CHAPTER XXVII.
HELEN’S BANQUET
When Helen had departed on her errand, Mr. Sharp commenced,—
“You will pardon me,” he said, “if, in the preliminary inquiries I may have to make, there may be anything of a nature to harrow up your feelings, or recall painful scenes.”
Mr. Ford looked surprised.
“May I inquire if you have a father living?”
A painful shadow flitted over the face of Mr. Ford. He answered, presently,—
“You may be surprised when I answer, that I do not know.”
“I am not surprised,” said Mr. Sharp, inclining his head gently. “This was the answer I anticipated.”
Once more Mr. Ford regarded his visitor with a look of surprise.
“Is it possible,” he said, not without hesitation, “that you should know anything of my unhappy history?”
“Of that you shall judge. What if I should say, for example, that the name by which you are known is not your real one?”
“I cannot conjecture where you obtained your information, but it is correct. My real name is not Ford.”
“And is—Rand.”
“You are right; but how–”
“A moment, if you please. I have more to tell you. You were born to wealth, and being an only son, were sole heir to your father’s possessions. You were not, however, without a companion,—a cousin, whom your father generously took under his charge.”
“Lewis?”
“Yes, Lewis Rand; he shared your studies and your sports, and was, in all respects, treated like yourself. The only difference was in your prospects. You were to inherit a large fortune, while he–”
“My father would have provided for him.”
“No doubt, but not equally. That would not have been expected, of course. When Lewis grew old enough to understand this, it filled him with envy and jealousy.”
“Can this be true?” asked Robert Ford—to call him by the name to which we are accustomed,—“can this be true? yet he was always cordial and friendly. His manner never afforded any ground for suspecting that he cherished such feelings.”
“He knew his own interests too well for that. Inferior as his prospects were, they all depended upon your father’s good-will. It would, therefore, have been in the highest degree unwise, to disclose a feeling sure to alienate it.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Mr. Ford, thoughtfully.
“Therefore, he only nursed this feeling in secret. Yet he none the less watched for an opportunity to injure you. His patience was at length rewarded. That time arrived.”
Robert Ford, as if half surmising what was to follow, rose in some agitation, and began to pace the room.
“I trust,” said Mr. Sharp, “you will excuse me for introducing a delicate subject. There is a time when the susceptible heart of a young man first yields to the tender passion.”
“I understand you,” said Mr. Ford, in a low voice.
“Am I right in saying, that however nobly adorned in other respects, the object of your attachment was not wealthy?”
Mr. Ford bowed his head.
“Unfortunately for your happiness, your father wished you to wed a wealthy wife, and withheld his approbation from your choice. You, my dear sir, with a magnanimity, which, I am sure, does you infinite credit, clung to your chosen bride, portionless though she was, and, in spite of your father’s disapprobation, married her.”
“I did,” said Robert Ford, with emotion; “and however grieved I may have been, and still am, at my father’s continued resentment, that step I never regretted. You have seen Helen. It may have been a parent’s partiality, but I have always regarded her as uncommonly sweet and attractive.”
Mr. Sharp, in a very high-flown eulogium, intimated that such was his own estimate.
“When I tell you,” pursued Mr. Ford, “that Helen bears a very striking resemblance to her mother, not in person only, but in sweetness and amiability, your heart will suggest an excuse for my perhaps unfilial conduct.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Sharp, warmly, “had you done otherwise than you did, had you abandoned, at the bidding of a paltry self-interest, the heart that had learned to love and trust you, I should not have felt one half the respect for you which I now entertain. But, to resume my story. The first difficulty between your father and yourself was hailed with delight by your cousin. It was an occasion for which he had long been watching. It is needless to say, that he used every means to widen the breach, so artfully, however, as not to allow either your father or yourself to suspect his purpose. Possibly you can recall some circumstances which will confirm what I have said.”
