MISS Cynthia Badlam was seated in a small parlor which she was
accustomed to consider her own during her long residences at The
Poplars. The entry stove warmed it but imperfectly, and she looked
pinched and cold, for the evenings were still pretty sharp, and the old
house let in the chill blasts, as old houses are in the habit of doing.
She was sitting at her table, with a little trunk open before her. She
had taken some papers from it, which she was looking over, when a knock
at her door announced a visitor, and Master Byles Gridley entered the
parlor.
As he came into the room, she gathered the papers together and replaced
them in the trunk, which she locked, throwing an unfinished piece
of needle-work over it, putting the key in her pocket, and gathering
herself up for company. Something of all this Master Gridley saw through
his round spectacles, but seemed not to see, and took his seat like a
visitor making a call of politeness.
A visitor at such an hour, of the male sex, without special provocation,
without social pretext, was an event in the life of the desolate
spinster. Could it be--No, it could not--and yet--and yet! Miss Cynthia
threw back the rather common-looking but comfortable shawl which covered
her shoulders, and showed her quite presentable figure, arrayed with a
still lingering thought of that remote contingency which might yet offer
itself at some unexpected moment; she adjusted the carefully plaited
cap, which was not yet of the lasciate ogni speranza pattern, and as
she obeyed these instincts of her sex, she smiled a welcome to the
respectable, learned, and independent bachelor. Mr. Gridley had a frosty
but kindly age before him, with a score or so of years to run, which it
was after all not strange to fancy might be rendered more cheerful by
the companionship of a well-conserved and amiably disposed woman, if any
such should happen to fall in his way.
That smile came very near disconcerting the plot of Master Byles
Gridley. He had come on an inquisitor's errand, his heart secure, as he
thought, against all blandishments, his will steeled to break down all
resistance. He had come armed with an instrument of torture worse than
the thumb-screw, worse than the pulleys which attempt the miracle of
adding a cubit to the stature, worse than the brazier of live coals
brought close to the naked soles of the feet,--an instrument which,
instead of trifling with the nerves, would clutch all the nerve-centres
and the heart itself in its gripe, and hold them until it got its
answer, if the white lips had life enough left to shape one. And here
was this unfortunate maiden lady smiling at him, setting her limited
attractions in their best light, pleading with him in that natural
language which makes any contumacious bachelor feel as guilty as Cain
before any single woman. If Mr. Gridley had been alone, he would have
taken a good sniff at his own bottle of sal volatile; for his kind heart
sunk within him as he thought of the errand upon which he had come. It
would not do to leave the subject of his vivisection under any illusion
as to the nature of his designs.
“Good evening, Miss Badlam,” he said, “I have come to visit you on a
matter of business.”
What was the internal panorama which had unrolled itself at the instant
of his entrance, and which rolled up as suddenly at the sound of
his serious voice and the look of his grave features? It cannot be
reproduced, though pages were given to it; for some of the pictures were
near, and some were distant; some were clearly seen, and some were only
hinted; some were not recognized in the intellect at all, and yet they
were implied, as it were, behind the others. Many times we have all
found ourselves glad or sorry, and yet we could not tell what thought it
was that reflected the sunbeam or cast the shadow. Look into Cynthia's
suddenly exalted consciousness and see the picture, actual and
potential, unroll itself in all its details of the natural, the
ridiculous, the selfish, the pitiful, the human. Glimpses, hints,
echoes, suggestions, involving tender sentiments hitherto unknown, we
may suppose, to that unclaimed sister's breast,--pleasant excitement
of receiving congratulations from suddenly cordial friends; the fussy
delights of buying furniture and shopping for new dresses,--(it seemed
as if she could hear herself saying, “Heavy silks,--best goods, if you
please,”)--with delectable thumping down of flat-sided pieces of calico,
cambric, “rep,” and other stiffs, and rhythmic evolution of measured
yards, followed by sharp snip of scissors, and that cry of rending
tissues dearer to woman's ear than any earthly sound until she hears
the voice of her own first-born, (much of this potentially,
remember,)--thoughts of a comfortable settlement, an imposing social
condition, a cheerful household, and by and by an Indian summer of
serene widowhood,--all these, and infinite other involved possibilities
had mapped themselves in one long swift flash before Cynthia's inward
eye, and all vanished as the old man spoke those few words. The look on
his face, and the tone of his cold speech, had instantly swept them all
away, like a tea-set sliding in a single crash from a slippery tray.
