WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
“HAS he gone, Frank?” Katie asked, as her husband entered the
drawing-room alone.
“Yes, pet, I wanted to have you all to myself.”
Katie was standing with her elbow on the mantel, her smooth forehead
was knitted up into a frown, and she looked a very thoughtful little
personage indeed.
“So that is the Fred Bingham I have often heard you speak of, Frank?”
Frank nodded.
“And you really like him, Frank, really think him honest and true?”
“I don't like him so very much, Katie, but I think he is a thoroughly
good-hearted fellow.”
“Frank, I would not trust him as far as I could see him.”
“No, Katie!” Frank said, half amused, half vexed at finding his wife
thus early set against the friend for whom he had already fought so
many hard battles. “Don't you like him, then?”
“He is amusing,” Katie said, indifferently, “but oh, Frank! he is
so false. My flesh crept all over when he shook hands with me this
morning.”
“Now, that's not like you, Katie; I am sure he made himself very
agreeable. I don't like you to take prejudices against men I have so
long known.”
“I am sorry, Frank,” she said, simply, “but I can't help myself. A
man I don't like at first sight I never like. A man I do like, I
like very much; and I always find I am right. It is an instinct,
or a prejudice, if you like, Frank, but in some things instinct is
stronger than reason.”
Frank was vexed, but he only said, “Well, Katie, one can't argue
against a prejudice. Only, remember I like Fred Bingham, and have
always found him a very good fellow, and I have known him for many
years. Besides, Katie, you know your prejudices are sometimes
erroneous.”
His wife made a gesture of dissent.
“Come, Katie, you know you almost hated me at first, and yet I think
you like me a little now.”
Katie coloured. “You silly boy, you know that was a different thing;
you know why I hated you.”
“No, really, Katie; why?”
But this was a secret Katie could only tell when she had nestled
close up to her husband, and his arm was round her waist. Then she
looked up in his face, and said, “I hated you, Frank, because you
were making me love you before I thought you loved me.”
“And now, Katie,” Frank said presently, “I must tell you what I have
learned from Fred Bingham, and it has affected me very much, dear.”
Katie was all attention now, and took her stand by her husband's
chair, so that she could pet him if such a step were necessary.
“It is rather a difficult thing for a man to say, Katie, and it is
only because I was really ignorant and wholly innocent in the affair
that I can tell you at all. I am very much afraid that, without the
slightest intention on my part, I have made a very dear, good girl
unhappy.”
Katie drew a little farther off now.
“Alice Heathcote?”
“Yes, dear, Alice Heathcote; Fred says, and he was certainly
quite in earnest about it, that my uncle's anger is caused by his
disappointment at my not marrying Alice. He says my uncle has
harped upon the subject until he thinks with me that his brain has
gone a little wrong. But the worst of it is, he is convinced that
Alice—well, it seems absurd, Katie—did love me, and that my uncle's
indignation and anger are upon her account.”
“You are sure, quite sure, Frank, that you never made love to her?”
“Quite sure, you jealous little thing. I always liked her, Kate, just
as I might like a sister. I never had the slightest idea of making
love to her. I would tell you if I had, dear, for I do not want to
have any secrets from you. She, no doubt, misinterpreted my manner,
and her uncle having made up his mind I was to marry her, led her
into the mistake. She has been poorly for some time, Katie, and I am
really afraid it is from that. It is very absurd, of course.”
“I am really very sorry, Frank,” Katie said, feeling that Frank
was speaking the whole truth, and that she could afford to be
magnanimous, “but what is to be done? I am afraid it is too late for
me to give you up now.”
“You are a goose, Katie. But be serious, and give me your opinion.
What is to be done?”
“The only thing which I can suggest, Frank, is for me to go to her
and say that I am sorry the mistake has occurred, and that I will go
back to Staffordshire again, and let you do as you like.”
Katie had never seen Miss Heathcote; nevertheless, from what
Frank had told her of their early life together, she had somehow
intuitively felt her to be a rival, and now, like a true woman, could
not help a little enjoyment of her triumph.
“Very well, Katie, if that is the way you look upon it, we will not
discuss the matter any farther.”
Frank was really hurt, and he spoke coldly, as he had never spoken to
his wife before.
“No, no, Frank!” she said, throwing her arm round his neck as he was
rising from his chair. “I am wrong, dear, I am very wrong; but you
know I am a wild little thing; don't be angry with me, darling. It
was natural, you know, that I should be a little jealous of other
people loving my Frank as I love him. But I quite believe what you
say, and am really very sorry for Miss Heathcote. I can fancy how
unhappy she must be. She is very nice, isn't she?”
“She is very nice, Katie, and most men would have loved her very
much. She is not my style, you know; I like something I can pet and
love; she was too tall and stately, not a bit like you, Katie; as
nice in her way as you are in yours, but then her way was not my way,
and I suppose yours is.”
Katie was quite mollified now.
“Poor Alice!” she said, “I wish I had known her.”
