Helen Ford

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE UNBIDDEN GUEST

I cannot explain why it was, that the unexpected ringing of the bell led to the same thought in the minds of the sick man and his nephew. Sudden fear blanched the face of Lewis; a hopeful look stole over the old man’s face.

“Go, Lewis,” he said. “Perhaps it is Robert.”

“Heaven forbid!” muttered Lewis, as he hastened from the room.

The sound of contending voices struck upon the ear of Lewis Rand, as he hurriedly descended the staircase to the hall. The outer door had been opened, and the servant was endeavoring to impress upon the visitor, in obedience to directions he had received, that there was sickness in the house, and that he could not be admitted.

“Lead me to his chamber,” said Robert Ford, pale with excitement, “I must see him. He is my father.”

The servant looked in his agitated face, and moved aside that he might pass.

Lewis encountered him at the foot of the stairs. They looked at each other—those long-estranged cousins—a moment in silence. Lewis was as pale as death. His lips were compressed and bloodless. The shadow of failure darkened his way. Dismay and anger and strong disappointment struggled with him for the mastery. Robert was calmer. He would not have been human if the sight of his cousin had not awakened within him a feeling of resentment. But this was swallowed up by a feeling yet stronger—the desire to see his father.

“Where is my father, Lewis?” he demanded. “Tell me quickly.”

He was about to pass, when his cousin stepped before him.

“Hold!” he exclaimed, in a quick, hoarse voice. “Would you endanger your father’s life? He is in a most critical condition. The least excitement may kill him.”

Robert hesitated for a moment. After a separation of eighteen years he stood within a few feet of his father, and was forbidden to enter his presence. Nothing short of the urgent reason adduced by Lewis, would have stopped him for a moment.

“Is my father, then, so ill?” he asked, with emotion. “Why, oh why did you not send for me before?”

“Do you think I would not if I had known where to find you?” said Lewis, ignorant how far Robert had been apprised of his machinations.

“I cannot tell,” said Robert, shaking his head. “There was a time, Lewis, when I could not have deemed you capable of it.”

“And why should you now?”

“I cannot tell you at present; but I must see my father.”

“I tell you again,” said Lewis, vehemently, “that if you see him, it will be at the peril of his life. It hangs upon a thread.”

Meanwhile Mr. Rand had listened with feverish anxiety to the voices which he could indistinctly hear. A wild hope had sprung up in his heart. Oh, for the power to rise from his bed and satisfy himself at once. Alas, this could not be! At length, as the speakers raised their voices, he thought he could distinguish the word “father.” His agitation reached a fearful pitch. He raised his voice as high as his feeble strength would permit, and called “Robert!”

That word reached the ears of Robert Ford. Nothing could stop him now. He pushed Lewis aside, scarcely conscious what he did, and a moment after found him kneeling at his father’s bedside.

“Father, forgive me!”

The old man, with an effort, stretched out his thin and wasted hand, and placed it tremulous with weakness upon the head of his kneeling son.

“God, I thank thee,” he uttered, reverently, “for this hour. This my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found. Robert, I have forgiven you long ago. Can you forgive me?”

“Do you then ask my forgiveness, O my father?”

“Yes, Robert. My heart has long since confessed the wrong it did you. Can you forgive me?”

“Freely, freely, my father.”

“Now can I die content,” said Mr. Rand, with a deep sigh of relief. “For many, many years I have waited and looked forward to this hour. I could not believe that God would suffer me to die till I had seen you.”

“Die!” repeated Robert, in a sorrowful tone.

“Yes, Robert, you have come at the eleventh hour.”

“And for months I have lived within two miles of you, and never guessed your nearness.”

“Did you not see my advertisement?”

“Never.”

“How is this?” said Mr. Rand, puzzled. “In what papers was it inserted, Lewis?”

Lewis stood at the door, an apprehensive listener. For obvious reasons he did not choose to obey this call.

