Helen Ford

Margaret advanced to the bed, and kneeling, touched his arm gently, while she uttered his name softly.

“Jacob!”

He started, and looked wildly at his visitor. He did not seem to comprehend that it was Margaret in real presence who knelt beside him.

“Away! away!” he exclaimed, shuddering at her touch. “Why must I be tormented before my time?”

“Don’t you know me, Jacob? I am Margaret.”

He looked at her half in doubt, and said, sullenly, “What more do you want with me? Is it not enough that you have sent me here? Have you come to finish your work?”

“I have come to save you.”

“To save me? Then it was not you who caused my arrest?”

“Yes, Jacob, but I did not know what I was doing. I was hurried away by passion. Forgive me, Jacob.”

“Your regrets will avail little now,” he said, bitterly. “You have placed me here, and here I must stay. Oh, it is horrible,” he said, shuddering, “to be shut up in this damp, noisome cell!”

“Listen, Jacob,” said Margaret; “your case is not so hopeless as you imagine. It was at my instance that you were arrested. Heaven knows that I had some cause. But I am sorry for it now. If you are convicted, it can only be upon my testimony. Should I absent myself from your trial, nothing could be proved against you, and you would be released.”

“Will you do this, Margaret?” asked the prisoner, hope once more kindling in his heart. “If you will, I will forever bless you. My fate hangs upon your decision. You don’t know how I have suffered already, in the few hours I have stayed here. Have compassion upon me, Margaret, and I will take you back again as my wife. In one respect I have deceived you. Our marriage was genuine. Forgive me for trying to persuade you otherwise.”

An expression of earnest gratitude and relief overspread Margaret’s face. “Thank you for those words, Jacob. It cancels all the harshness and all the wrong that I have met at your hands. Then I am really your wedded wife?”

“Yes, Margaret,” said Jacob, humbly, for confinement had wrought a salutary change in his deportment; “I confess that I wished to convince you of the contrary. I even meditated, in my wickedness, marrying another for her wealth, not because I loved her. But it is all over now, and I am glad of it. Only release me from this imprisonment, and I promise–”

“Promise nothing,” said Margaret; “I do not wish to take advantage of your present situation, when perhaps you might be induced to promise that which you would afterwards repent.”

“But, I am sincere.”

“You may be now, but will it last? I do not wish,” she resumed, with proud composure, “to force myself upon you against your will. You have already freed me from my chief trouble, in acknowledging that our marriage was not the idle mockery you would have had me believe. Farther than that, I require nothing of you. If, at the end of six months from your release, you still desire that I should come to you, I will. Till that time has passed, it is best that we should be to each other as strangers.”

Margaret spoke with calmness and dignity. Even Jacob perceived this, and he could not help feeling an unwonted admiration for the woman he had spurned. He had never felt her value till, by her own act, a wall of separation was built up between them.

“I have no right to complain,” said Jacob, humbly. “I do not deserve your confidence, Margaret; but you shall find, hereafter, that I am more trustworthy than you think.”

“Heaven grant it, Jacob! Do not think me unkind or vindictive, if I refuse at once to burden you with myself. I should not survive a second repulse. What I have suffered from our estrangement, God only knows. But it shall be forgotten.”

“How long shall I be obliged to remain here?”

“I do not know. At any rate, only till I can arrange for your release. I will lose no time about it.”

The turnkey appeared, and Margaret went forth from the cell, leaving Jacob inexpressibly relieved by the promise she had made. He knew Margaret well enough to feel assured that she would keep it.

Not less relieved was Margaret. The black cloud which hung over her was dissipated. Now she could resign herself even to the alienation of Jacob’s affection, since she was assured that, by the laws of God and man, she was still his wedded wife. He had treated her most basely and unworthily, that she knew full well; but this guilt and mortification, at least, she was spared. She felt new strength in her limbs, new cheerfulness in her heart. She bent her steps at once to Mr. Sharp’s office. To him she made known her change of determination, and her desire to suppress her evidence, that the prisoner might be released.

Mr. Sharp was embarrassed. This sudden whim, as he called it, threatened to disarrange all his plans.

He paced the office, while Margaret followed him with an anxious look.

“Is it too late?” she inquired.