“I remember,” said Robert, thoughtfully, “that my cousin professed to sympathize with me most warmly, and counselled me, by all means, to carry out my purpose, in opposition to my father’s will. He assured me that my father would finally yield, when he learned that my heart was unalterably fixed, and that opposition would prove unavailing.”
“At the same time,” said the lawyer, “he was giving similar assurances to your father. He told him, that when you were satisfied that his consent could not be obtained, you would yield the point, and conform to his wishes.”
“Was my cousin indeed so wicked?” asked Robert, with more pain than anger in his tone.
“That was not all. In order to add to your father’s indignation, he took care to describe your betrothed in the most odious colors. He not only charged her with poverty, but represented her as an artful and designing country girl, uneducated and unrefined, whose only object in marrying you was to gratify a vulgar taste for finery and ostentation. In fact, he taxed his imagination to the utmost, in the endeavor to portray her in a manner which he knew would render her most unacceptable to the family pride of your father. I should add that he even denied her the charm of personal beauty, and pictured her to your father as equally unattractive in mind and person.”
A red spot glowed in the pale cheek of Robert Ford, who, mild as he was, could not hear unmoved this vile slander upon one he loved. To do Mr. Sharp justice, what he said was not exaggerated, but strictly in accordance with truth.
“Are you sure of this?” he asked, pacing the room in a perturbed manner.
“I am. You shall know my authority soon, but not now.”
“Now, I am not surprised at my father’s continued resentment. To traduce my Helen so cruelly!”
“You will not wonder that all this should have had the effect intended,—that of confirming your father in his opposition. You married, and left this part of the country.”
“Yes; I went to the West.”
“And did you hear nothing from your father afterwards?”
“Never, directly.”
“Yet you had not been married six months before he began to relent, and feel that he might have exercised undue severity.”
“Is it, indeed, so?” asked Robert, his face lighting up.
“It is. I need scarcely say that your cousin observed, with apprehension, your father’s returning mildness. Lest it might lead to a complete reconciliation, he resolved to get your father out of the country. He accordingly proposed a European tour, to which he procured your father’s assent. Preparations were hurriedly made. They sailed for Liverpool, and several years were spent in visiting the principal cities of Europe.”
Robert Ford, to whom this was new, listened intently.
“At length they returned. Then, in order that you might more effectually lose all trace of your father, he persuaded him to sell the estate upon which he had hitherto resided, and remove–”
“Whither?” demanded Mr. Ford, eagerly.
“I will tell you presently.”
“I had written to my father. Were none of my letters received?”
“They were,—by Lewis. Of course, he took care to suppress them. Nevertheless, your father still felt a strong desire to see you once more, and tell you that he had forgiven you. Lewis again became alarmed, and, as a last resort, caused your death to be inserted in a western paper, and shown to your father. This was sufficient for that time. Within a brief period, however, his apprehensions and your father’s desire to see you have again become excited. Your father one day caught a glimpse of you in the street.”
“What do you say?” exclaimed Robert Ford, in agitation. “My father saw me? Where does he live?”
“In this city,—in New York. He recognized you in spite of the long separation, and so did Lewis; but the latter took the greatest care to assure your father that he was mistaken; that you had long been dead. Nevertheless, he was not wholly convinced. Though not in the least doubting your cousin’s good faith, he answered that there might be some mistake; that it was possible you were still living.”
“My dear father!”
“The uncertainty, and the anxious longing to see you, to which it has given rise, has, together with his age, made him severely ill. His life is even in danger.”
“He is not dead!” exclaimed Robert, in an agitated tone.
“No, or I should have been informed. He directed your cousin to advertise for you in the public papers, such was his desire to hear from you, if still living.”
“I have not looked into a paper for months.”
“If you had, you would not have seen the advertisement. Your cousin has been much too careful for that. Though he appeared to acquiesce in your father’s desire, and made him believe that he had complied with his request, he never did so.”
“And is my father still sick?”
“He is, and his greatest desire is to see you before he dies.”
