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.