CHAPTER XXXVII.
A WOMAN’S HEART
When the lawyer returned to his office, he found Margaret seated in the same place and in the same attitude in which he had left her. She started when he came into the room, and fixed her eyes eagerly upon him with a look of anxious inquiry.
“Well,” said the lawyer, rubbing his hands cheerfully, “we have succeeded. The bird is fairly caged.”
“Where have you carried him?” asked Margaret, in a low voice.
“To the Tombs!”
“How did he appear when you arrested him?” Margaret asked.
“Appear! Frightened to death. I never saw a person more thoroughly terrified than he was. He even had the temerity to offer me money if I would aid him to escape,” said Mr. Sharp, in a burst of virtuous indignation.
Margaret sat for a short time in the same attitude of abstraction in which the lawyer found her. She had succeeded, then. He who had wronged and ill-treated her was already in a prison-cell. The revenge for which she had longed was now hers. Yet it failed to give her that satisfaction she had in anticipation. In the moment of her success she realized that revenge was like a two-edged sword, wounding those who wielded it, as well as him against whom it was directed. Yet would she recall what she had done? No, at least not yet. Her brain was in a whirl of excitement, a prey to conflicting thoughts. She must get into the fresh air. She rose from the chair, and with unsteady feet walked slowly towards the door, without a word.
The lawyer looked at her with a puzzled glance. He could not read her history. He had expected that she would rejoice in the intelligence be brought. Instead, she seemed bewildered.
As she lifted the latch, he said, hesitatingly, “In case I should wish to communicate with you, where shall I call?”
“I will call here,” said Margaret, briefly, and passed out.
“A queer subject,” soliloquized Mr. Sharp, as he lighted a fragrant Havana, and sat down to a meditative smoke. “Yet she may prove a client not to be despised. If things work right, I shall obtain through her a hold upon Lewis Rand which I shall be pretty apt to use. He has thrown me off without ceremony. He may find it to his advantage to cultivate my acquaintance. Well, well, the world turns round, and it is only fair that I should be at the top, part of the time.”
Meanwhile Margaret was making her way through the streets, changing her direction more than once, yet tending ever nearer and nearer to one point. At length she stood before the City Prison! With blanched cheek and aching heart she looked upward at the huge pile. She wondered in what quarter of the prison they had placed Jacob, and how he bore his confinement. What a mystery is a woman’s heart! When she had thought of him only as prosperous and triumphant, her heart had been swayed by vindictive passion. Now in his humiliation she felt drawn towards him—she felt even compassion for him. For more than an hour she stood gazing at the dismal structure. Already the sun had set, and the darkness was coming on. It closed about her wrapping her in its dusky mantle. It was one of those autumn days that are succeeded by a chill evening. She shivered as the cold penetrated her wretched shawl which scantily served as a protection, and seeing a sheltered passage-way nearly opposite where she was standing, walked there and sat down upon steps concealed from the sight of the few passers-by in a state of exhaustion. Overtasked nature succumbed, and she sank into a troubled sleep.
At an early hour in the morning she was aroused to consciousness again, and urged by an impulse which she could not resist, crossed the street, made her way to the office of the prison, and made known her desire to see a prisoner.
“Who do you wish to see?”
“Jacob Wynne.”
The officer in attendance turned to a book containing a list of the unhappy persons who had found a home within these walls.
“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.
GREEK MEETS GREEK
The novelty of possession had not yet palled upon Lewis Rand. It seemed to him still like a dream, of whose reality he could scarcely assure himself. Day after day he wandered through the magnificently-furnished rooms of the stately dwelling, and surveyed them with a proud rising of the heart. In the evening, as he sat before the grate fire in the library, for the evenings were growing cool, he would run over in his mind the long list of his possessions, and launch forth in imagination upon plans which he meant to carry out. If by chance the image of the cousin whom he had defrauded presented itself, it was hastily dismissed.
One evening, as he sat idly before the fire, indulging in complacent thoughts, a servant announced a visitor.
“Bring him in here,” said Lewis, albeit somewhat surprised at an intrusion at that late hour. This surprise was not lessened when, in the visitor, he recognized Mr. Sharp.
