the whole thing. She must have known I never meant to marry
her, and why the deuce she could not have done as other girls do, and
made the best of it, I can't make out. Instead of that she nearly
ruins me. Bah! what fools women are,” and he gave a savage cut with
his cane at a dog who was asleep by the railings by the side of the
footway. The dog leapt up with a sharp yell, and Fred Bingham went
on relieved, and rather liking than otherwise the curses and threats
which the dog's master, a little boy with matches, shouted after him.
The letter was delivered to Frank as he was sitting with his wife
after dinner.
“Here is the answer, Katie, sealed with the family crest in due
form,” and he tore the paper so as not to destroy the seal, with
the intention of showing the crest to her. “By Jove!” he exclaimed,
angrily, “this is too bad, Katie; he has sent back my letter
unopened, without a word.”
Katie's face flushed up, and she was about to burst out indignantly,
but seeing by her husband's face that he was grieved as well as
angry, she only said,—
“Never mind, Frank, it is no use our worrying ourselves about it;
you can do nothing more after this refusal to hear you. We have a
good conscience, dear, and can afford to wait. As you said at first,
Frank, there can be no doubt that your uncle has worried himself
so much about the upset of his plans for you to marry that Miss
Heathcote, that he has really gone a little out of his mind about it.
Perhaps it is a pity you did not do as he wanted you to,” and she
looked up maliciously at Frank.
The attack had the effect she desired, and in administering what he
called punishment Frank soon forgot the annoyance of the letter.
It was not, indeed, until they rose to go upstairs to tea, that the
subject was renewed; then Frank put the letter into its envelope,
opened his desk, and threw it in.
“There,” he said, “we won't talk about it any more, Katie. It is a
great annoyance, but it can't be helped. It is no use crying over
spilt milk.”
The next day Katie sat up in state, and many of Frank's acquaintances
or friends called, and also friends of the Drakes. Frank, of course,
stayed at home to help his wife through the ordeal. Among the callers
was Fred Bingham. After the first introduction and greetings were
over, Frank said to him aside,—
“Look here, Fred, I want to have a talk with you about a most
unpleasant business, which I can't for the life of me understand. I
can't talk now before all these people. Come, like a good fellow, to
dinner this evening. We shall be alone, and then I can tell you all
about it.”
“Very well, Frank, I will come.”
Fred then turned to Katie, and was very chatty and amusing, as he
could be when he chose. He stayed some little time, and helped
Frank much in smoothing away the stiffness, and in filling up the
occasional pauses which are incidental to ceremonies of this kind.
He came again to dinner, and was still in high spirits, paying Katie
many hyperbolical compliments, which she laughed at, telling him that
he was not an Irishman, and that no one but Irishmen had a right to
talk outrageous nonsense.
Soon after the dessert was placed upon the table, Frank said to his
wife,—
“There, Katie, I want to talk to Fred, so go upstairs like a good
girl, and make tea for us.” Then, when he was with his cousin,
he went on, “Now, Fred, I want to talk to you. I have had a most
extraordinary letter from my uncle, accusing me of unheard-of
wickedness, and breaking-off all acquaintance and connection with me.
There it is, read it through, and tell me what it means.”
Fred Bingham read Captain Bradshaw's letter through.
“Extraordinary,” he said; “but I am really hardly surprised. He has
spoken to me in a rambling, excited way about you, and I really am
afraid that he is going a little out of his mind.”
Frank looked at the table gloomily.
“I have written to him to demand an explanation, and he has returned
the letter unopened.” His cousin looked grieved rather than
surprised. “It is abominable,” Frank went on, warmly; “the only
possible reason I can see is that I refused to marry Alice Heathcote,
when he had set his mind upon it.”
Fred Bingham had long suspected that such had been Captain Bradshaw's
wish, and he now took advantage of the knowledge.
“Yes,” he said, “absurd as it is, Frank, from a few words he let
drop when he was in one of his passions the other day, I supposed it
was that. He said something about all his plans thwarted—infamous
scoundrel—break Alice's heart—have nothing to do with him.”
