Helen Ford

CHAPTER XXXII.
MARGARET’S SECOND FLIGHT

Margaret lay sick for many weeks in her mother’s cottage, where, it will be remembered, she took refuge when, maddened by the discovery of Jacob’s falsehood, she fled from him, heedless of the fury of the elements. Physical exhaustion and mental excitement brought on a raging fever, attended by almost constant delirium. Her mother watched by her bedside with an affection that never tired. For a time it was doubtful what would be the issue. Margaret’s life trembled in the balance, and it required but little to incline it either way. Fortunately for Margaret, however, her constitution was naturally a strong one, and its native vigor triumphed at length over the assaults of disease, fierce though they had been. The fever spent its force, and she became rapidly better, though at first scarcely stronger than an infant.

The first indication of her amendment was her recognition of her mother.

The old lady was sitting in a rocking-chair beside the bed, when Margaret lifted her head from the pillow, and said, in a tone of curiosity,—

“Who are you?”

“Who am I?” inquired her mother. “Don’t you know me, Margaret?”

“You look some like my mother. Are you?”

“Yes, Margaret, I am your own mother, who loves you.”

“I believe you are. How long have I been sick, mother?”

“It is—let me see,” said the old lady, reflectively. “It must be six weeks. Yes, it will be six to-morrow.”

“And for six weeks I have been confined to this room and this bed?”

“Yes, my child.”

“Do not call me child, mother. All the beauty and bloom of childhood, all its happy hopes and trustful spirit, have gone forever. There are some who are children all their lives. But I—it seems a great while since I was a child.”

The simple old lady did not comprehend her daughter’s meaning. She understood her words literally.

“Why, you are young yet, Margaret.”

“Young! don’t call me young, mother. I am older than you.”

“Older than I?” said the old lady, who fancied Margaret’s brain a little disordered, and sought to restore it by reasoning; “but you know a child cannot be older than its mother. You are but thirty-seven, while I am seventy.”

“I don’t mean older in years, mother. Older in suffering, older in the experience of life. It isn’t years that make us old, mother, but our own passions.”

This was uttered half in soliloquy.

“I am afraid you will hurt yourself by talking, Margaret. You had better go to sleep; or would you like some gruel?”

“No, mother.”

There was silence for a few minutes. During this time Margaret was scanning attentively the little room and its furniture. Nothing could be plainer, and yet more comfortable. There was a rag carpet on the floor, and a few plain articles of furniture scattered about the room; there was a small clock on the mantel, whose drowsy ticking could be distinctly heard, so free was the neighborhood from noises of every description. It was such a retreat as the old would like for its quiet, while they would not be troubled by its monotony and lack of excitement. But Margaret was too impetuous and excitable to feel it otherwise than oppressive.

“How long have you lived here, mother?” she asked abruptly, after a silence of some minutes.

“Seven years, Margaret; seven years come fall.”

“Seven years! seven years, mother! I should think you would have died of solitude long ago. You haven’t any neighbors, have you?”

“None very near. None that I go to see. I do not care to visit. Tabby, here, is company for me. Ain’t you, Tabby?”

The large cat, that was lying at the other end of the room, rose at this appeal, and after stretching herself in a way to show her extraordinary size, walked slowly across the room, and submitted herself, with an appearance of pleasure, to the old lady’s caresses.

“See, Margaret; she answers for herself,” as the cat, in recognition of the attention shown her, purred loudly.

“I don’t know but you are right in choosing such a friend,” said Margaret, after a thoughtful pause. “She will treat you well as long as you do not abuse her. That cannot be said of all human friends. Yet I should not be able to live six months as you do, mother. My temperament needs excitement.”

“I fear it has not always brought you good, Margaret,” said the old lady, who could ill comprehend the turbulent spirit which her daughter inherited from a father of mixed French and Irish blood.

One afternoon a week later, Margaret, after turning restlessly for some minutes, asked her mother if she had not a newspaper in the house.

“I get tired looking at the cat,” she exclaimed; “I want something else to think of.”

“I don’t know,” said the old lady, hesitatingly. “I don’t take a paper; but perhaps I can find one that came round a bundle, if that will do.”

“Yes, mother, anything. It don’t matter what.”

After diligent search, the old lady managed to discover part of a last week’s daily paper that had come round a package which she had recently bought. Apologizing for the unsatisfactory result of her search, she placed it in Margaret’s hand.

