CHAPTER XV.
THE OPPOSITE LODGER
During the day Helen, in ascending the stairs, encountered M’lle Fanchette.
“So you have become quite a public character, Miss Ford,” said the modiste, superciliously.
Helen looked up, but did not speak.
“I heard you sing at the theatre, last evening.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Nothing would have induced me to come forward so publicly at your age. However, I suppose you don’t mind it.”
“No,” said Helen, with rising color; “I don’t mind it, since it enables me to earn money for my father.”
“Isn’t your father well? It isn’t usual for children to be called upon to support their parents.”
“Good morning, M’lle Fanchette,” said Helen, abruptly. The implied censure upon her father kindled her resentment as no insult to herself would have done.
M’lle Fanchette looked after her with a sneer. “So my lady is putting on airs, is she? I don’t believe her father’s invention will ever come to anything. Perhaps I had better take no further notice of her.”
Just as Helen reached the door of her father’s room, she saw the occupant of the opposite apartment standing at his door. He was a young man of middle height, with a face whose boyish bloom had hardly given place to the more mature expression of manhood.
“Good morning, Miss Ford,” he said, pleasantly.
“Good morning, Mr. Coleman.”
“I was just about to ask a favor of you and your father.”
Helen thought he might be intending to ask a loan of some little article, for it had come to her knowledge that he was boarding himself.
“I am sure we shall be happy to grant it,” she said, cheerfully.
“I suppose you know that I am an artist, or trying to be,” said the young man. “I have just finished a picture for exhibition at the Academy. No one has seen it yet, and I, perhaps, am not a fair judge of its merits. I should be very glad if you and Mr. Ford would take a look at it, and favor me with your opinion of it.”
“I shall be delighted to see it, and so will papa, I know,” returned Helen. “I will speak to him immediately.”
“Papa,” she said, entering the room, “Mr. Coleman is kind enough to invite us to look at a picture he has painted.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Mr. Ford, looking up abstractedly. “Did you speak?”
Helen repeated the invitation.
“I shall be most happy,” said Mr. Ford, courteously. “Let us go at once.”
The opposite room was fitted up as an artist’s studio,—plainly enough, for young Coleman was, as yet, only a struggling aspirant, without a name and without orders.
On an easel was the picture of which he had spoken. The subject was, “A country farm-house at sunrise.” Broad and low, suggestive less of beauty than of substantial comfort, it stood prominently out. The farmer in his shirt-sleeves was leaning carelessly against the fence, watching a group of cattle who were just emerging from the barn, followed by the farmer’s son, a stout boy of fourteen. There was a cart in the yard near the house, a plough, and a variety of accessories carefully selected to imitate nature as scrupulously as possible. The whole painting was exceedingly natural.
“It is beautiful,” said Helen, with childish enthusiasm.
“Thank you,” said the young man, smiling.
“It looks very familiar to me,” said Mr. Ford. “It seems to me as if I had seen the very farm-house you have represented.”
“Thank you. I may dare to hope, then, that I have been reasonably true to nature.”
“In that respect I think you have succeeded wonderfully. You must have been born in the country, Mr. Coleman.”
“Yes, sir; I am a farmer’s son.”
“What made you think of becoming an artist?” asked Helen.
“I believe it was a severe punishment I received at school.”
Helen looked surprised.
“I see you don’t understand how that should have had such an influence in determining my career. Let me explain. I used from time to time to draw upon the slate pictures of my school-mates, which were regarded by the originals as very successful. One winter the Prudential Committee selected as teacher a young man of very singular appearance. His nose was immensely large, and of odd shape. One day, after finishing my sums in arithmetic, the fancy seized me to draw a picture of the teacher. I became interested in the portrait, so that when my class was called up I did not hear the summons, but kept on with my sketch. Seeing how I was employed, Mr. Hargrave stepped up behind me on tiptoe, and to his inexpressible anger beheld the counterfeit presentment of himself, in which full justice was done to his leading deformity. He was probably sensible of his lack of beauty, and correspondingly sensitive. At all events, he was so far from appreciating my efforts, that he seized me by the collar, swung me out into the middle of the school-room, and gave me a cruel punishment, from which I did not for some time recover. I did not go back to school, my father being too indignant with the teacher for his unreasonable severity. He was desirous of seeing the sketch which had excited so strong a resentment. I accordingly reproduced it with a pencil as carefully as I could, and my father took the trouble to have it framed, and hung up in the sitting-room, where it attracted considerable attention and many encomiums. I believe it was this incident which led me to think seriously of becoming an artist by profession. Twelve months since my father gave me what little money he could spare, and I came to New York to establish myself.”
“And what encouragement have you received, Mr. Coleman?” asked Mr. Ford, with kindly interest.
“Of pecuniary encouragement, none,” was the reply. “That, however, it is too early to expect. I have been a part of the time in the studio of an established artist,—till two months since in fact,—obtaining what knowledge I absolutely required. Then I transferred my studio to this room. You see before you the result of my two months’ labor.”
