“Of course, of course. But you’ll not think of keeping him to it, after what has passed. You would not have such a fine fellow as Frank pointed at as the brother-in-law of a forger, would you? It was far from what I wished for him before; but now! Why you’re glad your father is dead, rather than he should have lived to see this day; and rightly too, I think. And you’ll not go and disgrace Frank. From what Mr. Henry hears, Edward has been a discredit to you in many ways. Mr. Henry was at Woodchester yesterday, and he says if Edward has been fairly entered as an attorney, his name may be struck off the Rolls for many a thing he has done. Think of my Frank having his bright name tarnished by any connection with such a man! Mr. Henry says, even in a court of law what has come out about Edward would be excuse enough for a breach of promise of marriage.”
Maggie lifted up her wan face; the pupils of her eyes were dilated, her lips were dead white. She looked straight at Mr. Buxton with indignant impatience:
“Mr. Henry! Mr. Henry! What has Mr. Henry to do with me?”
Mr. Buxton was staggered by the wild, imperious look, so new upon her mild, sweet face. But he was resolute for Frank’s sake, and returned to the charge after a moment’s pause.
“Mr. Henry is a good friend of mine, who has my interest at heart. He has known what a subject of regret your engagement has been to me; though really my repugnance to it was without cause formerly, compared to what it is now. Now be reasonable, my dear. I’m willing to do something for you if you will do something for me. You must see what a stop this sad affair has put to any thoughts between you and Frank. And you must see what cause I have to wish to punish Edward for his ungrateful behavior, to say nothing of the forgery. Well now! I don’t know what Mr. Henry will say to me, but I have thought of this. If you’ll write a letter to Frank, just saying distinctly that, for reasons which must for ever remain a secret...”
“Remain a secret from Frank?” said Maggie, again lifting up her head. “Why?”
“Why? my dear! You startle me with that manner of yours--just let me finish out my sentence. If you’ll say that, for reasons which must forever remain a secret, you decidedly and unchangeably give up all connection, all engagement with him (which, in fact, Edward’s conduct has as good as put an end to), I’ll go over to Woodchester and tell Mr. Henry and the police that they need not make further search after Edward, for that I won’t appear against him. You can save your brother; and you’ll do yourself no harm by writing this letter, for of course you see your engagement is broken off. For you never would wish to disgrace Frank.”
He paused, anxiously awaiting her reply. She did not speak.
“I’m sure, if I appear against him, he is as good as transported,” he put in, after a while.
Just at this time there was a little sound of displaced china in the closet. Mr. Buxton did not attend to it, but Maggie heard it. She got up, and stood quite calm before Mr. Buxton.
“You must go,” said she. “I know you; and I know you are not aware of the cruel way in which you have spoken to me, while asking me to give up the very hope and marrow of my life”--she could not go on for a moment; she was choked up with anguish.
“It was the truth, Maggie,” said he, somewhat abashed.
“It was the truth that made the cruelty of it. But you did not mean to speak cruelly to me, I know. Only it is hard all at once to be called upon to face the shame and blasted character of one who was once an innocent child at the same father’s knee.”
“I may have spoken too plainly,” said Mr. Buxton, “but it was necessary to set the plain truth before you, for my son’s sake. You will write the letter I ask?”
Her look was wandering and uncertain. Her attention was distracted by sounds which to him had no meaning; and her judgment she felt was wavering and disturbed.
“I cannot tell. Give me time to think; you will do that, I’m sure. Go now, and leave me alone. If it is right, God will give me strength to do it, and perhaps He will comfort me in my desolation. But I do not know--I cannot tell. I must have time to think. Go now, if you please, sir,” said she, imploringly.
“I am sure you will see it is a right thing I ask of you,” he persisted.
“Go now,” she repeated.
“Very well. In two hours, I will come back again; for your sake, time is precious. Even while we speak he may be arrested. At eleven, I will come back.”