In general, there is nothing very interesting in an old daily paper; but Margaret, who had been shut out from the world for nearly two months, and knew nothing of what had transpired during that time, seized the fragment with avidity, and read it entire, even to the advertisements. Finally her glance wandered to the deaths; she started as she met the name of Rand.

Died. At his residence in Fifth Avenue, Gerald Rand, Esq., 71.

“He’s dead, then, at last,” she murmured, “and Jacob Wynne has got the thousand dollars which were promised him. Let him enjoy it while he may. It will not be long, unless,—but I must see him before I take any decisive step. He may have said what he did only to provoke me. Would to heaven it were so! Yes, I must see him; I must give him one more chance, and then, if he still scorns me,” this she said with fierce emphasis, “let him look to himself.”

“What have you read that excites you so much, Margaret?” questioned her mother, anxiously.

“Nothing particular.”

“You frightened me when you spoke so fiercely.”

“Did I?” said Margaret. “I was only talking to myself. It’s a way I have. But, mother,” she continued, changing her tone suddenly, “do you think I shall be well enough to go out to-morrow?”

“To-morrow!” repeated the old lady, lifting up both hands in extreme astonishment; “why, you must be raving crazy to think of such a thing! What in the world do you want to go out for?”

“Never mind now,” said her daughter, evasively. “I thought I should like to go out. But I suppose I am weaker than I think for.”

“Why, the fever has only just left you. It would be death to think of leaving the house.”

“We won’t say anything more about it, mother. Only I get tired of staying in the same place so long. The time moves so slowly. What time is it?”

“Three o’clock.”

“It has been three for the last hour,” said Margaret, with a touch of impatience in her tone.

“I declare the clock has stopped,” said the old lady, adjusting her spectacles; “I must have forgotten to wind it up. I declare it’s most time to get tea.”

She filled the tea-kettle, and set it over the fire, Margaret looking on with languid attention.

Her mother thought that Margaret had given up the idea of leaving the house. It was only an invalid’s fancy, she thought. But Margaret had a purpose in view, and only deferred carrying it out till her weakness had somewhat abated. On the third day, though still far from strong, she determined to leave the house. Knowing that her mother would never consent, she devised a stratagem to get her out of the way.

“Is there an orange in the house?” she asked, immediately after breakfast.

“No, Margaret.”

“I am sorry; I think I could relish one.”

“I can get one at the store.”

“But that is a good ways off. Isn’t it, mother?”

“Only quarter of a mile.”

“It is too far for you to go.”

“Too far? I go there several times a week, Margaret.”

“Then if it will not be too much trouble, I should really like to have you go.”

“I will go immediately. Isn’t there anything else you would like?”

“Nothing, mother.”

“God forgive me for deceiving her!” thought Margaret. “But I cannot do otherwise. He knows that.”

Scarcely was her mother out of the house than Margaret hastily rose from the bed, and with trembling fingers arrayed herself in the garments which had been so long laid aside. They had been carefully washed and mended by her mother, so that they looked comparatively respectable. She threw them on very hastily, fearing that her mother would return and detect her. She saw half a dollar on the mantel. This also she took, knowing that she should need money, and left the house.

When her mother returned with the orange she found, to her dismay, that her daughter had disappeared. On the table there was a scrap of paper, with these words traced hurriedly upon it:—

“Forgive the artifice I have employed, dear mother. I knew you would not let me go, and I must. There is something of great importance that I must attend to without delay. When that is over, I may come back to you.

“Margaret.

“P. S. I took a half dollar from the mantel, as I may need it.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE GOOD SAMARITAN

Surprised and terrified at her daughter’s disappearance, the old lady went to the door and, shading her eyes, looked anxiously up the road, but with her failing eyesight she was unable to catch sight of the fugitive.

“The child must be crazy,” she said to herself. “She’ll catch her death of cold, going out so soon after the fever. I must go after her and bring her back.”

Putting on her hood once more, the old lady went out, and took the road towards the city. But she did not find her daughter. Returning with a heavy heart and a sense of deep perplexity she sat down to her knitting, first carefully putting away the orange, which she thought Margaret might like to eat if, as she hoped, she should discover her weakness and return home at night.

But Margaret did not come that night, nor yet again the next.

When she left her mother’s house she hurried forward at a greater speed than her strength admitted, so great was her anxiety to elude pursuit. She had not gone half a mile when she found her strength failing her. Quite exhausted, she staggered to a flat stone by the side of the road, and sat down.

“Mother was right,” she said to herself; “I am not strong enough for this journey; but I must get on somehow now that I have started.”