“It may be because I seldom look at the papers,” said Robert, not wishing to agitate his father with the intelligence of his cousin’s treachery.

“But others must have seen it,” persisted Mr. Rand. “Why did they not tell you?”

“I passed by a different name,” explained Robert. “None that knew me—and these were but few—could guess my identity with Robert Rand.”

At his father’s request Robert gave a brief account of the eighteen years of separation. He sat with his father’s hand resting in his. As he concluded, a convulsion passed over the old man’s features. He clasped Robert’s hand convulsively. The son leaned forward, hoping to catch the words that seemed struggling for utterance. He could only distinguish “my will—reparation.”

These were the last words that passed the lips of the dying man.

He breathed his life out in the effort, and fell back—dead!

Robert had, indeed, come at the eleventh hour. Yet had he not come too late to make his father’s death-bed happy. A peaceful smile rested upon the worn face. His life had closed happily.

Meanwhile what had become of Lewis?

It was difficult for him at first to collect his thoughts at this most unexpected occurrence.

At first he thought, “All is lost. My hopes are blasted!”

His second thought, when he had recovered from the momentary shock of his cousin’s appearance, was, “It may not be as bad as I fear. The old man cannot live long. This very excitement will probably prove too much for him in his present weak state. During the short time he has to live, it is not probable that anything will happen to disarrange my plans. In the first place, he thinks that his will provides for his son. And so his true will does! But I have taken care that this shall not be brought forward. My uncle and cousin will probably spend the time in sentimentalizing. It will be well for me not to intrude upon this interview, or I may be asked some awkward questions. Lewis Rand, this is the turning-point of your fortunes. Be discreet for a short time, and all may yet be well.”

There was one point that Lewis did not understand. How his cousin could have learned of his father’s presence in the city. He did not suspect Mr. Sharp’s fidelity, but thought it possible that he might, by some blunder, have revealed to Robert that of which he should have been kept ignorant. At all events the lawyer was the only one likely to yield him any satisfaction upon this point. Accordingly, willing to be out of the way for the present, he seized his hat, and hastened to the office of his confidential agent.

Mr. Sharp was, it must be confessed, awaiting with no little anxiety and curiosity, the result of Mr. Ford’s visit, which might so materially effect his own interests.

There was a sharp knock at the door. He rose and opened it.

Lewis entered in great evident perturbation.

“Bless me, what’s the matter?” exclaimed Mr. Sharp, in affected surprise.

“You may well ask me what’s the matter.”

“You don’t mean to say–”

“I do mean to say that all my plans are menaced with defeat.”

“But, how?”

“My cousin Robert is at this moment with his father.”

“Good heavens!” ejaculated the lawyer, in admirably counterfeited consternation. “How did this come about?”

“That is more than I can pretend to say. I came to you for the sake of obtaining information.”

“Which I am wholly unable to afford.”

Lewis threw himself upon a chair.

“To think,” he exclaimed, bitterly, “that this should happen when I am just within reach of success. Twenty-four hours more, and it would probably have been too late!”

“How?”

“I mean that my uncle probably has not twenty-four hours lease of life, unless this meeting revives him. The probability is, that it will have a contrary effect.”

“Do you consider that you have lost all?”

“Fortunately, no. I am in hopes that this interview will, after all, prove of no advantage to my cousin.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Sharp, rubbing his hands with apparent delight, but secret anxiety, beginning for the first time to feel that he would not be recompensed for his treachery.

“Yes. It is not likely that my uncle will be able to make a new will, and the present one I shall be very well contented with.”

“Confusion!” thought the lawyer. “I wish I could only see the old gentleman, and whisper a few words in his ear.”

If Lewis had not been too much absorbed in calculating his own chance, he might have noticed that Mr. Sharp’s wonted affability had deserted him, and that he, too, seemed preoccupied.

