CHAPTER LVIII.
PUNCTUALLY at ten o'clock Helen returned to Frith Street, and found Mr.Undercliff behind a sort of counter, employed in tracing; a workman wasseated at some little distance from him; both bent on their work.
"Mr. Undercliff?" said Helen.
He rose and turned toward her politely--a pale, fair man, with a keengray eye and a pleasant voice and manner; "I am Edward Undercliff. Youcome by appointment?"
"Yes, sir."
"A question of handwriting?"
"Not entirely, sir. Do you remember giving witness in favor of a youngclergyman, Mr. Robert Penfold, who was accused of forgery?"
"I remember the circumstance, but not the details."
"Oh, dear! that is unfortunate," said Helen, with a deep sigh; she oftenhad to sigh now.
"Why, you see," said the expert, "I am called on such a multitude oftrials. However, I take notes of the principal ones. What year was itin?"
"In 1864."
Mr. Undercliff went to a set of drawers arranged chronologically, andfound his notes directly. "It was a forged bill, madam, indorsed andpresented by Penfold. I was called to prove that the bill was not in thehandwriting of Penfold. Here is my fac-simile of the Robert Penfoldindorsed upon the bill by the prisoner." He handed it her, and sheexamined it with interest.
"And here are fac-similes of genuine writing by John Wardlaw; and here isa copy of the forged note."
He laid it on the table before her. She started, and eyed it with horror.It was a long time before she could speak. At length she said, "And thatwicked piece of paper destroyed Robert Penfold."
"Not that piece of paper, but the original; this is a fac-simile, so faras the writing is concerned. It was not necessary in this case to imitatepaper and color. Stay, here is a sheet on which I have lithographed thethree styles; that will enable you to follow my comparison. But perhapsthat would not interest you." Helen had the tact to say it would. Thusencouraged, the expert showed her that Robert Penfold's writing hadnothing in common with the forged note. He added: "I also detected in theforged note habits which were entirely absent from the true writing ofJohn Wardlaw. You will understand there were plenty of undoubtedspecimens in court to go by."
"Then, oh, sir," said Helen, "Robert Penfold was not guilty."
"Certainly not of writing the forged note. I swore that, and I'll swearit again. But when it came to questions whether he had passed the note,and whether he knew it was forged, that was quite out of my province."
"I can understand that," said Helen; "but you heard the trial; you arevery intelligent, sir, you must have formed some opinion as to whether hewas guilty or not."
The expert shook his head. "Madam," said he, "mine is a profound anddifficult art, which aims at certainties. Very early in my career I foundthat to master that art I must be single-minded, and not allow my ear toinfluence my eye. By purposely avoiding all reasoning from externalcircumstances, I have distanced my competitors in expertise; but Isometimes think I have rather weakened my powers of conjecture throughdisuse. Now, if my mother had been at the trial, she would give you anopinion of some value on the outside facts. But that is not my line. Ifyou feel sure he was innocent, and want me to aid you, you must get holdof the handwriting of every person who was likely to know old Wardlaw'shandwriting, and so might have imitated it; all the clerks in his office,to begin with. Nail the forger; that is your only chance."
"What, sir!" said Helen, with surprise, "if you saw the true handwritingof the person who wrote that forged note, should you recognize it?"
"Why not? It is difficult; but I have done it hundreds of times."
"Oh! Is forgery so common?"
"No. But I am in all the cases; and, besides, I do a great deal in abusiness that requires the same kind of expertise--anonymous letters. Idetect assassins of that kind by the score. A gentleman or lady, down inthe country, gets a poisoned arrow by the post, or perhaps a shower ofthem. They are always in disguised handwriting; those who receive themsend them up to me, with writings of all the people they suspect. Thedisguise is generally more or less superficial; five or six unconscioushabits remain below it, and often these undisguised habits are the truecharacteristics of the writer. And I'll tell you something curious,madam; it is quite common for all the suspected people to be innocent;and then I write back, 'Send me the handwriting of the people you suspectthe least;' and among them I often find the assassin."
