Helen Ford

When Margaret saw the triumphant smile upon his face, she felt that her worst fears were likely to be realized. Still she resolved not to forego her purpose. Dropping the pleading tone which she had hitherto employed, she said, with an outward calmness which surprised Jacob, and which she only assumed by a determined effort,—

“Be it so. Since you desire it, I will force myself to repeat those words. You remember, Jacob, the occasion of my presenting myself before you. Without my knowledge you had invited a young woman to accompany you to Staten Island.”

“And did you think I was responsible to you? Would you have had me ask your gracious permission?” asked Jacob, with a sneer.

“You can tell best,” said Margaret, steadily, “whether this excursion was made accidentally or purposely, without my knowledge; if the latter, it betrayed a consciousness on your part that I had a right to object.”

“But I told you–”

“Wait,” said Margaret, commandingly, “I will come to that by and by. I learned your plan, it matters not in what manner, and followed you; I marked your devoted attentions to your companion, and it deepened in me the sense of wrong and neglect which I had noticed for a long time. You believed me safe at home all this time.”

“I wish to heaven you had been,” muttered Jacob.

Unheeding the interruption, Margaret continued,—

“You will not be surprised that this should have excited some uneasiness on my part. I followed you constantly, watching for an opportunity to speak to you alone. At length you left your companion for a brief period, and then I found the opportunity I had been seeking. I ventured to expostulate with you on conduct which I considered inconsistent with your duty as a husband. Then it was, Jacob, that in your anger, you told me that I, who had lived with you for ten years as your wife, and had never for a moment forfeited or doubted my full claim to the title, that I was mistaken; that at the altar an infamous deception had been practised upon me, and the office of the clergyman was usurped by one of your own unprincipled associates, who had no legal right to perform the marriage ceremony. Have I represented all this correctly?”

“You have a most accurate memory,” said Jacob. “I have no exceptions to take to your account, except on the score of its length, and the use of certain adjectives.”

“Then I am to understand that this was no fabrication on your part, Jacob Wynne, but the plain truth?”

“Most unquestionably.”

“You further gave me to understand,” continued Margaret, in the same strangely calm tone, “and to-day you have repeated the intimation, that my company is unwelcome; in short, that you are weary of my society, and wish to be rid of me.”

“You would have made a capital judge, madam,” said Jacob; “you are admirable at summing up. You express my meaning better than I could do it myself. I congratulate you the possession of such a talent. It will save me further trouble. Have you anything more to say?”

Jacob expected that Margaret would burst into a passion of tears and reproaches, as she had done before, and he was already gloating over her distress in anticipation. Already with cowardly malignity, he was coining in his brain some new and clever taunts with which he might add to her distress, and touch her to the quick. It was, therefore, with some degree of disappointment as well as surprise, that he was able to detect no change in her calm expression.

“Very well,” she said, “I wished this matter understood between us.”

Then, seeming to notice for the first time the gold upon the table, she added, indicating it with her finger, “Your affairs appear to be in a more flourishing condition than when I saw you last.”

“Eh! What?” said Jacob, changing color and looking embarrassed.

“You are richer than you were,” said Margaret, in the same tone. “It must have been an important service which has been so liberally rewarded.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Jacob, with the apprehension of guilt, regarding her uneasily.

“Mean!” repeated Margaret, as if surprised at the question, “what should I mean? I merely expressed my surprise at your having so large a sum by you. I should judge,” she continued, carelessly, “that there might be a thousand dollars there.”

Jacob’s agitation increased with every word that Margaret uttered. Conscious that he had committed a crime which made him liable to severe legal penalties, the significant words of the woman he had wronged excited in his mind a fear that, in some manner unknown to him, she had become cognizant of it.

So does “Conscience make cowards of us all.”

How much more so in the case of the scrivener, who was cowardly at the best.

“I must insist upon knowing what you mean by these insinuations,” he said, with ill-concealed anxiety.

“Insinuations, Jacob Wynne! What have I insinuated?”

“Why, then, do you speak in this manner?” said he, hesitatingly; “this money—belongs to a friend.”

“Indeed!” said Margaret, looking at him steadily; “and I suppose you merely offered to count it over for him.”

“Well, and if I did,” said the scrivener, plucking up a little courage; “have you any objections to offer?”

“I! What objection could I possibly have? You know I have no longer a right to object to anything which you may see fit to do. By the way, you spoke of removing. When do you go?”

This cool self-possession and absence of emotion on Margaret’s part puzzled Jacob, and alarmed him more than threats of vengeance would have done. He found it impossible to understand her.