“Yes,” Frank said, “I can quite fancy him. But he must be mad, Fred.
It was all his own hatching up. Alice and I never cared a scrap for
each other. Sisterly, and so on, but nothing else.”
Fred Bingham was silent.
“Don't you believe me, Fred?” Frank asked, warmly.
“Well, Frank, I don't question what you say about your own feelings,
and I am sure that you are the last fellow to intend to trifle with
any girl's affections; but, if you frankly wish my opinion, I tell
you honestly I have no question that Alice Heathcote did love you.”
“Nonsense, man!” Frank said, very angrily, “Alice never cared a scrap
for me; she told me so herself.”
“Did you ask her then, Frank?” Fred said, pointedly.
“No, I did not,” Frank said, still more indignant; “have I not
told you I never thought of such a thing. Uncle and I were having
a row. He was insisting on my marrying her, I was saying I would
not, because I did not love her—well, she was in the next room and
heard it all, and came in and told her uncle that it was out of the
question, for that I did not love her and she did not love me.” Fred
looked up almost contemptuously. How stupid this big strong man was
to be sure.
“And what do you suppose she could have said, Frank? She had just
heard you say you did not love her, and would not marry her; and do
you think that a girl like Alice Heathcote could have done anything
else under the circumstances? Do you think she could have burst out
crying and told you she loved you and prayed you to marry her?”
Frank sat down in his chair in sheer dismay.
“How long was this ago, Frank? Six months?”
Frank nodded.
“Just as I thought—just the time Alice got ill and low-spirited. I
saw it all along. I was certain that she loved you, and I thought you
loved her. I always looked upon it as a settled thing; and, indeed,
it is hardly likely your uncle would have gone so far as he did, if
he had not been sure Alice's happiness was concerned.”
Frank sat petrified; at last he said,—
“And upon your soul and honour, Fred, do you believe she loved me?”
“Upon my soul and honour I do, Frank.”
And for once Fred Bingham spoke the truth.
Frank absolutely groaned.
“Poor Alice! poor Alice! and I never dreamt of it, never once. This
is worse than the other. To think of my having made her unhappy. No
wonder my uncle is so angry, and that it has worked on his brain.
What is to be done? I can't write to her and explain matters.”
“I should think not,” Fred Bingham said dryly. “In the first place
your letter would be returned, for I know that uncle has made her
promise not to communicate with you in any way, and not even to speak
if she meets you accidentally. And in the next place Alice Heathcote
is hardly the sort of girl to accept condolences from a man who has
slighted her affection.”
Frank looked furiously at the speaker, but he felt that the remark
was true.
“Well,” he said, at last, “this is a nice thing to meet a man on his
return from his honeymoon—the girl he cared for most in the world,
next to his wife, made unhappy—my uncle altogether estranged, and in
fact carrying the matter to a point of lunacy; and nothing possible
to be done.”
“I dare say matters will right themselves in time, Frank. Our uncle
talks about travelling, and the change will, no doubt, do him good,
and set Alice up; and, seeing that, he will get over his great
hallucination.”
“And if he does not,” Frank said, rather bitterly, “I suppose I may
wish you joy of being sole inheritor of Wyvern Park?”
“Frank, that is not like you,” Fred said, reproachfully. “I should
have thought you would have known me better than to suppose me
capable of taking advantage of it, even if Captain Bradshaw did, in
his present state, pass you over in his will. No, Frank.”
“I beg your pardon, Fred,” Frank broke in; “upon my word, I beg your
pardon. I did not mean what I said for a moment. I know you are the
best-hearted fellow in the world, and have always said so. No, no,
old man, I have no jealousy of you, I give you my word.” And he shook
Fred Bingham's hand warmly. “And now, Fred, I won't ask you to go
upstairs to-night. I am really upset, and I must tell Katie about
this miserable business, and I suppose she can hardly be expected to
see it quite in the right light. Good-night, old fellow! Come again
soon.”