At this moment her eye rested on the half dollar which she had taken, and which she still held in her hand.

“Perhaps this will procure me a ride,” she thought. “What matter if I am penniless afterwards. I only care to live long enough to be revenged.”

She looked back on the road she had travelled, hoping to see some wagon which might serve her purpose.

A little distance off was a covered market wagon, advancing at a good round pace. The driver was a stout, pleasant-looking man, and Margaret, hurriedly scanning his features, judged that she might venture to accost him.

She accordingly rose from the stone on which she had been sitting, and made a gesture for him to stop.

Somewhat surprised, he called out: “Hold up, Dick! Now, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“Would you be willing to take a passenger to New York?”

“Yes, ma’am, just as lieves as not.”

“I am quite willing to pay you. Will that be enough?” asked Margaret, offering the half dollar.

“Yes, ma’am; enough, and fifty cents too much. Your company will be pay enough. But, hold on a minute; I’ll jump out and help you in.”

“Thank you; I have been sick, and am not so strong as usual, otherwise I would not trouble you.”

“No trouble at all. You look as if you’d been sick,—kinder peaked, just as my Sarah Jane looked after she’d had the fever. Ain’t it rather imprudent for you to be out?”

“Perhaps it is; but I have something to do which cannot be delayed.”

The driver seemed disposed to be social and communicative.

“I’d orter be pretty well used to this road; I’ve come on it twice a week for the last fifteen years.”

“Have you?” said Margaret, listlessly.

“Yes, marketing. That’s my business. I’ve got a regular run of customers, you see, and they’ve got used to me, and know I’ll never bring anything but what’s good. There’s Judge Harcouth now; may be you to know the judge?”

“No.”

“His wife won’t never buy no sausages except what I bring. Well, mine are pretty good, if I do say it. I get old Marm Brown to make ‘em, and she’d orter know how, for she’s been in the business for forty years. Do you like sausages?”

“I don’t know,” said Margaret, who had not heard a word that was said.

“Don’t know,” repeated the driver, staring at her in surprise.

“Excuse me; I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I asked if you liked sausages. Some folks have a prejudice agin ‘em.”

“Yes, pretty well.”

“I like to have company,” continued the driver; “like to have somebody to talk to. Talkin’s natural to the family. My mother had a pretty long tongue, and used to use it most all the time, so that none of the rest of us could get in a word edgeways.”

Apparently, the mother’s gift had descended to the son, for he kept up a constant stream of talk, which was fortunate for Margaret, for he expected little in the way of response, and so was less likely to notice her abstraction.

“Last week I brought my oldest boy, Hamlet, with me. Queer name, isn’t?”

“No.”

“Why, ‘taint very common,” said the driver, a little surprised at this negative.

“That is what I mean,” said Margaret, hurriedly.

“I s’pose you wonder what made me give him such a name, but the fact is my own name is pretty common. You may have heard of John Smith?”

“I think I have heard the name,” said Margaret, absently.

Her grave manner was thought to conceal something jocose by Mr. Smith, who laughed heartily, ejaculating “Good, by jingo!” somewhat to Margaret’s surprise.

“That’s why,” he resumed, “I thought I’d give my children at least one name that wasn’t common, so I concluded to ask the schoolmaster for some. He told me I’d find what I wanted in Shakespeare, so I bought a copy second hand, and the very fust name I come across was Hamlet. So I gave that name to my oldest boy. My second boy’s name is Othello—the boys call him Old Fellow; pretty good joke, isn’t it? I didn’t know till afterwards that it was the name of a nigger, or I shouldn’t have taken it. However, it sounds pretty well; think so?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ve got two girls, I call them Desdemony and Parsley, and the baby we haven’t decided about, but I reckon we shall call him Falstaff. Falstaff was a good-natured old fellow as fur as I’ve read about him. But I don’t know as you’re interested about these matters.”

“Oh, yes,” said Margaret, looking straight before her in the direction of the city, whose spires were now discernible.

“Got any children of your own, ma’am?”

“No.”

“I calculate you’re married?”

“Yes—no,” said Margaret, agitated, for the question opened her wound afresh.

“Queer customer, I calc’late,” thought Mr. Smith. “Don’t seem to know whether she’s married or not. May be she’s been divorced.”

“Excuse me,” said Margaret, feeling it necessary to say something. “I believe I am not strong enough to talk much.”

“Oh well, I’ll do all the talkin’,” said the driver, good-naturedly. “You don’t look very rugged, that’s a fact. Ever tried Dr. Bangs’s Bitters?”

