Helen Ford

CHAPTER XVIII.
MARGARET’S FLIGHT

When Margaret left Staten Island after her stormy interview with Jacob Wynne, it was with a fevered brain, and a heart torn with the fiercest emotions. This man, whom despite his unworthiness, she had loved with all the intensity of her woman’s nature, had spurned her affection, had ruthlessly thrown it back upon her, and with a cold refinement of cruelty had acknowledged without reserve the gross deception he had practised upon her.

There are some of sensitive natures that would shrink and die under such treatment. Margaret was differently constituted. The blow was terrible, but she did not give way under it. It hardened her whole nature, and excited in her a burning thirst for vengeance. Strong in hate as in love, there sprang up in her soul a determined purpose, that, as Jacob Wynne had ruthlessly laid waste the garden of her life, she would never rest till she had made his as desolate as her own.

During the half-hour spent from wharf to wharf, she paced the deck of the steamer with hasty strides, her shawl clasped tightly over her throbbing bosom, and her face concealed as before by the capacious sun-bonnet. She heeded not that she was the object of curious attention on the part of her fellow-passengers. She never noticed how sedulously the children avoided coming in her way—what glances, half of wonder, half of awe, they cast upon the tall, stately, ill-dressed woman who strode by them with such an impatient step. She had far other thoughts to occupy her. She could not force herself to sit down. With her mind in such a whirl, motion was absolutely necessary. Her hands were fiercely clenched till the nails penetrated the skin, and caused the blood to flow, but she neither saw the blood nor felt the injury.

At length they reached the slip. She disembarked with the other passengers, and with the same quick, hasty, impatient strides hurried through the streets, choosing instinctively the most obscure and unfrequented, until she reached the lodgings occupied by Jacob and herself.

Here she sat down for a few minutes, and looked about her.

The room was more ambitiously furnished than when first the reader was introduced to it. Jacob’s connection with Lewis Rand had given him a push upward, and enabled him to live more comfortably than before. But in this prosperity Margaret had not been permitted to participate. She had asked even humbly for money to provide herself with more comfortable and befitting clothing, but Jacob, with cold selfishness, had refused all her applications. He had grown tired of her, and, as we have seen, had already formed a plan by which he hoped, through marriage, to get possession of a small property which would place his new prosperity on a more permanent footing. His treatment of Margaret, therefore, was only part of a deliberate plan to rid himself of her, and thus remove the only obstacle to the success of his suit. He had not indeed intended to reveal his plans to her until marriage had secured the property he coveted. We have seen how Margaret’s jealous espionage forced a premature disclosure of his object, and even defeated it altogether.

Margaret looked about the room, which she had so long regarded as home. Then her eye rested on herself disfigured by the faded and unsightly garments which Jacob’s parsimony compelled her to wear, and she smiled,—a smile of such bitter mockery, such deep and woful despair,—that she almost shuddered to see it reflected in the mirror opposite.

“There is no time to waste,” she muttered, slowly. “This can be my home no longer. I must do what I have to do and be gone.”

She opened a small drawer in the bureau, and drew out a half sheet of paper. It seemed to have been used for trying the pen, the same names together with particular letters, being several times repeated on it. Among the names that of Rand occurred most frequently.

Margaret smiled—this time a smile of triumph.

“Jacob Wynne! Jacob Wynne!” she repeated to herself, “what would you say if you knew that I hold in my hand the evidence of your crime,—forgery! forgery!”

Her eyes sparkled with vindictive joy.

“You would not sleep so quietly in your bed to-night, Jacob Wynne, if you knew that I hold it in my power to hurl you into prison a convicted forger! Why should I not do it? Tell me that, Jacob Wynne. Why, indeed; shall I have compassion upon you who have had no pity for me? Never! never!”

“When you are in prison,” she continued, in a tone of yet deeper vindictiveness, “I will come and visit you, and taunt you with the knowledge that it is to me you owe your disgrace. Think you that she will smile upon you then; that she will be ready to stand before the altar as I did?—Heaven help me!—and plight her faith to a convicted forger?”

Margaret’s whole nature seemed changed. Her love seemed to have given place to a deadly resentment.

She collected a few articles, and packed them in a small bundle.