The lawyer advanced with an air of easy assurance, and as he glanced about him observed, rubbing his hands, “Really, Mr. Rand, you are quite charmingly situated. I am reminded of what I have read of the Mohammedan Paradise. To make it complete, you only need a houri.”
“Yet, Paradise as it is,” said Lewis, significantly, for he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the lawyer’s treachery, “it is not free from the intrusion of evil spirits.”
“Indeed!” returned Mr. Sharp, with an admirable air of unconsciousness, “you surprise me.”
“Not more than I am surprised to see you here. If it is not taking too great a liberty, might I inquire the motive of your visit? I presume it is not the pleasure of seeing me.”
“That’s undoubtedly one of my motives,” said the lawyer, affably; “but, as you surmise, it is not the only one. I wish to speak with you on important business.”
“Perhaps you have made out a bill of charge for the very valuable services you have rendered me?”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Sharp, bowing; “I cannot express the gratification I feel at this generous commendation on the part of one in whose behalf I have put forth my poor efforts.”
“Sir,” said Lewis Rand, rising impatiently, “you cannot hope to deceive me by your imperturbable assurance. You serve my interests! You put forth efforts in my behalf! You, who turned traitor to my interests, and sought by every means in your power to defeat my plans! This, I suppose, is your idea of legal fidelity.”
“I fancy,” said the lawyer, boldly, “that I have been as faithful to you as you to your uncle. If we are to indulge in recrimination, it may be that I shall not come off second-best.”
“What do you mean, sir? You are disposed to be impertinent. Can you deny that it was through your agency that my cousin was informed of that which I most desired to conceal from him?”
“And thereby,” said the lawyer, composedly, “enabled a father and son to meet before Death came in to separate them forever upon the earth.”
“This, then, is the construction which you put upon your conduct,” said Lewis, with a sneer. “I congratulate you upon your elevated sentiments.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Sharp, bowing modestly. “Appreciation is always soothing to the feelings. Praise from such a source makes me proud, indeed.”
Lewis was incensed to find the lawyer adopting the tone which he had hitherto arrogated to himself. That a briefless attorney should dare to indulge in sarcasm at his expense was a piece of unparalleled presumption.
“I need not say,” he remarked with a smile of conscious power, “how much I regret putting to inconvenience a man of such elevated and Christian sentiments as yourself. Yet I am under the necessity of reminding you that you have in your possession some three hundred dollars which I intrusted to you for a particular purpose. That sum I have present occasion for. If you are unable to pay me, I may feel called upon to resort to measures which may be mutually disagreeable.”
“I am glad you mentioned it,” said Mr. Sharp, blandly. “By the way, you can show proof that you did intrust me with this money?”
Lewis colored with mortification. He had no such proof, and his threat was futile.
“You perceive,” said the lawyer, nonchalantly, “that if I were dishonest, I might deny the trust. But such is not my intention. Will you favor me with a slip of paper?”
Mr. Sharp made out a bill for professional services amounting to three hundred dollars. This he receipted, and handed to Lewis.
“I believe we are now quits,” he said.
Baffled once more, Lewis turned upon the lawyer with a fury which he no longer attempted to conceal.
“Then,” said he, “I see no further reason for continuing this interview.”
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Sharp, “my business is not yet completed; I came here in behalf of your cousin, my client, Robert Rand.”
“Perhaps,” said Lewis, with a sneer, “he has come to his senses, and decided to accept the offer I made him the day after the funeral. You may inform him that he is too late. The offer is withdrawn.”
“As to that, your message is unnecessary, since he has not the slightest disposition to accept it.”
“Indeed! Then may I beg to know with what message you are charged?”
“He will agree to receive nothing less than half the estate.”
“He is quite moderate. You are sure that he does not demand the whole?”
“Quite so. He has no disposition to impoverish you, notwithstanding the wrongs he has received at your hands.”
“He is considerate,” said Lewis, “very considerate! How soon does he expect an answer to his modest proposal?”
“This very night.”