"Oh, Mr. Undercliff," said Helen, "you make my heart sick."
"Oh, it is a vile world, for that matter," said the expert; "and thecountry no better than the town, for all it looks so sweet with its greenfields and purling rills. There they sow anonymous letters like barley.The very girls write anonymous letters that make my hair stand on end.Yes, it is a vile world."
"Don't you believe him, miss," said Mrs. Undercliff, appearing suddenly.Then, turning to her son, "How can you measure the world? You live in alittle one of your own--a world of forgers and anonymous writers; you seeso many of these, you fancy they are common as dirt; but they are onlycommon to you because they all come your way."
"Oh, that is it, is it?" said the expert, doubtfully.
"Yes, that is it, Ned," said the old lady, quietly. Then after a pauseshe said "I want you to do your very best for this young lady."
"I always do," said the artist. "But how can I judge without materials?And she brings me none."
Mrs. Undercliff turned to Helen, and said: "Have you brought him nothingat all, no handwritings--in your bag?"
Then Helen sighed again. "I have no handwriting except Mr. Penfold's; butI have two printed reports of the trial."
"Printed reports," said the expert, "they are no use to me. Ah! here isan outline I took of the prisoner during the trial. You can read faces.Tell the lady whether he was guilty or not," and he handed the profile tohis mother with an ironical look; not that he doubted her proficiency inthe rival art of reading faces, but that he doubted the existence of theart.
Mrs. Undercliff took the profile, and, coloring slightly, said to MissRolleston: "It is living faces I profess to read. There I can see themovement of the eyes and other things that my son here has not studied."Then she scrutinized the profile. "It is a very handsome face," said she.
The expert chuckled. "There's a woman's judgment," said he. "Handsome!the fellow I got transported for life down at Exeter was an Adonis, andforged wills, bonds, and powers of attorney by the dozen."
"There's something noble about this face," said Mrs. Undercliff, ignoringthe interruption, "and yet something simple. I think him more likely tobe a cat's-paw than a felon." Having delivered this with a certain modestdignity, she laid the profile on the counter before Helen.
The expert had a wonderful eye and hand; it was a good thing for societyhe had elected to be gamekeeper instead of poacher, detector of forgeryinstead of forger. No photograph was ever truer than this outline. Helenstarted, and bowed her head over the sketch to conceal the strong andvarious emotions that swelled at sight of the portrait of her martyr. Invain; if the eyes were hidden, the tender bosom heaved, the graceful bodyquivered, and the tears fell fast upon the counter.
Mrs. Undercliff was womanly enough, though she looked like the late LordThurlow in petticoats; and she instantly aided the girl to hide herbeating heart from the man, though that man was her son. She distractedhis attention.
"Give me all your notes, Ned," said she, "and let me see whether I canmake something of them; but first perhaps Miss Rolleston will empty herbag on the counter. Go back to your work a moment, for I know you haveenough to do."
The expert was secretly glad to be released from a case in which therewere no materials; and so Helen escaped unobserved except by one of herown sex. She saw directly what Mrs. Undercliff had done for her, andlifted her sweet eyes, thick with tears, to thank her. Mrs. Undercliffsmiled maternally, and next these two ladies did a stroke of business inthe twinkling of an eye, and without a word spoken, whereof anon. Helenbeing once more composed, Mrs. Un
dercliff took up the prayer-book, andasked her with some curiosity what could be in that.
"Oh," said Helen, "only some writing of Mr. Penfold. Mr. Undercliff doesnot want to see that; he is already sure Robert Penfold never wrote thatwicked thing."
"Yes, but I should like to see some more of his handwriting, for allthat," said the expert, looking suddenly up.
"But it is only in pencil."
"Never mind; you need not fear I shall alter my opinion."
Helen colored high. "You are right; and I should disgrace my good causeby withholding anything from your inspection. There, sir."
And she opened the prayer-book and laid Cooper's dying words before theexpert; he glanced over them with an eye like a bird, and compared themwith his notes.
"Yes," said he, "that is Robert Penfold's writing; and I say again thathand never wrote the forged note."