“I can't quite make it all out,” Frank said thoughtfully. “Alice
certainly was quiet, and looked ill for some time after that row I
had with Captain Bradshaw. But she was looking better and brighter
again lately, and since I have been engaged to you she has been more
natural and affectionate again with me. Whatever she may have felt,
I am certain that she will be as sorry for this insane conduct of my
uncle's as I am. I wish I could see her and have a chat with her; but
Fred tells me that my uncle has made her give him a solemn promise
not to meet me, or even to speak to me if she accidentally comes
across me. So you see, Katie, there is nothing to be done but to take
matters quietly, and to trust in their coming right in the end.”
His wife was silent for some time. Presently she said, “You won't be
vexed at my asking you a question, Frank?”
“No, Katie.”
“You promise?”
Frank nodded.
“You and Mr. Bingham are the two nearest relations to Captain
Bradshaw, are you not?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Then, in the event of your uncle permanently quarrelling with you, I
suppose Fred Bingham will be his heir?”
“Most likely, Katie.”
“Now, Frank, don't be vexed, but I won't talk of it again. I own I
do not see how he could have done you any harm in this matter, but I
feel sure he would if he could. Please, please, Frank, don't trust
him. He is not good, I am sure of it.”
“There, Katie, I won't be vexed because I promised. But you are
wrong, dear. However, right or wrong, Fred can do me no harm. If my
uncle comes to his senses again, I am sure he will be heartily sorry
for what he has done, and I know Alice will bring things round if
she can. At the same time I do not deceive myself. Harry Bradshaw is
not a man very easily to get an idea out of his head. He is a most
kind-hearted man, but as obstinate as a mule. He has never spoken to
his sister since she married Mr. Bingham. Did I ever tell you about
his only daughter, Katie?”
“No, Frank, I did not even know he had any children.”
Hereupon Frank told what he knew about Captain Bradshaw's daughter
having made some low marriage, of his having sent her off, and of
her having, as Frank had heard from his parents, died somewhere in
great poverty. And Katie, after hearing it, made up her own mind that
Captain Bradshaw must be a very cruel man; and that, except as to
the money, the loss of his acquaintance was no great matter. As for
Alice Heathcote, of course she was very sorry for her; but perhaps on
the whole it was just as well—of course, for her sake—that she and
Frank were not to meet again. These opinions, however, Katie wisely
kept to herself.
These three days had passed very slowly to the inhabitants of Lowndes
Square. The first day Captain Bradshaw had sworn more violently than
ever; the second day he was more quiet; and the third day he was very
sad. Alice, too, had suffered terribly, her eyes were swollen with
crying, and the colour faded altogether out from her cheeks. On that
day, after dinner, he said suddenly, after a long silence,—
“It is no use waiting any longer, Alice. Let us go away for a bit.”
Alice's eyes filled with tears. Neither she nor her guardian had ever
spoken of Frank's fault since that first day, but each perfectly
understood the other's thoughts; both knew how they had longed for
Frank's return, and how they had hoped that he would offer some
protest against his sentence, would urge some point in mitigation of
his offence; that, at least, he would have cried, “I have sinned,
and I am deeply punished; have pity upon me.” Alice then knew what
her uncle meant. It was no use waiting any more. Frank had nothing
to say, nothing to urge; he would not even write to express sorrow.
He was separated from her for ever, more than time or place, more
even than death could have divided them. Her tears fell fast, but she
tried to speak steadily.
“Yes, uncle, please let us go abroad.”
“Yes, Alice,” and his voice too shook as he spoke; “suppose we go to
Rome for the winter. I have often thought of taking you; and then
next spring, you know, we can go to Jerusalem, and the Nile, and all
sorts of places. We can be away as long as we like, my dear, no one
will miss us here.”
Alice was kneeling by his side now, crying unrestrainedly.
“Poor child!” he said, stroking her hair. “I have been a downright
brute lately, but I could not help it; we shall get on better again
after a while. To think how all my plans and schemes have gone wrong.
How I loved that boy, and trusted him and believed in him. How I
have gladdened my heart to think that after I was gone you would be
standing together in the old hall of Wyvern. And how he has turned
out——”
“No, no, uncle!” Alice burst out, “don't say anything against him—I
can't bear it, I can't bear it! I know it is so; but even now, though
I know it, though he says not a word, I don't believe it in my heart.
The Frank I loved—for I did love him, uncle—could not have done it,
I know he could not. You tell me he has. He does not answer. He tells
me so himself. Still I say he could not. Please don't speak against
him, uncle—please never mention him again. Let us think he is dead;
we can forgive the dead, you know. Let us think he died a month ago
when he said good-bye.”
“Ah, that mistake of mine,” the old man began, when Alice interrupted
him,—
“No, uncle, you must not think that—that pain is over long ago. I
did love him once, dearly, and I suffered, yes, I own I suffered,
when I found out I had deceived myself, but I had got over that. He
could never be anything to me, and I had taught myself to look upon
him as a dear friend, a brother. No, uncle, it is not the man I had
loved, but the brother I esteemed and trusted and believed in, whom I
am grieving for now.”
“It shall be as you like, dear,” her uncle said, kissing her. “And
now, when will you be ready to start?”
“The sooner the better, uncle. I have nothing to do but to pack up.
By the day after to-morrow I shall be quite ready.”
And so, in two more days, the house at Lowndes Square was shut up,
and the old captain was missed from his well known seat at his club.