“No.”

“Well, my wife thinks a sight of ‘em; says they go right to the weak spot. Better buy some when you get a good chance.”

So Mr. Smith ran on, satisfied with an occasional response from Margaret, till they reached the paved streets where the noise was too great to admit of being easily heard.

“Where do you want to get out?” shouted Mr. Smith. “I’ll pull up whenever you say so.”

When they reached the central part of the city, Margaret gave the signal, and Mr. Smith assisted her out.

“You had better let me pay you,” she said.

“No, no, you’re perfectly welcome. I like company. It sort of shortens the way. Just hail me again whenever you’re going my way, and I’ll give you a lift and welcome.”

“Thank you; you are very kind.”

Margaret mechanically took the first street that led into Broadway. She felt more at home in a crowd, and scarcely knowing where she was going, walked slowly along the sidewalk, jostled on this side and on that, but apparently without heeding it.

At length her attention was attracted.

On the opposite side of the street a couple were walking slowly, chatting in a lively way as they walked. The lady was gayly dressed, and was evidently pleased with the attentions of her companion. He is an old acquaintance, Jacob Wynne, the scrivener, but no more resembling his former self than a butterfly the chrysalis from which it emerged. Lewis Rand had paid him the thousand dollars agreed upon, and he had patronized the tailor extensively in consequence. He was now fashionably attired, and had the air of one on whom fortune smiles.

It was only by chance that Margaret’s attention was drawn to him.

When she recognized him, all at once her heart sank within her. In her enfeebled state the shock was too great. She sank upon a step half fainting.

It was the step of a fashionable store, and she was directly in the way of those entering.

“Come, be off,” said a clerk, rudely; “we can’t have any vagabonds here.”

Margaret’s look of weakness and helpless misery, as she tried to rise, attracted the attention of a young girl who was passing. It was Helen Ford, just returning from rehearsal at the theatre.

“Are you sick?” she asked, in a tone of sympathy.

“I am afraid I am,” said Margaret, faintly.

“Where is your home? Let me lead you to it.”

“My home!” repeated Margaret. “I have none.”

“No home!” said Helen, in a tone of compassion. “Then where do you expect to sleep to-night?”

“Heaven only knows.”

“If you will come with me, I will take care of you to-night,” said Helen. “You are too sick to be out.”

“Will you, indeed, be so kind?” said Margaret, gratefully.

“I shall be glad to help you. Now lean on my arm. Don’t be afraid; I am strong.”

Margaret rose, and with tottering step accompanied Helen to the boarding-house. She led her up stairs to Martha Grey’s apartment.

Quickly communicating to Martha where and under what circumstances she had found her, she asked the seamstress if she would be willing to allow her to remain with her. Martha readily entered into Helen’s charitable views, and together they strove to make their unexpected visitor comfortable.

Helen little suspected that the woman whom in her compassion she had succored, had it in her power to restore to her father the estate of which he had been defrauded. Sometimes even in this world the good Samaritan receives his reward.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
JACOB SEALS HIS FATE

“How do you feel this morning?” asked Helen, as she entered Martha’s room.

Her question was addressed to Margaret, who, wan and pale, was seated at a table eating some toast, which the compassionate seamstress in her kindness had prepared for her.

“I am much better,” said Margaret, though her appearance did not bear out the assertion.

“It will take some time yet for you to recover fully; you need rest and freedom from care.”

“Freedom from care!” repeated Margaret, smiling bitterly. “Yes, that is what I need, but where shall I find it?”

“With us,” answered Martha, gently.

“What!” exclaimed Margaret, fixing her eyes upon the seamstress in surprise, “would you be burdened with me?”

“We shall not consider it a burden,” said Helen, “and I am sure we ought to welcome an opportunity to be of service to any one of our fellow-creatures.”

“Yet,” said Margaret, suffering her eyes to wander about the room, with its plain and scanty furniture, “you cannot be rich—even one person must–”

“No, we are far from rich,” said Helen, divining what she would have said, “but neither are we very poor. I am paid quite a large salary for singing, and—and you must not think of the expense.”

“But I am a stranger to you,” said Margaret; “why are you so kind to me?”

“Because you are in trouble.”

“Perhaps I may make an ungrateful return. Suppose I should take the opportunity to rob you?”

Helen laughed merrily.

“We are not afraid,” she said; “besides, I think you would be puzzled to find anything worth taking.”

Margaret smiled faintly.

