Helen Ford

“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:—

“Forgive the artifice I have employed, dear mother. I knew you would not let me go, and I must. There is something of great importance that I must attend to without delay. When that is over, I may come back to you.

    “Margaret.

“P. S. I took a half dollar from the mantel, as I may need it.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

Surprised and terrified at her daughter’s disappearance, the old lady went to the door and, shading her eyes, looked anxiously up the road, but with her failing eyesight she was unable to catch sight of the fugitive.

“The child must be crazy,” she said to herself. “She’ll catch her death of cold, going out so soon after the fever. I must go after her and bring her back.”

Putting on her hood once more, the old lady went out, and took the road towards the city. But she did not find her daughter. Returning with a heavy heart and a sense of deep perplexity she sat down to her knitting, first carefully putting away the orange, which she thought Margaret might like to eat if, as she hoped, she should discover her weakness and return home at night.

But Margaret did not come that night, nor yet again the next.

When she left her mother’s house she hurried forward at a greater speed than her strength admitted, so great was her anxiety to elude pursuit. She had not gone half a mile when she found her strength failing her. Quite exhausted, she staggered to a flat stone by the side of the road, and sat down.

“Mother was right,” she said to herself; “I am not strong enough for this journey; but I must get on somehow now that I have started.”

At this moment her eye rested on the half dollar which she had taken, and which she still held in her hand.

“Perhaps this will procure me a ride,” she thought. “What matter if I am penniless afterwards. I only care to live long enough to be revenged.”

She looked back on the road she had travelled, hoping to see some wagon which might serve her purpose.

A little distance off was a covered market wagon, advancing at a good round pace. The driver was a stout, pleasant-looking man, and Margaret, hurriedly scanning his features, judged that she might venture to accost him.

She accordingly rose from the stone on which she had been sitting, and made a gesture for him to stop.

Somewhat surprised, he called out: “Hold up, Dick! Now, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“Would you be willing to take a passenger to New York?”

“Yes, ma’am, just as lieves as not.”

“I am quite willing to pay you. Will that be enough?” asked Margaret, offering the half dollar.

“Yes, ma’am; enough, and fifty cents too much. Your company will be pay enough. But, hold on a minute; I’ll jump out and help you in.”

“Thank you; I have been sick, and am not so strong as usual, otherwise I would not trouble you.”

“No trouble at all. You look as if you’d been sick,—kinder peaked, just as my Sarah Jane looked after she’d had the fever. Ain’t it rather imprudent for you to be out?”

“Perhaps it is; but I have something to do which cannot be delayed.”

The driver seemed disposed to be social and communicative.

“I’d orter be pretty well used to this road; I’ve come on it twice a week for the last fifteen years.”

“Have you?” said Margaret, listlessly.

“Yes, marketing. That’s my business. I’ve got a regular run of customers, you see, and they’ve got used to me, and know I’ll never bring anything but what’s good. There’s Judge Harcouth now; may be you to know the judge?”

“No.”

“His wife won’t never buy no sausages except what I bring. Well, mine are pretty good, if I do say it. I get old Marm Brown to make ‘em, and she’d orter know how, for she’s been in the business for forty years. Do you like sausages?”

“I don’t know,” said Margaret, who had not heard a word that was said.

“Don’t know,” repeated the driver, staring at her in surprise.

“Excuse me; I didn’t hear what you said.”