Then she took one more glance—a farewell look at what, till now, had been her home, and then pressed her hand upon her heart, while an expression of pain distorted her features. But this was only for a moment. By a powerful effort of self-control she checked her emotions, and silently went out from the room.

Mile after mile walked Margaret through the crowded city streets, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left. All gazed curiously at her, all turned out for her. Now and then some one, more independent than his neighbors, seemed inclined to oppose her progress, and compel her to yield the way; but she moved steadily onwards, and he was obliged to waive his independence, and make way for the singular woman whose stately walk seemed so inconsistent with her miserable attire.

On, on, till the houses became farther and farther apart; on, till the whirl of the great city is lost in the distance, and fields stretch out on either side of the highway.

Still she moves on, never faltering, never showing signs of fatigue.

The skies grew suddenly dark. The rumbling of distant thunder was heard. Vivid flashes of lightning played before her eyes, and dazzled her with their blinding glare; still she moved steadily onward. A tree, shivered by the lightning, fell across her path; she climbed over the trunk which had been rent in twain, and continued her journey without exhibiting a trace of surprise or alarm. There was a conflict raging in her own soul fiercer than the conflict of the elements without; what was the lightning that dazzled her sight to that which had seared her heart? And why should she shrink from the shattered tree, whose own life had been made a yet more fearful wreck?

And now the rain began to fall, not in a gentle shower, but in a fierce, drenching deluge. It soaked through and through her miserable clothing, and fell upon her hot skin. She did not seem to heed even that, but still walked on—on with the same quick, steady pace, as before.

By the wayside was a small cottage, a very small one. There was but one story, and two rooms were all it contained. It stood a few feet back from the road. There was a small yard in front, and behind a small garden, devoted to the cultivation of vegetables.

When Margaret came in sight of this cottage she paused,—paused a moment irresolutely,—and then slowly entered through the open gate into the path which led up to the front door.

She did not knock, but passing the door, stole to the window and looked cautiously in.

The room revealed to her gaze was very plainly furnished. The floor was clean, but had no carpet. A table and a few chairs, a clock, a stove, and a rocking-chair, were all that the room contained.

In the rocking-chair sat an old lady, quietly engaged in knitting. Her back was towards the window, and Margaret could therefore see nothing of her features. At her feet reposed a gigantic cat, with her eyes half closed, purring contentedly.

It was a picture of humble comfort and domestic happiness. The placid look of the old lady seemed to indicate that she had no anxieties to disturb her tranquillity. The cat, too, seemed to feel that dozing was the great work of her existence, as, coiled up on the hearth, she watched, with winking eyes, the rapid movements of the old lady’s fingers.

Such was the general aspect of the room upon which the burning eyes of Margaret now rested. She stood for brief space peering in with an air of irresolution.

At length she opened the outer door. A moment more, and the door of the inner room yielded to her touch, and she stood upon the threshold.

The old lady looked up from her knitting, and uttered a half exclamation of terror as her eyes rested on the tall, forlorn woman standing before her, with her clothes hanging in wet folds about her person, and her hair falling in wild disorder about her face, from which she had now removed her bonnet. The cat, too, who had been roused from her nap, and who was as much unused to such company as her mistress, stood with her back arched in terror, gazing in dismay at the stranger.

“Who are you?” asked the old lady, tremulously. “What do you want with me?”

Margaret looked at her earnestly, and said, in a low voice:

“You do not know me?”

“No, I don’t know you,” said the old lady, shaking her head.

“Is it thus a mother forgets her own child?” asked Margaret, looking fixedly at her.

The old lady trembled, she looked with an earnest glance of inquiry at the wild, haggard face of her visitor, and then bursting into tears took a step forward, and opening her arms exclaimed,—

“Margaret, my daughter!”

The hard heart melted for a moment, tears gushed from eyes dry before, and the two were folded in a close embrace.

Then the old lady drew back a step, and gazed long and earnestly at her daughter.

“You find me changed, mother,” said Margaret, abruptly.

“It is years since we met,” was the sad reply. “I might have expected to find you changed.”

“But not such a change,” replied Margaret. “It is not years alone that have wrought the change in me. But you don’t—you cannot see the greater change,” she continued with rapidity, “that has taken place in my heart. It is a woful change, mother.”

Her mother marked, with alarm, the excitement of her manner, her quick breathing, and the flush upon her cheeks.