“You have made an excellent beginning. I feel safe in predicting your success.”
“Thank you, sir. You asked me what encouragement I had received. Your kind anticipation is among the most valuable.”
“I do not, of course, profess to be a competent judge,” said Mr. Ford; “but I think an inexperienced eye will see much to commend in your painting. It’s truth to nature is very striking. It is a pity you could not study abroad.”
“It is my ardent wish,” said the young man, “but quite beyond my power to compass. I have now been a year in the city, learning much, as I hope, but earning nothing. This has nearly brought me to the end of my scanty resources. I shall not be able to continue thus much longer. I confess to have built some hopes upon the picture I have just painted. If I could secure a purchaser at a fair price, it would enable me to protract my residence, which otherwise must soon be brought to an end.”
“There is one bond of fellowship between us, then,” said Mr. Ford, smiling; “that of poverty. I, too, am working on in present need, hoping some day to achieve success, and with it money. But in one respect I have the advantage of you. My little daughter, here,” placing his hand affectionately on Helen’s head, “cheers me with her presence and sympathy, and is of more substantial help besides. I don’t know what I should do without her.”
“O father!” said Helen.
“It is all true, my child. Even now, she has obtained an engagement to sing at the theatre, chiefly, as I think, though she will not admit it, because she thinks the money will be of use to me.”
“Indeed!” said the young artist. “I observed in this morning’s paper a very flattering account of the début of a young singer bearing your daughter’s name, but I had no idea it was she. Wait a moment, here it is.”
The young man pointed out the paragraph to Mr. Ford, who read it with proud gratification. It was pleasant to him to find that the daughter who was so dear to him should be appreciated by the public.
“Helen, I shall become proud of you,” he said.
“And I shall return the compliment, papa,—you know when. Papa, I want to whisper to you a moment.”
“Certainly, my dear; that is, if Mr. Coleman will excuse the impoliteness.”
“Don’t mention it, sir. I hope you will consider me so far a friend, as to treat me unceremoniously.”
“Mr. Coleman,” said Mr. Ford, after his whispered conference with Helen, “my daughter desires me to invite you to dine with us. I trust you will feel inclined to accept the invitation.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said the young man, his face brightening up.
“I need hardly tell you that we do not fare very sumptuously.”
The young man laughed. “And I need hardly assure you, sir, that I am quite unused to sumptuous fare. Frankly, but for your invitation, my dinner would have consisted of some dry bread and a couple of sausages.”
“You can reserve those till to-morrow, then. I really don’t know what Helen will give us. She allows no dictation in the commissary department.”
“Now, papa,” remonstrated Helen, “what will Mr. Coleman think of me? You are making me out to be a dreadful tyrant.”
“I thought it best to put him on his guard. Since you are kind enough to accept our invitation, Mr. Coleman, Helen will knock at your door when dinner is ready. Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir. I shall be quite ready for the summons.”
The artist went back to his work, but the image of Helen’s childish beauty occasionally rose up before him, and he could not help wishing that Heaven had given him such a sister.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MUFFLED FACE
Apparently brighter days had dawned upon Helen and her father. With Mr. Sharp’s loan and Helen’s weekly salary they were no longer obliged to practice the pinching economy which, until now, had been a necessity. Helen could now venture to add an occasional luxury to their daily fare without being compelled to consider anxiously how many dollars yet remained in the common purse. The landlady’s call for the rent was now cheerfully received. Helen always had the amount carefully laid aside. No one rejoiced more sincerely in their new prosperity than the worthy landlady, who though forced to look after her own interests, had a large heart, full of kindly sympathy for those who were doing their best in the struggle of life.
“I only wish all my lodgers were equally prompt, my dear,” she said, one day. “It’s really disagreeable to call on some of them; they look as if you were the last person they wanted to see, and pay down their rent just for all the world as if it was something you had no right to, but were trying to exact from them. Now you always look cheerful, and pay me as if it was a pleasure for you to do it.”
“And so it is,” said Helen, blithely. “But it wasn’t so always. I think, Mother Morton, that the pleasure of paying away money depends upon whether you are sure of any more after that is gone.”
“I don’t know but you are right,” said the landlady. “But I know it isn’t so with some. There’s Mrs. Ferguson used to occupy my first floor front, living on her income, of which she didn’t spend half. I suppose she never had less than two or three hundred dollars on hand in her trunk lying idle, but she’d put me off as long as she could about paying, for no earthly reason except because she hated to part with her money. I stood it as long as I could, till one day I told her plainly that I knew she had the money, and she must pay it or go. She took a miff and went off, and I didn’t mourn much for her. But, bless my soul! here I am running on, when I ought to be down stairs giving orders about the dinner.”
