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.