 | CHAPTER XXX.
MASTER BYLES GRIDLEY CALLS ON MISS CYNTHIA BADLAM. The guardian angel |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
MASTER BYLES GRIDLEY CALLS ON MISS CYNTHIA BADLAM.
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
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 stuffs, 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
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
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
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
her, — such a collection as if 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
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 is n'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
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
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.
| CHAPTER XXX.
MASTER BYLES GRIDLEY CALLS ON MISS CYNTHIA BADLAM. The guardian angel | |