“I see you are not suspicious; I envy you that. There was a time when I was as trustful, and as firm a believer in human goodness as you are. But that time has passed, never to return.”

“I am afraid,” said Martha, “that your experience has not been an agreeable one.”

“I have seen trouble,” said Margaret, briefly.

“There may be better times in store; I shall know soon.”

“Let us hope there will be,” said Martha, cheerfully.

“Amen!” said Margaret.

“I must go to rehearsal now,” said Helen. “When I return, I will call in.”

“What is her name?” questioned Margaret, abruptly, as the door closed upon Helen.

“Helen.”

“I mean the last name.”

“Her father goes by the name of Ford, but Helen has told me within a day or two that his real name is Rand.”

“Rand!” repeated Margaret, starting in surprise.

“Yes.”

She remembered that this was the name which had been so many times repeated on the paper which her husband had employed in trying his pen.

“Do you know anything of the name!” asked Martha, observing that her companion seemed struck by it.

“I have heard of a man by the name—a rich man.”

“Probably Helen’s grandfather.”

“How comes it, then, that she is living here.”

“Some family estrangement. Her grandfather supposed until nearly the last moment of his life that his son was dead. It was too late to alter his will, and so Helen and her father are left penniless.”

“And who inherited the property then?” demanded Margaret, eagerly.

“A cousin of Mr. Ford’s—I mean of Mr. Rand’s.”

“And I know by what means he acquired it,” thought Margaret. “It may be that—but I must see Jacob first.”

From this moment Margaret became restless. She felt that she could not be at peace till the issue was decided. She determined once more to appeal to Jacob, and ascertain beyond a doubt whether the statement which he had made respecting their marriage was really true, or only fabricated to vex her. This question must first be decided, and then—why then she would be guided by circumstances.

She rose from her seat, and threw her shawl over her shoulders.

“Where are you going?” asked Martha, pausing in her work.

“I must go. I have something to do which cannot be delayed.”

“But are you able to go out?” questioned the seamstress.

“Perhaps not; but it would do me more harm to remain here, feeling that I ought to be elsewhere, that things might go wrong without me, than the exposure and exertion of going out.”

“You will come back here when you have accomplished what you desire?”

“I think so—I cannot tell—I will not promise,” returned Margaret, with an air of indecision; “but at any rate, whether I come or not, I thank you heartily for all your kindness to me, and for all that you have offered to do for me. I am not so used to kindness that I can afford to think little of it.”

“I am afraid it will be too much for her,” thought Martha, as Margaret left the room with an unsteady step. “There is plainly some mysterious sorrow which is preying upon her mind. If I could find out what it is, I would try to comfort her.”

Margaret, on reaching the street got into an omnibus which set her down at the corner of the street on which Jacob Wynne lived.

We will precede her.

The scrivener is seated at a small table. Before him are several small piles of gold which he is counting out from a larger one before him. It is the money which Lewis Rand paid him for his complicity in the iniquitous scheme, the success of which has robbed Helen and her father of a princely inheritance.

Jacob’s eyes sparkled as they rested on the glittering coins before him, and in his heart, as in that of his employer on the day of his uncle’s death, there springs up the exulting thought: “And all this is mine.”

But while he is thus engaged, there is a footfall on the stairs, the step of one ascending slowly and with effort, but Jacob is too much absorbed in his pleasing employment to heed or hear it.

A moment afterwards, and through the half-open door a woman’s face is seen peering. Margaret’s face is thin and pale, the result of her recent exhausting illness, and there is a look of weariness besides, induced by the too great exertion of walking in her weakened state; but her eyes are painfully bright, and her expression pale, thin, and weary as she is, is one of stern determination.

“Seven hundred!” said Jacob, as he completed the seventh pile, and commenced another, unconscious of the eyes that were fixed upon him.

Margaret paused a moment on the threshold. She saw before her a man who, low and mean and ignoble as he was, had won her heart in the days of her youthful freshness, and now in spite of the resentment which she felt at his unworthy treatment, she could not look upon him without a pang,—without a longing to become to him once more what she had been.

“Jacob!” she uttered in an uncertain voice.

Jacob Wynne turned round with a guilty start as though he had been detected in some knavery, and half unconsciously drew his sleeve over the pile of gold, as if to screen it from observation. When he saw who it was that had so startled him, a frown gathered upon his face, and he said, impatiently,—

“You here, Margaret?”

“You seem glad to see me after my long absence!” she said. “By your leave I will take a seat, as I am somewhat tired.”

