Читать книгу Broad Arrow - Caroline Leakey - Страница 5

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AT the door of a humble lodging-house, in a country town, stood a gentleman in military undress. After a moment's hesitation he advanced, and ascending the stairs, gently opened the door of a small third-story room, where he perceived the object of his search--Maida Gwynnham, still beautiful--proudly beautiful, though in person the mere shadow of her former self. Captain Norwell soon found that sorrow had not dimmed the fire of her eye.

No word was spoken on either side. Maida seemed to ponder what course of reception to adopt; and Norwell, cowed by her haughty, unflinching stare, tacitly owned her superiority by waiting for her to break the unpleasant silence.

During this we will take the writer's and reader's privilege of turning past into present, and glance around the scantily--furnished apartment. A cradle stands by the chair from which Maida has just started on seeing Norwell; and in the cradle sleeps a baby. On the floor, by the cradle, lies a heap of calico; a half-made shirt-sleeve on the table explains this heap. In the farthest corner of the room is a loaf lying, as though it had rolled there by mistake, or had been made a plaything of. The cupboard tells us its own secret, by displaying, as the only occupant of its hungry shelves, an earthenware basin of tea-leaves.

'Is this the way you receive me?' at length said the Captain, perceiving that Maida chose to insist on making him yield. 'Is this the way you receive me, when I have travelled from London on purpose to see you?'

'I did not ask you to come.'

'No!' replied Norwell, with a forced laugh. 'No, I know that; my lady Gwynnham never asks, she only deigns to command. But why is this, Maida? Why did you not let me know of your distress?'

Maida stretched out her emaciated arm, and shaking her fingers, cried:

'Look at these fingers--the skin just covers them. I have worked them to the bone in getting a morsel of bread for my child; for him I could do everything but beg.'

Breaking into a fearful smile, she added in an audible whisper:

'For him I could do everything but beg--for him I could even steal! Do you see that loaf there, in the corner of the room? My boy was crying for food, and I had none to give him; the baker's basket lay in a doorway, and I put out these fingers, worn to the bone' (she shook them again)--'I put them out and s-t-o-l-e! I rushed upstairs--my baby's cry was hushed. I could not break the loaf. 'Twas like fire in my hand when his cry no longer fell like burning sounds on my heart, so I dashed the cursed thing across the room; and there it shall lie until those who have lost it come to claim it, and take me.'

'But, Maida, you are rash and proud.'

'I know I am, both.'

'Do hear me. By telling me of your situation you would have avoided all this misery, and there would have been no begging in it.'

'Had you wished, Henry, to discover my circumstances, you would not have awaited apprisal from one who hates to complain. Eleven months would not have elapsed since last I heard of or from you.'

'Don't scold, there's a darling!' said Norwell, in a coaxing tone; 'you love me still, don't you?'

The tear glistened in Maida's eye, and he was answered. Once more her aching heart was soothed by perjured lips, whose specious words vowed lasting faith, and her parched spirit drank in the lying tale, surrendering itself to the cruel refreshment.

'But you are pale, Henry, very pale and haggard.' She gazed anxiously at him.

'I am not well, Maida; vexations of which you know nothing make my life a perpetual worry.'

'I should know them, then, Henry!'

A smile slightly reproachful and full of sadness accompanied this speech.

'I came here intending to unburden my mind; but once here I lose myself in you, and my troubles in your distress. I look ill? what does that face look?'

'Only what it deserves--never mind it. Tell me of yourself--let your griefs be mine, and if I can assist you--O, Henry! need I tell you how wholly I am yours?'

The moment had arrived. The prey quivered within hand-grasp. He then told her that his position was precarious. Pecuniary difficulties pressed upon him so hardly, that where another week might find him, he would not harrow her tender feelings by hinting. He told of feverish excitements which sapped his life energies; of harassing vigils which might deprive him of reason. And when Maida inquired what assistance she could possibly render in adversities so hopelessly beyond her aid, Norwell answered that her affectionate participation in his sorrow was in itself an assistance; because it solaced his desponding spirits. On further inquiry he told her the most beggarly part of the trial was, that a mere trifle would relieve him.

'You wish to help me,' he continued; 'now is the chance for you.' Drawing a letter from his pocket-book, he handed it to her. 'Read this. You see my uncle here promises me four hundred; well, now read that cheque, on the table there. You see it is only for one hundred. What am I to do? Am I to be ruined by the old dotard?'

'Certainly not; only don't speak so. Write at once and get him to rectify the blunder. It is an odd one, though, to make.'