He went away, leaving her sick and dizzy with the effort to be calm and collected enough to think. She had forgotten for the moment how near Edward was; and started when she saw the closet-door open, and his face put out.
“Is he gone? I thought he never would go. What a time you kept him, Maggie! I was so afraid, once, you might sit down to write the letter in this room; and then I knew he would stop and worry you with interruptions and advice, so that it would never be ended; and my back was almost broken. But you sent him off famously. Why, Maggie! Maggie!--you’re not going to faint, surely!”
His sudden burst out of a whisper into a loud exclamation of surprise, made her rally; but she could not stand. She tried to smile, for he really looked frightened.
“I have been sitting up for many nights--and now this sorrow!” Her smile died away into a wailing, feeble cry.
“Well, well! it’s over now, you see. I was frightened enough myself this morning, I own; and then you were brave and kind. But I knew you could save me, all along.”
At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Browne came in.
“Why, Edward, dear! who would have thought of seeing you! This is good of you; what a pleasant surprise! I often said, you might come over for a day from Woodchester. What’s the matter, Maggie, you look so fagged? She’s losing all her beauty, is not she, Edward? Where’s breakfast? I thought I should find all ready. What’s the matter? Why don’t you speak?” said she, growing anxious at their silence. Maggie left the explanation to Edward.
“Mother,” said he, “I’ve been rather a naughty boy, and got into some trouble; but Maggie is going to help me out of it, like a good sister.”
“What is it?” said Mrs. Browne, looking bewildered and uneasy.
“Oh--I took a little liberty with our friend Mr. Buxton’s name; and wrote it down to a receipt--that was all.”
Mrs. Browne’s face showed that the light came but slowly into her mind.
“But that’s forgery--is not it?” asked she at length, in terror.
“People call it so,” said Edward; “I call it borrowing from an old friend, who was always willing to lend.”
“Does he know?--is he angry?” asked Mrs. Browne.
“Yes, he knows; and he blusters a deal. He was working himself up grandly at first. Maggie! I was getting rarely frightened, I can tell you.”
“Has he been here?” said Mrs. Browne, in bewildered fright.
“Oh, yes! he and Maggie have been having a long talk, while I was hid in the china-closet. I would not go over that half-hour again for any money. However, he and Maggie came to terms, at last.”
“No, Edward, we did not!” said Maggie, in a low quivering voice.
“Very nearly. She’s to give up her engagement, and then he will let me off.”
“Do you mean that Maggie is to give up her engagement to Mr. Frank Buxton?” asked his mother.
“Yes. It would never have come to anything, one might see that. Old Buxton would have held out against it till doomsday. And, sooner or later, Frank would have grown weary. If Maggie had had any spirit, she might have worked him up to marry her before now; and then I should have been spared even this fright, for they would never have set the police after Mrs. Frank Buxton’s brother.”
“Why, dearest, Edward, the police are not after you, are they?” said Mrs. Browne, for the first time alive to the urgency of the case.
“I believe they are though,” said Edward. “But after what Mr. Buxton promised this morning, it does not signify.”
“He did not promise anything,” said Maggie.
Edward turned s
harply to her, and looked at her. Then he went and took hold of her wrists with no gentle grasp, and spoke to her through his set teeth.
“What do you mean, Maggie?--what do you mean?” (giving her a little shake.) “Do you mean that you’ll stick to your lover through thick and thin, and leave your brother to be transported? Speak, can’t you?”
She looked up at him, and tried to speak, but no words came out of her dry throat. At last she made a strong effort.
“You must give me time to think. I will do what is right, by God’s help.”
“As if it was not right--and such can’t--to save your brother,” said he, throwing her hands away in a passionate manner.
“I must be alone,” said Maggie, rising, and trying to stand steadily in the reeling room. She heard her mother and Edward speaking, but their words gave her no meaning, and she went out. She was leaving the house by the kitchen-door, when she remembered Nancy, left alone and helpless all through this long morning; and, ill as she could endure detention from the solitude she longed to seek, she patiently fulfilled her small duties, and sought out some breakfast for the poor old woman.
