Helen Ford

Having once determined upon the plan, Mr. Ford showed an almost childish eagerness to put it into execution; he fidgeted about nervously while Helen was sweeping the floor and setting the room to rights, and inquired half a dozen times, “Most ready, Helen?”

Helen hailed with no little satisfaction this sign of interest on the part of her father, and resolved that if she could accomplish it these excursions should henceforth be more frequent.

By nine o’clock they were on board the boat. A large number of passengers had already gathered on the deck. The unusual beauty of the morning had induced many to snatch from the harassing toils of business a few hours of communion with the fresh scenes of nature. Both decks were soon crowded with passengers. Helen, to whom this was a new experience, enjoyed the scene not a little. She felt her spirits rising, and it seemed to her difficult to imagine a more beautiful spectacle than the boat with its white awnings and complement of well-dressed passengers. They had scarcely found comfortable seats on the promenade deck before the signal was given, and the boat cast loose from the wharf. There is nothing more nearly approaching the act of flying than the swift-gliding movement of a steamboat as it cleaves its way easily and gracefully through the smooth water.

Mr. Ford looked thoughtfully back upon the spires and roofs of the city momentarily receding.

“How everything has changed,” he said slowly, “since I last crossed in a row-boat more than twenty years ago! And all this change has been effected by the tireless energy of man. Does it not seem strange that the outward aspect of inanimate nature should be so completely altered?”

Half an hour landed them at the island. Helen took her father’s hand and assumed the office of guide. They gazed with interest at the gay crowds as they availed themselves of the means of amusement which the place afforded. Helen even left her father long enough to take her turn in swinging, and, flushed with the exercise, returned to him. They next sauntered to a wooden inclosure, where wooden horses, each bearing a rider, were revolving under the impulse of machinery. The riders consisted partly of boys, and partly of others who were compelled to labor hard on other days, but had been tempted, by the cheapness of the trip, to a day’s recreation.

Leaving Helen and her father to amuse themselves in their quiet way, we turn our attention to others.

Among those who were rambling hither and thither as caprice dictated, was a young man whose pale face and attenuated figure indicated some sedentary pursuit. His face, though intellectual, was not pleasing. There was something in the lines about the mouth which argued moral weakness.

Is this description sufficient to bring back to the reader’s recollection Jacob Wynne, the copyist, whose services had been called into requisition by Lewis Rand?

He was better dressed than when last introduced to the reader. The money furnished by Rand in return for his services had supplied the means for this outward improvement. On his arm leaned a young girl, or rather a young woman, for she appeared about twenty-five years of age. He was conversing with her in a low tone, but upon what subject could not be distinguished. She listened, apparently not displeased. They walked slowly, now in one direction, now in another. If they had not been so occupied with one another, they might have observed that they were followed at a little distance by a woman who kept her burning gaze fixed upon them steadily, apparently determined not to lose sight of them a single moment.

This woman seemed out of place in the festive scene into which she had introduced herself. She presented a strong contrast to the gay, well-dressed groups through which she passed without seeming to heed their presence.

She was dressed in a faded calico dress, over which, notwithstanding the heat, a ragged shawl was carelessly thrown. On her head was a sun-bonnet, so large that it nearly concealed her features from view. One or two who had the curiosity to look at the face, so carefully concealed, started in alarm at the hard, fierce expression which they detected there. Her face was very pale, save that at the centre of each cheek there glowed a vivid red spot. It was evident that the heart of this woman was the seat of conflicting passions. She continued to follow Jacob Wynne, with what object it was not evident. It seemed that she did not wish to make her presence known to him, at least in his present company, since, on his casually turning his glances in her direction, she drew her bonnet more closely about her features, so as to elude the closest scrutiny, and with apparent carelessness turned away. When she saw that his attention was again occupied by his companion she resumed her espionage.

At length they separated for a few minutes. Jacob’s companion expressed a wish for a glass of water. Leaving her seated on the grass, he hastened away to comply with her request. The woman who had followed them so closely, as soon as she saw this, moved rapidly towards the companion he had left, and dropped into her lap a few words written in pencil upon a slip of paper. The latter, picking it up in surprise, read as follows: “Beware of the man who has just left you, or you will repent it when too late. He is not to be trusted.”

She looked up, but could see no one likely to have given it to her. At a little distance her eyes fell upon a shabbily-dressed woman who was walking rapidly away, but it never crossed her mind that she had anything to do with the warning just given. If she had watched longer she would have seen the meeting of this woman with Jacob Wynne, for it was of him she had gone in pursuit. The latter was returning with a glass of water when she threw herself in his path. With a glance of surprise he was about to pass by, when she planted herself again in his way.

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.”