Читать книгу Broad Arrow - Caroline Leakey - Страница 6

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THE morning light shimmered coyly through the closed pane, and fell upon a lovely pair--death in its reality, cold, but void of mockery; life in its unreality, cold, and brimful of subtle mockery drooped together on that couch. But for the low, tearless sob which broke at intervals from Maida, you would have thought that she, too, shared the kind reality of death. She knelt by the couch, resting her face on her dead baby's pillow; her hair fell like a pall over the little corpse, and strikingly the chill pallor of death looked up from the sable covering.

The clock had struck five--still Maida bent over the little sleeper, unconscious that she was watched by Norwell, who had ascended the stairs without noise. Horror-stricken he stood at the door. He came to impart direful news; but in this new grief for Maida everything was forgotten, as the sight of sorrow burst upon him.

For some time Norwell remained a spectator only of the scene, so touching in its passiveness, so heartrending in its reality. He then advanced on tiptoe to the bed, and stooping over the kneeling form, whispered:

'Maida, it is I; look at me, dear.'

She remained seemingly unconscious for a time; then suddenly starting to her feet, and pressing her clenched hand on her heart, as if to keep down by force the choking emotion which was swelling there, she exclaimed:

'Norwell, what brings you--bad news?'

'They are on us, Maida,' hurriedly returned the Captain; 'it is all discovered, and,' wiping the large drops fast gathering on his forehead, 'I fear they have a clue to me; for you they are in full cry.'

'They need raise no cry, for I shall not lead them a chase; but you, oh! you, Norwell, must and shall be saved.'

'Well, then, be careful what you say--when you are apprehended be silent--when obliged to speak weigh well your words, or you--you will betray me.'

Maida shuddered.

'Now haste away, you have been here too long already. I am prepared for them;' and then, as if repeating a lesson, she whispered:

'I--did--it! they will only get those three words from me.'

Norwell was half down stairs when he returned, took Maida's hand, and looking anxiously at her, said:

'Maida, you will hear strange things. I have been hurried on to a point I never thought I could reach.'

'Go, Norwell--go.' He obeyed, but again came back.

'Maida, your punishment will be heavy--it may be--'

'Transportation for life!' calmly added Maida.

'And I a man--O Maida! Try, do try to escape. I will aid you. I will go with you.'

Again he descended and again he returned.

'Do you--can you forgive me? Can you think in any other way of me than as a cowardly wretch?'

'I can think of you as a martyr!' Norwell understood the searching tone.

'Perhaps we have met for the last time,' he exclaimed, as the door closed upon him.

She started from a deep reverie with the air of one who wakes to a yet oblivious sense of an impending sorrow.

'What is it? Oh! what is it?' Her eyes fell upon the bed, and she was answered. She gazed wildly around the room.

'They will take my babe from me, and I have not even wept over it! No! the scalding drops are fevering my brain but they will not come forth. My babe! my child!' she continued, in the thrilling accents of despair, 'the last comfort is denied thy wretched mother--she may not lay thee in thy grave.'

'Why not?' she quickly added, 'they are not here yet. The morning is yet early--no one is astir. Who will miss Maida Gwynnham's child?'

She stole on tip-toe to the bed, then hastily descended the stairs, bearing her unconscious burden wrapped in the accustomed shawl. About half a mile distant lay a lovely unfrequented spot. Maida had often wished to rest her own weary head there. With a palpitating heart, thither she bent her steps: every sound made her start. But Maida's fears were not for herself.

'Another hour and some rough grasp might tear thee from me, my precious babe, and thou wouldst have a tearless grave--now thy own mother will lay thee down, how tenderly!'

The morning was calm and bright--there was that mysterious silence around that is only made the more impressive by the faint sounds which occasionally disturb it. The very birds had hushed their cheery carols as though they knew that songs of mirth fall heavily upon a burdened mind. Was it the still small voice which spoke to Maida in that gentle scene--the voice which she refused to hear in the stormy blasts that had desolated her haughty spirit? for she wept. Placing her babe upon the turf, she clasped her hands, and looking upwards, exclaimed:

'Oh, God! Thou hast made everything pure and beautiful. Canst Thou look on me, the only evil here? Oh, God! if this be sin, forgive it for the sake of Him whose name I have forfeited to utter.'

