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Title: Doubly false
Author: Ann S. Stephens
Release date: January 22, 2026 [eBook #77750]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 1868
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOUBLY FALSE ***
DOUBLY FALSE.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS,” “THE HEIRESS,”
“THE GOLD BRICK,” “SILENT STRUGGLES,” “THE OLD HOMESTEAD,” “THE
REJECTED WIFE,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE WIFE’S SECRET,” ETC.
There is no pathway leading to the light,
Save that which honor treadeth for her own.
The only star, that guideth through the night,
Truth wears, triumphant, on her azure zone.
· · · · ·
The false, e’en to themselves are traitors all,
Deceit must ever end in weary strife.
As serpents’ eggs give vipers from the thrall
Of their water fosterage, it chains the life—
Coils in and out in many a poisonous fold,
And hisses through the future uncontrolled.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
TO
MY SON’S WIFE,
MRS. ANNIE SUTTON STEPHENS,
THIS BOOK IS
MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
ANN S. STEPHENS.
WASHINGTON, D. C., MAY 5TH, 1868.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— MUSIC AND DANCING 23
II.— OVERBOARD 29
III.— ADRIFT 40
IV.— THE MANSION ON THE RIVER 45
V.— THE IRON SAFE 54
VI.— EUNICE HURD 60
VII.— BROTHER AND SISTER 68
VIII.— FINDING THE WILL 75
IX.— THE BILL OF EXCHANGE 82
X.— MRS. LANDER ENTERS ON HER FORTUNE 93
XI.— SALE OF THE CHESTNUT HORSES 99
XII.— MEETING OF THE LOVERS 110
XIII.— THE MIDNIGHT HOUR 120
XIV.— THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPTED 125
XV.— THE DISTURBED CONSCIENCE 136
XVI.— KINDRED LOVE 140
XVII.— DREAMS AND STRUGGLES 149
XVIII.— WHICH WAS THE DAUGHTER 158
XIX.— THE AUDACITY OF CRIME 168
XX.— EUNICE HURD EXASPERATED 177
XXI.— MRS. LANDER AND CORA VISIT LAWYER STONE 190
XXII.— ANOTHER STRANGE VISIT 195
XXIII.— THE WAYSIDE TAVERN 205
XXIV.— LOVE IN A LOG CABIN 212
XXV.— CORA LANDER AND EUNICE HURD IN COLLISION 225
XXVI.— THE FIEND AND THE ANGEL 232
XXVII.— PREPARING FOR HAPPINESS 241
XXVIII.— THAT BIJOU OF A HOME 256
XXIX.— THE WEDDING TOILET 267
XXX.— AFTER THE WEDDING 272
XXXI.— THE AUDACITY OF CRIME 279
XXXII.— A WEEK OF LOVE LIFE 288
XXXIII.— THE FIRST CLOUD 299
XXXIV.— EUNICE HURD FINDS HER MATCH AND SO DOES THE HEIRESS 308
XXXV.— CLARENCE BROOKS 319
XXXVI.— A LETTER FROM THE DEAD 327
XXXVII.— TELLING WHAT VIRGINIA AND ELLEN FOUND WHILE LOOKING FOR
CHESTNUTS 341
XXXVIII.— BREAKING IN THE BLACK HORSE 354
XXXIX.— THE FISHING PARTY 366
XL.— CLARENCE BROOKS TALKS CONFIDENTIALLY TO CORA LANDER 374
XLI.— WOMANLY FASCINATIONS 385
XLII.— A AUTUMN PIC-NIC IN THE WOODS 394
XLIII.— ELLEN NOLAN VISITS CLARENCE BROOKS 404
XLIV.— THE WHITE HORSE DISTANCES THE BLACK ONE 412
XLV.— GETTING RID OF WITNESSES 418
XLVI.— THE BROTHER’S CONFESSION 428
XLVII.— LISTENING AND PLOTTING 435
XLVIII.— HOPES OF REDEMPTION 448
XLIX.— JOSHUA HURD PROVES HOSPITABLE AND KIND 457
L.— THE FALSE STORY AND THE FORGED LETTER 466
LI.— THE MIDNIGHT RIDE 481
LII.— ANGELS’ VISITS 490
LIII.— THAT CRUEL LETTER 500
LIV.— IN PRISON 508
LV.— THE SECOND CONQUEST 516
LVI.— A NEW HOME 525
LVII.— PLEADING FOR A PARDON 532
LVIII.— DEATH IN THE LOG CABIN 535
LIX.— CONCLUSION 547
DOUBLY FALSE.
CHAPTER I.
MUSIC AND DANCING.
A splendidly bright day in early spring. The ocean was unusually calm;
but a pleasant sunshine broke up its greenish blue, and dashed its tiny
ripples with the restless glory of quicksilver shimmering over crystal.
Far away the waters lapsed imperceptibly into the pure atmosphere of the
horizon, veiling the soft union with a gossamer haze exquisitely
beautiful.
Not a sail was in sight!—not a bird in the air! One great ocean steamer
moved through the calm of the waters, her broad, white sails curving
like the tired wings of a seagull, and her black pipes heaving forth
mighty fleeces of smoke, that curled, eddied and fell apart in the wind,
floating off in a soft film of silvery gray, dazzled through and through
with sunbeams.
The steamer was full of life, cheerful and brilliant. Though not
absolutely crowded, it had no room to spare, and all the luxury that
could be introduced into a sea voyage was to be found on its decks that
pleasant spring afternoon. Fur rugs and little encampments of crimson
cushions lay about in the shady places, occupied by men, women and
children, sitting low like Turks, if not exactly in the Oriental
fashion. Campstools and a few easy chairs were filled with dreamy
occupants, some reading, some chatting, and others sound asleep.
Perhaps four hundred passengers were on board, most of them of that idle
upper class which holds some of the weakest and again the most powerful
members of social life in its ranks. They were in this case neither
better nor worse than the crowd of people who usually cross and recross
the Atlantic every season, as if it were some inland lake. Upon those
fur rugs and cushions a few men, tired out with the active duties of
life, sought that necessary reaction a sea life brings; with them were
merchants on business, clever men travelling for information—commonplace
people killing time—sharpers on the alert for prey—adventurers, and
worse still, adventuresses, forcing themselves, by craft or brazen
assurance, into respectable society—with all the odds and ends of that
strange thing called fashionable life. To this great majority were added
one or two God-gifted souls to whom life, in itself, was an exquisite
blessing. These found even that calm sea voyage full of wonderful poetry
which the crowd never dreamed of. They saw glorious pictures in the sky
as it bent over them—thrilling music in the soft heave of the waves
which floated them steadily shoreward, and still more varied interest in
the life that moved and changed and worked itself out among the human
beings with whom they were cast.
