CHAPTER XV.
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.”