“Your clothes are wet, Margaret,” she said, anxiously. “This terrible storm has drenched you. You must change them instantly, or you will get your death of cold.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” said Margaret, waywardly, “you haven’t admired my clothes yet. They are very rich and becoming, are they not? This shawl,” and she lifted up the tattered rag and spread it out, while the rain dropped from it upon the floor, “have you ever seen a more beautiful one? And this dress,”—she held it up in her fingers,—“how much it resembles the soft silk I wore at my wedding—yes, my wedding,” she repeated, with startling emphasis.

“You are not well, Margaret,” said her mother, alarmed at her strange conduct. “You have caught cold in this storm, and you will be sick if you are not careful.”

“Sick! That matters little.”

“You might die,” urged the old lady, in a tone of mild reproach.

“Yes,” said Margaret, reflectively, “I might die, and that would prevent my revenge. I must live for that; yes, I must live for that.”

“What do you mean, Margaret?”

“Never mind, mother,” said Margaret, evasively, “never mind. I will tell you some time. Now I will place myself in your hands, mother, and try to get well.”

“Now you are yourself again,” said the old lady, relieved by her calmer tone. “You must take off those wet clothes directly, and put on some of mine. You had better go to bed at once.”

Margaret yielded implicitly to her mother’s directions. Nevertheless, she was very sick for many weeks. Often she was delirious, and her mother more than once shuddered at the wild words which escaped her.

CHAPTER XIX,
HERBERT COLEMAN

In course of time Helen’s engagement subjected her to a new embarrassment. It was of course late in the evening before she was released from the theatre, leaving her a distance to traverse of more than a mile. At first Martha Grey called for her, but it soon became evident that this was too much for the strength of the poor seamstress. She did not complain, but Helen, with the quick eye of friendship, saw her lassitude and the air of weariness which she strove in vain to conceal, and would not allow her to continue her friendly service.

“But, my dear child,” said Martha, “how will you manage? You ought not to go alone. It would not be proper.”

“I will try it,” said Helen, though her timid nature shrank from the trial. “If necessary, I must get a lodging nearer the theatre.”

“And leave us? I should miss you sadly.”

“Oh, I should expect you to come too,” said Helen. “We would hire rooms close together. But perhaps it will not be necessary.”

So Helen undertook to return from the theatre alone. She might indeed have had her father’s escort by asking for it, but she feared it would prove an interruption to his labors, and perhaps deprive him of the rest which he required. But an incident happened on the second evening which convinced her that it was not safe for her to walk home unattended.

Singing at a popular theatre, Helen’s face naturally became familiar to those who frequented it. There were some among them who were struck by her beauty, and desired to see her off the stage. It happened that a young man was standing near the door of the theatre one evening when Helen emerged from it. He quietly followed her until she reached an unfrequented side street through which she was obliged to pass, and then pressed to her side.

“Good evening, Miss Ford,” he said, accommodating his pace to hers.

Helen looked up startled, and met an unfamiliar face. She remained silent through terror.

“Good evening,” repeated her unwelcome companion. “I hardly think you heard me the first time.”

“I don’t know you, sir.”

“Allow me to remedy that. My name is Albert Grover, at your service.”

“I beg you will leave me, sir,” said Helen, her heart beating rapidly.

“I would rather not, indeed. You are alone, and require an escort.”

“I would rather not trouble you, sir; I shall do very well alone.”

“It is no trouble whatever—on the contrary, quite a pleasure. Will you accept my arm?”

“No, sir, I would much rather not.”

“Upon my word, you are not treating me well. When I announce myself as one of the warmest admirers of your charming voice, I am sure you will not be cruel enough to repulse me. Let me insist, then, upon your accepting my arm for the remainder of your walk.”

Helen was quite terrified by the young man’s persistency. Too young to fear any peril except the annoyance of the present moment, she felt an apprehension which she could not define.

“Pray, leave me, sir,” she said, in accents of entreaty.

“I am sure you don’t mean that,” returned her persecutor, endeavoring to place her arm in his.

Helen screamed faintly. Her call was instantly answered.

“Leave this young lady alone,” said a manly voice, the owner of which seized Mr. Albert Grover with a vigorous grasp.