What could be the “business” on which he had come to her with that
solemn face?--she asked herself, as she returned his greeting and
offered him a chair. She was conscious of a slight tremor as she put
this question to her own intelligence.
“Are we like to be alone and undisturbed?” Mr. Gridley asked. It was
a strange question,--men do act strangely sometimes. She hardly knew.
whether to turn red or white.
“Yes, there is nobody like to come in at present,” she answered. She did
not know what to make of it. What was coming next,--a declaration, or an
accusation of murder?
“My business,” Mr. Gridley said, very gravely, “relates to this. I wish
to inspect papers which I have reason to believe exist, and which have
reference to the affairs of the late Malachi Withers. Can you help me
to get sight of any of these papers not to be found at the Registry of
Deeds or the Probate Office?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Gridley, but may I ask you what particular concern you
have with the affairs of my relative, Cousin Malachi Withers, that's
been dead and buried these half-dozen years?”
“Perhaps it would take some time to answer that question fully, Miss
Badlam. Some of these affairs do concern those I am interested in, if
not myself directly.”
“May I ask who the person or persons may be on whose account you wish to
look at papers belonging to my late relative, Malachi Withers?”
“You can ask me almost anything, Miss Badlam, but I should really be
very much obliged if you would answer my question first. Can you help me
to get a sight of any papers relating to the estate of Malachi Withers,
not to be found at the Registry of Deeds or the Probate Office,--any of
which you may happen to have any private and particular knowledge?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Gridley; but I don't understand why you come to
me with such questions. Lawyer Penhallow is the proper person, I
should think, to go to. He and his partner that was--Mr. Wibird, you
know--settled the estate, and he has got the papers, I suppose, if there
are any, that ain't to be found in the offices you mention.”
Mr. Gridley moved his chair a little, so as to bring Miss Badlam's face
a little more squarely in view.
“Does Mr. William Murray Bradshaw know anything about any papers, such
as I am referring to, that may have been sent to the office?”
The lady felt a little moisture stealing through all her pores, and at
the same time a certain dryness of the vocal organs, so that her
answer came in a slightly altered tone which neither of them could help
noticing.
“You had better ask Mr. William Murray Bradshaw yourself about that,”
she answered. She felt the hook now, and her spines were rising, partly
with apprehension, partly with irritation.
“Has that young gentleman ever delivered into your hands any papers
relating to the affairs of the late Malachi Withers, for your safe
keeping?”
“What do you mean by asking me these questions, Mr. Gridley? I don't
choose to be catechised about Murray Bradshaw's business. Go to him, if
you please, if you want to find out about it.”
“Excuse my persistence, Miss Badlam, but I must prevail upon you to
answer my question. Has Mr. William Murray Bradshaw ever delivered
into your hands any papers relating to the affairs of the late Malachi
Withers, for your safe keeping?”
“Do you suppose I am going to answer such questions as you are putting
me because you repeat them over, Mr. Gridley? Indeed I sha'n't. Ask him,
if you please, whatever you wish to know about his doings.”
She drew herself up and looked savagely at him. She had talked herself
into her courage. There was a color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her
eye; she looked dangerous as a cobra.
“Miss Cynthia Badlam,” Master Gridley said, very deliberately, “I am
afraid we do not entirely understand each other. You must answer my
question precisely, categorically, point-blank, and on the instant.
Will you do this at once, or will you compel me to show you the absolute
necessity of your doing it, at the expense of pain to both of us? Six
words from me will make you answer all my questions.”
“You can't say six words, nor sixty, Mr. Gridley, that will make me
answer one question I do not choose to. I defy you!”