Of this class was the young girl seated on that carriage robe of white
fur, which was spread out on a shadowy portion of the deck like a
snow-drift, half melted away, upon a ground-work of azure-cloth
scolloped and embroidered into a rich lace-work border. She was a
bright, happy-looking girl, with a face that Titian would have given a
goblet of wine to paint, exactly as she reclined, with her elbow resting
on a pile of cushions over which a shawl of blue cashmere, with a good
deal of gold-color in the border, had been flung in rich drapery. Her
head, with more ruddy brown hair than most women possess, was supported
by the palm of a white and finely-shaped hand—not very small, for the
girl herself was of generous proportions, and in perfect symmetry lay
her chief claim to that grace and loveliness which distinguished her.
Close by the pretty couch, which had an air of the Orient in it, sat a
middle aged man, rather handsome—very respectable—and at the moment
closing his eyes in a dreamy way which might or might not be slumber.
Something in the distance aroused the girl and caused the father to open
a pair of mild blue eyes rather suddenly, for she cried out in her
quick, eager way:
“Look, look, papa!”
It was only a couple of sturgeons tumbling over each other and leaping
into the sunshine, which for an instant scaled their backs with silver
and kindled a little rainbow among the drops they flashed into the air.
“Isn’t it wonderful, papa, that such awkward creatures can manage to
display so much beauty?” cried the girl, resting one arm on her father’s
knee and raising herself up to the cushions that she might watch the
ponderous gambols that any one else might have considered a disturbance.
“Nonsense, my dear; we have seen a hundred of them tumbling about like
salt-water pigs. Let me rest, do—this glare hurts my eyes.”
“Well, sleep away, dear old papa, if you like it best—I’ll settle to
reading again, since you will have nothing to do with me.”
This was uttered with a good-natured little laugh, while the young lady
settled back into her former position, assuming her book, in its dainty
binding, of scarlet and gold, which had been lying half-buried in the
white fur, but she contented herself for a time with rustling the leaves
as it lay in her lap.
With a smile on his lips the old man fell off into his sweet slumber
again, and his daughter began to read. Just then a group of young
persons came up from the cabin, chatting together and sending out little
joyous bursts of laughter. The first that appeared was a young lady who
presented so complete a counterpart of the person we have been
describing that a stranger would have glanced at the white carriage robe
at once to make sure that she had not left it. The same lithe form was
there, the same brilliant complexion, with eyes not altogether gray or
blue, but which partook of either color as fancy or passion warmed them.
The hair was of that remarkable tint which even artists have failed to
name properly, but which the Venetians painted in all its glory. These
traits, and more than these, the two girls had in common; no sisters
ever looked more alike or possessed the same grace of manner. They were
closely related, no one could doubt that who looked upon them, though
one was quietly reading her book and the other appeared in all the ardor
and joyousness of a spirited conversation.
“No, indeed,” she was saying, “I make no pretence; I play well enough,
perhaps, but it is my cousin whose voice you heard last night. There she
is. Ask her.”
She looked very beautiful, standing there in the passage with a cashmere
shawl gathered in careless grace around her, while the wind shook out
the barb of Brussels point tied in a knot at the back of her little
straw hat, and fluttered the cock’s plume in front, giving a look of
breezy cheerfulness to her persona.
“Go ask her—or shall I?”
“You; you, of course,” cried out half-a-dozen voices; “she might refuse
us.”
Cora Lander walked across the deck, sweeping it with her robe of rich
silk—far too rich for the occasion—and paused close by her cousin, who
raised her eyes from the book she was reading with a pleasant smile.
“Virginia, dear, do come and pacify these good people with one little
air. They heard that outbreak of yours last night in _Ah che la morte_,
and will not be content without the whole of it.”
Virginia Lander dropped her book, and a bright color flashed over her
face, but this was all the sign of annoyance that she gave, though she
felt much.
“Oh yes, I will sing, if they desire it,” she said quietly. “Come with
me, Cora, and play the accompaniment.”
The two girls went down to the cabin in company, and a brighter,
lovelier pair you have seldom looked upon. It was not the prettiness of
common beauty, which is in fact less effective than intelligent
ugliness. But there was something unique, graceful and spirited which
belonged to them alone, provoking inquiry and commanding admiration.
Besides, one of them, the daughter of the old man dozing there on the
deck, was heiress to every dollar the millionaire possessed.
Cora Lander sat down at the grand piano in the cabin. Virginia took a
position by her, and a merry group of young people swarmed around, eager
for any amusement that promised to break up the monotony of sea life,
but so full of mirth that they could hardly keep quiet even for the
music. A prelude—a masterly sweep of the keys, and then Virginia
Lander’s voice, full, rich and clear, broke in—at first timidly and with
a tremor of distrust in it—for she did not like this public crowd of
listeners. But even timidity cannot long hold true genius in thrall.
After a moment the color flashed into her face—her lips parted, warm and
red as coral, and out gushed the whole volume and force of her exquisite
voice, thrilling the hearts that listened as music had seldom touched
them before. The depth, power and wonderful pathos of a voice cultivated
to perfection charmed the crowd into willing silence, which continued a
full minute after the last notes left her lips. Then there was a tumult
of compliments—exclamations of delight from those who spoke from the
surface—and deep sighs of absolute ecstasy from such as understood and
felt the delicious sweetness of her performance.
Virginia was pleased. Who is not by genuine admiration? She laughed a
little nervously, blushed crimson on seeing that a good many gentlemen
had joined her audience, and retreated shyly to a sofa at some distance.
That moment you might have discovered where the difference lay between
these two girls. It was in the expression. As Virginia drew back, half
pleased, half ashamed of her own success, Cora let her white hands fall
on the keys she had touched with such wonderful skill, and an expression
swept over her face that transfigured it completely. In all that buzz,
hum and general outburst of praise she had no part. Her supporting
music, brilliant as it was, had been utterly overwhelmed by Virginia’s
voice. She sat a moment looking straight before her. Humiliating
disappointment left her eyes almost black. Her lips curled in their
scornful redness, but the color in her cheeks died out, sweeping all the
young brightness from her features.
This lasted a single minute, but during that brief time no one would
have thought Cora Lander like her cousin Virginia, who had crept into a
corner of her sofa abashed by the burst of genuine applause that
followed her singing, but thrilled by the sweet exercise of her own
genius, which was in itself a delight.
For one instant the stormy look darkened on Cora’s face, then, with an
impulse which seemed inspiration, but was defiance, she dashed her hands
across the keys and swept them with a power that hushed every voice in
the room and turned the current of applause in her favor.
