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.