Courage, Maida! thou hast breathed a prayer, and prayer was never yet denied, how long soever delayed the answer. It is stored for thee in Heaven's golden treasury, and yet must yield its plenteous harvest. She knelt and tried the mould. It was soft and crumbly, readily giving to her touch. There was a rustle in the bushes. She peered cautiously around. Nothing was to be seen. She continued her labour--another rustle--she sprang to her feet--all was quiet again. She had removed the earth about a foot's depth when a shout was heard. A man leaped from the hedge and clutched her arm.

'Halloo, missus! I've a-watched you this quarter hour--just to be sure what you're up to--if this yer an't seeing with one's own eyes, I'm blessed!'

Maida stretched her hand towards the child; the man laid his upon it.

'This yer's our article, if you please, missus. By Jingo! you're an old hand. Here we've been after you for one thing--a bit o' paper business--and we catches you up to another that beats t'other all hollow, or I ain't Bob Pragg.'

Here two constables appeared, and with a look of disapprobation at the ruffianly man, desired him to desist. Then quietly taking Maida's arms, they requested her to accompany them.

'Take up the child, Watkins,' said the elder constable; whispering, as the other obeyed, 'any signs or marks of violence?'

Watkins lifted the dead body, and, wrapping it in the shawl, carried it bundle-wise under his arm. Even this irreverence failed to attract Maida's attention. She was revolving some yet unfathomed mystery, or moulding some plan that yielded not readily to her wishes.

By an interchange of expressive nods, the constables had remarked Maida's start when they examined the corpse for marks of violence, and had noted it as a proof of guilt.

Ay, she had started, and with the start an intrepid thought had rushed into her mind--a thought whose purpose was to place Captain Norwell beyond reach of danger, because it should place her at the bar of justice in a different position of guilt.

'I have it!' she at last exclaimed; and a smile of triumph illumined her face. Then the old look of firm resolve stamped its awful though silent fiat upon her countenance. The mystery was explained, the plan moulded, the intrepid thought grappled with; that smile of triumph defied each one.

Arrested for forgery under the alias of Martha Grylls Maida Gwynnham was indicted at the next assizes for the wilful murder of her child, the bill of indictment for forgery being held subservient to the more terrible charge of murder.

In Maida's cupboard was found a bottle that awakened vivid suspicions against the prisoner. It was produced in court, and a shiver ran through the audience as from the skull and cross-bones the dreadful word 'poison' with unmistakable distinctness bore witness to the alleged guilt.

Some laudanum found in the stomach of the baby corroborated the testimony of the label on the phial.

Now comes the explanation of that smile that broke from the disdainful gloom of Maida's face. The same exultant smile burst forth when the foreman of the jury gave the verdict:

'We find Martha Grylls guilty of the wilful murder of her child.'

And, if possible, a still more victorious smile shone on the judge's declaration:

'Having been found guilty of the higher crime, which I shall sentence to the full rigour of the law, it were useless to urge the lesser charge against Martha Grylls.'

Then with solemn pathos, amidst the breathless hush of the Court, the judge drew the fatal symbol on his head, and pronounced the death warrant, which was received by the Court with one prolonged sob of smothered feeling, and welcomed by Maida Gwynnham as the benediction after a tedious sermon.

Norwell had not known what to understand by the unexpected charge brought against Maida. As one by one the proofs of her guilt were produced, he was staggered; they were unquestionable. The dreadful crime could, without doubt, be traced. True--he had seen the child lying dead, and Maida moaning over it; but may not she have murdered it for all that? and may not the moan have been that of remorse? Thus pondering, he glanced towards the bar--loath, very loath, we must admit it, to believe any harm of Maida; when a slight curl in the corners of her nether lip--a look he well comprehended--convinced him of her innocence more than a verdict for her could have done. When he perceived the fatal termination of the trial, even in the distance--too sick at heart to remain--he hurried from the court; and turning at the door to draw in one long gaze of Maida, their eyes met, and the fuel was added to the fire of her constancy; and its smoke smothered the last thought of restitution which had lingered in his heart.

Assured by a barrister that the sentence would be commuted to transportation for life, Norwell pacified himself with the thought, 'that will seem nothing after such a fright she would have had that otherwise,' and gladly crept out of the loophole opened by circumstance (Providence, he said) and still wider opened by the fair law of England; he crept out into--

The ball-room! No harm either--it was the assize ball.