Virginia’s face brightened beautifully as this outburst of approval
reached her. Always generous and sympathetic, she forgot herself utterly
and came up to the piano radiant. Cora saw her, and with a proud lift of
the head, dashed into a waltz which rang through the cabin like a silver
war-trumpet challenging hosts to action. Half-a-dozen young ladies
accepted the exhilarating appeal, wound their arms around each other,
and whirled off in one of those impromptu dances which are the very
effervescence of happy youth. Cora cast a glance over her shoulder and
dashed on, winging those light feet with melody. Away and around they
flew jostling each other, laughing at the fun, changing partners—falling
into little mistakes, and sending their clear laughter through the music
in a riot of sweet sounds.
Those who could not find room to dance applauded with hands and voice:
those who could rushed on more joyously, laughing at their less
fortunate friends, till the whole cabin was one whirl of gaiety.
In the midst, piercing like an arrow through the mellow laughter, came a
cry from midship:
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
CHAPTER II.
OVERBOARD.
Fire! Fire! Fire! This withering cry stopped every pulse of life as it
ran through the ship. For one awful second it held that crowd in the
cabin motionless and pallid as if a storm of ashes were passing over it.
Some of the dancers kept their position, like statues, with scared faces
bent together, feet advanced and smiles frozen on their white lips. Some
staggered out of the whirl and clung together shrieking in each other’s
arms. Others crouched down in corners, sending out piteous cries. One or
two laughed out a hideous mockery of their own fears, and a few weak
voices joined in protesting that it was a hoax. Still all listened with
hushed breath for a second cry which might be their doom.
Cora Lander laughed away the pale terror that seized upon her, and
dashed the awful scene with defiant music.
It came again—that wild, desperate cry—deeper, hoarser and still more
terrible—smiting the crowd with fresh panic. A mad rush was made for the
deck. The selfish instinct of life which levels men with wild beasts was
uppermost then. Under that fierce stampede of feet the helpless and
feeble were forced aside or trampled down, and through the tumult arose
their sobs and moans, with the low roar of half-smothered flames and
gushes of black smoke that came rolling down the cabin stairs thick and
stifling.
Virginia Lander sprang to the steps and rushed on deck, seeking her
father. Cora plunged into the frightened crowd, struggled through and
followed her cousin, looking keenly around for some means of safety as
she went.
The old man was on his feet, white as death, but with all his faculties
clear. He reached forth his arms as Virginia came up and held her close,
promising his own heart that they would die together. Cora planted
herself by his side, pale with terror, but vigilant.
The steamer lay with her head to the wind, which swept the flames
fiercely as they belched up the hatchway and ran along the cordage like
sheet lightning. The captain thundered orders through his trumpet which
no one obeyed. Men rushed to and fro with buckets, and flew in despair
to the pumps, but, spite of this the conflagration roared like a volcano
deep in the iron hold, and rushed up through porthole and hatchway,
fringing the sails with flame and creeping along the ropes till they
shone out against the sky one network of tangled fire.
It was awful to see human beings struggling up through the surges of hot
smoke, and reeling into the fresh air one mass of flames. Now the scene
became terrible. Great gushes of fire roared up from the cabin and
seized upon the wood-work around it. The mainmast, already girdled with
flame and eaten half way to the heart, trembled like a forest tree
beneath the axe. The ventilators were choked up with human beings,
suffocated in a wild effort to escape certain death in the steerage. Now
an effort was made to get out the boats; but they were seized upon and
swamped under a frenzied rush of the crowd. The wretched people
retreated from bulwark to bow—anywhere that promised a moment’s shelter.
But the hot flames pursued them, leaping, hissing, routing them from
every chance of life. Some jumped overboard in sheer madness; others
swung themselves down to the sea with chains and ropes, which might grow
red hot or be burned under their grasp any instant. It was awful to see
those panic-stricken creatures huddled together like frightened deer
hemmed in by a prairie fire, shrinking, shivering and white with a dread
that was worse than death.
Mr. Lander and those two girls had kept their place firmly upon the
deck, watching for some chance of safety, but driven towards the
bulwarks step by step as the flames leaped upon them. The sails had
burned out, scattering a rain of fire over them, and were now given to
the wind in black patches of tinder. The cordage had broken up into rags
of fire. The yard-arms were burning and cut against the sky, like a
great cross appealing to God for mercy. Only a few moments more could
those helpless creatures keep a foothold where they stood. Even now the
boards under their feet were hot and drops of turpentine came oozing out
from all their pores, tempting the flames which licked them up with
ravenous hisses. Not ten feet away, the planks had parted and they could
look down on that sea of fire raging in the hold.
Virginia gave one glance and clung to her father, striving to shield him
from the heat. Cora saw a thousand tiny threads of flame creeping
towards them, and seizing upon the fur rug wound it about her, looking
fiercely down on the storm of fire, as if she longed to defy it. That
girl, leaning there against the bulwark, with that awful light upon her
face and the fur robe giving a savage aspect to her dress, seemed like a
priestess overwhelmed by her own incantations.
Just then a boat had been cautiously lowered by some of the hands—so
cautiously that the terror-stricken creatures cowering on the deck took
no notice, for despair had paralyzed them. Cora saw it and her hopes
took fire. Without a word to the others, she flung off the robe, leaped
upon the bulwark, and plunged into the sea, twenty feet below. The boat
had pushed off and was some yards away, but she was a good swimmer, and
followed it, shrieking for help with every dash of her arms.
Had it been a man, the sailors would have left him to die, for the boat
was full; but there was something so strange and brave in the desperate
effort this young creature made for life, that they took her in with
broken cheers and pushed farther from the doomed vessel, from which men
and women, with their garments one cloud of flame, were continually
dropping.
Virginia looked up, saw that the place where her cousin had stood was
empty, and uttering a cry of anguish, sprang to the bulwark.
“Oh father! oh Heaven help us! She is gone—she is lost! No, no, thank
God, thank God, she is in the boat. That is her. Look, father, look!
That is Cora.”
That moment the mainmast trembled like a tree cut through the heart and
fell, dragging the steamer on one side by its weight. Then the engine
gave out, and the boiler collapsed with a dull sound, sending up a storm
of hisses, as if ten thousand serpents, coiled in its iron heart, had
suddenly crept into the flames.
The man at the wheel, who had stood firmly till now, gave way under a
hot rush of fire, and leaped overboard, abandoning the steamer to her
fate. Left to itself, the doomed vessel, with its awful freight of fire,
headed to the wind, which gathered up the flames and hurled them in
broad sheets and masses back upon the poor creatures who crouched upon
the deck. They started up like herds of deer in a burning prairie, and
rushed toward the bow dumb with horror. There they huddled together in a
trembling crowd, turning their wild, white faces on the sea of fire
which raged behind them. Some crept out on the bowsprit and clung to it.
