THE DENUNCIATION.
If Margaret had been calm in her interview with Jacob Wynne, it was an
unnatural calmness. Beneath the surface there were eddies of passionate
emotion which must, sooner or later, force their way to the light.
A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over her when, relieved from the
restraint which she had put upon herself in Jacob’s presence, she found
herself standing alone on the sidewalk beneath. Her strength, which had
been only kept up thus far by excitement, now gave way utterly, and she
leaned, faint and exhausted, against the side of the building. Even that
proved an insufficient support. Her limbs tottered, and she fell upon
the pavement.
When consciousness returned, she found herself surrounded by a crowd of
persons, most of whom had been attracted by curiosity, and only one or
two of whom proved of real service.
“Are you feeling better?” inquired a motherly-looking woman, gazing
compassionately at the wan and wasted features of Margaret.
“Where am I?” asked Margaret, looking half bewildered at the questioner.
“You have fainted on the sidewalk. I am afraid you are not strong.”
“No. I have been sick. But I remember now. I should like to see a
lawyer.”
Even in her weakness and physical prostration, she had not lost sight of
what must henceforth be her object—revenge upon him whose perfidy and
utter heartlessness she had now so fully proved.
“You mean a doctor,” said the woman, a little surprised.
“No,” repeated Margaret, with a touch of impatience in her voice. “I
want a lawyer.”
At this moment, a man in a white hat and with a very bland expression
upon his features, which, however, could not boast a remarkable degree
of beauty, elbowed his way vigorously through the crowd. With a graceful
inclination, Mr. Sharp, whom the reader will already have recognized
from the description given, proclaimed that he was an humble attorney at
her service.
“If you are a lawyer, I wish to consult you, but not before so many
people,” said Margaret, glancing at the curious faces of the bystanders.
“I will procure a carriage, madam,” said Mr. Sharp, with his usual
affability, “and we will proceed at once to my office, where we shall
run no risk of being disturbed.”
This course was accordingly taken, somewhat to the disappointment of
certain good people, who were burning for a solution of the mystery
which they were convinced existed somewhere.
In a few minutes Margaret was installed in Mr. Sharp’s office, and that
gentleman, with professional zeal and a lively hope that the lady before
him might prove a more profitable client than the state of her attire
seemed to promise, waited patiently for his visitor to announce her
business.
Margaret seemed to be lost in reflection, as if her mind were not wholly
made up about some matter. Fearing that she might not broach the subject
at all, and that he might thus lose the chance of the client which fate
seemed to have thrown in his way just as he had lost Lewis Rand, Mr.
Sharp thought it best to give her a gentle hint.
“As a lawyer, madam, I shall be glad to exert myself in your behalf to
the best of my professional ability. Will you have the kindness, as soon
as your strength is sufficiently restored, to state your case?”
Margaret aroused from her stupor. “Can you tell me,” she asked,
abruptly, “what punishment the law provides for forgery?”
The lawyer was taken by surprise. He wondered if his visitor had
committed, or perchance was contemplating such a crime, and wished to
learn how great a risk it involved.
“Forgery did I understand you to say, madam?” he inquired, partly with a
view to gain time.
“Yes.”
“Imprisonment for a term of years.”
“You are sure it is not punished with death,” she asked, eagerly.
“Not in this country. There was a time when it was so punished in
England.”
“How long is the usual term of imprisonment?”
“That depends, in some measure, upon the discretion of the court, which
is regulated by attendant circumstances. Possibly,” said the lawyer,
hazarding a conjecture, as Margaret remained silent, “you have a friend,
a relation perhaps (pardon me if I am wrong), who has been
unfortunate,”—a delicate way of hinting at crime,—“and in whose behalf
you have now come to consult me?”
“A friend!” repeated Margaret, with a bitter smile.
“I thought it possible,” said Mr. Sharp, mistaking her tone for one of
assent. “Well, madam, you must not allow yourself to be too much cast
down. I can easily conceive that your anxiety is aroused in your
friend’s behalf, but if one has ingenuity there are always methods of
evading the law, and if you will confide the case to me, I hope to
succeed in clearing your friend.”