“I don’t know,” he said, evasively, “I can’t tell. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” she answered, with a meaning look, “I may wish to call upon you again. There is nothing strange in my desiring occasionally to call upon an old acquaintance; is there, Jacob?”

He muttered something which was inaudible.

“But I fear I am taking up too much of your time. You know I have no further claim upon you. Farewell, Jacob, I shall not lose sight of you.”

“Stay,” said Jacob, who had been considerably alarmed, and who was still apprehensive that she might know more than he desired, “have you any money?”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “I have this.”

She displayed the half dollar, or rather what remained of it, after discharging her fare in the omnibus.

“That is very little. Take this.”

He took a gold piece from the pile that lay on the table, and handed it to her. “Come, let us part friends.”

“You forget, Jacob, that this gold is not yours. It belongs to a friend.”

“Never mind,” he muttered, “I can replace it.”

“No,” said she, decidedly, “I will not take it. I have no claim upon you.”

She rose and passed out of the room, Jacob looking after her with an air of mingled doubt, apprehension, and perplexity.

“I wish I knew,” he said to himself, “whether she has discovered anything. But it can’t be possible. She appears strangely enough. Perhaps her mind is unhinged by what I have told her. But I never could have got on with her weighing me down. We must not meet again if it can be avoided.”

Jacob resolved to remove on the very next day to the more comfortable room, which he considered suited to the improvement in his circumstances.

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE DENUNCIATION

If Margaret had been calm in her interview with Jacob Wynne, it was an unnatural calmness. Beneath the surface there were eddies of passionate emotion which must, sooner or later, force their way to the light.

A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over her when, relieved from the restraint which she had put upon herself in Jacob’s presence, she found herself standing alone on the sidewalk beneath. Her strength, which had been only kept up thus far by excitement, now gave way utterly, and she leaned, faint and exhausted, against the side of the building. Even that proved an insufficient support. Her limbs tottered, and she fell upon the pavement.

When consciousness returned, she found herself surrounded by a crowd of persons, most of whom had been attracted by curiosity, and only one or two of whom proved of real service.

“Are you feeling better?” inquired a motherly-looking woman, gazing compassionately at the wan and wasted features of Margaret.

“Where am I?” asked Margaret, looking half bewildered at the questioner.

“You have fainted on the sidewalk. I am afraid you are not strong.”

“No. I have been sick. But I remember now. I should like to see a lawyer.”

Even in her weakness and physical prostration, she had not lost sight of what must henceforth be her object—revenge upon him whose perfidy and utter heartlessness she had now so fully proved.

“You mean a doctor,” said the woman, a little surprised.

“No,” repeated Margaret, with a touch of impatience in her voice. “I want a lawyer.”

At this moment, a man in a white hat and with a very bland expression upon his features, which, however, could not boast a remarkable degree of beauty, elbowed his way vigorously through the crowd. With a graceful inclination, Mr. Sharp, whom the reader will already have recognized from the description given, proclaimed that he was an humble attorney at her service.

“If you are a lawyer, I wish to consult you, but not before so many people,” said Margaret, glancing at the curious faces of the bystanders.

“I will procure a carriage, madam,” said Mr. Sharp, with his usual affability, “and we will proceed at once to my office, where we shall run no risk of being disturbed.”

This course was accordingly taken, somewhat to the disappointment of certain good people, who were burning for a solution of the mystery which they were convinced existed somewhere.

In a few minutes Margaret was installed in Mr. Sharp’s office, and that gentleman, with professional zeal and a lively hope that the lady before him might prove a more profitable client than the state of her attire seemed to promise, waited patiently for his visitor to announce her business.

Margaret seemed to be lost in reflection, as if her mind were not wholly made up about some matter. Fearing that she might not broach the subject at all, and that he might thus lose the chance of the client which fate seemed to have thrown in his way just as he had lost Lewis Rand, Mr. Sharp thought it best to give her a gentle hint.

“As a lawyer, madam, I shall be glad to exert myself in your behalf to the best of my professional ability. Will you have the kindness, as soon as your strength is sufficiently restored, to state your case?”

Margaret aroused from her stupor. “Can you tell me,” she asked, abruptly, “what punishment the law provides for forgery?”

The lawyer was taken by surprise. He wondered if his visitor had committed, or perchance was contemplating such a crime, and wished to learn how great a risk it involved.

“Forgery did I understand you to say, madam?” he inquired, partly with a view to gain time.

“Yes.”

“Imprisonment for a term of years.”