“Who are you?” demanded the young man endeavoring, but without success, to free himself from his unexpected assailant.

“What you do not appear to be,” was the prompt reply, “a gentleman. Are you not ashamed to annoy a defenceless girl?”

“I only meant to see her home,” was the sulky reply.

“You can spare yourself the trouble. I will undertake that duty.”

“O Mr. Coleman, how glad I am you came up!” said Helen, clinging to her new protector, in whom the reader has already recognized the opposite lodger.

“So am I. But, Miss Ford, do you know how imprudent it is for you to be out at this hour alone?”

“I suppose it is,” said Helen; “but I don’t know what else to do. Martha Grey used to come for me, but I found it was too much for her. Papa would come, but he works so hard that I don’t think he ought to come. And there is no one else.”

“I see how it is,” said the young man. “I shall come for you myself.”

“You, Mr. Coleman! Oh, no, I could not think of troubling you.”

“Indeed, it will be no trouble.”

“If it were for only one evening. But every evening, it would be too much.”

“On the contrary, it will be pleasant for me. I am in my room nearly all day, hard at work. In the evening I cannot work, for painting requires sunlight. So I shall only be taking the exercise I need, and coming for you will give me an object which will insure my taking the exercise I require. You see, therefore, that it is a selfish arrangement on my part.”

“I see that you are very kind,” said Helen, gratefully. “I wish there were any way in which I could repay you.”

“I have a young sister at home, about your age. If she were situated as you are, I should want somebody to be kind to her. Let me look upon you as my sister.”

“I shall be very glad to have you,” said Helen, her confidence completely won.

“Then, of course, I shall not call you Miss Ford any longer.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would be too formal between brother and sister. I must call you Helen.”

“Yes, if you like,” said the child, more and more pleased. “It is very pleasant to have a brother.”

“Then you will call me Herbert?”

“Is that your name?”

“Yes. Will you call me so?”

“Perhaps so, by and by. I must get used to it, you know.”

“I think that will soon come, for we shall be a good deal together now.”

Helen felt quite relieved by this new arrangement. The next evening Mr. Coleman presented himself promptly at the theatre, thereby disappointing Albert Grover, who was in waiting to repeat his annoyance of the previous evening.

“You may as well give it up,” said Helen’s escort, with a significant glance at the young man. “Henceforth, this young lady will have an escort able and willing to chastise all who are disposed to offer her annoyance.”

Helen clung to his arm with a feeling of unspeakable relief.

“Don’t tremble, Helen,” said he, kindly. “You are safe with me.”

“You are very kind to me,” said Helen.

“That is my duty. You have promised to be my little sister, you know.”

“Have you begun a new picture yet?”

“Not yet. I thought I could see where I might make some alterations for the better in the picture you have seen. I shall try to get it admitted to the Academy by and by, unless I succeed first in obtaining a purchaser.”

“It is so beautiful, I should think it would be easy to find a purchaser.”

“If all looked at it with your partial eyes, Helen. But I have no reputation, and an established name goes a great ways.”

“But you will become famous some day.”

“I hope so, but it will be many years first. I must work for bread and butter before I work for fame.”

“Can’t you work for both at the same time?”

“I hope so. But sometimes an artist, under the spur of necessity, is compelled to deny his highest aspirations, and work for present profit. From that temptation I am relieved at present,” the young man added, laughing, “since my pencil is not yet in demand.”

They had now reached the door of the lodging-house, and stumbled up the dark staircase to their rooms.

“Good night, Mr. Coleman,” said Helen.

“So it is still Mr. Coleman?”

“Good night, Herbert,” said Helen, timidly.

“Good night, little sister. Good night, and pleasant dreams.”

CHAPTER XX.
THE CANDLE FLICKERS

Leaving Margaret to recover slowly at the little cottage under her mother’s care, and Helen and her father to the tranquil existence which, though humble, contents them, we pass to a nearer view of Lewis Rand and his uncle, whose last days are imbittered by the artful machinations of his nephew.