Robert Ford rose hastily, and, going to the table, took his hat.
“What would you do, sir?”
“I must go and see my father. Did you not say he wished it?”
“Stay,” said Mr. Sharp; “whatever is to be done must be done cautiously, or your cousin’s suspicions will be aroused, and your purpose frustrated. I will arrange matters, if you will authorize me.”
“Surely; but let not the delay be too long. Perhaps my father will die before I can see him.”
“I will take care to expedite matters.”
“I leave all in your hands; but tell me at least where you have obtained the information you have communicated.”
“From your cousin himself.”
“Did he confess it, then?” asked Mr. Ford, surprised.
“He consulted me professionally. But, sir,” continued Mr. Sharp, in a tone of lofty consciousness, “as soon as I became aware of the iniquity in which he desired my assistance, I at once determined to do all that might be in my power to defeat his nefarious designs.”
Nothing could exceed the moral dignity with which Mr. Sharp uttered these words.
“I will not tell you,” he continued, with commendable self-denial, “how many thousands your cousin offered, if I would assist him. But for the hope of aiding in his discomfiture, I should have rejected his offers with indignation. Money is no temptation to me where right is concerned. But to the point. In the present case, I temporized. Your cousin even now thinks I am devoted to his interests, and it is best that he should not be undeceived.”
“Do you know where my father lives?” inquired Robert, anxiously.
“It is in Fifth Avenue. After dinner I will give you the direction so that you cannot miss it. You must be cautious in your approach, and when the door is opened, proceed at once to your father’s room. It is very probable that the servant will oppose your progress, but if you yield, Lewis will take good care that you never have another opportunity. May I request on the score of prudence, that you will not compromise me, or drop the slightest intimation that I have had any agency in sending you thither?”
“My dear friend,” said Robert Ford, fervently, “you may rest assured that I will respect your wishes, of whose wisdom I entertain not a doubt.”
He shook hands with Mr. Sharp, cordially. The lawyer, with an appearance of profound emotion, put his handkerchief to his eyes, and returned the pressure.
At this moment Helen entered, followed by a waiter from a restaurant, from which, on this day of rejoicing, she had been extravagant enough to order a dinner.
The little table was quickly set out in the middle of the room, and spread with a white cloth, and upon it the savory food was placed. This was, indeed, an extraordinary occasion.
“Why, you are setting forth quite a banquet, my dear Miss Ford,” said Mr. Sharp, rubbing his hands gently, for he was by no means insensible to the pleasures of the palate.
At this moment Martha Grey, the seamstress, unaware of the lawyer’s visit, knocked at the door.
“Just in time, Martha,” said Helen, gayly. “We want you to sit on this side the table.”
“I couldn’t think of it,” said Martha, glancing at Mr. Sharp.
“I hope you will accept my daughter’s invitation,” said Mr. Ford, courteously. “Permit me, Mr. Sharp, to introduce our excellent neighbor, Miss Grey.”
“I am proud to make your acquaintance, Miss Grey,” said the lawyer, bowing profoundly. “Any friend of my esteemed friends, Mr. and Miss Ford, needs no other recommendation in my eyes. May I express the hope that you are well?”
“Quite so, thank you, sir,” said Martha, a little overpowered by the lawyer’s elaborate civility.
She was at length persuaded to make a fourth at Helen’s banquet.
How much it was enjoyed by all present, not one of whom was accustomed to such good fare every day; how proudly and gracefully Helen did the honors of the occasion; how merrily they all laughed at the bungling attempts of Mr. Ford to carve the fowls, and how, finally, he was compelled to call in the lawyer’s assistance; how genial and affable Mr. Sharp was, and how he insisted on proposing the health of Martha Grey, much to that young lady’s modest confusion; how his deference for her father raised him every moment in Helen’s estimation,—all this I must leave to the imagination of the reader, while I prepare in the next chapter to invite him to a different scene.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BELL RINGS
Two persons who are nearly concerned in the revelation made by Mr. Sharp to Robert Ford, now demand our attention.
