THE FORGERY.
One day as Cecil was sauntering down Piccadilly, he was astonished to
see Frank Forrester, in a superb cab, with tiger behind, drive up to
Burlington Arcade, and there, arrayed in dashing style, step out as
if the lord and master of three thousand a year, at least.
The contrast between his appearance at that moment, and the last time
Cecil had seen him, when in the final stage of seediness, he had
gambled away even his dinner, so amazed Cecil, that he rubbed his
eyes as one awaking from a dream.
"Ah! Cis, my boy, how are you?" said Frank, grasping him by the
hand. "Why, you're quite a stranger.--I am so glad to see you.
Flourishing now, damn my whiskers! flourishing, Cis, as you
perceive. Nobby style, eh? Correct thing that, I hope."
"Quite--But whence this change?"
"Oh! tell you that presently. Just step up the arcade with me.--I'm
only going to look in upon Jeffs, to see if Paul de Kock's last novel
has arrived, and then command me."
He put his arm within Cecil's, and marched up the arcade, playing
with an elegant watch-chain which drooped from his waistcoat button,
and winking at every woman they passed.
When they turned into Jeffs' shop, that worthy bibliopole, albeit
accustomed daily to a strange variety of customers, from noblemen and
their flunkies, to dingy, sallow, foreigners, redolent of garlic, and
bearded like pards, opened his eyes at such a strange apparition as
the resplendent, insolent Frank, arm in arm with the careworn,
battered, shabby, Cecil.
"Paul de Kock arrived yet?" said Frank.
"No, sir," replied Jeffs, "but we expect our case to-morrow."
"I think your to-morrow never arrives--at any rate, your case doesn't
arrive with it. Is your case a pleasing fiction, or a reality?"
"It will be here to-morrow, sir, I have no doubt. In fact I expected
it yesterday."
"Well, then, send me up Paul de Kock the instant you get it; will
you?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Come along, Cis, my boy."
"You are quite a _grand seigneur_, I perceive, Frank," said Cecil, as
they strolled out of the shop. "Cab--tiger--chains--French
novels--have you come into an inheritance?"
"Something like it, but jump into my cab, and I'll tell you all about
it."
They got in, and Frank, handling the reins with no small degree of
pride, drove into the Park, and thus explained his present fortune.
"The fact is, Cis, I have discovered the true method of playing. I
broke the bank at No. 14, last Saturday; and have won no trifle
since. You see all the martingales yet invented have some inherent
imperfection. They go smoothly enough in theory; but damn the
practice, say I!"
"Is not yours a martingale, then?'
"No: it is simply playing with skill. To explain it in a few words:
you know that there are constantly runs upon a colour; sometimes it
is the red, sometimes the black. You also know that they dodge
about, and that the red will alternately win and lose every
successive coup. My plan is to wait quietly while the game is
dodging, and directly I see a run, I back in heavily. If the red has
turned up three times, the chances are, that there is to be a run on
that colour, and I back it till it loses. D'ye understand?'
"Perfectly. But I don't so clearly see how you must win at it."
"Bah--_that's_ the very best proof! In every martingale, don't you
on the contrary clearly see how you must win, but does that prevent
your losing when you begin to play? So, you may not see how I must
win, but I see how I do win--that's enough for me."
They dined together that day, and Frank, who had a box at Drury Lane,
proposed that Cecil should accompany him, but Cecil was too unwell,
and went home brooding on his friend's prosperity, and playing
imaginary games with fantastic success.
All the next day he was moody and irritable. He would not even
notice his child, but walked up and down his small room, or sat with
his feet on the fender, cowering over the fire, his head buried in
his hands.
Towards evening, he wrote to Captain Heath a hypocritical letter, the
object of which was, as may be expected, to extract a few pounds from
him. He was less moody after sending this off; but Blanche observed
a strange wandering in his thoughts.
On the morrow he received a cold, firm answer from the captain, who
stated that he had already advanced as much money on the picture as
he could afford to pay for it, and that he was therefore forced to
refuse.
"Damn him!" Cecil muttered, as he read the letter and crumpled it
between his fingers.
Blanche guessed the contents by that action; but she made no remark.
For at least an hour did he sit looking fixedly on the ground,
keeping the crumpled letter in his closed hand; and then she saw him
slowly open it, smooth the paper, and examine it attentively. While
she was thus watching his countenance, curious as to what could be
his motive for examining so minutely a handwriting he knew, he
suddenly looked up at her. A strange expression distorted his face
as he shouted,--
"What the devil are you looking at me for?"
"I ... I ... Cecil..."
"You don't suspect anything, do you?" he fiercely asked.
"Suspect, Cecil; and what?"
"What's that to you?" he said brusquely, and again turned away his
head.
She began to fear that he was getting insane.
"Are you not well, dearest?"
"No."
