“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.”
“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 backwards and forwards on the hearthrug, with the air of a man astounded. 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 tenants, and had endeavoured to mitigate the severe measures Fred was disposed to put in force 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 imminence of the danger. His whole thoughts were devoted 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 agitation, as follows:—
“My dear Fred,
“If anyone had asked me an hour ago whether I considered you capable of acting 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 previously 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 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 consternation 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,—