“And suppose,” said Lewis, “(of course, it is highly improbable) but suppose I should decline complying with this very moderate demand of my worthy cousin? What then?”
Lewis regarded Mr. Sharp with an exulting smile.
“Allow me, before answering your question, to propose one of my own.”
“Certainly, Mr. Sharp,” said Lewis, graciously, already exulting in the other’s discomfiture; “I shall be happy to give you information upon any point you may desire.”
He leaned back and surveyed the lawyer with an insolent smile. But his triumph was short-lived.
“Are you acquainted with a copyist named Wynne,—Jacob Wynne?”—asked Mr. Sharp, looking searchingly at his late client.
Lewis Rand started, and his sallow face grew red and white by turns.
“Well,” said he, with a vain effort to speak carelessly, “and if I do?”
“He is now an inmate of the Tombs,” said Mr. Sharp, significantly.
Lewis rose from his seat, and paced the room. At length he paused before the lawyer.
“Why do you tell me this?” he demanded fiercely, “What have I to do with a paltry scrivener? What is it to me that he is in prison? Doubtless he has been there before, and you too, for ought I know.”
“He was arrested on a charge of forgery,” said the lawyer, slowly, watching the effect of this announcement on his companion.
Lewis sat down, brought to bay at last, and leaned his head upon the table. He no longer dared to evade the subject. He felt that the danger was imminent, and must be confronted.
“How was his arrest brought about?” he inquired.
“Through the agency of a woman,—his wife, I believe,—who, in consequence of some quarrel, wishes to revenge herself upon this Jacob. When the forgery was committed she was a concealed spectator, and saw and heard the whole. She can swear to the person who employed Jacob Wynne to do this service! Nor is this all. She has a piece of paper—a torn half sheet—which was used by the copyist to try his pen on that night. It contains a name several times repeated.”
Lewis did not inquire what name.
“Go on,” he said, hoarsely.
“This woman—this Margaret—fell in with me, and applied to me to help her. It suited my purpose to do so, although her poverty will prevent my receiving any recompense from her.”
“Then she is poor,” said Lewis, thoughtfully. “Where is she?”
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Sharp, reading the purpose of Lewis in his face; “that is a question which I cannot answer.”
“Has Jacob divulged anything since he was imprisoned?”
“That was not needful. I will at once speak to the point, Mr. Rand. It can be abundantly proved that this forgery was committed at your instigation. Once let this be known, and you become amenable to the same penalties which now menace your instrument. One word from me will carry you to prison to-night. There is no chance of escape. I have obtained a warrant, and an officer is waiting at the door. But there is an alternative.”
Lewis summoned all the energies of his crafty and subtile mind to devise some method of escape. But he was entangled in a labyrinth from which he could not extricate himself.
“Give me till to-morrow,” he said.
“I regret that I cannot do so,” said the lawyer, politely.
“Name your proposition, then,” he said, sullenly.
Mr. Sharp drew from his pocket a legal instrument conveying one half of all his estates to Robert Rand, some time known as Robert Ford. It was drawn up with all the precision and technicality required by the law. It only needed the signature of Lewis.
Lewis read it with dark and lowering face. “I cannot sign it,” he said, desperately.
“Then I fear you must exchange this warm fireside for an apartment less luxurious.”
“Fate is against me,” muttered Lewis, moved by this threat. “Since it must be done.”
“Will you have the kindness to summon two of your servants to witness the document?” said the lawyer.
Lewis rang the bell sharply.
“Jacqueline, call Antoine, and come in yourself.”
Lewis signed his name.
“Will that satisfy you?” he said, bitterly.
“Perfectly,” said Mr. Sharp, bowing.
“Then, Antoine, you will show this gentleman to the door.”
Mr. Sharp bowed graciously, and withdrew. A moment more, and Lewis was left alone,—a prey to the keenest disappointment. Troubled as he was by the loss of one half his possessions, there were two things that troubled him even more. He had been out-generalled by one of his own tools, whom he had looked upon with contempt, and his cousin, whom he detested more than ever, was now as wealthy as himself.
Lewis Rand paced the library with disordered steps, till far into the night, and, when he retired to his chamber, it was not to sleep.