"Let me see that," said Mrs. Undercliff.
"Oh, yes," said Helen, rather irresolutely; "but you look into the thingsas well as the writing, and I promised papa--"
"Can't you trust me?" said Mrs. Undercliff, turning suddenly cold and alittle suspicious.
"Oh, yes, madam; and indeed I have nothing to reproach myself with. Butmy papa is anxious. However, I am sure you are my friend; and all I askis that you will never mention to a soul what you read there."
"I promise that," said the elder lady, and instantly bent her black browsupon the writing. And, as she did so, Helen observed her countenancerise, as a face is very apt to do when its owner enters on congenialwork.
"You would have made a great mistake to keep this from _me,"_ said she,gravely. Then she pondered profoundly; then she turned to her son andsaid, "Why, Edward, this is the very young lady who was wrecked in thePacific Ocean, and cast on a desolate island. We have all read about youin the papers, miss; and I felt for you, for one, but, of course, not asI do now I have seen you. You must let me go into this with you."
"Ah, if you would!" said Helen. "Oh, madam, I have gone through torturesalready for want of somebody of my own sex to keep me in countenance! Oh,if you could have seen how I have been received, with what cold looks,and sometimes with impertinent stares, before I could even penetrate intothe region of those cold looks and petty formalities! Any miserable strawwas excuse enough to stop me on my errand of justice and mercy andgratitude."
"Gratitude?"
"Oh, yes, madam. The papers have only told you that I was shipwrecked andcast away. They don't tell you that Robert Penfold warned me the ship wasto be destroyed, and I disbelieved and affronted him in return, and henever reproached me, not even by a look. And we were in a boat with thesailors all starved--not hungry; starved--and mad with thirst, and yet inhis own agony he hid something for me to eat. All his thought, all hisfear, was for me. Such things are not done in those great extremities ofthe poor, vulgar, suffering body, except by angels in whom the soul risesabove the flesh. And he is such an angel. I have had a knife lifted overme to kill me, madam--yes; and again it was he who saved me. I owe mylife to him on the island over and over again; and in return I havepromised to give him back his honor, that he values far more than life,as all such noble spirits do. Ah, my poor martyr, how feebly I plead yourcause! Oh, help me! pray, pray, help me! All is so dark, and I so weak,so weak." Again the loving eyes streamed; and this time not an eye wasdry in the little shop.
The expert flung down his tracing with something between a groan and acurse. "Who can do that drudgery," he cried, "while the poor younglady-- Mother, you take it in hand; find me some material, though it is nobigger than a fly's foot, give me but a clew no thicker than a spider'sweb, and I'll follow it through the whole labyrinth. But you see I'mimpotent; there's no basis for me. It is a case for you. It wants ashrewd, sagacious body that can read facts and faces; and-- I won't jestany more, Miss Rolleston, for you are deeply in earnest. Well, then, shereally is a woman with a wonderful insight into facts and faces. She hasgot a way of reading them as I read handwriting; and she must have takena great fancy to you, for as a rule she never does us the honor tomeddle."
"Have you taken a fancy to me, madam?" said Helen, modestly and tenderly,yet half archly.
"That I have," said the other. "Those eyes of yours went straight into myheart last night, or I should not be here this morning. That is partlyowing to my own eyes being so dark and yours the loveliest hazel. It istwenty years since eyes like yours have gazed into mine. Diamonds are nothalf so rare, nor a tenth part so lovely, to my fancy."
She turned her head away, melted probably by some tender reminiscence. Itwas only for a moment. She turned round again, and said quietly, "Yes,Ned, I should like to try what I can do; I think you said these arereports of his trial. I'll begin by reading them."
She read them both very slowly and carefully, and her face grew like ajudge's, and Helen watched each shade of expression with deep anxiety.
That powerful countenance showed alacrity and hope at first. Then doubtand difficulty, and at last dejection. Helen's heart turned cold, and forthe first time she began to despair. For now a shrewd person, with aplain prejudice in her favor and Robert's, was staggered by the simplefacts of the trial.