'Not for a man of eighty, just in the flurry of starting for the Continent. As for writing to him, why, before I could receive an answer, I should be--ah! well, never mind where. At any rate, it would be useless to write: he has left England by this. We must act first and wake him up afterwards. We must alter the cheque to the amount intended. That's what I want you to do. A woman's touch is so much lighter than a man's. Look here.'

Taking the cheque, he seated himself at the table, and pointed with a pencil to the figures. 'As they are written, it will be easy to turn the one into a four: the distance readily admits it. See here; a little tail at the end of the one, a stroke through the tail, and it's done. The spelt figures are the plague.'

He scanned them thoughtfully, then continued: "Twill do famously! See, the one is rather indistinct, put an F before it, there's room enough; and the tiniest touch to the e, and you have a pretty good four. The n is as much a u as an n, thanks to his penmanship.' He imagined Maida was following the pencil in its course over the cheque. Turning his head to make sure of her attention, he saw her standing erect, a look of horror depicted on her blanched features; her hand, uplifted, had stayed itself half-way to her lips, a passion worked beneath that stricken exterior but not a passion to vent itself in wrath. 'Why Maida!'

'Oh, Norwell! do you too spurn me--and with such a request? This is misery.'

In well-affected surprise, Norwell put his arm around her.

'You silly child; what tragedy nonsense is this? Listen to me, Maida.'

All truth herself--strangely enough, through the dark experience of more than two years she had not learned to doubt her deceiver. She listened to his perjured voice, and the rigidity of her features relaxed; her hand reached its destination, and in an attitude of warning she laid one finger on her lip. Norwell went on to say:

'You may depend it's all right, and that in his book uncle has placed four hundred against my name, or rather against this cheque. 'Tis not the first time he has made so childish a mistake. Excusable, too, poor old fellow! but that won't save me. If you will not help me, I must do it myself. I'm not going to founder for his forgetfulness. Of course I shall write at once and tell him what we've done, and he'll be glad enough.'

'I do not understand money matters,' Maida sighed, resting her eyes trustfully on Norwell. 'If you assure me there is no harm, I will try my best.'

'What harm can there be, when it's from my own uncle? See, here is his name; he'll be annoyed enough when he finds what a trick he has served me. Under a similar error would you not do the same by your father, if you were hard up for money?'

'Doubtless--but he is one of a thousand.'

'And may not my uncle be one of a million?'

His voice was so earnest, his manner so open, Maida could no longer hesitate; the cloud that had transiently obscured her lover rolled off, and all was fair. Another trusting look.

'Mind, then, I lean on you!'

Maida sat at the table and Norwell bent over her, directing her pen.

'There--will that do?' she cried, pushing the cheque forward and herself back with the satisfied air of one who has accomplished a difficult task.

'Will it do, Henry?'

'Bravo! old Rogers himself will be deceived.'

'Deceived, Henry?'

'Oh, any word you like will suit me.' His tone was cheerful--there was no deception in it--she was content.

'Now, then, you must sign your name at the back. No what am I talking about? I am as much Martha Grylls as you. What a lark it is that he always will give a name of his own "composure," as the clerk is said to have said! My name isn't fit to appear on paper, I suppose.'

Maida was puzzled until, taking up the cheque, she observed that it was payable to a Martha Grylls or order. Norwell explained that it was a whim of his uncle to trump up all the odd names he could think of; whether to make him laugh, or because he objected to have two Norwells on one paper, he could not tell.

'However, he never honoured me with the feminine gender before. I'm afraid I shall not do justice to the sex. Let's see, Martha Grylls had better write his or her name at the back; then I, Captain Norwell, shan't be the fair possessor of the melodious title in presenting the cheque for payment.'

Maida smiled, while he took up the pen, as if to write the name; he flourished his fingers a few times and then said:

'Well, perhaps you had better do it. I may not write Martharish enough for the personage. Here; just along there. You are more Martha Grylls than I.'

'The M.G. is very like your writing, Henry,' she remarked in handing him back the note.

'Now I have become Martha Grylls, I rather like it; it is so peculiar.'

This was spoken playfully. Why did Norwell gaze so sadly on her? Why turn with a face so full of misery as folding the cheque in his pocket-book, he met her large eyes fixed fondly on him, and heard her almost gleeful voice:

'Now, thank God, you are all right! Now, naughty boy, go and renovate that pale face.'. . .

