Chapter VIII: 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.