Others had dragged articles of furniture with them which they were
lashing together as a forlorn hope.
Lander snatched up his daughter and followed with the rest. He too had
seen the boat in which Cora had found safety, and knowing that Virginia
could swim like her cousin, resolved that she should be saved.
When they reached the bow, he took Virginia in his arms and kissed her
with solemn tenderness.
“Oh, father, this is terrible—must we die? Must we die?”
A great surge of smoke swept over them and he held her face close to his
bosom till it went by.
“Virginia, hear me.”
She guessed what he was about to say, and cried out against it:
“No, no, papa—I never will—never without you.”
“But Virginia, my child.”
She clung to him wildly, desperately.
“But you can swim. The boat is not so far off,” he pleaded.
“But you, papa, can you swim?”
Lander shook his head.
“Then I will not go. Better a thousand times die here together. What
would life be without you?”
“Virginia, this is wrong. It is selfish.”
“No—no—no, father! and if it is, God will forgive the child who wishes
to live or die with her own father. See, I am not afraid. When the fire
drives us away from here, we will jump into the water together. I can
swim for us both a little while, then, if we must go down, God will see
how it was and let us be together again, for He alone knows how dearly I
love you.”
“My child, my child!”
The old man lifted her in his arms and was about to hurl her over. She
could swim, and alone, without incumbrance, might reach the boat. With
another to drag her down, it would be certain death.
She understood his design and clung to him with passionate tenacity.
“Father—father, I will not!”
“It must be. God help us, child—it must, it must!”
“Not yet, father; not alone. I will not go alone.”
She clung to him madly, turning her stone, white face over one shoulder
and watching the conflagration with frightened eyes.
“Oh, father, the wind is with us. See how it fights back the flames.
But, my God—my God, how that slow, cruel fire eats into the deck! How it
crumbles and falls piecemeal into that red gulf! It creeps upon us inch
by inch, and the space is so small now. Not yet! father, not yet! We
have a few minutes more. Then we will go together—only so. God is good
to give us this one chance of death without torture. Stand closer, close
to the bulwark, father. How the poor creatures crowd! Yes, yes, we will
give way for children, they must not burn. Poor mother—poor woman. Go
first—go first—we can wait.”
A tall, powerful man from the steerage, with an infant in his arms, was
pushing by them, huddling his wife and four other children up to the
charred bulwarks. The children gave one glance into the depths below and
cowered back to their mother’s feet, whimpering and sobbing in pale
terror. The man placed the infant on its mother’s bosom and took them
both in his arms with solemn tenderness. The woman released herself
wildly from his arms and cried out:
“They are not all here. Brian! Brian! Oh, Father of mercies, where is my
son?”
That instant a lad came across that skeleton deck, leaping from one
blazing beam to another with the desperate energy of some wild deer
breaking away from the hounds. His feet sent back a storm of hot sparks
as they touched the seething wood. His woollen clothes caught fire,
enveloping him in heavy gushes of smoke. He struck the last beam with a
staggering leap—reeled dizzily, and was plunging head foremost into the
gulf of fire yawning for him, when a single cry sent the strength back
to his heart. His mother’s voice reached him through the roar of the
flames and struck the sick weakness from brain and limb. With a
desperate bound, he landed by his father’s side, strangled and quivering
from head to foot. His hands were scorched; his hair was crisped, and a
deadly whiteness showed itself through the smoke and ashes which
blackened his young face. He struggled to speak, but his chest only
heaved and the parched upper lip curved away from his teeth, giving his
mouth an awful look of agony. His eyes were uplifted to his father’s
face, burning with pity, despair, and such courage as the hero feels
when he leads a forlorn hope on the battle-field.
He spoke at last, and his voice was like the cry of a wild eagle.
“Father, let me go first. God has saved me for that!”
The father turned and looked upon him almost with a smile on his lip.
“It will give them courage, father. Mother—mother, it is only a moment’s
pain. Kiss me, mother, for I must go.”
He flung both arms about his mother, folding in the infant. He kissed
the quivering face of the woman, the wondering eyes of the babe, seized
his father’s hand, wrung it hard, and clambered up the bulwark.
A feeble hand caught at his clothes and a wild voice cried out:
“Brian, Brian, take me, take me; I cannot climb up alone!”
This was the eldest girl, who grasped eagerly at his smouldering jacket.
The lad sprang back, took her in his arms and tried to lift her up the
bulwark.
“Yes, Ellen, we will go together—you and I.”
He gained the narrow ledge of wood, and was dragging her up, when a
lurch of the half-burned wreck broke his hold and sent him headlong into
the deep; she fell back upon the deck moaning.
The father turned to his wife, who shook so violently that the babe
almost fell from her hold.
“One has gone—Mary—Mary!”
It was all he could say. The words turned to ashes on his lips, but his
eyes looked out upon the water with an awful meaning.
The frightened creature understood him and held the child close. She
lifted her cold lips meekly for the last death kiss, but he had no power
to give it. The rugged whiteness of his face met hers one moment and was
withdrawn again. Then, with his strong arms shaking like reeds, he
lifted her upward and loosened his hold. Twenty feet below there was a
break in the waters, a dash, and the _sharp cry_ of an infant, but the
sounds were faint and lost in the roar of the flames. The man bent
forward to look over, but his heart failed, and, with a desperate
calmness, he selected the smallest child left in that quaking group—a
little, chubby girl—and lifted her to the bulwark. One instant those
great, quivering hands rested on her head—then came the gleam of a baby
face against the black side of the vessel, a flash of soft hair in the
wind, and scarcely a ripple followed to tell where the little creature
dropped into eternity. Another—and then the last of the flock stood,
white and still, while the wretched father blessed her as he had
sanctified the others.
She was the oldest of four girls, something more than a child, but the
most helpless of them all, for the girl was hunchbacked and dwarfed, but
it was the quiet, calm face of an angel that looked up into those
agonized eyes.
“Good-bye, father—I am not afraid.”
The words were on her lips when she dropped from under the benediction
of his hands, and now all was gone. Of a large family, the father stood
alone. He turned that hard, white face upon the spot where his little
brood had stood, looking yet for another. Then came a cloud of vague
bewilderment, followed by the truth, sharp and quick. With one strong
cry of terrible anguish his arms were flung upward and he plunged
overboard.
Virginia and her father saw all this and their souls grew strong within
them. What had they to give up compared to the awful duty which this man
had performed? How patiently, and with what meek faith that woman had
gone down to her death! It seemed a little thing for them to die with
each other. After such heroism, Lander knew Virginia would stay by him
to the last, and forbore to urge her farther. So long as there was a
chance of life on the vessel, they would seek it together; when that was
gone, a plunge after that doomed family and all would be over.
