Helen Ford

CHAPTER XVII.

AN AWKWARD INTERVIEW

Jacob Wynne looked in surprise at the person who so persistently barred his progress, and exclaimed, impatiently, “What means all this foolery? Stand aside, my good woman, and let me pass.”

She did not move.

The scrivener never, for a moment, suspected who she might be. It never occurred to him that she had a special object in accosting him. He could not see her face, for it was still concealed by the bonnet and thick veil she wore.

“There is something for you,” he said, throwing down a small silver coin; for he judged that she might be a beggar. “Now stand aside, will you, for I am in haste.”

“So you bestow your alms upon me, as upon a beggar, Jacob Wynne,” said the woman, with a hard, bitter laugh. As she spoke, she drew aside her veil with an impatient movement, and allowed him a full view of her features.

“Margaret!” he exclaimed, recoiling so hastily as to spill the contents of the glass.

“Yes,—Margaret!” she repeated, in the same hard tone as before. “I dare say you did not expect to see me here.”

“What fiend sent you here?” he exclaimed, angrily.

“Is it so remarkable,” she said, “that I should wish to be near you?”

“Margaret,” said Jacob, with difficulty restraining his anger sufficiently to assume a tone of persuasion, “consider how much attention you will attract, dressed in this uncouth style. Go home; there’s a good woman.”

He looked uneasily in the direction where he had left his companion, fearing that she might become a witness of this interview.

“Good woman!” she laughed, wildly. “Oh, yes, you do well to call me that. You are doing your best to make me so.” Then changing her tone, “So you are ashamed of my dress. I will not disgrace you any longer, if you will give me money to buy others.”

“Well, well! we’ll talk about that when we get home. Only walk quietly down to the boat now. You see we are attracting attention.”

“And you will come with me?” she said, with a searching look.

“I? no, not at present. I have an engagement,” said Jacob, in some embarrassment.

“Yes, I understand,” said Margaret, bitterly. “It is with her,” and she pointed to the tree under which his late companion was yet seated.

Jacob started.

“You may well start,” said Margaret, whose observant eye did not fail to detect his momentary confusion.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, half defiantly.

“Jacob Wynne,” she continued, sternly, fixing her penetrating eye full upon him, “tell me who is this woman, and what she is to you. Tell me, for I have a right to know.”

She folded her arms and looked like an accusing spirit, as she made this demand. The consciousness of guilt made his physical inferiority the more conspicuous, as he met her gaze uneasily, as if meditating an escape.

“This is no place for the discussion of such matters,” he said, in a tone which strove to be conciliatory. “It is all right, of course. Go home quietly, and when I return, I will answer your questions.”

He was mistaken if he thought thus to escape. Margaret was in a state of high nervous excitement, and the fear of being overheard by the groups who surrounded them was wholly lost sight of in the intensity of her purpose.

“Jacob,” she said, steadily, “this is not a matter to be deferred. My suspicions have been long excited, and now I want an explanation. I cannot live as I have lived. Sometimes I have feared,” placing her hand upon her brow, “that my head was becoming unsettled.”

“Your coming here to-day is no slight proof of it,” he said, hardly. “I think you are right.”

She threw off this insinuation, cruel as it was, with hardly a thought of what it meant. She had but one object now, and that she must accomplish.

“Enough of this, Jacob,” she said, briefly. “You have not answered my question. This woman,—what is she to you?”

“Suppose I do not choose to tell you,” he answered, doggedly.

“I demand an answer,” said Margaret, resolutely. “I have a right to know.”

The weakest natures are often the most cruel, delighting in the power which circumstances sometimes bestow upon them of torturing those who are infinitely their superiors. There was a cruel malignity in the scrivener’s eyes as he repeated, slowly, “You have a right to know! Deign to inform me of what nature is this right.”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, startled out of herself by his effrontery. “Have you the face to ask?”

“I have,” he said, his countenance expressing the satisfaction he felt in the blow he meditated.

Margaret looked at him a moment, uncertain of his meaning. Then she took a step forward and placed her hand on his arm, while she looked up in his face with an expression which had changed suddenly from defiance to entreaty.