CHAPTER XXX.
PALLIDA MORS

After his interview with the lawyer, Lewis took his way home; his heart alternately cheered with hope, or disturbed by apprehension. On the whole, however, hope predominated. It was based on the knowledge that neither his uncle nor his cousin were men of business, and at this moment both would have too many other things to think of to recur to that which he dreaded.

As he opened the outer door, he met a servant in the hall.

“How is my uncle, now, Jane?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir; I haven’t been up stairs since you went away.”

“Is my—is the gentleman that came in a little while ago still here?” he inquired, anxiously.

“Yes, sir, I think so; I haven’t seen him go out.”

“Have you heard any talking? I am afraid my uncle will be too much excited by a visitor at this time.”

“I heard a faint murmur like as if they were talking awhile ago, but I haven’t heard anything for a few minutes. May I be so bold as to ask if the gentleman is a relation, sir?”

“Yes,” said Lewis, shortly. “You say you have heard no sound proceeding from the room for a few minutes?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps he is dead,” thought Lewis, hopefully. “At any rate, I will go up and see.”

“That will do,” he said to the servant, who was still in waiting. “I am going up into my uncle’s room, and if I should want you I will ring.”

“I wonder who the gentleman is,” said the servant, to herself. “He said Mr. Rand was his father. I never heard that he had a son, for my part. If he is, I suppose he will inherit the property. I wonder how Mr. Lewis will like that. Well, I don’t much care if he is disappointed, for I don’t like him, and never did.”

The dictatorial manner of Lewis had not gained him friends among the servants, and none of them could be expected to feel a very profound sorrow for any reverses which fate might have in store for him.

Lewis Rand softly ascended the stairs, and entered his uncle’s bed-chamber.

It needed only a glance to assure him that his wish was granted. His heart leaped with exultation at the thought. This was the only thing which could give him a perfect sense of security. Now, by the substitution of the forged will, he felt that his interests were secured. The estate was his beyond the possibility of a transfer.

Now that his cousin was no longer to be feared as a rival, he felt that it would be both safe and politic, to treat him with a degree of consideration. This course would be likely to mislead suspicion, if any should be excited, when it was found, as it soon would be, that his cousin shared no portion of his father’s princely estate.

“My uncle sleeps?” he said, inquiringly, as he entered the chamber.

“Yes,” said Robert, solemnly, lifting up a wan face from the bed-clothes in which it was buried; “the sleep that knows no waking.”

Apparently much shocked at this intelligence, Lewis started back with an ejaculation of sorrow.

“I ought not to feel surprised,” he said, in a low voice; “it is an event which I have been expecting and fearing for many weeks. Yet its actual coming finds me unprepared.”

With his mournful gaze intently fixed upon the old man’s face, Robert paid little heed to his cousin’s words. Thoughts of the long weary years that had intervened since he parted from his father, then in the strength and pride of that manhood, upon which he himself was just entering, and the changes that had since come over each, till the present sad moment brought them together, crowded upon him with a force which he could not resist, and he sat there, looking straight before him, vainly endeavoring to reconcile the past with the present, till he was tempted to think the past eighteen years but a dream, from which he would ere long awake.

It did not take him long to recover from that delusion.

As he lifted his eyes he met his own reflection in the mirror opposite. That was no young man’s face that met his gaze. The freshness of youth, had given place to the grave careworn look of later years. The once dark hair was threaded here and there with silver. The smooth brow was sown with premature wrinkles. The cheek had lost its bloom, and was now thin and sallow. In all this there was no deception. But even if this had not been sufficient, he had but to look towards the bed, to realize how time had passed. That thin, shrunken old man who lay there—was that his father? No, there was no mistaking all this; these years of estrangement were no vain imaginings; they were all too sad realities.

And there, but a few steps from him, sat, with a look of hypocritical sorrow, the man who had lent his best efforts to widen the breach, of which he had been the cause, and throw up a permanent wall of separation between the father and the son. He had changed least of the three. There was the same plausible smile, the same crafty look about the eyes that seldom met your gaze. There were no wrinkles to be seen on his brow. Neither had his heart changed. It was as full of subtlety and evil thoughts and plans as ever.