We stand before a palace-like structure, fronting on Fifth Avenue, whose imposing exterior scarcely gives an adequate idea of the interior magnificence. But few homes, even in that aristocratic quarter, are more sumptuously furnished. Yet it would be difficult to say how far all this splendor contributes to the happiness of its owner. Happiness is quite independent of wealth, and what wealth can procure. Of what avail is it, that curtains of the richest damask keep out the too intrusive sunlight, or that carpets of the finest texture cover the floors, since the shutters are always closed, and the magnificent parlors rarely echo the steps of a visitor? Of what avail is the gallery of really exquisite paintings, selected at an immense cost from European collections? Hidden from the curious eye, lest perchance some harm might come to them, never looked upon by the possessor, they might as well be buried under ground, so far as concerns the actual enjoyment derived from them.

Mr. Rand has never recovered from the loss of his son. Great as was the shock he experienced from that son’s plebeian choice, for such he considered it, he would have made advances towards a reconciliation long before, but for the vigilance and adroit manœuvring of his nephew Lewis. The latter well knew that this would be fatal to his hopes of succeeding as heir presumptive to his uncle’s immense wealth. Accordingly, as soon as his uncle’s first passionate anger began to show signs of abatement, he was persuaded by Lewis to undertake a European tour. This occupied several years, during which they resided, for different lengths of time, in the principal European capitals. It was at this time that most of the articles of taste and luxury which now adorned the city mansion were first collected.

But there is nothing that can supply to the heart the place of a lost affection. Mr. Rand returned to America restless and unhappy for the lack of that which his own act had driven from him. Had his son been at hand, he would have offered to receive him back, but it was not till some time afterwards that he heard of his being in Chicago. Whether Lewis suspected any disposition to relent is not certain, but, as we have already seen, he thought it politic to give his uncle the impression that his cousin was dead. Of this he did not find it difficult then to convince him, and so, for a time, he breathed easier. But the recent glimpse of Robert had aroused in the father a hope which Lewis found it exceedingly difficult to stifle. To this hope may be attributed the change in the phraseology of the will, which the nephew had taken such criminal pains to neutralize. He was in perpetual apprehension that his cousin might, by some means, learn the fact of his father’s residence in the city, and, in consequence, make an attempt to obtain an interview. This must be avoided at all hazards. The quiet manner in which they lived rendered the chance of discovery a small one, and the present alarming illness of his uncle, which Lewis regarded as a fortunate circumstance, made that chance still smaller.

On a bed in one of the most elegantly furnished chambers in his princely dwelling, reposed Mr. Rand,—let me rather say reclined, for his quick, restless movements indicated anything but repose. His white hair clung disordered about his temples, his features were thin and careworn, and his whole aspect was that of a man whose life is ending in anxiety and disappointment.

Lewis sat by the bedside, coldly scrutinizing the wasted features, as if calculating how long life can retain its hold.

“Will he never die—never?” thus ran his thoughts. “It is strange with what tenacity he clings to life; but as long as he remains here, prostrated by sickness, I am tolerably safe. Still, it isn’t a bad plan, which I have in train through Sharp. Although the chances are a hundred to one in my favor, the bare possibility of miscarriage is sufficient to justify every precaution.”

“O that he might die at once!” he mentally resumed, looking impatiently at the wasted face. “Then alone will my doubts and anxieties be at an end. Then I shall care little how often I may meet my cousin Robert. He will have no further power to injure or thwart me. He cannot last long now. It is three days since he has been rational. He must die, and then–”

Lewis rose and paced the room with quick strides, while he indulged in dreams of the uses to which he would apply the rich inheritance, for which he had been plotting and scheming for so many years.

He was interrupted by a feeble voice from the bed.

Lewis turned quickly towards the bed, and the face of the cunning dissembler at once assumed the expression of profound sorrow and sympathy.

“My dear uncle,” he said, “I am rejoiced to find that you are once more yourself. How do you feel?”

“Weak, Lewis, very weak,” returned the sick man, speaking with difficulty. “I feel that my life is nearing its close.”

“Don’t say that, uncle,” said Lewis, with well dissembled emotion; “I cannot bear to part with you. Live for me, if not for yourself. If you should die, what is there left to me? Through so many years I have renounced all other ties, and devoted myself to you. You must not leave me now.”

The artful dissembler applied his handkerchief to his eyes, possibly to hide the gleam of joyful anticipation which he could with difficulty conceal.