When Norwell reappeared the next morning, his unrefreshed countenance and listless gait bespoke a sleepless night. Maida was grieved and disappointed. The money had not cured him. What else could she do for him? He was too unwell to ride to the neighbouring town. Would she object to go for him to get the cheque cashed at his uncle's bank? He would stay with the brat during her absence. She did not object--if they would pay her, she would be delighted to go for him. Might the shabbiness of her dress make them hesitate to give her the money? Dear no; who could doubt her authenticity as a gentlewoman? or if they did, they dare not refuse payment at his uncle's own bank. She accordingly set off in the mail, and reached her destination just before the bank closed for the day. Some question from the clerk drew forth the reply that she had written the signature at the back.

'Then you are Martha Grylls, ma'am?'

Maida smiled, she could not help it; she was so amused at her new name. The clerk thought she smiled at his asking her if she was herself: so he politely said: 'We are obliged to be particular, ma'am.' And it passed off. Martha Grylls left the bank, and took her place in an omnibus, the only conveyance going to--that afternoon.

She found Norwell in her room when she returned. He was taciturn to sullenness. Maida entreated him to tell her what further ailed him; but he shook off her importunities until the night was far advanced. He then sprang to his feet with a suddenness that made her tremble; turning upon her he cried:

'It is no use to hide it. Without a great sacrifice, I'm a dead man.'

'What sacrifice is there I would not make for you, Henry? my love has never failed. I could do anything but sin for you.'

'And you couldn't do that? What, then, if I tell you you have sinned already?' His eye rested piercingly on her. 'Maida, I am about to sift your love for me. Do you know what we have done?'

'No! what? explain, and quickly.'

'We--have--committed--forgery,' deliberately hissed Norwell; 'and it is too late to retract, unless you would hurl me into hell--for this pistol goes through my heart the instant you decide against me. There--Maida Gwynnham, I am in your hands; kill me if you choose.'

There was a fearful silence in that little upper chamber. The fiercest tempest of wrath, the keenest lightning-flash--break forth, rather than that cold, dead stillness. Norwell quailed beneath the dilated gaze that moved not--yet fixed on him--while she who fixed it stood breathless, pale, and chill, as though her life-springs had been touched with ice.

'Speak, Maida! oh, speak to me!'

No answer came.

A gradual change overspread her face--pitying scorn was depicted there. Another change--revenge sat brooding there. Again a change, and anger recoloured her pallid cheek. Yet once more a change. Her features compressed. The colour went back to the smitten heart, and firm determination was written on her face--her mind was resolved; her voice calm.

'Will it save you?'

'Why, why, it shall not get you into a scrape.'

'Do not lie; will it save you?' the same calm voice.

'Yes: if you choose it will save me; otherwise--'

The pistol clicked and supplied the blank.

'I am in your power, Maida.'

'And I in yours?' quietly and unwisely asked she.

But Norwell, too agitated to note the question in its advantageous view, merely replied:

'Why, no, hardly that, because you could implicate me.'

'I would leave that to Captain Norwell,' sneered Maida. 'Yes, to you, Henry. The scales have fallen from my eyes; I see it all too late, as, too late, I have discovered you. Detection is possible: your hand did not commit the forgery; your fame must not be touched, it stands too high; but Maida Gwynnham, that outcast! it matters not how low her fall.'

'Oh, Maida! can you make the sacrifice?'

'If you can, Norwell; there lies the bitterness to me.'

'Oh! do not, do not speak so! Pity, pity poor weak-minded Norwell, who cannot bear the finger of shame. I am the object of pity, not you. Your lofty nature may find happiness in vicarious suffering, but for me what is there?'

'It need not, shall not be.'

'It must, Maida; would you betray me?' his fingers played on the pistol.

'Not whilst I can suffer in your stead. Go, Henry; you have nothing to fear from me. The sin, mine by carelessness, shall become mine by substitution, for I see no other way to save you from punishment.'

'And from death. I would not live a second after disgrace. Oh, Maida! be this your support--you save a soul from death.'

She shuddered; she longed to be alone, and beckoned Norwell to leave; he was not sorry to do so; it was hazardous to remain in her presence. Not venturing another look, he said:

'Then I am in your hands: my life is yours, to spare or slay.'

'I committed the forgery; let that suffice you, Norwell.'

The door slammed on him, and he was gone.

'I am a felon!' thought Maida, and she recoiled from herself as though the brand of infamy already burned on her; then dropping on her knees, she cried, 'O God! lay not this sin to my charge--it is to save one dearer than my life. Do Thou acquit me, and I can bear the lot of shame.'