First, Mr. Rand, who, upon a sick-bed, worn-out by anxiety and bodily weakness, is fast drifting towards that unseen world, where all that is dark and mysterious here will be disclosed, and we shall know even as we are known. The second, is Lewis Rand, his unworthy nephew, whose whole soul is absorbed by the eager desire to secure to himself his uncle’s large fortune. Why this thirst for gold should so have possessed him, is not so clear. It was not that his habits were extravagant, for such was not the case. He was no voluptuary, at least not in the lowest sense of the word. It was not for the mere love of money that he craved it. He was elevated above the mere miser; but money was valuable to him for the power which it conferred, and the consequence which it gave. Lewis Rand’s ambition had taken this form. He desired to be known everywhere as the possessor of a princely fortune. He wished others to fawn upon him as he had fawned upon his uncle. As his dependence had compelled him to remain in a subordinate position, he wished others to become subordinates to him. Money he must have, somehow. So for years he had labored to establish and strengthen his position as his uncle’s heir. The inheritance which he craved, would make him at once a millionnaire.
As a general who has fortified a city, so as to make it, as he considers, impregnable, and at the last discovers a weak place which endangers the whole, exerts all his energy and all the resources which he can command to counteract the danger, so Lewis had, as we have seen, set in motion certain agencies, through which he hoped to avert the peril which menaced him in his cousin’s presence.
“Have you received no letters in answer to the advertisement, Lewis?” asked Mr. Rand, feebly.
“No, uncle, none whatever.”
Mr. Rand sighed, and fell back upon his pillow.
The crimson bed-curtains were drawn apart, revealing the thin and wasted form of the old man. Thinner and more attenuated he grew day by day. Each day the result of the struggle for life became less doubtful. A strong desire for life might have given the needed stimulus to the vital functions, and turned the scale against death, but the sick man had ceased to desire it.
None saw this more clearly than Lewis. With his cold, searching eye he had followed the slow advances of the destroyer. Not a word, however, had escaped him. How he trembled when the lamp of life burned for a time with a steadier radiance, lest, perchance, it might prove a harbinger of ultimate recovery; and when the momentary glow had departed, and the lamp burned so low that it seemed near its final extinction, he breathed more freely, and a glow of triumph lighted up his dark features,—features that might the next moment wear a look of the deepest sympathy. For Lewis had schooled them to obey the dictates of his will, and had not fear that they would betray him. He was a gamester who had staked his all upon a single venture, and was watching the chances with intense eagerness.
Morning after morning as he stole to his uncle’s bedside, it was with a secret hope veiled under an appearance of the greatest solicitude, that he might find the struggle ended. Each day he hoped might prove the last,—that from his heart the burden of anxiety and the weariness of waiting might at once and forever be lifted.
Fortunate was it for the old man’s peace, that he could not read this wicked wish in the eyes that were bent upon him. There was little fear. Could he conceive it possible that one whom he had long regarded with an affection second only to that which he bore his own son, who all his life long had never ceased to receive his bounty; could he dream that Lewis was capable of cherishing in his heart a hope so unnatural? So far from this, the faintest shadow of distrust had never entered his uncle’s thoughts. In his face he read nothing but sympathy and compassion. Mr. Lewis Rand, could you but sound the depth of wickedness in your own heart, could you drag it forth to the light and survey it in all its deformity, how would even your hardened nature shrink aghast and horror-stricken? Heaven only knows with what a web of sophistry you excuse this treachery of the heart. Could this be rent away, you could hardly stand as calmly as you do by the bedside of that old man, belying in your heart the filial words that fall so glibly from your tongue. Can you who have the power to bring happiness and peace to that bedside, and its unhappy occupant, who can bring the light of joy to those eyes soon to close forever, and repair a great injustice, still refuse to do it? There may come a time, whether near or remote, Heaven alone knows, when you would give all the wealth for which you are scheming if you had only done it.