“You are sure it is not punished with death,” she asked, eagerly.

“Not in this country. There was a time when it was so punished in England.”

“How long is the usual term of imprisonment?”

“That depends, in some measure, upon the discretion of the court, which is regulated by attendant circumstances. Possibly,” said the lawyer, hazarding a conjecture, as Margaret remained silent, “you have a friend, a relation perhaps (pardon me if I am wrong), who has been unfortunate,”—a delicate way of hinting at crime,—“and in whose behalf you have now come to consult me?”

“A friend!” repeated Margaret, with a bitter smile.

“I thought it possible,” said Mr. Sharp, mistaking her tone for one of assent. “Well, madam, you must not allow yourself to be too much cast down. I can easily conceive that your anxiety is aroused in your friend’s behalf, but if one has ingenuity there are always methods of evading the law, and if you will confide the case to me, I hope to succeed in clearing your friend.”

“That is just what I do not wish.”

“Pardon me,” said the lawyer, in surprise. “I do not think I understand you.”

“You do not. In the first place, it is not a friend in whose welfare I am interested.”

“A relation?” suggested Mr. Sharp, still in the dark.

“He is nothing to me,—nothing, do you hear?” exclaimed Margaret, with fierce emphasis. “At least, not now. What he has been it is needless for you to know, or me to remember. Enough, that I have reason to hate him, that I wish to be revenged upon him, and that I ask you to lend me your assistance.”

“Explain the case, madam, if you please. I will give you my best attention.”

“I have sworn to be revenged upon him, and I will,” said Margaret, hoarsely, rather to herself than to the lawyer. “There shall be no flinching now.”

She pressed her hand upon her breast, as if to still forcibly suppress any remonstrance that might find a place there.

“This man,” she continued, in a hurried tone, “has committed forgery. As yet, it is undiscovered. I wish him brought to justice.”

“What has he forged?”

“A will.”

“A will!” repeated Mr. Sharp, pricking up his ears with sudden interest. “May I ask how you became acquainted with the fact?”

“I witnessed the deed.”

“Was the party aware of your presence?”

“Far from it. He supposed the knowledge confined to himself and one other, who instigated him to the act, and rewarded him for it. He supposed me asleep, but I saw and heard the whole from a place of concealment.”

“This man is, I suppose, a copyist,—a professional writer?”

“Yes.”

“And the one who employed him,—do you know his name?” asked the lawyer, with hardly concealed eagerness.

“It is Rand.”

“Rand!” echoed Mr. Sharp, triumphantly. “I suspected so.”

“Then you knew of this?” queried Margaret, surprised in her turn.

“No, but I am not surprised to hear it. I know Lewis Rand. He has been a client of mine.”

“You will not thwart my plans?” said Margaret, apprehensively.

“On the contrary, what you have told me gives an additional inducement to further them, since I have purposes of my own which will be served thereby. Have you any corroborative evidence? Your testimony, unsupported, might not be deemed sufficient.”

“I have this,” said Margaret, displaying the fragment of paper which she had secured on her return from Staten Island, and which, as the reader will remember, contained the name, Rand, several times repeated in Jacob’s handwriting, as well as detached sentences of the will itself. The handwriting was a close imitation of the original will.

“Ah!” said the lawyer, rubbing his hands; “that is very satisfactory. With this and your testimony, the chain of proof will be complete. Nothing stronger could be desired.”

“Then you think we shall succeed.”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Whatever is to be done must be done quickly,” said Margaret, with a certain feverish haste; for, now that her mind was made up, her restless spirit craved immediate action. “This man—the copyist—is about to remove from his old lodgings, and, if there is any delay, he will escape. Besides, if he is apprehended at once, he will be found in possession of the price of his guilt.”

“That will doubtless weigh against him. If you will furnish me with his address, I will take measures to have him immediately arrested.”

The address was given and noted down. The lawyer still held the pen suspended over the paper. “His name,—you have not mentioned that.”

Margaret hesitated. There was a brief internal conflict between her old love and her present desire of revenge. The latter prevailed.

“His name,” she said, in a voice which was scarcely audible, “is Jacob Wynne.”

“Jacob Wynne! Good!”

Mr. Sharp noted down the name in a business-like way, utterly unconscious of the struggle in the mind of his client, before she could resolve to utter it. When, however, it was pronounced, and she felt that the decisive step was taken, her mind, as is common in such cases, became more tranquil, and she composed herself to wait for the event.

“Will you remain here,” asked Mr. Sharp, “while I go out and cause this man to be arrested? I will be back shortly, and will then report progress.”