“I will not say one, Miss Cynthia Badlam. There are some things one
does not like to speak in words. But I will show you a scrap of paper,
containing just six words and a date; not one word more nor one less.
You shall read them. Then I will burn the paper in the flame of your
lamp. As soon after that as you feel ready, I will ask the same question
again.”
Master Gridley took out from his pocket-book a scrap of paper, and
handed it to Cynthia Badlam. Her hand shook as she received it, for she
was frightened as well as enraged, and she saw that Mr. Gridley was in
earnest and knew what he was doing.
She read the six words, he looking at her steadily all the time, and
watching her as if he had just given her a drop of prussic acid.
No cry. No sound from her lips. She stared as if half stunned for one
moment, then turned her head and glared at Mr. Gridley as if she would
have murdered him if she dared. In another instant her face whitened,
the scrap of paper fluttered to the floor, and she would have followed
it but for the support of both Mr. Gridley's arms. He disengaged one of
them presently, and felt in his pocket for the sal volatile. It served
him excellently well, and stung her back again to her senses very
quickly. All her defiant aspect had gone.
“Look!” he said, as he lighted the scrap of paper in the flame. “You
understand me, and you see that I must be answered the next time I ask
my question.”
She opened her lips as if to speak. It was as when a bell is rung in a
vacuum,--no words came from them,--only a faint gasping sound, an effort
at speech. She was caught tight in the heart-screw.
“Don't hurry yourself, Miss Cynthia,” he said, with a certain relenting
tenderness of manner. “Here, take another sniff of the smelling-salts.
Be calm, be quiet,--I am well disposed towards you,--I don't like to
give you trouble. There, now, I must have the answer to that question;
but take your time, take your time.”
“Give me some water,--some water!” she said, in a strange hoarse
whisper. There was a pitcher of water and a tumbler on an old marble
sideboard near by. He filled the tumbler, and Cynthia emptied it as
if she had just been taken from the rack, and could have swallowed a
bucketful.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“I wish to know all that you can tell me about a certain paper, or
certain papers, which I have reason to believe Mr. William Murray
Bradshaw committed to your keeping.”
“There is only one paper of any consequence. Do you want to make him
kill me? or do you want to make me kill myself?”
“Neither, Miss Cynthia, neither. I wish to see that paper, but not for
any bad purpose. Don't you think, on the whole, you have pretty good
reason to trust me? I am a very quiet man, Miss Cynthia. Don't be afraid
of me; only do what I ask,--it will be a great deal better for you in
the end.”
She thrust her trembling hand into her pocket, and took out the key of
the little trunk. She drew the trunk towards her, put the key in the
lock, and opened it. It seemed like pressing a knife into her own bosom
and turning the blade. That little trunk held all the records of her
life the forlorn spinster most cherished;--a few letters that came
nearer to love-letters than any others she had ever received; an album,
with flowers of the summers of 1840 and 1841 fading between its leaves;
two papers containing locks of hair, half of a broken ring, and other
insignificant mementos which had their meaning, doubtless, to her,--such
a collection as is often priceless to one human heart, and passed by
as worthless in the auctioneer's inventory. She took the papers out
mechanically, and laid them on the table. Among them was an oblong
packet, sealed with what appeared to be the office seal of Messrs.
Penhallow and Bradshaw.
“Will you allow me to take that envelope containing papers, Miss
Badlam?” Mr. Gridley asked, with a suavity and courtesy in his tone and
manner that showed how he felt for her sex and her helpless position.
She seemed to obey his will as if she had none of her own left. She
passed the envelope to him, and stared at him vacantly while he examined
it. He read on the back of the package: “Withers Estate--old papers--of
no importance apparently. Examine hereafter.”
“May I ask when, where, and of whom you obtained these papers, Miss
Badlam?”
“Have pity on me, Mr. Gridley,--have pity on me. I am a lost woman if
you do not. Spare me! for God's sake, spare me! There will no wrong come
of all this, if you will but wait a little while. The paper will come
to light when it is wanted, and all will be right. But do not make me
answer any more questions, and let me keep this paper. O Mr. Gridley! I
am in the power of a dreadful man--”
“You mean Mr. William Murray Bradshaw?”