But their time grew short now. The fire was burning fiercely towards
them. Every instant narrowed the space which was even now overcrowded
with human life. Each minute some unhappy wretch was jostled overboard,
as the crowd pressed closer and closer to avoid the burning death that
seemed ravenous for every human life on board.
“Lift me up to the bulwark, father, if there is a hope of life let me
search for it.”
Mr. Lander lifted her up to the charred bulwark, and held her there with
desperate firmness. She leaned forward and gazed through the eddying
smoke out on the sea—praying for a sail—praying for help—nothing was in
sight save a few struggling creatures in the water—that boat drifting to
and fro at a safe distance, with Cora Lander in it, and a frail raft on
which two or three desperate men were working hard to keep above water.
Beyond this she saw one or two capsized boats drifting keel upward—and
that was all.
From this hopeless waste of waters, she turned to the vortex of fire
raging beneath her—turned with thrills of terror that made the very
heart shudder in her bosom.
It was an awful sight! The great ship lay seething in the water more
than half consumed, a skeleton of fire preying on itself. The light
wood-work had flashed out with vehemence and sunk to a sea of fiery
smoke in the hold. Except a few miserable feet at the prow, nothing was
left but a mighty cradle of red-hot iron, ribbed and beamed and braced
with such massive strength that fire itself seemed incapable of
destroying it. Huge beams, scintillating stormy sparks with every sweep
of the wind, spanned what had been the deck from bulwark to bulwark.
Great, crooked ribs of solid fire curved down to the engine, which lay
massive and inert—its iron heart pulseless—its mighty arms paralyzed—its
boiler a hollow ball of iron, and all its wonderful mechanism a vast
heap of white heated metal.
Virginia Lander recoiled from this fearful sight, and sunk back to her
father’s arms, shuddering.
“There is no hope,” she said. “The fire is working this way and
undermining us. Anything is better than a death like that!”
“How near?” questioned the old man.
“God may give us half an hour.”
“Even in that time He may send us help,” said the father, bending over
her with yearning tenderness. “Oh, my child, when I think of your young
life going out so early, I’m a coward!”
“No, no, father; after looking down into that awful gulf of fire, death
in the cool waters seems Heaven to me,” said Virginia.
That moment a portion of the deck on which they stood crumbled in, and a
column of flame shot up close to them.
Two or three women, mad with fright, leaped overboard, their faces
marble, their garments one mass of fire; others sunk with fragments of
the deck into the hot torments of the hold and were lost in those
scarlet billows before a sound of anguish could tell of their fate.
Nearer and nearer those doomed ones came the stifling death, not a foot
of safe timber was left. On the very edge of that hollow cradle of fire
they stood, clinging together for the last time.
Now a slender dart of flame shot up between the warped boards on which
they stood. Still they clung closer to each other, shrinking away from
it.
CHAPTER III.
ADRIFT.
“Father, our time has come.”
Virginia Lander spoke gently, and in a calm voice, but her face was
white as snow.
The father bent his colorless face to hers, kissed her on the forehead,
and wound his arms around her.
“God have mercy upon us!” broke from his white lips.
“Oh God, save him!” trembled upon hers.
They would have gone quietly over, but a dozen others, stricken with new
terror by this sudden outburst of flame, rushed over them and separated
the father from his child. It was like a stampede of wild animals,
trampling each other to death. A whole crowd hurled itself into the deep
at once, blackening the waters one horrible minute and sinking into
eternity the next.
Virginia Lander was borne down with the rest, but she rose again, crying
out as her head reached the surface: “Father—father—father!”
No answer! Men were sinking all around her, but among all those
struggling creatures she could not see him. She supported herself on the
water, shrieking as each man went down with a mad fear that it was her
father whose death she witnessed. Then, as the waters swallowed those
toiling wretches one by one, she commenced swimming up and down the
black hull of the vessel, pleading with those who hung by the chains and
ropes to tell her if they had seen him fall.
A sweet voice from one of the trailing ropes answered her at last:
“I saw him come down close by the bow,” it said; “he fell with the great
crowd.”
It was the hunchbacked girl, up to her neck in water, clinging to a
rope.
Virginia made for the rope, and seizing upon it, dragged herself up half
way from the water, searching right and left for that one face. She
dropped at last, bringing the girl with her. But for this she would have
sunk without a struggle, weighed down by despair. The child gave a sharp
cry and struggled for the rope again with a last instinct of life.
While lifted above the water, Virginia had seen the boat lying at a safe
distance, with her cousin in it. She held the girl up, seizing the rope
again.
“Lay your hand on my shoulder; hold firmly, but do not pull me down,”
she said. “We will try for the boat. Are you afraid?”
“No.”
“Cling to me, then: do not struggle—one moment—he may be floating yet.”
She lifted herself out of the water again and made a last despairing
search for her father. Then, with a moan, she settled down and told the
hunchback how to fasten both arms around her.
The girl obeyed without a word, and with her wild eyes fixed upon the
boat, that frail girl gave herself to the deep, burdened with another
human life. Slowly and firmly her delicate arms smote the water. Her
wild eyes were fixed on the boat, which lay motionless just beyond the
fiery glow of the flames. How cool and quiet it looked. That one dark
spot was life to her, all the rest a grave.
It was wonderful how strong and self-possessed she was. That other life
clinging to hers inspired her with a power of compassion. She could have
sunk herself without a moan; but that helpless soul, she must bear her
to a place of safety. While God gave her strength she would use it.
So she moved steadily on, growing weaker and weaker, but slowly nearing
the boat.
When Cora Lander saw that face rising above the water she gave a cry,
which the struggling creature heard, it was so sharp and ringing.
“Take up the oars! Take up the oars! Pull off! pull off!” she called out
to the men.
The men, who had been watching this brave girl struggling toward them,
snatched their oars and pushed forward to meet her. Cora seized one of
them fiercely by the arm.
“Not that way—are you mad? They will be upon us like sharks. How many
boats have you seen swamped before your eyes? Back—back, I say, and out
to sea! We are loaded down already—another would sink us!”
The man shook her off with horror. He thought that the two girls were
sisters.
“Bear away toward the ship, one and all,” he cried “See that head in the
water with its trail of hair, and the other face behind. They shall be
saved if I go overboard to make room.”
Human hearts are full of good impulses, say what you will. Every manly
arm in that boat gave its strength to save those sinking girls.
“Pull on; pull away—see, she wavers; her strength is gone—great Heaven,
they will sink, and we so near!”
Cora half started up in the boat, white as death, but with cruel
expectation in her eyes.
“Keep up, keep up—hold on another minute, and we are with you,” shouted
the generous fellow, while the oar bent under his strong force and the
boat plunged forward like a goaded race-horse.