“I will tell you, madam, how the matter stands,” said the lawyer, suddenly, taking a seat opposite Margaret. “By this false will, whose forgery you can attest, a large estate has been diverted from the legal heirs,—a father and child,—highly estimable, but very poor, and been seized upon by an artful villain,—a cousin,—whose best efforts have been given to the task of sowing dissension between the late Mr. Rand and the son to whom I allude. Now the question arises, whether it is right, for the sake of saving a guilty man, to perpetuate this great wrong, and keep the rightful heirs out of their inheritance? Do you dare to take upon your soul that responsibility?”

Mr. Sharp argued well. Let not the reader give him too much credit for disinterested love of right. It should not be forgotten, that he rightly anticipated from Mr. Ford a liberal reward for his professional exertions.

“What would you have me do?” asked Margaret, in a troubled tone. “I do not wish to aid injustice, but this man is my husband!”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the lawyer, surprised. “Yet you gave the information that led to his arrest.”

“I knew not what I did. I was angry and vindictive. But is there nothing that can be done to restore the estate without the sacrifice of my husband?”

Mr. Sharp considered a moment.

“I think I can manage it,” he said; “but it will be necessary for your husband to remain in confinement for a few days longer. Will you consent to this?”

“Freely.”

“Then I will see Mr. Rand, and I think I can so far work upon his fears as to extort from him at least a portion of what he has so criminally acquired. Meanwhile, it will be best for you to keep out of the way; only let me know where to find you in case I require your presence.”

Thus matters were arranged. Margaret returned to her mother, not as she left her, dull and dispirited, but with a cheerfulness for which the latter strove in vain to account.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

GREEK MEETS GREEK

The novelty of possession had not yet palled upon Lewis Rand. It seemed to him still like a dream, of whose reality he could scarcely assure himself. Day after day he wandered through the magnificently-furnished rooms of the stately dwelling, and surveyed them with a proud rising of the heart. In the evening, as he sat before the grate fire in the library, for the evenings were growing cool, he would run over in his mind the long list of his possessions, and launch forth in imagination upon plans which he meant to carry out. If by chance the image of the cousin whom he had defrauded presented itself, it was hastily dismissed.

One evening, as he sat idly before the fire, indulging in complacent thoughts, a servant announced a visitor.

“Bring him in here,” said Lewis, albeit somewhat surprised at an intrusion at that late hour. This surprise was not lessened when, in the visitor, he recognized Mr. Sharp.

The lawyer advanced with an air of easy assurance, and as he glanced about him observed, rubbing his hands, “Really, Mr. Rand, you are quite charmingly situated. I am reminded of what I have read of the Mohammedan Paradise. To make it complete, you only need a houri.”

“Yet, Paradise as it is,” said Lewis, significantly, for he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the lawyer’s treachery, “it is not free from the intrusion of evil spirits.”

“Indeed!” returned Mr. Sharp, with an admirable air of unconsciousness, “you surprise me.”

“Not more than I am surprised to see you here. If it is not taking too great a liberty, might I inquire the motive of your visit? I presume it is not the pleasure of seeing me.”

“That’s undoubtedly one of my motives,” said the lawyer, affably; “but, as you surmise, it is not the only one. I wish to speak with you on important business.”

“Perhaps you have made out a bill of charge for the very valuable services you have rendered me?”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Sharp, bowing; “I cannot express the gratification I feel at this generous commendation on the part of one in whose behalf I have put forth my poor efforts.”

“Sir,” said Lewis Rand, rising impatiently, “you cannot hope to deceive me by your imperturbable assurance. You serve my interests! You put forth efforts in my behalf! You, who turned traitor to my interests, and sought by every means in your power to defeat my plans! This, I suppose, is your idea of legal fidelity.”

“I fancy,” said the lawyer, boldly, “that I have been as faithful to you as you to your uncle. If we are to indulge in recrimination, it may be that I shall not come off second-best.”

“What do you mean, sir? You are disposed to be impertinent. Can you deny that it was through your agency that my cousin was informed of that which I most desired to conceal from him?”

“And thereby,” said the lawyer, composedly, “enabled a father and son to meet before Death came in to separate them forever upon the earth.”