Lewis Rand had changed least of the three, yet, of them all, he was farthest removed from the freshness and simplicity of childhood, that had never been his. He was one of those who seem never to have been young.

“Cousin Robert,” said Lewis, with an air of grave courtesy, “although our grief is so fresh that all other thoughts seem intrusive, yet there are certain things that must be thought of. It is right and proper that you should participate with me in paying the last offices of respect and affection to our lamented relative. You were nearer to him than I. It is fitting that, from you, should proceed the orders relative to the funeral.”

“It is a right which I have no disposition to exercise. I would much rather leave it entirely in your hands. My mind is not in a fit state to enter upon such arrangements.”

“You have stated my own case,” said Lewis, in a voice of well-counterfeited emotion. “The death of my dear uncle, for whom I cherished so deep an affection, and to whom I am indebted for so many acts of kindness, weighs most heavily upon my heart. Nothing but an imperative sense of duty would enable me to bear up under it. But I will, if you desire it, so far overcome my grief, as to give the necessary directions.”

“I shall be glad to have you do so,” said Robert, briefly. There had been a time when he would not have questioned his cousin’s sincerity, but gratefully accepted his proffered sympathy,—when his own heart would have been soothed by this companionship in grief. But the revelation of his cousin’s perfidy had been too recent,—the memory of his wrongs was too fresh. He might, in time, forgive, but he could not at once forget. He did not look towards his cousin, but his eyes were fixed continually upon the father from whom he had been separated for eighteen years,—from whom the grave must soon separate him, till he too lay as still and motionless as his father now lay, outstretched before him.

Lewis was about to leave the room, when he paused, as if struck by a sudden thought.

“Pardon me,” he said, hesitatingly, “but this unhappy separation has left us so much in ignorance of each other, that I am not informed whether you have children.”

“I have one daughter.”

“And your wife?”

“Is no longer living.”

“Will you leave me your direction, that I may send a carriage?”

“It will not be necessary. We will take a carriage from here.”

“As you please. One thing more. Pardon me if I am wrong, for I know nothing of your circumstances; you may require a sum of money to procure proper mourning.”

“It is needless,” said Robert, briefly. “We are sufficiently provided.”

“Proud as ever!” muttered Lewis, to himself. “We’ll see how long that continues. If I am not greatly mistaken, he will be glad enough to avail himself of my offers before long.”

Meanwhile, Helen had reached home, and was wondering what had detained her father so long. He had gone out with Mr. Sharp, not mentioning where he was going.

She began to be afraid that, in one of his not unusual fits of abstraction, he had met with some accident, perhaps been run over by some passing vehicle, while crossing the street.

“Where can he be?” she was asking, anxiously, for the tenth time at least, when, to her great joy, she at length heard his familiar step upon the stairs.

She hastened to the door, exclaiming, “Why, papa, why have you been gone so long?”

She looked into his face, and suddenly stopped short. She saw, by his expression, that something had happened.

“What is the matter, papa?” she asked, apprehensively.

“We have met with a great misfortune, Helen,” said Mr. Ford, gravely.

“A great misfortune! Has your invention then failed?”

“It is not that, Helen. Did you ever hear me speak of your grandfather?”

“No.”

“I will tell you the reason now. There had been a long and unhappy alienation between us,—longer, I have since found, than there need to have been, if we could only have met and had a mutual understanding. I married against my father’s wishes. If he had once seen your mother, Helen, he would, I am sure, have withdrawn all his opposition. As it was, we separated eighteen years ago, and to-day we met for the last time.”

“But the misfortune, papa?”

“We met at his death-bed, Helen; but, thank Heaven, not too late for a full reconciliation. An hour since, your grandfather died, with his hand clasped in mine. The funeral takes place day after to-morrow. We must procure fitting dresses. I do not understand such things, but you can consult with Martha.”

