“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.
[178]
“Will you take a seat?” Mr. Bingham put in, more and more surprised, but still bland6 and tranquil7 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 assenting8 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 villain9 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 [179] 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 merged10 in the more pressing one of actual danger. This man was dangerous. In his present state he was capable of doing any mischief11. 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 [180] 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 hawk12, so did Mrs. Bingham blaze out in defence of her son.
“Oh, you wicked—wicked man! Oh, you bad, abominable13 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, testily14, although he really felt grateful for the opportune15 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 seduced16 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 [181] 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 sufficiently17 recovered from his first shock to continue the conversation.
“I suppose, Mr. Walker, before you came here to bring forward such a serious accusation18 as this, you were quite sure of what you are stating?”
“Quite,” Stephen Walker said, gravely.
“I am heartily19 sorry, Mr. Walker—more sorry than I can say. Unfortunately, there is nothing that I can say or do to alleviate20 your distress21. 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 [182] 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 avenge22 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 incapable23 alike of protecting Carry, or of avenging24 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 stupor25 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 [183] stroke, and beside this, there was to be a perpetual persecution26 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 groan27 of dismay. In the meantime Mrs. Bingham continued to cry hysterically28.
“What a shameful29, vile30 man,” she sobbed31 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.”
[184]
“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 backwards32 and forwards on the hearthrug, with the air of a man astounded33. 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 tenants34, and had endeavoured to mitigate35 the severe measures Fred was disposed to put in force [185] 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 imminence36 of the danger. His whole thoughts were devoted37 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 agitation38, as follows:—
“My dear Fred,
“If anyone had asked me an hour [186] ago whether I considered you capable of acting39 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 previously40 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 [187] 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 consternation41 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 [188] 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 perverseness42, when he had intended to have acted kindly43 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 hearty44 breakfast, and told his wife that he must go up to London on imperative45 business for twenty-four hours. He said that she must stay where she was, for the house would not be ready [189] 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.
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1
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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4
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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7
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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8
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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9
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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11
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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12
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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13
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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14
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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15
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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16
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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17
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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18
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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19
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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20
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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21
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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22
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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23
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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24
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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25
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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27
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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28
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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29
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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31
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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32
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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33
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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34
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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35
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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37
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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38
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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39
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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40
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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41
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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42
perverseness
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| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
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43
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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44
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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45
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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