“This, then, is the construction which you put upon your conduct,” said Lewis, with a sneer. “I congratulate you upon your elevated sentiments.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Sharp, bowing modestly. “Appreciation is always soothing to the feelings. Praise from such a source makes me proud, indeed.”

Lewis was incensed to find the lawyer adopting the tone which he had hitherto arrogated to himself. That a briefless attorney should dare to indulge in sarcasm at his expense was a piece of unparalleled presumption.

“I need not say,” he remarked with a smile of conscious power, “how much I regret putting to inconvenience a man of such elevated and Christian sentiments as yourself. Yet I am under the necessity of reminding you that you have in your possession some three hundred dollars which I intrusted to you for a particular purpose. That sum I have present occasion for. If you are unable to pay me, I may feel called upon to resort to measures which may be mutually disagreeable.”

“I am glad you mentioned it,” said Mr. Sharp, blandly. “By the way, you can show proof that you did intrust me with this money?”

Lewis colored with mortification. He had no such proof, and his threat was futile.

“You perceive,” said the lawyer, nonchalantly, “that if I were dishonest, I might deny the trust. But such is not my intention. Will you favor me with a slip of paper?”

Mr. Sharp made out a bill for professional services amounting to three hundred dollars. This he receipted, and handed to Lewis.

“I believe we are now quits,” he said.

Baffled once more, Lewis turned upon the lawyer with a fury which he no longer attempted to conceal.

“Then,” said he, “I see no further reason for continuing this interview.”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Sharp, “my business is not yet completed; I came here in behalf of your cousin, my client, Robert Rand.”

“Perhaps,” said Lewis, with a sneer, “he has come to his senses, and decided to accept the offer I made him the day after the funeral. You may inform him that he is too late. The offer is withdrawn.”

“As to that, your message is unnecessary, since he has not the slightest disposition to accept it.”

“Indeed! Then may I beg to know with what message you are charged?”

“He will agree to receive nothing less than half the estate.”

“He is quite moderate. You are sure that he does not demand the whole?”

“Quite so. He has no disposition to impoverish you, notwithstanding the wrongs he has received at your hands.”

“He is considerate,” said Lewis, “very considerate! How soon does he expect an answer to his modest proposal?”

“This very night.”

“And suppose,” said Lewis, “(of course, it is highly improbable) but suppose I should decline complying with this very moderate demand of my worthy cousin? What then?”

Lewis regarded Mr. Sharp with an exulting smile.

“Allow me, before answering your question, to propose one of my own.”

“Certainly, Mr. Sharp,” said Lewis, graciously, already exulting in the other’s discomfiture; “I shall be happy to give you information upon any point you may desire.”

He leaned back and surveyed the lawyer with an insolent smile. But his triumph was short-lived.

“Are you acquainted with a copyist named Wynne,—Jacob Wynne?”—asked Mr. Sharp, looking searchingly at his late client.

Lewis Rand started, and his sallow face grew red and white by turns.

“Well,” said he, with a vain effort to speak carelessly, “and if I do?”

“He is now an inmate of the Tombs,” said Mr. Sharp, significantly.

Lewis rose from his seat, and paced the room. At length he paused before the lawyer.

“Why do you tell me this?” he demanded fiercely, “What have I to do with a paltry scrivener? What is it to me that he is in prison? Doubtless he has been there before, and you too, for ought I know.”

“He was arrested on a charge of forgery,” said the lawyer, slowly, watching the effect of this announcement on his companion.

Lewis sat down, brought to bay at last, and leaned his head upon the table. He no longer dared to evade the subject. He felt that the danger was imminent, and must be confronted.

“How was his arrest brought about?” he inquired.

“Through the agency of a woman,—his wife, I believe,—who, in consequence of some quarrel, wishes to revenge herself upon this Jacob. When the forgery was committed she was a concealed spectator, and saw and heard the whole. She can swear to the person who employed Jacob Wynne to do this service! Nor is this all. She has a piece of paper—a torn half sheet—which was used by the copyist to try his pen on that night. It contains a name several times repeated.”

Lewis did not inquire what name.

“Go on,” he said, hoarsely.

“This woman—this Margaret—fell in with me, and applied to me to help her. It suited my purpose to do so, although her poverty will prevent my receiving any recompense from her.”

