Helen Ford

CHAPTER XXXIV.

JACOB SEALS HIS FATE

“How do you feel this morning?” asked Helen, as she entered Martha’s room.

Her question was addressed to Margaret, who, wan and pale, was seated at a table eating some toast, which the compassionate seamstress in her kindness had prepared for her.

“I am much better,” said Margaret, though her appearance did not bear out the assertion.

“It will take some time yet for you to recover fully; you need rest and freedom from care.”

“Freedom from care!” repeated Margaret, smiling bitterly. “Yes, that is what I need, but where shall I find it?”

“With us,” answered Martha, gently.

“What!” exclaimed Margaret, fixing her eyes upon the seamstress in surprise, “would you be burdened with me?”

“We shall not consider it a burden,” said Helen, “and I am sure we ought to welcome an opportunity to be of service to any one of our fellow-creatures.”

“Yet,” said Margaret, suffering her eyes to wander about the room, with its plain and scanty furniture, “you cannot be rich—even one person must–”

“No, we are far from rich,” said Helen, divining what she would have said, “but neither are we very poor. I am paid quite a large salary for singing, and—and you must not think of the expense.”

“But I am a stranger to you,” said Margaret; “why are you so kind to me?”

“Because you are in trouble.”

“Perhaps I may make an ungrateful return. Suppose I should take the opportunity to rob you?”

Helen laughed merrily.

“We are not afraid,” she said; “besides, I think you would be puzzled to find anything worth taking.”

Margaret smiled faintly.

“I see you are not suspicious; I envy you that. There was a time when I was as trustful, and as firm a believer in human goodness as you are. But that time has passed, never to return.”

“I am afraid,” said Martha, “that your experience has not been an agreeable one.”

“I have seen trouble,” said Margaret, briefly.

“There may be better times in store; I shall know soon.”

“Let us hope there will be,” said Martha, cheerfully.

“Amen!” said Margaret.

“I must go to rehearsal now,” said Helen. “When I return, I will call in.”

“What is her name?” questioned Margaret, abruptly, as the door closed upon Helen.

“Helen.”

“I mean the last name.”

“Her father goes by the name of Ford, but Helen has told me within a day or two that his real name is Rand.”

“Rand!” repeated Margaret, starting in surprise.

“Yes.”

She remembered that this was the name which had been so many times repeated on the paper which her husband had employed in trying his pen.

“Do you know anything of the name!” asked Martha, observing that her companion seemed struck by it.

“I have heard of a man by the name—a rich man.”

“Probably Helen’s grandfather.”

“How comes it, then, that she is living here.”

“Some family estrangement. Her grandfather supposed until nearly the last moment of his life that his son was dead. It was too late to alter his will, and so Helen and her father are left penniless.”

“And who inherited the property then?” demanded Margaret, eagerly.

“A cousin of Mr. Ford’s—I mean of Mr. Rand’s.”

“And I know by what means he acquired it,” thought Margaret. “It may be that—but I must see Jacob first.”

From this moment Margaret became restless. She felt that she could not be at peace till the issue was decided. She determined once more to appeal to Jacob, and ascertain beyond a doubt whether the statement which he had made respecting their marriage was really true, or only fabricated to vex her. This question must first be decided, and then—why then she would be guided by circumstances.

She rose from her seat, and threw her shawl over her shoulders.

“Where are you going?” asked Martha, pausing in her work.

“I must go. I have something to do which cannot be delayed.”

“But are you able to go out?” questioned the seamstress.

“Perhaps not; but it would do me more harm to remain here, feeling that I ought to be elsewhere, that things might go wrong without me, than the exposure and exertion of going out.”

“You will come back here when you have accomplished what you desire?”

“I think so—I cannot tell—I will not promise,” returned Margaret, with an air of indecision; “but at any rate, whether I come or not, I thank you heartily for all your kindness to me, and for all that you have offered to do for me. I am not so used to kindness that I can afford to think little of it.”

“I am afraid it will be too much for her,” thought Martha, as Margaret left the room with an unsteady step. “There is plainly some mysterious sorrow which is preying upon her mind. If I could find out what it is, I would try to comfort her.”

Margaret, on reaching the street got into an omnibus which set her down at the corner of the street on which Jacob Wynne lived.