When she carried it up stairs, Nancy said:
“There’s something up. You’ve trouble in your sweet face, my darling. Never mind telling me--only don’t sob so. I’ll pray for you, bairn: and God will help you.”
“Thank you, Nancy. Do!” and she left the room.
CHAPTER IX.
When she opened the kitchen-door there was the same small, mizzling rain that had obscured the light for weeks, and now it seemed to obscure hope.
She clambered slowly (for indeed she was very feeble) up the Fell-Lane, and threw herself under the leafless thorn, every small branch and twig of which was loaded with rain-drops. She did not see the well-beloved and familiar landscape for her tears, and did not miss the hills in the distance that were hidden behind the rain-clouds, and sweeping showers.
Mrs. Browne and Edward sat over the fire. He told her his own story; making the temptation strong; the crime a mere trifling, venial error, which he had been led into, through his idea that he was to become Mr. Buxton’s agent.
“But if it is only that,” said Mrs. Browne, “surely Mr. Buxton will not think of going to law with you?”
“It’s not merely going to law that he will think of, but trying and transporting me. That Henry he has got for his agent is as sharp as a needle, and as hard as a nether mill-stone. And the fellow has obtained such a hold over Mr. Buxton, that he dare but do what he tells him. I can’t imagine how he had so much free-will left as to come with his proposal to Maggie; unless, indeed, Henry knows of it--or, what is most likely of all, has put him up to it. Between them they have given that poor fool Crayston a pretty dose of it; and I should have come yet worse off if it had not been for Maggie. Let me get clear this time, and I will keep to windward of the law for the future.”
“If we sold the cottage we could repay it,” said Mrs. Browne, meditating. “Maggie and I could live on very little. But you see this property is held in trust for you two.”
“Nay, mother; you must not talk of repaying it. Depend upon it he will be so glad to have Frank free from his engagement, that he won’t think of asking for the money. And if Mr. Henry says anything about it, we can tell him it’s not half the damages they would have had to have given Maggie, if Frank had been extricated in any other way. I wish she would come back; I would prime her a little as to what to say. Keep a look out, mother, lest Mr. Buxton returns and find me here.”
“I wish Maggie would come in too,” said Mrs. Browne. “I’m afraid she’ll catch cold this damp day, and then I shall have two to nurse. You think she’ll give it up, don’t you, Edward? If she does not I’m afraid of harm coming to you. Had you not better keep out of the way?”
“It’s fine talking. Where am I to go out of sight of the police this wet day: without a shilling in the world too? If you’ll give me some money I’ll be off fast enough, and make assurance doubly sure. I’m not much afraid of Maggie. She’s a little yea-nay thing, and I can always bend her round to what we want. She had better take care, too,” said he, with a desperate look on his face, “for by G---- I’ll make her give up all thoughts of Frank, rather than be taken and tried. Why! it’s my chance for all my life; and do you think I’ll have it frustrated for a girl’s whim?”
“I think it’s rather hard upon her too,” pleaded his mother. “She’s very fond of him; and it would have been such a good match for her.”
“Pooh! she’s not nineteen yet, and has plenty of time before her to pick up somebody else; while, don’t you see, if I’m caught and transported, I’m done for life. Besides I’ve a notion Frank had already begun to be tired of the affair; it would have been broken off in a month or two, without her gaining anything by it.”
“Well, if you think so,” replied Mrs. Browne. “But I’m sorry for her. I always told her she was foolish to think so much about him: but I know she’ll fret a deal if it’s given up.”
“Oh! she’ll soon comfort herself with thinking that she has saved me. I wish she’d come. It must be near eleven. I do wish she would come. Hark! is not that the kitchen-door?” said he, turning white, and betaking himself once more to the china-closet. He held it ajar till he heard Maggie stepping softly and slowly across the floor. She opened the parlor-door; and stood looking in, with the strange imperceptive gaze of a sleep-walker. Then she roused herself and saw that he was not there; so she came in a step or two, and sat down in her dripping cloak on a chair near the door.