“Then she is poor,” said Lewis, thoughtfully. “Where is she?”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Sharp, reading the purpose of Lewis in his face; “that is a question which I cannot answer.”

“Has Jacob divulged anything since he was imprisoned?”

“That was not needful. I will at once speak to the point, Mr. Rand. It can be abundantly proved that this forgery was committed at your instigation. Once let this be known, and you become amenable to the same penalties which now menace your instrument. One word from me will carry you to prison to-night. There is no chance of escape. I have obtained a warrant, and an officer is waiting at the door. But there is an alternative.”

Lewis summoned all the energies of his crafty and subtile mind to devise some method of escape. But he was entangled in a labyrinth from which he could not extricate himself.

“Give me till to-morrow,” he said.

“I regret that I cannot do so,” said the lawyer, politely.

“Name your proposition, then,” he said, sullenly.

Mr. Sharp drew from his pocket a legal instrument conveying one half of all his estates to Robert Rand, some time known as Robert Ford. It was drawn up with all the precision and technicality required by the law. It only needed the signature of Lewis.

Lewis read it with dark and lowering face. “I cannot sign it,” he said, desperately.

“Then I fear you must exchange this warm fireside for an apartment less luxurious.”

“Fate is against me,” muttered Lewis, moved by this threat. “Since it must be done.”

“Will you have the kindness to summon two of your servants to witness the document?” said the lawyer.

Lewis rang the bell sharply.

“Jacqueline, call Antoine, and come in yourself.”

Lewis signed his name.

“Will that satisfy you?” he said, bitterly.

“Perfectly,” said Mr. Sharp, bowing.

“Then, Antoine, you will show this gentleman to the door.”

Mr. Sharp bowed graciously, and withdrew. A moment more, and Lewis was left alone,—a prey to the keenest disappointment. Troubled as he was by the loss of one half his possessions, there were two things that troubled him even more. He had been out-generalled by one of his own tools, whom he had looked upon with contempt, and his cousin, whom he detested more than ever, was now as wealthy as himself.

Lewis Rand paced the library with disordered steps, till far into the night, and, when he retired to his chamber, it was not to sleep.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE SLAVE OF THE NEEDLE

Perhaps no employment is more confining and more poorly compensated than that of sewing. The narrow choice allowed to women, who are compelled to labor for their livelihood, leads to an unhealthy and disastrous competition in this department of toil, and enables employers to establish a disgracefully low scale of prices.1 Fifteen hours out of the twenty-four are sometimes spent in unremitting labor, the results of which will scarcely keep soul and body together. The cook or house-maid enjoys a degree of comfort, and commands an income (including board) absolutely unattainable by the slave of the needle.

Hard work and an absence of nourishing food were beginning to tell on the delicate frame of Martha Grey. An expert needle-woman, she commanded, in good times, an abundant supply of work. But times had changed. The shops gave out less work, while the number who desired it seemed rather to have increased than diminished. The natural result followed,—a reduction in the compensation, already disgracefully low. Many could not obtain a chance to work at any price. Martha was allowed her usual supply, but at prices twenty per cent. lower than she had before received. The heart of the poor seamstress sank within her, as she walked home with a bundle of work, for which she was to be paid at the new rate. How was she to economize? It seemed before as if her wants were reduced to the minimum, and yet she had been able to lay by nothing. In addition to this, her health, never very firm, had shown some indications of failure. She was troubled with occasional dizziness and frequent nervous headaches, which rendered her enforced slavery to the needle a torture, but one from which she could not deliver herself.

But one alternative presented itself. She must contract her necessary expenditures, or increase her hours of work. She did not know how to compass the one, while the other would probably lead to sickness. She attempted a middle course. On a scantier diet she strove to work an hour more daily. The result was what might have been anticipated. Nature succumbed. One morning Helen, on returning from rehearsal, entered Martha’s room unceremoniously, as was her wont. Great was her dismay on discovering her friend lying insensible on the floor. Her work, on which she had been engaged up to the moment of her attack, had fallen from her hands, and lay beside her.

Helen was not unused to such cases. Though quite terrified, she had sufficient self-possession to apply the proper restoratives.

Martha soon opened her eyes, and, recognizing Helen, smiled faintly.