That brave girl heard the cry, and made another feeble effort to sustain
herself; but the hunchback dragged heavily upon her and she felt herself
going.
“It is me—it is me—I am sinking you,” cried the sweet voice, and the
slender arms loosened their hold.
“No, no,” broke in a sob from the noble young creature, as the tightness
was removed from her neck. “Clasp tighter—tighter—God is giving me new
strength.”
But the girl dropped away in silence, sunk and rose again close by the
boat, which came up with cautious slowness. An oar was thrust out for
her. She seized it and was dragged in half suffocated.
A drift of human hair, weltering like sea-weed in the water, was all
that could be seen of Virginia, who was sinking. The man who had taken
command leaped overboard, gave a plunge and brought her up, senseless.
“Make room,” he cried, lifting her up to the hands stretched out to
receive her. “God help us, she may be dead!”
“No,” said that sweet voice once more, “God would not let her die so.
Put her head in my lap; she shall have some of my life.”
The hunchback struggled up to a sitting posture in the bottom of the
boat, and they laid Virginia’s head in her lap, while the man who had
saved her took a travelling flask of brandy from his pocket and poured
some of it through those white lips.
“Is she better—will she come to life?” cried Cora Lander, bending over
her. “Does that blue around her mouth mean death? She is my cousin, sir,
and I have a right to know.”
“She is not dead,” answered the hunchback, looking up. “With my hand
here, I can feel her heart stir.”
The strange creature had forced one of her tiny hands under the wet
garments that lay heavily on Virginia’s bosom, and found her heart
fluttering with faint thrills of life—so faint, that a rude hand might
not have discovered them.
Cora took up one of her cousin’s hands and began to chafe it in her own,
stopping now and then to feel if there was a pulse in the wrist.
“You feel anxious now,” said the man who had saved that young creature.
“Still, if we had listened to you, she would have been dead long ago.”
Cora lifted her eyes to his face with something like defiance.
“How could I know that it was my cousin?”
“As I did from the first; sister or cousin, I scarcely know which, the
likeness is so great.”
“But I did not dream of it.”
“Still she was a woman struggling for life,” replied the man, forcing a
few more drops of brandy between the lips, which had parted a little,
but were yet without color.
“Man or woman, I had no power of knowing,” was the half reproachful
answer. “I, who am so short-sighted.”
“But you seemed to be the first one conscious of her struggles to reach
us.”
“You are unkind—almost rude, sir. I saw a crowd of black objects
plunging down the sides of the vessel and swarming this way. How could
we withstand them? If I begged you not to let them swamp us, was that so
very unfeeling? But you have saved my dear cousin, and I can forgive
all.”
“See, her lips move—she stirs,” said the low voice of the hunchback once
more. “Let us thank God and be still.”
Cora crouched down by her cousin, sobbing piteously.
“Oh, Virgie, dear Virgie, open your eyes and say if I deserve all this
man has been saying! I, who love you better, a thousand times, than
myself! Cousin, cousin, do you hear me?”
The hand which she was chafing clasped itself feebly around her fingers,
and a low, gurgling murmur died on those lips. Then the soft gray eyes
opened, and dazzled by the slanting sunbeams, closed again.
“Is it you, Cora?”
“Yes, cousin—yes, we are safe now.”
“And—and father?”
No one answered her. She waited awhile and a spasm of pain swept over
her.
At last she spoke very, very faintly:
“Is my father here, Cora?”
“No; we have not seen him!”
Virginia fell back heavily on the hunchback’s lap, and visible thrills
of pain swept over her. At last two great drops came from under her
closed lashes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. She did not mention her
father again, but lay still while the sunset came and went, leaving the
waters purple around her.
The boat had drifted slowly off from this burned ship, which lay a
smouldering heap of blackness upon the ocean. A few human beings were
desperately clinging to the bowsprit, which could be seen cutting
blackly against the sky. But Virginia Lander had no courage to look at
the mournful spectacle, and the boat, with its freight of human souls,
drifted slowly out to sea. The night closed in upon them with purple
warmth awhile, then deepened into a black void with one fiery spot
burning like a red-hot coal through that chaos. That one glow of fire
was the burning ship.
CHAPTER IV.
THE MANSION ON THE RIVER
Up the Hudson river—no matter how far—stands a mansion that would be
wonderfully beautiful in any country where the leaf never falls. In the
summer time it is a splendid place enough even here, for its walls are
of pure white marble, and its architecture Grecian, which gives you an
exquisite idea of coolness and grace scarcely possessed by any other
habitation. It is not exactly a palace, though many a queen has
contented herself in a home less spacious. But the tall Corinthian
pillars that gleam through the trees—the balconies sculptured like
snow-wreaths—windows of solid plate glass, so clear that you scarcely
know when they are open or shut—and cornices wrought with no common
chisel, or designed by no common brain, give you an idea of splendor
scarcely less than royal.
The grounds, too, convey an impression of foreign lands, for it is the
first week in September, and all around this dwelling, arrayed in
wonderful contrast, is the cool green of closely rolled sward and trees
splendidly grouped, sheltering the blaze and glory of flowers born in
every known country that the sun shines upon. A lawn, large enough for a
small farm, rolls with green breaks and undulations to the edge of a
precipice which terraces it from the river.
Hot-houses and graperies form long avenues of rolling glass, which the
sunshine turns into waves of glittering silver at noonday, and kindles
up with bright golden fires for an hour before the night closes in. A
stretch of woodland lies to the left, full of shadowy dells and green
nooks, where splendid ferns and young wintergreen are found in
abundance. Here nature holds unmolested reign. The forest turf is kept
clear of brush, and dead branches are pruned away from the oaks and
beech trees, letting the sun in here and there with a cheerful effect.
Along the outskirts of this grove, between its marginal trees and the
lawn, a pretty upland stream, of no insignificant depth, has cut a
ravine where ash and dogwood droop and cast the snow of ten thousand
blossoms from year to year. Through the boulders and rocks that break up
this ravine, the stream descends in riotous waterfalls—sleeps in deep
pools—where the speckled trout once led a deliciously tranquil life—and
rushes down to the great river in miniature breakers that fill the air
with music. Two or three rustic bridges cross this stream, from which
pleasant footpaths lead into the woods, where singing birds answer back
the sweet chime of the waterfalls, and half tame squirrels leap from
bough to bough, rustling the leaves in harmony with all the other wild,
sweet sounds.
Back of the house, and away on either hand, lie broad meadows, rich in a
second crop of grass—orchards, just beginning to droop under the weight
of swelling fruit, and dim woodlands, left to nature only where art
fails to give them possibilities of new beauty.
