Helen Ford

“My dear friend,” said Robert Ford, fervently, “you may rest assured that I will respect your wishes, of whose wisdom I entertain not a doubt.”

He shook hands with Mr. Sharp, cordially. The lawyer, with an appearance of profound emotion, put his handkerchief to his eyes, and returned the pressure.

At this moment Helen entered, followed by a waiter from a restaurant, from which, on this day of rejoicing, she had been extravagant enough to order a dinner.

The little table was quickly set out in the middle of the room, and spread with a white cloth, and upon it the savory food was placed. This was, indeed, an extraordinary occasion.

“Why, you are setting forth quite a banquet, my dear Miss Ford,” said Mr. Sharp, rubbing his hands gently, for he was by no means insensible to the pleasures of the palate.

At this moment Martha Grey, the seamstress, unaware of the lawyer’s visit, knocked at the door.

“Just in time, Martha,” said Helen, gayly. “We want you to sit on this side the table.”

“I couldn’t think of it,” said Martha, glancing at Mr. Sharp.

“I hope you will accept my daughter’s invitation,” said Mr. Ford, courteously. “Permit me, Mr. Sharp, to introduce our excellent neighbor, Miss Grey.”

“I am proud to make your acquaintance, Miss Grey,” said the lawyer, bowing profoundly. “Any friend of my esteemed friends, Mr. and Miss Ford, needs no other recommendation in my eyes. May I express the hope that you are well?”

“Quite so, thank you, sir,” said Martha, a little overpowered by the lawyer’s elaborate civility.

She was at length persuaded to make a fourth at Helen’s banquet.

How much it was enjoyed by all present, not one of whom was accustomed to such good fare every day; how proudly and gracefully Helen did the honors of the occasion; how merrily they all laughed at the bungling attempts of Mr. Ford to carve the fowls, and how, finally, he was compelled to call in the lawyer’s assistance; how genial and affable Mr. Sharp was, and how he insisted on proposing the health of Martha Grey, much to that young lady’s modest confusion; how his deference for her father raised him every moment in Helen’s estimation,—all this I must leave to the imagination of the reader, while I prepare in the next chapter to invite him to a different scene.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE BELL RINGS

Two persons who are nearly concerned in the revelation made by Mr. Sharp to Robert Ford, now demand our attention.

First, Mr. Rand, who, upon a sick-bed, worn-out by anxiety and bodily weakness, is fast drifting towards that unseen world, where all that is dark and mysterious here will be disclosed, and we shall know even as we are known. The second, is Lewis Rand, his unworthy nephew, whose whole soul is absorbed by the eager desire to secure to himself his uncle’s large fortune. Why this thirst for gold should so have possessed him, is not so clear. It was not that his habits were extravagant, for such was not the case. He was no voluptuary, at least not in the lowest sense of the word. It was not for the mere love of money that he craved it. He was elevated above the mere miser; but money was valuable to him for the power which it conferred, and the consequence which it gave. Lewis Rand’s ambition had taken this form. He desired to be known everywhere as the possessor of a princely fortune. He wished others to fawn upon him as he had fawned upon his uncle. As his dependence had compelled him to remain in a subordinate position, he wished others to become subordinates to him. Money he must have, somehow. So for years he had labored to establish and strengthen his position as his uncle’s heir. The inheritance which he craved, would make him at once a millionnaire.

As a general who has fortified a city, so as to make it, as he considers, impregnable, and at the last discovers a weak place which endangers the whole, exerts all his energy and all the resources which he can command to counteract the danger, so Lewis had, as we have seen, set in motion certain agencies, through which he hoped to avert the peril which menaced him in his cousin’s presence.

“Have you received no letters in answer to the advertisement, Lewis?” asked Mr. Rand, feebly.

“No, uncle, none whatever.”

Mr. Rand sighed, and fell back upon his pillow.

The crimson bed-curtains were drawn apart, revealing the thin and wasted form of the old man. Thinner and more attenuated he grew day by day. Each day the result of the struggle for life became less doubtful. A strong desire for life might have given the needed stimulus to the vital functions, and turned the scale against death, but the sick man had ceased to desire it.

None saw this more clearly than Lewis. With his cold, searching eye he had followed the slow advances of the destroyer. Not a word, however, had escaped him. How he trembled when the lamp of life burned for a time with a steadier radiance, lest, perchance, it might prove a harbinger of ultimate recovery; and when the momentary glow had departed, and the lamp burned so low that it seemed near its final extinction, he breathed more freely, and a glow of triumph lighted up his dark features,—features that might the next moment wear a look of the deepest sympathy. For Lewis had schooled them to obey the dictates of his will, and had not fear that they would betray him. He was a gamester who had staked his all upon a single venture, and was watching the chances with intense eagerness.

Morning after morning as he stole to his uncle’s bedside, it was with a secret hope veiled under an appearance of the greatest solicitude, that he might find the struggle ended. Each day he hoped might prove the last,—that from his heart the burden of anxiety and the weariness of waiting might at once and forever be lifted.