“That is just what I do not wish.”
“Pardon me,” said the lawyer, in surprise. “I do not think I understand
you.”
“You do not. In the first place, it is not a friend in whose welfare I
am interested.”
“A relation?” suggested Mr. Sharp, still in the dark.
“He is nothing to me,—nothing, do you hear?” exclaimed Margaret, with
fierce emphasis. “At least, not now. What he has been it is needless for
you to know, or me to remember. Enough, that I have reason to hate him,
that I wish to be revenged upon him, and that I ask you to lend me your
assistance.”
“Explain the case, madam, if you please. I will give you my best
attention.”
“I have sworn to be revenged upon him, and I will,” said Margaret,
hoarsely, rather to herself than to the lawyer. “There shall be no
flinching now.”
She pressed her hand upon her breast, as if to still forcibly suppress
any remonstrance that might find a place there.
“This man,” she continued, in a hurried tone, “has committed forgery. As
yet, it is undiscovered. I wish him brought to justice.”
“What has he forged?”
“A will.”
“A will!” repeated Mr. Sharp, pricking up his ears with sudden interest.
“May I ask how you became acquainted with the fact?”
“I witnessed the deed.”
“Was the party aware of your presence?”
“Far from it. He supposed the knowledge confined to himself and one
other, who instigated him to the act, and rewarded him for it. He
supposed me asleep, but I saw and heard the whole from a place of
concealment.”
“This man is, I suppose, a copyist,—a professional writer?”
“Yes.”
“And the one who employed him,—do you know his name?” asked the lawyer,
with hardly concealed eagerness.
“It is Rand.”
“Rand!” echoed Mr. Sharp, triumphantly. “I suspected so.”
“Then you knew of this?” queried Margaret, surprised in her turn.
“No, but I am not surprised to hear it. I know Lewis Rand. He has been a
client of mine.”
“You will not thwart my plans?” said Margaret, apprehensively.
“On the contrary, what you have told me gives an additional inducement
to further them, since I have purposes of my own which will be served
thereby. Have you any corroborative evidence? Your testimony,
unsupported, might not be deemed sufficient.”
“I have this,” said Margaret, displaying the fragment of paper which she
had secured on her return from Staten Island, and which, as the reader
will remember, contained the name, Rand, several times repeated in
Jacob’s handwriting, as well as detached sentences of the will itself.
The handwriting was a close imitation of the original will.
“Ah!” said the lawyer, rubbing his hands; “that is very satisfactory.
With this and your testimony, the chain of proof will be complete.
Nothing stronger could be desired.”
“Then you think we shall succeed.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Whatever is to be done must be done quickly,” said Margaret, with a
certain feverish haste; for, now that her mind was made up, her restless
spirit craved immediate action. “This man—the copyist—is about to remove
from his old lodgings, and, if there is any delay, he will escape.
Besides, if he is apprehended at once, he will be found in possession of
the price of his guilt.”
“That will doubtless weigh against him. If you will furnish me with his
address, I will take measures to have him immediately arrested.”
The address was given and noted down. The lawyer still held the pen
suspended over the paper. “His name,—you have not mentioned that.”
Margaret hesitated. There was a brief internal conflict between her old
love and her present desire of revenge. The latter prevailed.
“His name,” she said, in a voice which was scarcely audible, “is Jacob
Wynne.”
“Jacob Wynne! Good!”
Mr. Sharp noted down the name in a business-like way, utterly
unconscious of the struggle in the mind of his client, before she could
resolve to utter it. When, however, it was pronounced, and she felt that
the decisive step was taken, her mind, as is common in such cases,
became more tranquil, and she composed herself to wait for the event.
“Will you remain here,” asked Mr. Sharp, “while I go out and cause this
man to be arrested? I will be back shortly, and will then report
progress.”
Margaret inclined her head in the affirmative. Indeed, she had no other
place to go, and she was already so exhausted that she could not go out
into the streets, and wander hither and thither, as she must otherwise
have done.