Helen Ford

“Yes,” he said, reading the entry; “Jacob Wynne, arrested on a charge of forgery. He was brought here only yesterday.”

“May I see him?” Margaret asked, eagerly.

“It is hardly possible. The hour at which visitors are admitted has not arrived. You must wait till ten o’clock.”

“I have been waiting all night,” said Margaret.

“All night. Where?”

“In the street.”

There was something in her tone that struck the officer. He regarded her compassionately.

“You will make an exception in my favor? I am his wife.”

“I do not know,” he hesitated. “I may be exceeding my authority.” But the sharp anxiety in Margaret’s face decided him. “I will do it once, as a special favor.”

Margaret did not thank him in words, but her face was eloquent with gratitude. The sharp lines of anxiety softened, and an expression of relief succeeded.

She followed him through the long, damp corridor, until they stood before the cell tenanted by Jacob Wynne. Margaret was admitted, a faint light handed her, and then the door was locked as before.

The prisoner was stretched on the hard pallet, with his face buried in it. He seemed in a dull stupor, the result of his excessive fear. He did not even look up as the door was opened, but his frame shook with a convulsive tremor.

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.