He looked uneasily at her, not feeling altogether certain of her purpose in calling, and muttered, half to himself, “I wish you had waited till next week.”

“Why should you wish that?” she asked, catching his words.

“Because I shall then be gone,” he said, coldly.

“Gone! Where?”

“Never mind! Why should you want to know?” he demanded, sulkily.

“Why, indeed?” echoed she, fixing her eyes upon his face; “what should your motives be to me, who have only devoted ten years of my life to your service? What should you be to me, Jacob Wynne?”

“Well,” he said. “I will no longer require such a sacrifice at your hands. Ten years are quite enough to satisfy me. Henceforth you shall be at perfect liberty to devote yourself to whom you will. I will promise not to interfere.”

Margaret pressed her hand upon her heart as if to still its tumultuous throbbing, at this cruel taunt from one whom she had so much loved, and for whom, despite the discovery she had made of his baseness and unworthiness, she could not altogether stifle the old affection.

“You say this because you are irritated, Jacob,” she returned. “You do not, you cannot mean it. Tell me so. Tell me that you have been only trying me all this time, and though it has made me very, very wretched, although it has thrown me into a fever and rendered me as weak as you now see me, I will forget it all, and will once more devote myself to you with the same loving devotion as in the old times when we were young, and—and happier than we are now, Jacob.”

In her earnestness she rose, and going towards the copyist, placed her hand upon his arm.

“One often says in anger what he does not mean,” she continued, rapidly. “I know that well. I have done so myself; and it is so with you, Jacob, is it not? I knew it must be so when you spoke such cruel words to me at the island so many weeks ago, and yet, Jacob, and yet it hurt me,” she placed her hand upon her heart; “it hurt me here, when you said such words even in jest. I was not strong enough to bear them, and they made me sick. That very night I was attacked with a fever, and from that day to this I have been stretched upon a sick-bed. Look at my face. See how thin and pale it is. I ought not to be out to-day, and only succeeded by an artifice in eluding the vigilance of my mother, who has been my faithful nurse.”

“Why, then, did you come?” asked Jacob, coldly.

“Because I could not bear the intolerable weight of suspense. Those words kept ringing in my ears, and I could not cease from anxiety until I could see you and have them explained.”

Margaret looked imploringly in the face of the scrivener, as she finished her appeal. She had spoken more confidently than she felt. There was little in the sullen, cruel face before her to give her encouragement. She felt that she had staked all her happiness upon a single throw,—that the answer which he gave her then and there would determine once and forever her future happiness or misery, and it might be his.

Jacob regarded the anxious face before him with the triumph that a low mind always feels when it has by any means gained an ascendency over a stronger one. The nature of Margaret was superior to his, and he knew it. It was the uneasy feeling of inferiority produced by this circumstance, that led to a mean jealousy on his part which found its gratification in any humiliation to which it was in his power to subject her.

“I do not understand,” he said, deliberately, “why my words should stand in need of explanation. I endeavored to make them sufficiently intelligible.”

“You do not remember what you said, Jacob. I am sure that you cannot, or you would not speak thus,” she said, earnestly.

“Perhaps your memory is better,” said the scrivener, sneeringly. “Possibly you will do me the favor to repeat it.”

“Repeat it!”

“Yes, I said so,” triumphing as he spoke over her evident distress; “come, I am listening.”

He drew his chair round so as to face Margaret, and fixed his eyes cruelly upon her. Margaret was a creature of impulse. Hers was no calm, equable temperament. Her features could express trustful, confiding affection, or the intensity of scorn and hatred. She had come to make a last appeal to Jacob Wynne. He did not deserve it, but it is hard for a woman to resolve to injure a man who has been to her an object of affection. Jacob had often treated her with harshness. This she could bear, but the revelation of his perfidy, which she had heard from his own lips at Staten Island, came upon her with the force of a sudden blow, which at once prostrated her. This was an insult which she could not forgive, if his words were indeed true. In the hope, slight as it was, that it might prove to have been merely an outburst of Jacob’s irritability, she had determined upon this interview that her doubts might be set at rest. Had Jacob known the purpose which was in her heart, and the precise character of the motive which had brought her to him, he would have been more cautious in exasperating a woman who had his ruin in her power. This, however, he did not know. He underrated Margaret’s strength of mind; he regarded her as one whom he might ill-treat with impunity, who might annoy him, to be sure, but was incapable of doing him any serious injury; whom he could shake off at any time, as he had resolved to do now.