Edward returned, bold now there was no danger.
“Maggie!” said he, “what have you fixed to say to Mr. Burton?”
She sighed deeply; and then lifted up her large innocent eyes to his face.
“I cannot give up Frank,” said she, in a low, quiet voice.
Mrs. Browne threw up her hands and exclaimed in terror:
“Oh Edward, Edward! go away--I will give you all the plate I have; you can sell it--my darling, go!”
“Not till I have brought Maggie to reason,” said he, in a manner as quiet as her own, but with a subdued ferocity in it, which she saw, but which did not intimidate her.
He went up to her, and spoke below his breath.
“Maggie, we were children together--we two--brother and sister of one blood! Do you give me up to be put in prison--in the hulks--among the basest of criminals--I don’t know where--all for the sake of your own selfish happiness?”
She trembled very much; but did not speak or cry, or make any noise.
“You were always selfish. You always thought of yourself. But this time I did think you would have shown how different you could be. But it’s self--self--paramount above all.”
“Oh Maggie! how can you be so hard-hearted and selfish?” echoed Mrs. Browne, crying and sobbing.
“Mother!” said Maggie, “I know that I think too often and too much of myself. But this time I thought only of Frank. He loves me; it would break his heart if I wrote as Mr. Buxton wishes, cutting our lives asunder, and giving no reason for it.”
“He loves you so!” said Edward, tauntingly. “A man’s love break his heart! You’ve got some pretty notions! Who told you that he loved you so desperately? How do you know it?”
“Because I love him so,” said she, in a quiet, earnest voice. “I do not know of any other reason; but that is quite sufficient to me. I believe him when he says he loves me; and I have no right to cause him the infinite--the terrible pain, which my own heart tells me he would feel, if I did what Mr. Buxton wishes me.”
Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, that it was as quiet and fearless as a child’s; her brother’s fierce looks of anger had no power over her; and his blustering died away before her into something of the frightened cowardliness he had shown in the morning. But Mrs. Browne came up to Maggie; and took her hand between both of hers, which were trembling. “Maggie, you can save Edward. I know I have not loved you as I should have done; but I w
ill love and comfort you forever, if you will but write as Mr. Buxton says. Think! Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, but may come over and see you, and all may be right, and yet Edward may be saved. It is only writing this letter; you need not stick to it.”
“No!” said Edward. “A signature, if you can prove compulsion, is not valid. We will all prove that you write this letter under compulsion; and if Frank loves you so desperately, he won’t give you up without a trial to make you change your mind.”
“No!” said Maggie, firmly. “If I write the letter I abide by it. I will not quibble with my conscience. Edward! I will not marry--I will go and live near you, and come to you whenever I may--and give up my life to you if you are sent to prison; my mother and I will go, if need be--I do not know yet what I can do, or cannot do, for you, but all I can I will; but this one thing I cannot.”
“Then I’m off!” said Edward. “On your deathbed may you remember this hour, and how you denied your only brother’s request. May you ask my forgiveness with your dying breath, and may I be there to deny it you.”
“Wait a minute!” said Maggie, springing up, rapidly. “Edward, don’t curse me with such terrible words till all is done. Mother, I implore you to keep him here. Hide him--do what you can to conceal him. I will have one more trial.” She snatched up her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to think or speak to arrest her.
On she flew along the Combehurst road. As she went, the tears fell like rain down her face, and she talked to herself.
“He should not have said so. No! he should not have said so. We were the only two.” But still she pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather. She saw Mr. Buxton coming; and she went still quicker. The rain had cleared off, and a yellow watery gleam of sunshine was struggling out. She stopped or he would have passed her unheeded; little expecting to meet her there.
“I wanted to see you,” said she, all at once resuming her composure, and almost assuming a dignified manner. “You must not go down to our house; we have sorrow enough there. Come under these fir-trees, and let me speak to you.”
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 312