This is all one domain. Its owner was Amos Lander, the man whose
terrible fate we have recorded in the last chapter, with that of the
steamer in which he had set sail for America. During ten years of his
life, Lander had retired from business, wealthy, honored, and in all
respects a prosperous man. A large portion of that time he had devoted
to the pleasant task of beautifying and improving the place which was
hereafter to be the home of his darling child and heiress, Cora Virginia
Lander, usually called Virginia, to distinguish her from her cousin of
the same appellation, who took the other name of Cora.
During the time that these two young girls had been completing their
education under the best teachers of France and Italy, the kind old man
had devoted himself heart and soul to embellishing this noble home,
which was to be their first grand surprise on returning to their native
land.
Amos Lander had been abroad several times during that period; for it was
impossible for him to live years together without seeing his child. He
was also deeply attached to that other Cora Virginia, who was the child
of his only brother, left to his bounty and compassion by that brother
on his death-bed. If Amos Lander’s heart was bound up in his daughter,
it was good enough and broad enough to enfold this orphan child with a
love that was almost paternal. Those who watched his face might have
seen by the glow of love that his own child was forever uppermost in
that warm heart, but in all his acts he treated the girls exactly as if
they had been sisters, usually called them his children, and, with
delicate tact, avoided such explanations as would have led to inquiry
with regard to their relative claims on him.
Each time that he visited Europe, Lander brought home statues, exquisite
marbles, pictures, bronzes and rare plants, all intended to beautify the
Paradise he was creating for his child and ward.
Not until the year in which Lander set forth to bring the girls home had
that marble house been complete in all its appointments; but for some
years before the girls went away it had been the residence of Mrs. Noel
Lander, widow of the brother we have spoken of, and the mother of his
only child, whom we left drifting upon the ocean in a frail boat,
without food and almost without hope.
This woman had never been permitted to feel the poverty to which the
death of an insolvent husband might have consigned her. In her
prosperity, she had been reckless, extravagant and terribly ambitious.
By audacious expenditure she had attempted to conceal a low origin and
many humiliating antecedents. But while the younger Lander went backward
day by day, everything throve and turned to gold with Amos. At last the
younger brother died, heart-broken and ruined, leaving his wife
destitute, with a child to encumber her future.
Then Amos Lander came forward, forgetting everything but the brother who
had loved this woman, and holding her very faults sacred for his sake.
He took the widow into his own family, as if she had been a sister in
reality. Her child shared the same nursery and the same lessons with his
own. A good and gentle wife welcomed her ungrudgingly to a share of her
home, her wealth and such household affection as loving hearts bestow on
the bereaved.
But Amos Lander, noble and generous as he was, fell into deep grief a
year or two after his brother’s widow became an inmate of his family.
The woman whom he had loved with all his life and soul died suddenly,
breaking up the richest hopes of his life. He was never the same man
after this. Business lost its stimulant, pleasure its zest. The bloom
and brightness of his life was gone. While he was in this state of
mournful apathy, the widow Lander quietly took possession of all
household authority, and, with adroit kindness, settled herself as
mistress of the family. If her brother-in-law thought of this at all, he
was grateful for it in a passive way, and thus strengthened her
position.
But that did not satisfy her craving nature. She would be mistress in
her own right, not by sufferance. The rich widower should be brought to
acknowledge not only how needful she was to him, but that he could not
live without her. As his wife she would possess everything that a nature
like hers could desire. His wealth excited her cupidity, and his
position was exalted enough to gratify even her grasping aspirations. In
order to captivate this man, she brought all the powers of a really fine
person and considerable talent into action. But all her efforts were
insufficient even to arouse their object to a sense of her wishes. The
idea of giving a stepmother to his daughter never entered the good man’s
imagination, and if the thought had presented itself, the woman whose
false ambition had brought ruin to a beloved brother could not have been
its object. A person who could satisfy herself with possession without
one honorable effort to deserve it was not likely to attract a man like
Lander. Toiling to make the rich man her victim, she was compelled to
live upon his bounty, and this galled her ambitious spirit to its
depths.
About this time she began to hate that generous man with the quiet,
settled hatred which a woman, not scorned but neglected, can feel in all
its bitterness. This hatred extended even to his child; but it was never
once expressed by word or action. The widow was dispirited, but she did
not altogether despair. Time frequently carries great contradictions and
improbabilities in his bosom. She could watch and wait. During several
years the widow did keep her soul in tolerable patience; but there is no
human being so blind as the man who veils his eyes with one grand idea
of the heart. Lander had no future save that which centred about his
child. To him she was the loveliest and best creature that the sun ever
shone upon. Her smile warmed his heart to the core. Her laugh was all
the music he ever cared to hear. Her breath, as he kissed her, was like
the perfume of roses. Her childish love was absolute despotism; her tiny
hand held his very heartstrings. Fortunately for him the child grew up
good and true-hearted, like her mother. Beautiful also, but of a
different type from the woman he had lost, whose soft black eyes and
raven hair haunted him to the day of his death with a sweet remembrance
of beauty, perfect in its kind.
As a lily breathes the perfume of kindred lilies, this child possessed
all that was brightest and sweetest about her mother, the tender smile
and loving expression—while she was like her father’s family in form and
glowing warmth of color. These latter traits she shared alike with her
less fortunate cousin, but the expression was all her own.
Time wore on and there was little change. Amos Lander was kind to his
brother’s widow, and more than kind to his orphan niece, who inherited
all her low-born mother’s taste for splendor and thirst for wealth. He
loved them, too, in a secondary way, because one looked like his idol
and the other had been in many ways useful to her childhood. Besides,
the brother who was dead had been very dear to him. So, next to the one
being who possessed him supremely, these two persons stood nearest to
his affections.
Things were in this state when Amos Lander took his last voyage, with
the purpose of bringing the young girls home. He left Mrs. Noel Lander
in full charge of the mansion, and at last she felt the joy and glory of
supreme command. No person born to luxury could have enjoyed it with the
zest which this woman experienced when she found herself mistress of
that almost princely establishment. She took her enjoyments to the full
as they arose, like a humming-bird that leaves no drop of sweetness in
the honeysuckle for want of vigorous shaking. The choicest of everything
in that luxurious dwelling had already been appropriated to her own use.
Her chamber window looked out on the brightest flower-beds and coolest
trees. Of all the rare objects gathered in the mansion, she selected
what seemed to her most valuable and gorgeous for her own rooms and
personal use. The woman loved her daughter, it is true, but not as she
worshipped herself, not as a good mother loves her child.
She was sitting at breakfast—this woman who seemed at this time little
better or worse than her fellow-creatures—she was getting anxious about
the steamer, and had asked more than once for the morning papers, though
it was hardly time for the train which brought them up the river to be
in. Still her anxiety failed to diminish an appetite which was both keen
and fastidious. She went on with her breakfast with a relish—picked out
the dainty white meat from the breast of a nicely-broiled chicken which
lay on a plate of china, and disturbed the little island of cream that
floated on her coffee with a gold spoon, which she stopped now and then
to examine with a sensuous enjoyment of possession.