Margaret inclined her head in the affirmative. Indeed, she had no other place to go, and she was already so exhausted that she could not go out into the streets, and wander hither and thither, as she must otherwise have done.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE ARREST

There had been an indefinable something in Margaret’s manner during her interview with the copyist, which left an unpleasant impression upon his mind. The guilt, of which he was secretly conscious, increased his natural cowardice. He felt that, on all accounts, it would be better to lose no time in his anticipated removal. He had intended to leave the next day. He would go to-day.

Acting upon this resolution, he began to pack the contents of the drawers into a trunk. He was in the midst of this occupation, when a knock was heard at the door.

“Come in,” he said, carelessly, without at once turning to the door.

Mr. Sharp entered, and coughed slightly, with the design of attracting the scrivener’s attention.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Jacob; “I am quite busy, preparing for a removal. Could you defer your business till,—say day after to-morrow?”

Our lawyer was one who never, under any circumstances, lost his politeness. With an affability which seemed indicative of the kindest feelings, he said, affably, “I believe I address Mr. Wynne?”

“You are right,” said Jacob, who still labored under the impression that the lawyer was one who required his services as copyist.

“Mr. Jacob Wynne?”

“Yes.”

“A copyist?”

“Yes, but I fear that I shall not be able to accommodate you to-day, being, as you see, on the point of removal.”

“You mistake my errand, Mr. Wynne. I have no doubt that you are a skilful copyist. Indeed, I have great reason to think so, and do not doubt that, if I were in need of anything in your line, I should find it worth while to apply to you.”

“What, then, is your business?” demanded Jacob, mystified.

“I regret to say, Mr. Wynne,” said Mr. Sharp, losing none of his affability, “that I have an unpleasant duty to perform. I have obtained a warrant for your arrest.”

“My arrest!” repeated the copyist, his sallow face exhibiting unmistakable terror.

“I regret to say so.”

“On what charge?” ejaculated Jacob, too well surmising its nature.

“Forgery.”

Jacob’s lips became bloodless, and his cheeks assumed an ashen hue, for at heart he was a very coward. In the moment of trial, none could be more craven.

“I regret to disturb you,” said Mr. Sharp, stepping back to the door and opening it. “Mr. Officer, you will do your duty.”

An officer, who had been stationed just outside the door, now entered, and formally arrested Jacob Wynne.

It is scarcely possible for a human being to exhibit more abject terror than the miserable copyist, under this unforeseen blow. All his strength seemed to have departed from him. When commanded by the officer to rise and accompany him, he attempted to do so; but his limbs trembled so, that he was scarcely able to comply.

“A clear case,” thought the lawyer.

“Really, my dear friend,” said Mr. Sharp, in a tone of expostulation, “you are suffering your feelings to run away with you. You must be more calm and collected.”

“Is there no way of escape?” asked Jacob, in a tone of agonizing entreaty. “Oh, spare me, gentlemen, and indeed you shall be well rewarded. See, I have gold!” and he hurriedly unlocked a desk on the table beside him. “Take what you will, but let me go.”

Mr. Sharp’s eyes glistened as he caught sight of the gold; but, perceiving no way in which he could avail himself of it, he assumed a tone of outraged integrity.

“What, sir!” he exclaimed; “can you, for an instant, suppose that we would be guilty of interfering with the course of justice for a paltry bribe? Thank Heaven!” he continued, fervently; “my integrity was never called in question. Through a long and varied professional career, I have steadily resisted all the temptations which have been brought to bear upon me. Not though your bribe were a thousand times as large, would I hesitate for a moment. Far better poverty and the consciousness of unsullied integrity, than wealth and a dishonored name! I have no doubt my worthy companion unites with me in this sentiment.”

“Of course I do,” said that functionary, gruffly.

“Then is there no chance?” asked Jacob, looking appealing from one to the other.

“Of course, if you are innocent, you will be discharged from custody. The law only punishes the guilty.”

This remark did not seem to yield Jacob much comfort.

“I am sorry to hurry you,” said the officer; “but I cannot wait much longer.”

Jacob rose feebly, and descended the stairs supported by the officer.

When the wretched copyist came in sight of the Tombs, his strength again deserted him, and he became as weak as an infant. Supported on either side he passed through the portal, and the heavy door swung back upon its hinges.

When he had been conducted to his cell and left alone, he flung himself in an agony of terror and apprehension upon the pallet, clenching his hands in impotent fury, while he muttered to himself, “Margaret has done this! Margaret has done this!”