Mr. Ford invested a portion of his borrowed capital in a variety of articles which he conceived would assist him in his invention. Although to outward appearance success was quite as distant as ever, it was perhaps a happy circumstance for Mr. Ford that he constantly believed himself on the eve of attaining his purpose. Indeed, he labored so enthusiastically that his health began to suffer. The watchful eyes of Helen detected this, and she felt that it was essential that her father should have a greater variety and amount of exercise. She determined, therefore, to propose some pleasant excursion, which would have the effect of diverting his thoughts for a time from the subject which so completely engrossed them.
Accordingly, one Saturday morning, having no duties at the theatre during the day, she said to her father, as he was about to settle himself to his usual employment, “Papa, I have a favor to ask.”
“Well, my child?”
“I don’t want you to work to-day.”
“Why,” said Mr. Ford, half absently; “it isn’t Sunday, is it?”
“No,” said Helen, laughing; “but it is Saturday, and I think we ought to take a holiday.”
“To be sure,” said Mr. Ford, thinking that Helen needed one. “I ought to have spoken of it before. And what shall we do, Helen? what would you like to do?”
“I’ll tell you, papa, of a grand plan; I thought of it yesterday, as I was looking at the advertisements in the paper. Suppose we go to Staten Island in the steamboat.”
“I believe I should enjoy it,” said Mr. Ford, brightening up. “It will do both of us good; when shall we go?”
“Let me see, it is eight o’clock; I think we can get ready to take the nine o’clock boat.”
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.”
“You are at liberty to do so as soon as you like,” he said, coldly.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed; “and this to your wedded wife!”
“That is a slight mistake of yours,” he returned, with a sneer, resting his calculating eyes upon her face, as if to mark the effect of his words.
Her hand released its hold upon his arm, and she staggered back as if about to fall.
“My God! what do you mean? What can you mean? Tell me quickly, if you would not have me go mad before your eyes.”
“That might be the best way of ending the matter,” said he, with deliberate cruelty. “Nevertheless I will not refuse to gratify your reasonable curiosity. I declare to you solemnly that you are not my wedded wife.”
“You would deceive me,” she said, with sudden anger.
“Not in this matter, though I acknowledge having deceived you once. The priest who performed the ceremony was so only for that occasion.”
Margaret passed her hand across her eyes as if she were trying to rouse herself from some stupefying dream.
“Surely you are jesting, Jacob,” she said, at length. “You are only saying this to try me. Is it not so? I will only ask you this once. Are you in earnest?”
“I declare to you, Margaret, that you are not my wedded wife.”
“Then,” she said in a sudden burst of fury, to which she was urged by the sharpness of her despair. “Then I have only one thing to live for now.”
She turned away.
“What do you mean?” asked Jacob, almost involuntarily, her manner producing a vague uneasiness.
“Revenge!”
She drew her tattered shawl closely about her, and, though the heat was intense, actually shivered in her fierce emotion. Jacob looked after her as she walked rapidly away, turning neither to the right nor to the left, and a half feeling of compunction came over him. It was only for a moment, however, for he shook it off, muttering impatiently,—
“Pshaw! what’s the use of fretting! It must have come sooner or later. I suppose it was only natural to expect a scene. Well, I’m glad it’s over, at any rate. Now I shall have one impediment out of my path.”
Jacob’s nature was cold and cowardly, and, as may be inferred, essentially selfish. Destitute of all the finer feelings, it was quite impossible to understand the pain which he had inflicted on a nature so sensitive and high-strung as that of Margaret. Nor, had he been able to understand, would the instinct of humanity have bidden him to refrain.
He retraced his steps to obtain another glass of water, for the one in his hand had been spilled in the surprise of his first meeting with Margaret.
“Did you get tired of waiting, Ellen?” he asked, as on his return he presented the glass to his companion.
The suspicions excited in her mind by the mysterious warning had been strengthened by his protracted absence.
“You were long absent,” she said, coldly.
“Yes,” he replied, somewhat confused. “I was unexpectedly detained.”
“Perhaps you can explain this,” she continued, handing him the paper she had received.
He turned pale with anger and vexation, and incautiously muttered, “This is some of Margaret’s work. Curse her!”
“Who is Margaret?” asked his companion, suspiciously.
“She,” said Jacob, hesitating, in embarrassment. “Oh, she is an acquaintance of mine whose mind has lost its balance. You may have seen her on the ground here. She was muffled up in a shawl and cape-bonnet. She is always making trouble in some unexpected way.”
That this was a fabrication, Jacob’s confused manner clearly evinced.
“I wish to go home,” was the only response. Jacob offered his arm.
It was rejected. They walked on, not exchanging a word.
When they parted in New York, Jacob gave full vent to his indignation, and hastened home to pour out his fury on Margaret, who had so seriously interfered with his plan of allying himself with one for whom he cared little, except that she would have brought him a small property which he coveted. He hurried up stairs, and dashed into the room occupied by Margaret and himself. He looked about him eagerly, but saw no one.
Margaret had disappeared.