On receiving a negative answer to his question, Mr. Rand remained for some time silent, with his face turned to the wall.
“It would be a great relief,” he sighed, wearily, “if I could but see my son once before I die.”
“When will he be done harping on his son?” muttered Lewis to himself. “He seems determined to torment me with it.”
He said aloud, with a proper display of emotion, “Do not speak of dying, uncle. You will yet recover.”
“Never, Lewis, never. There is something that tells me this sickness will be my last. My feet will soon enter the dark valley of the shadow of death. I have reached the age set by the Psalmist as the limit of human life. Even your kind solicitude cannot call me back from the grave that awaits me.”
“I should be very sorry if it did,” was the unspoken thought of Lewis, as he replied, covering his face with his handkerchief, as if to conceal his emotion, “you are—you must be deceived; you are looking brighter to-day.”
“Lewis, your hopes deceive you. On the contrary, I never felt weaker than I do to-day. I have never felt more entirely satisfied of the hopelessness of my situation. Yet why do I say ‘hopelessness?’ I do not fear death. Rather I welcome it as a friend. I feel no vain longing for a continuance of that life which is gliding from my grasp. For the last few years I have enjoyed too little happiness to make it seem very attractive. Wealth can do little. Even your kind attentions have failed. The consciousness of wrong done and unatoned for has followed me all these years. One wrong act has imbittered all my earthly existence.”
“My dear uncle, I regret that you should dwell upon such painful thoughts. Even if you were in fault, which I do not believe, you are agitating yourself now to no purpose.”
“Let me speak now, Lewis. The thought is always with me, and I am relieved by speaking. Never, Lewis, suffer yourself to be led hastily into a wrong act—never, as you value your soul’s peace. The thought will come back to you in after years, and never leave you; you may surround yourself with all that wealth can give, even as I have done, and your heart will still be an aching void into which no thought of joy or happiness shall enter. When you are on your death-bed, as I am now, you will feel how inestimable above all things else is that peace of mind which comes from a clear conscience and an unblemished life.”
Standing thus at his uncle’s bedside, with more than one sin unexpiated upon his soul, could Lewis listen unmoved to words which gained so deep a significance from this utterance by a dying man? Even he felt vaguely uncomfortable as he listened, mingled with an angry impatience which, however, he dared not betray.
“I feel a deep conviction,” continued Mr. Rand, “that Robert is still living. I cannot tell whence it comes, but of nothing am I more thoroughly persuaded. I had hoped that the advertisement would prove effectual in finding him out. You are sure that you caused its insertion in papers of the largest circulation?”
“I have followed your directions, uncle,” said Lewis, unblushingly, “notwithstanding my fear that it would lead to nothing.”
“You did right, Lewis. After I am gone, I wish you to continue the advertisement. Your cousin will see it sooner or later. I am quite sure of that. And when after a time he comes back to you, I wish you to see that the provisions of my will are carried out. I will not claim your promise. I know that you will do so.”
Lewis bowed, but forebore to speak.
“That is not all. You must tell him, Lewis, how I have sought for him, and how with a sorrowful heart I deplored my own injustice, from which he cannot have suffered more than I. You may tell him that I forgive him if he feels that there is anything to forgive, in the hope that he will forgive me who need it so much more. You will tell him all this, Lewis?”
“Can you doubt it, uncle?” asked Lewis, evasively.
“No, Lewis, I have perfect confidence in you. You never have deceived me, and you will not begin now; and, Lewis, you must try to atone to Robert, in my stead, for the wrong he has suffered. Never let your affection for me persuade you that it was not a wrong. I would far rather have you think harshly of me, than unjustly of your cousin.”
“I will endeavor to obey you even in that, hard though it be,” said Lewis.
At that moment the quiet of the sick-chamber was broken in by a sharp peal of the door-bell. It was so unusual an occurrence in that solitary household, that it startled both.