“Yes, Lewis,” said Mr. Rand, affected by his nephew’s apparent emotion; “you have indeed been devoted to me. You will find, after my death, that I have not been ungrateful. Your affection leads you to wish my life prolonged, but when the tongue falters, and the pulse grows weak, and the throbbing heart is almost still, man should not presumptuously strive to call back the gift which God is about to take away.”

“My dear uncle, I am convinced that you are unnecessarily alarmed. You will yet live many years.”

“Hope it not, Lewis,” said the sick man, who was far from suspecting how unnecessary this admonition was; “hope it not. I know my time is short. At such a time, Lewis, our past actions assume a very different aspect from that in which we have been wont to regard them. Now when it is too late, I can see how by my foolish pride, I have wrecked my own happiness, and perhaps—God forgive me—that of him I loved best in life, my son Robert.”

Lewis was uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking, and made an effort to divert it.

“I think, sir,” he said, “that you are blaming yourself without adequate cause. Much as I loved my cousin, I am forced to acknowledge that he justly forfeited his claims to your favor and affection.”

“Forfeited my affection! And shall we, weak, erring mortals, in our presumption dare to affix such a penalty to what may after all be only an offence against our own unworthy pride? I feel that I was wrong. I should not have condemned Robert’s choice without having seen his wife, and if she was really worthy, I should have given my consent.”

“But, consider her birth.”

“When you come to lie on your death-bed as I do now,” said the sick man, solemnly, “such considerations will dwindle into their proper insignificance. Why should I claim superiority over any being whom the same kind Father has made? When death is near us, our vision becomes clearer. The scales of prejudice are rent away, and we see things as they are.”

Lewis was silent. He was seeking some way of diverting the conversation into a less dangerous channel.

“While I have been lying here,” resumed Mr. Rand, “I have been haunted by a conviction that Robert is still living, or that he may have left issue.”

“My dear uncle,” interrupted Lewis; in alarm, “let me entreat you not to disturb yourself by such thoughts; call to mind how direct were the proofs of his death.”

“I know all that you would urge, Lewis, but there have been cases where the death of a person of similar name has led to a misapprehension. It may have been so in this case.”

“It is scarcely possible.”

“Perhaps you are right. My conviction is based rather upon my feelings than upon my reason.”

“Better think no more of it, uncle, it will only distress you.”

“Have I not done so? For eighteen years I have been striving to drive away the thoughts of my injustice. But it will not do. I must think of it, and thinking finds relief in speaking.”

“But, even admitting that you have wronged my cousin Robert, which, in justice to yourself I am not willing to allow, consider that your will, by its provisions, makes ample reparation for that wrong.”

“Poor, at best, Lewis. Will it make reparation for the estrangement which for eighteen years has kept apart father and son? That cannot be. And yet I would fain see even this poor atonement made.”

“You may rely upon my being guided by your wishes, uncle.”

“I doubt it not. Yet it would be a satisfaction if I, who have done the wrong, could have the privilege of repairing it during my life. Oh, that I might have the joy and blessing of seeing my son once more if he yet lives—that I might ask his forgiveness for the wrong I have done him!”

Lewis was seriously troubled at his uncle’s pertinacity, and still more by the inquiry which followed.

“Don’t you think, Lewis, it would be well to advertise in the daily papers, for Robert Rand or his descendants, if he should have any?”

“It would be useless,” said Lewis, shaking his head. “It would only be throwing the money away.”

“And what is money to me? Nothing, nothing, compared with the thought I have done something, however little, towards expiating my injustice. I wish, Lewis, you would draw up an advertisement, and see it inserted.”

However distasteful this proposal was to Lewis, it would not do to object. He therefore, with an appearance of alacrity, procured writing materials, and prepared such an advertisement as his uncle desired. He read it to the sick man who signified his approval, and requested Lewis to procure its insertion in the principal daily papers forthwith. This Lewis undertook to do.

But the advertisement never appeared!

Lewis dared not permit this, knowing that his cousin was actually in the city, and that it would be likely to meet his eye.

Had his uncle been in the habit of reading the daily papers, it could not safely have been suppressed. But he was too sick for that, and there was no prospect of his becoming better. He had of course no suspicion of Lewis’s double dealing, but trusted implicitly to him. Day after day he inquired anxiously if there was any answer to the advertisement. As often Lewis replied in the negative, and Mr. Rand would sink back upon his pillow with a sigh of disappointment.