Helen Ford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have one daughter.”

“And your wife?”

“Is no longer living.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“But the misfortune, papa?”

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

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

CHAPTER XXXI.

READING THE WILL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he was prepared even for this emergency.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never!” said his cousin, vehemently.

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

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

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

Helen breathed a sigh of relief as she entered.

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

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

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

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

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:—