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing. Don't bother me! It must be near dinner, is it not?"
"Yes. Are you hungry?"
"Very; go and see about it."
She left the room.
A few minutes afterwards he was seated at the table, with Captain
Heath's letter before him, carefully copying the writing, and
comparing his copy with the original. He smiled grimly at his own
success; and after several further trials, he forged a check for
eighty pounds, which he had just folded and thrust into his waistcoat
pocket, when Blanche returned with the dinner.
His agitation and the eager manner with which he caught up some
scraps of paper, and threw them into the fire, did not escape her.
He sat down to dinner, but he could not swallow a morsel; and his
hand shook so, that he dared not venture to raise it to his mouth.
"You are ill, dearest," she said. "I am sure you are."
"Pooh! it's want of exercise. I will take a walk."
"Do not go out such weather as this; see how fast the snow falls."
"It won't hurt me. I must go out."
She dared not further interpose; and in a few minutes he was gone.
Left alone, she meditated on the singular change in his manner--on
his fierceness when he had observed her watching him--his
paleness--his agitation--and his throwing those pieces of paper into
the fire.
She opened his writing-case. There, among some loose pieces of blank
paper, she found one with some writing on it. A film overspread her
eyes, as she recognised in it a copy of Captain Heath's writing--so
like it, that had not the characters been traced on a stray slip of
paper, she could never have suspected it to be other than his writing.
Rushing upon her like an overwhelming tide, came the swift and
terrible thoughts which revealed that her husband had committed a
forgery. In the desperate hope that she might not yet be too late to
save him from the last act--that she might yet meet him at the
banker's and save him--she threw a shawl around her, put on her
bonnet, and in an instant she was in a cab driving furiously to
Charing Cross; in her anxiety too much excited to feel the horror of
her situation.
As the cab dashed round the corner, by Charles the First's statue,
she saw Cecil hurry from Messrs. Drummonds' banking-house. She saw
no more: her brain swam round. When the driver opened the cab door,
he found her in a swoon.
It did not last long: she recovered herself; and wildly looking round
her, remembered in an instant all that had passed.
"To South Audley Street!" she impatiently exclaimed.
To Captain Heath's she drove, and astonished the servant very much by
hurrying up stairs, and rushing into the room as if life and death
depended on her speed.
"Good God, Blanche! what is this?" he exclaimed, as the half lifeless
woman threw herself speechless into his arms.
It was a long time before she could speak; and even then, in such
incoherent sentences that it was with difficulty Heath understood
what she meant to tell him; but he found that it was something
terrible, and about Cecil; and he redoubled his attention, trying to
piece together into a coherent narrative, the broken utterances of
this wretched wife.
At last he understood her, and tears of deep compassion stood in his
eyes as he said,--
"Cheer up, dear Blanche, cheer up! It is not so bad after all. You
terrified me at first. He has only drawn on me in anticipation. You
know I still owe him money for the picture,--he has paid himself,--he
was doubtless close pressed."
"But," she sobbed, "he has forged."
"He has been irregular, that is all; he should have warned me of it.
However, now you have told me, it is all safe. Quiet yourself."
"Oh, that I should have lived for this!"
"Courage, courage."
"Dishonoured! My Cecil dishonoured!"
"Not yet, Blanche. He has been imprudent, that is all--imprudent."
"Dishonoured!" she exclaimed, distractedly.
"Do you not see, that now I am informed of what has passed I shall be
on my guard? He has been imprudent; no one knows it but ourselves.
You can gently point out to him the imprudence--and he is saved.
Only yesterday I heard of a situation for him in the Colonies--an
excellent place. Away from England, he will have broken from his
present connexion, and lose his unfortunate habits. A new sphere
will call forth fresh energy. He may be saved yet, Blanche; only
take courage."
She took his hand, and kissed it in mute thankfulness, but her sobs
still tore her bosom, and all his persuasion could not calm her.
Now that she felt the great danger was past, she had time to feel the
immensity of the blow--she could grieve.
Heath allowed her to weep without trying to soothe her; for he saw
that the great crisis was over; and silently compassionating the
sorrow of this broken-hearted creature, to dry whose eyes, he would
have sold the world, he sat by her side holding her hand, from time
to time replying to its convulsive pressure.
She rose at last to go home. He accompanied her to the door--saw her
take Rose Blanche from the servant girl, and cover it with frantic
kisses; and then departed sad and thoughtful to his own solitary home.
He could not, in his sympathy with her, forbear picturing to himself
the contrast of what her fate would have been had she married him
instead of Cecil; nor could he refrain from bitterly commenting on
the truth of his own prophecies that Cecil would make her unhappy.
No lover ever believes that his beloved can possibly be happy with
his rival; but Heath had too clearly read Cecil's character, not to
feel assured that, rivalry out of the question, Blanche was badly
matched in wedding one so weak and selfish.