Helen wished to learn more of her grandfather, of whom she now, for the first time, heard; but she saw and respected her father’s grief, and forebore to question him.

CHAPTER XXXI.
READING THE WILL

Although the funeral of Mr. Rand was not largely attended,—for his seclusion had prevented his making many acquaintances in the city,—no expense was spared upon it. Lewis was determined that, so far as money went, every respect should be paid to his uncle’s memory. Perhaps he thought in this way to atone for the grievous wrong which he had done him. To his cousin and Helen he was sedulously polite and even deferential, so that those who could look no deeper than the surface might well suppose him to be all that a kind and affectionate relation ought to be.

On the day succeeding the funeral the will was appointed to be read.

“Of course you will be present, Robert,” said Lewis, “you and your daughter. I need hardly say that I am entirely ignorant of the manner in which my uncle had seen fit to dispose of his property. I have reason, indeed, to think that he has made some small provision for me. But whatever may be the purport of the will which is to be read to-morrow, I pledge myself in advance to interpose no obstacle to its provisions.”

Perhaps he expected a similar declaration from Robert, but his cousin kept silence.

The next morning at ten o’clock the will was read. A small company was gathered in the library of the deceased. Lewis leaned his arm upon the table by which he sat, with a downcast look but a throbbing heart. One brief form more, and the object of his life would be attained.

The document was not a long one. After the usual introduction, the testator bequeathed all his property, real and personal, without reserve, to his dear nephew, Lewis Rand, for whom he cherished a strong affection.

There was a slight flush upon the face of Robert Ford, or Robert Rand, as we should now call him. It was not strange that he should display some emotion at being thus publicly ignored, and his birthright transferred to another. As he looked up, he thought he could detect a momentary gleam of exultation in the face of Lewis. But it was immediately repressed.

The lawyer, who had previously been made acquainted with the fact that Robert was a son of the deceased, looked surprised.

“Was this expected?” he asked. “How shall we account for no mention being made of your name,” addressing Robert, “as his son, and direct heir? such an omission is extraordinary.”

“My father,” said Robert, calmly, “was not aware of my existence. He had not seen me for many years, and had been led to believe me dead. It was only accidentally”—his glance rested for a moment on his cousin, who strove to look unconcerned—“that I was enabled to discover his residence in this city, and make myself known to him before he died.”

He was proud enough to wish to keep concealed the long estrangement between them, desiring to shield his father’s memory from any reproach which this omission might be thought to cast upon it.

“My cousin is quite right,” said Lewis. “His father and myself believed, on what we supposed to be reliable evidence, that he died some years since in Chicago. It is a source of regret to me that our mistake was discovered at so late a period, when in consequence of the near approach of death, it was impossible for my uncle to make any change in the disposition of his estate.”

The lawyer who, without having any definite grounds of suspicion, distrusted Lewis and his smooth professions, answered, coldly, “Your regret will no doubt be considerably lessened when you reflect that the property which you acknowledge has come to you by mistake, is at your absolute disposal, and that it is therefore in your power to remedy this unintended wrong.”

The sallow face of Lewis flushed beneath the penetrating gaze of the lawyer, who, he saw, suspected the real nature which he kept concealed beneath a flimsy veil of deception and hypocrisy.

But he was prepared even for this emergency.

“That is true,” he said, “and although my reverence for the expressed wishes of the deceased will not permit me to interfere materially with the disposition which he has made, I shall take care that my cousin is provided for. Robert, if you will do me the favor to remain after this form is over, I shall be glad to explain what I propose to do.”

Lewis had been thinking of this contingency. He saw that it would be absolutely necessary to make some provision for his cousin, as well to quiet the world’s censure as more effectually to ward off suspicion from himself.

In the western part of Pennsylvania there was a small farm, worth, with the buildings upon it, three or four thousand dollars. This was but an insignificant item in the list of Mr. Rand’s possessions. It was this farm that Lewis proposed bestowing upon his cousin. It would, he thought, be a cheap way of securing his acquiescence in the provisions of the will, and remove him to an obscure neighborhood, where he would have little power of doing him harm.