“How do you feel, Martha?” inquired Helen, anxiously.

“I am afraid I am going to be sick,” said Martha.

“When did you first feel it?”

“It has been coming on for several days. I have not been free from the headache for a week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” asked Helen, reproachfully.

“Because you could have done me no good, my dear child.”

“Let me help you to the bed. Now you must lie down, and try to rest. I suppose you have worked just as usual, too, you imprudent Martha.”

“I can’t afford to lie still, you know.”

“You can afford to lie still better than to ruin your health.”

By this time Martha was lying on the bed.

“If you will pass me my work, Helen, I think I can sew while I am lying down.”

“No, Martha,” said Helen, shaking her head; “I shall not allow it. You are wholly unfit for work. You must have a good long rest.”

“But, Helen–”

“I know what you would say,—that you can’t afford to lie still. Just as if you had no friends, you unreasonable child. For a week to come, you must not touch your needle. During that time I will bring in your meals to you.”

“But, Helen–”

“Now don’t be perverse, Martha. Papa says I am a tyrant, and I mean to be in this case. To make sure that you don’t touch your work, I shall carry it away with me, and finish it myself.”

“But, Helen, you have your father to care for. I cannot consent to become a burden upon you.”

“Are you aware, Martha, how rich I am? For some weeks past, I have spent scarcely more than half my income. You see, therefore, that I am abundantly able to do what little I propose. But I sha’n’t allow you to talk any more. Try to go to sleep, and I will come in pretty soon. Mind I find you better.”

Helen left the room with the work in her hand. Martha ceased her opposition. She felt that the time had come when labor was no longer possible. She must have rest. How grateful the thought that, for a week, she should be free from the drudgery of the needle,—that her busy fingers might be folded in idleness, without the troubled thought that her bread depended upon her exertions. She lay back, and a sense of delicious rest came to her. She did not try to look beyond the week of rest. That seemed a long and blissful eternity. She was almost too weary to think. The sharp pain became less poignant, and at last she fell asleep. She slept for three hours, and, when she woke, it was to see the kind face of Helen bending over her.

“How do you feel now, Martha?”

“Better, much better.”

“Have you slept well?”

“Yes, I have slept nearly all the time since you were in? How long is that?”

“I came in at eleven. It is now nearly three.”

“Is it so long?”

“I thought you must be hungry, Martha, so I have brought in some chicken-broth for you. I hope you will like it.”

“Some chicken-broth? O Helen, I am afraid you have made it on purpose for me.”

“Well, and if I have?”

“I can’t bear to think I am making you so much trouble.”

“Then I will relieve you by saying that I didn’t make it expressly for you. Papa and I had it for dinner, and papa seemed to relish it amazingly. I don’t know when he has eaten so hearty a dinner.”

“I am glad of that. I think I shall like it, too. The smell of it quite revives me. I will get up immediately.”

“No, you shall stay where you are. Wait a moment and I will bring back a pillow from our room. Then I can prop you up in bed, and you shall eat in bed as the French do. Really, Martha, you are getting to be quite a fashionable lady.”

Martha’s sickness had been the result in part of a lack of proper food. The chicken-broth was relished as much as Helen could desire.

“I knew you would like it, Martha. Why, you are beginning to look better already.”

“I think I shall be able to go to work to-morrow.”

“Not to-morrow, nor this week. It will take you at least a week to recover.”

“But, Helen–”

“That is the third time you have said ‘But, Helen.’ Do you know, you unreasonable creature, that I allow no disobedience? I have undertaken to cure you, and I mustn’t have you interfering.”

“But it will not take a week for me to get well.”

“Don’t tell me that. I know the meaning of those pale cheeks. I ought to have noticed them before. In a few days, when you are strong enough, we will all take an excursion together, that is, papa and you and I, and perhaps Herbert—I mean Mr. Coleman—will go too. I want to see a little color in those cheeks.”

“How kind you are, Helen!” said Martha, gratefully.

“Wouldn’t you be as kind to me, if I were sick instead of you? tell me that, Martha?”

“Yes, I hope I should.”

“Then you see there is no reason for thanking me. I dare say I shall take a fancy to fall sick some day when you are quite well, and call you in to take care of me. I warn you beforehand that I shall make a dreadfully cross patient.”