Fortunate was it for the old man’s peace, that he could not read this wicked wish in the eyes that were bent upon him. There was little fear. Could he conceive it possible that one whom he had long regarded with an affection second only to that which he bore his own son, who all his life long had never ceased to receive his bounty; could he dream that Lewis was capable of cherishing in his heart a hope so unnatural? So far from this, the faintest shadow of distrust had never entered his uncle’s thoughts. In his face he read nothing but sympathy and compassion. Mr. Lewis Rand, could you but sound the depth of wickedness in your own heart, could you drag it forth to the light and survey it in all its deformity, how would even your hardened nature shrink aghast and horror-stricken? Heaven only knows with what a web of sophistry you excuse this treachery of the heart. Could this be rent away, you could hardly stand as calmly as you do by the bedside of that old man, belying in your heart the filial words that fall so glibly from your tongue. Can you who have the power to bring happiness and peace to that bedside, and its unhappy occupant, who can bring the light of joy to those eyes soon to close forever, and repair a great injustice, still refuse to do it? There may come a time, whether near or remote, Heaven alone knows, when you would give all the wealth for which you are scheming if you had only done it.

On receiving a negative answer to his question, Mr. Rand remained for some time silent, with his face turned to the wall.

“It would be a great relief,” he sighed, wearily, “if I could but see my son once before I die.”

“When will he be done harping on his son?” muttered Lewis to himself. “He seems determined to torment me with it.”

He said aloud, with a proper display of emotion, “Do not speak of dying, uncle. You will yet recover.”

“Never, Lewis, never. There is something that tells me this sickness will be my last. My feet will soon enter the dark valley of the shadow of death. I have reached the age set by the Psalmist as the limit of human life. Even your kind solicitude cannot call me back from the grave that awaits me.”

“I should be very sorry if it did,” was the unspoken thought of Lewis, as he replied, covering his face with his handkerchief, as if to conceal his emotion, “you are—you must be deceived; you are looking brighter to-day.”

“Lewis, your hopes deceive you. On the contrary, I never felt weaker than I do to-day. I have never felt more entirely satisfied of the hopelessness of my situation. Yet why do I say ‘hopelessness?’ I do not fear death. Rather I welcome it as a friend. I feel no vain longing for a continuance of that life which is gliding from my grasp. For the last few years I have enjoyed too little happiness to make it seem very attractive. Wealth can do little. Even your kind attentions have failed. The consciousness of wrong done and unatoned for has followed me all these years. One wrong act has imbittered all my earthly existence.”

“My dear uncle, I regret that you should dwell upon such painful thoughts. Even if you were in fault, which I do not believe, you are agitating yourself now to no purpose.”

“Let me speak now, Lewis. The thought is always with me, and I am relieved by speaking. Never, Lewis, suffer yourself to be led hastily into a wrong act—never, as you value your soul’s peace. The thought will come back to you in after years, and never leave you; you may surround yourself with all that wealth can give, even as I have done, and your heart will still be an aching void into which no thought of joy or happiness shall enter. When you are on your death-bed, as I am now, you will feel how inestimable above all things else is that peace of mind which comes from a clear conscience and an unblemished life.”

Standing thus at his uncle’s bedside, with more than one sin unexpiated upon his soul, could Lewis listen unmoved to words which gained so deep a significance from this utterance by a dying man? Even he felt vaguely uncomfortable as he listened, mingled with an angry impatience which, however, he dared not betray.

“I feel a deep conviction,” continued Mr. Rand, “that Robert is still living. I cannot tell whence it comes, but of nothing am I more thoroughly persuaded. I had hoped that the advertisement would prove effectual in finding him out. You are sure that you caused its insertion in papers of the largest circulation?”

“I have followed your directions, uncle,” said Lewis, unblushingly, “notwithstanding my fear that it would lead to nothing.”

“You did right, Lewis. After I am gone, I wish you to continue the advertisement. Your cousin will see it sooner or later. I am quite sure of that. And when after a time he comes back to you, I wish you to see that the provisions of my will are carried out. I will not claim your promise. I know that you will do so.”

Lewis bowed, but forebore to speak.

“That is not all. You must tell him, Lewis, how I have sought for him, and how with a sorrowful heart I deplored my own injustice, from which he cannot have suffered more than I. You may tell him that I forgive him if he feels that there is anything to forgive, in the hope that he will forgive me who need it so much more. You will tell him all this, Lewis?”

“Can you doubt it, uncle?” asked Lewis, evasively.

“No, Lewis, I have perfect confidence in you. You never have deceived me, and you will not begin now; and, Lewis, you must try to atone to Robert, in my stead, for the wrong he has suffered. Never let your affection for me persuade you that it was not a wrong. I would far rather have you think harshly of me, than unjustly of your cousin.”

“I will endeavor to obey you even in that, hard though it be,” said Lewis.

At that moment the quiet of the sick-chamber was broken in by a sharp peal of the door-bell. It was so unusual an occurrence in that solitary household, that it startled both.

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.