When all, save Helen and her father, had departed, Lewis turned to his cousin, and after repeating, at some length, his expressions of regret that his uncle had not been spared to make a change in the disposition of his property, concluded by tendering him, as a free gift, the farm in question, together with two hundred dollars in money, which he judged would be sufficient to convey them hither, and pay any little debts which they might have incurred.

Robert listened in surprise to this disgraceful proposition. He was not a practical man, and in business matters he was very liable to be deceived. But he knew sufficient of the extent of his father’s wealth to divine, that the pittance which his cousin offered was less than the hundredth part of the entire estate.

Knowing this, his pride rose in indignant rebellion at this insult.

“Do you think, Lewis,” he said, scornfully, “that if my father had lived long enough to change his will according to the desire which you have several times seen fit to express, that this is the provision which he would have made for me?”

“If you do not consider it sufficient,” said Lewis, evasively, “I will say a thousand dollars, in addition to the farm. That will enable you to stock it amply, and live quite independently.”

“You are generous,” said Robert, with sarcasm, for his spirit was now fully roused; “but think not that I will become a pensioner upon your bounty. One tenth part even of the pittance which you offer me, if it came from my father, I would gratefully accept. But for you, who bestow your alms upon me as if I were a beggar, instead of the son of the man from whom all your wealth is wrongfully derived, I scorn your gift, and reject it.”

“You are hasty, and may regret your decision. Think of your daughter,—would you leave her penniless?”

“Let her decide that question. Helen, shall we accept what this man offers, or shall we preserve our humble independence, as we have done heretofore?”

“So long as I have you, papa, it is enough. God will take care of us.”

“You hear her answer, Lewis Rand. I have but one thing to say to you before we part,—it may be for the last time upon earth. I am not ignorant of the arts by which you have brought about and kept up the estrangement between my father and myself; how many overtures towards reconciliation on either side have been defeated through your machinations; how carefully you have kept alive in my father’s heart the belief that I was dead, though you knew it to be false. By such means you have compassed your object. I do not envy you your reward. Far less will I be indebted to you for a miserable pittance of that wealth which you have wrested from me by a systematic course of treachery and deceit. Come, Helen, let us go.”

Lewis Rand turned red and white by turns during this unexpected address, which satisfied him that Mr. Sharp had proved faithless to his trust. But flushed as he was with success, he could afford to disregard it all now.

“Do as you please,” he said, coldly. “At any rate, you cannot deny that I have made the offer. You may, some day, regret not having accepted it.”

“Never!” said his cousin, vehemently.

“Very well; that is your affair. In reference to the grave charges which you have seen fit to bring against my character, I have only to say, that I defy you to prove them. Farewell! I would have been your friend. Since you would have me for your enemy, so let it be.”

“I care as little for the one as for the other,” said Robert, proudly.

So saying, he held out his hand to Helen, and together they left the stately dwelling, with its costly furniture and appointments, and took their way slowly to their humble lodging, with its bare floor and hard wooden chairs, contrasting, in its plainness, so vividly with the dwelling they had left. There was another difference. The one was dark and gloomy in spite of its luxury. Here the warm and cheerful sunshine entered in at the open window, and flung its radiance all over the room.

Helen breathed a sigh of relief as she entered.

“Oh, how much pleasanter it is here,” she said, “than in that great gloomy house!”

And she began preparing supper with unwonted lightness of heart, as if a sudden weight had been removed from her spirit.

“I am well rid of him,” muttered Lewis, as his cousin left the room. “He really has more spirit than I suspected. As for that Sharp, he has served me a scurvy trick, but he has overshot his mark this time. I can fancy his disappointment when he discovers that Robert is still a beggar.”

Lewis laughed sardonically, and gave himself up to the intoxicating dream of power which his wealth would give him.