“Jacob,” she said, in a softened tone, “have you forgotten the morning when we both stood before the altar, and pledged to each other eternal constancy? It is ten years since, years not unmarked by sorrow and privation, but we have been the happier for being together, have we not? You remember our little Margaret, Jacob,—how she lighted up our humble home with her sweet, winning ways, till God saw fit to take her to himself? If she had lived, I don’t think you would have found it in your heart to neglect me so. Can we not be to each other what we have been, Jacob? I may have been in fault sometimes, with my hasty temper, but I have never swerved from my love for you.”

“You are at liberty to do so as soon as you like,” he said, coldly.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed; “and this to your wedded wife!”

“That is a slight mistake of yours,” he returned, with a sneer, resting his calculating eyes upon her face, as if to mark the effect of his words.

Her hand released its hold upon his arm, and she staggered back as if about to fall.

“My God! what do you mean? What can you mean? Tell me quickly, if you would not have me go mad before your eyes.”

“That might be the best way of ending the matter,” said he, with deliberate cruelty. “Nevertheless I will not refuse to gratify your reasonable curiosity. I declare to you solemnly that you are not my wedded wife.”

“You would deceive me,” she said, with sudden anger.

“Not in this matter, though I acknowledge having deceived you once. The priest who performed the ceremony was so only for that occasion.”

Margaret passed her hand across her eyes as if she were trying to rouse herself from some stupefying dream.

“Surely you are jesting, Jacob,” she said, at length. “You are only saying this to try me. Is it not so? I will only ask you this once. Are you in earnest?”

“I declare to you, Margaret, that you are not my wedded wife.”

“Then,” she said in a sudden burst of fury, to which she was urged by the sharpness of her despair. “Then I have only one thing to live for now.”

She turned away.

“What do you mean?” asked Jacob, almost involuntarily, her manner producing a vague uneasiness.

“Revenge!”

She drew her tattered shawl closely about her, and, though the heat was intense, actually shivered in her fierce emotion. Jacob looked after her as she walked rapidly away, turning neither to the right nor to the left, and a half feeling of compunction came over him. It was only for a moment, however, for he shook it off, muttering impatiently,—

“Pshaw! what’s the use of fretting! It must have come sooner or later. I suppose it was only natural to expect a scene. Well, I’m glad it’s over, at any rate. Now I shall have one impediment out of my path.”

Jacob’s nature was cold and cowardly, and, as may be inferred, essentially selfish. Destitute of all the finer feelings, it was quite impossible to understand the pain which he had inflicted on a nature so sensitive and high-strung as that of Margaret. Nor, had he been able to understand, would the instinct of humanity have bidden him to refrain.

He retraced his steps to obtain another glass of water, for the one in his hand had been spilled in the surprise of his first meeting with Margaret.

“Did you get tired of waiting, Ellen?” he asked, as on his return he presented the glass to his companion.

The suspicions excited in her mind by the mysterious warning had been strengthened by his protracted absence.

“You were long absent,” she said, coldly.

“Yes,” he replied, somewhat confused. “I was unexpectedly detained.”

“Perhaps you can explain this,” she continued, handing him the paper she had received.

He turned pale with anger and vexation, and incautiously muttered, “This is some of Margaret’s work. Curse her!”

“Who is Margaret?” asked his companion, suspiciously.

“She,” said Jacob, hesitating, in embarrassment. “Oh, she is an acquaintance of mine whose mind has lost its balance. You may have seen her on the ground here. She was muffled up in a shawl and cape-bonnet. She is always making trouble in some unexpected way.”

That this was a fabrication, Jacob’s confused manner clearly evinced.

“I wish to go home,” was the only response. Jacob offered his arm.

It was rejected. They walked on, not exchanging a word.

When they parted in New York, Jacob gave full vent to his indignation, and hastened home to pour out his fury on Margaret, who had so seriously interfered with his plan of allying himself with one for whom he cared little, except that she would have brought him a small property which he coveted. He hurried up stairs, and dashed into the room occupied by Margaret and himself. He looked about him eagerly, but saw no one.

Margaret had disappeared.

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.