Helen Ford

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.”