“I mean him.”
“Has there not been some understanding between you that he should become
the approved suitor of Miss Myrtle Hazard?”
Cynthia wrung her hands and rocked herself backward and forward in
her misery, but answered not a word. What could she answer, if she had
plotted with this “dreadful man” against a young and innocent girl, to
deliver her over into his hands, at the risk of all her earthly hopes
and happiness?
Master Gridley waited long and patiently for any answer she might have
the force to make. As she made none, he took upon himself to settle the
whole matter without further torture of his helpless victim.
“This package must go into the hands of the parties who had the
settlement of the estate of the late Malachi Withers. Mr. Penhallow is
the survivor of the two gentlemen to whom that business was intrusted.
How long is Mr. William Murray Bradshaw like to be away?”
“Perhaps a few days,--perhaps weeks,--and then he will come back and
kill me,--or--or--worse! Don't take that paper, Mr. Gridley,--he isn't
like you! you would n't--but he would--he would send me to everlasting
misery to gain his own end, or to save himself. And yet he is n't every
way bad, and if he did marry Myrtle she'd think there never was such a
man,--for he can talk her heart out of her, and the wicked in him lies
very deep and won't ever come out, perhaps, if the world goes right with
him.” The last part of this sentence showed how Cynthia talked with her
own conscience; all her mental and moral machinery lay open before the
calm eyes of Master Byles Gridley.
His thoughts wandered a moment from the business before him; he had
just got a new study of human nature, which in spite of himself would be
shaping itself into an axiom for an imagined new edition of “Thoughts on
the Universe,” something like this, “The greatest saint may be a sinner
that never got down to 'hard pan.'” It was not the time to be framing
axioms.
“Poh! poh!” he said to himself; “what are you about making phrases, when
you have got a piece of work like this in hand?” Then to Cynthia,
with great gentleness and kindness of manner: “Have no fear about any
consequences to yourself. Mr. Penhallow must see that paper--I mean
those papers. You shall not be a loser nor a sufferer if you do your
duty now in these premises.”
Master Gridley, treating her, as far as circumstances permitted, like a
gentleman, had shown no intention of taking the papers either stealthily
or violently. It must be with her consent. He had laid the package down
upon the table, waiting for her to give him leave to take it. But just
as he spoke these last words, Cynthia, whose eye had been glancing
furtively at it while he was thinking out his axiom, and taking her
bearings to it pretty carefully, stretched her hand out, and, seizing
the package, thrust it into the sanctuary of her bosom.
“Mr. Penhallow must see those papers, Miss Cynthia Badlam,” Mr. Gridley
repeated calmly. “If he says they or any of them can be returned to your
keeping, well and good. But see them he must, for they have his office
seal and belong in his custody, and, as you see by the writing on the
back, they have not been examined. Now there may be something among them
which is of immediate importance to the relatives of the late deceased
Malachi Withers, and therefore they must be forthwith submitted to the
inspection of the surviving partner of the firm of Wibird and Penhallow.
This I propose to do, with your consent, this evening. It is now
twenty-five minutes past eight by the true time, as my watch has it.
At half past eight exactly I shall have the honor of bidding you good
evening, Miss Cynthia Badlam, whether you give me those papers or not.
I shall go to the office of Jacob Penhallow, Esquire, and there make
one of two communications to him; to wit, these papers and the facts
connected therewith, or another statement, the nature of which you may
perhaps conjecture.”
There is no need of our speculating as to what Mr. Byles Gridley, an
honorable and humane man, would have done, or what would have been the
nature of that communication which he offered as an alternative to the
perplexed woman. He had not at any rate miscalculated the strength
of his appeal, which Cynthia interpreted as he expected. She bore the
heart-screw about two minutes. Then she took the package from her bosom,
and gave it with averted face to Master Byles Gridley, who, on receiving
it, made her a formal but not unkindly bow, and bade her good evening.
“One would think it had been lying out in the dew,” he said, as he left
the house and walked towards Mr. Penhallow's residence.