“I wonder how I ever got along without these things,” she said, laying
down her spoon and leaning back to survey the apartment. “How rich and
bright it looks. This is the joy of wealth—well-grounded wealth—for,
next to that girl, he loves us, and an estate like his can bear
dividing—a moiety of it is riches. But then, if he should die without a
will—if this belated steamer should be lost, I am a beggar. I, who
shudder in my sleep, dreaming of the old times when I was sent
barefooted on a cold October morning to search for the cows browsing in
some swamp before we could hope for a meagre breakfast of hasty pudding
and milk. What if I come to that in the end? Could I do anything to
prevent it? So many years of comforts like these have left me helpless
as a child. Great Heavens, I wish the steamer would come! it terrifies
me to think of this one black chance! David—David, is not that the
whistle?”
The waiter thus addressed—who was bringing in a fruit-dish on which lay
two magnificent clusters of hot-house grapes, purple and amber-hued,
blending their tints in luscious ripeness—came forward and placed the
fruit before her.
“No, madam, that is a passing boat, but the train is due now, and John
is waiting at the depot. We shall have the papers directly, never fear.”
Mrs. Lander bent over the dish of fruit, touching it daintily with her
finger.
“When were these cut?” she inquired, rather sharply.
“At sunset yesterday, I believe, madam.”
“Take them to the kitchen, and order the gardener to bring me some fresh
from the vines,” she said; “and see that this does not happen again.”
“Yes, madam. It is not often that you ask for fruit at breakfast; that
is how it happened, I suppose.”
“The possibility that I may ask should be enough,” was the haughty
answer. “There—there—surely that is the train. Run and meet John. Bring
me the papers at once.”
“But the grapes, madam?”
“Well, yes. It will scarcely make a minute’s difference. Go to the
gardener. See, John is coming up the terrace steps, walking fast.
Go—go—”
The woman was really agitated, and her hand shook as she reached it
forth to receive the papers, which John gave her with unusual
hesitation.
“Have you read—have you seen anything?” she demanded, in a voice made
sharp with anxiety.
She opened the paper as she spoke and looked at the first page.
“AN OCEAN STEAMER BURNED AT SEA.”
The woman read this and uttered a cry of pain, so sharp and sudden that
David, who was half way to the kitchen, ran back in affright. Mrs.
Lander had fallen forward in her chair, with one hand pressed to her
side; quick spasms swept over her face, and she shook from head to foot.
David stooped to take up the paper, which had fallen to the floor; but
she snatched it from him, and clenching each hand on an edge of the
sheet, made a desperate effort to hold it still and read, with some
fortitude, the awful calamity which had befallen her.
“Burned to the water—all lost! All lost! Great Heavens, this is awful!”
she cried, dashing the paper from her and sinking back in her chair,
shocked and trembling. “Read it,” she added, “read it, and search out if
any one was saved—the words run like vipers before my eyes, I cannot
make them out! Read, and if they are all dead tell me at once and let
the blow kill me.”
David took the paper from her shaking hand and read down the first
column, which was half capitals. She watched him with a shrinking terror
in her eyes.
“All! all! are they all gone?” she said, with a struggle of the voice.
“Some boats put out, but they were swamped; eighteen persons were found
clinging to the bowsprit—”
“Men or women?”
“Men—all men. The women had jumped overboard.”
“My child! my child!”
A pang of womanly anguish broke forth in this cry—for one moment the
mother forgot everything save that her child was dead. This outburst of
true sorrow touched the men who witnessed it with compassion. David
knelt before her and attempted to chafe her cold hands; she wrung them
from him with passionate violence and buried her face in them.
“Oh, it has come to pass—it has come to pass! I am a beggar again!”
The two men looked at each other, wondering. The woman dashed her hands
apart, burst into a fierce laugh, and slid from the cushions of her
chair to the carpet in strong hysterics. She was taken up with her eyes
set and the white upper lip curved back from her teeth, shrieking like a
maniac. The burden of her cry was, “I am a beggar—I am a beggar!”
CHAPTER V.
THE IRON SAFE.
The two men carried Mrs. Lander to her room and laid her down on the
white bed, with a canopy of lace falling mercifully over the selfishness
of her agony. Through the delicate frost-work of this lace they watched
her writhe and moan like a spirit in torment. A woman servant came in
but dared not approach the bed, for the cries that broke from under that
cloud of lace appalled her. So the servants stood together in a helpless
group, gazing wistfully at one another, shocked and irresolute. They all
wanted to help and comfort her, but were afraid. At last the woman
started up on the bed and flung back the volumes of lace that shut her
in, with a wild sweep of one arm. Her breakfast cap, with its fresh
rose-colored trimming, had fallen off, and lay in a knot of matted lace
and ribbon under the hand upon which she leaned. Her hair, scarcely yet
touched with gray, fell in a coil to her shoulder and slowly untwisted
there like a serpent troubled with sluggish life. The spasms had left
her face cold and white, but full of keen intelligence.
“David,” she said, in a shrill whisper, “come here.”
The man approached her and bent his head.
“You have his keys—bring them here. He was sorting papers the night
before he left. There is a will! The keys—the keys of his desk, I tell
you; I want to look for the will.”
“But, madam—”
“Hush! Do not say it—do not dare to say it! I know there was a will.
Lander was not a fool or bad enough to go to sea without a will. So
bring the keys, and when I find it you shall have five hundred dollars.”
She whispered this in his ear with the craft of an insane person, and
watched his face keenly to mark the effect made by her promise.
David, who was Mr. Lander’s confidential man, hesitated what to do. If
his master was dead, this lady would be, in fact, the person who had a
right to command him. He knew nothing of the law in such cases, and had
no one wiser than himself to consult with.
“Give me the keys, I will have them,” said Mrs. Lander, imperatively.
David went to his room and brought down his master’s keys with evident
reluctance. The offer of five hundred dollars had aroused unpleasant
suspicions in his mind. Mrs. Lander took the keys quietly, for her mind
had regained its firmness somewhat, and even in that hysterical fit was
active for her own interests. She twisted the loose hair up from her
shoulders, and flung a shawl over her white morning dress, which had
been crushed and torn about the neck in her struggles.
“I will ring for you if any help is wanted,” she said, looking David
steadily in the eyes, for she saw by his face that he was prepared to
follow her. Her coolness impressed the man so decidedly that she had
left the room before he could find words for an opposing answer. When
she was gone, the two servants stood gazing at each other. John gravely
shook his head. Both these men had been under Mr. Lander’s employ long
before he gave up active business, and were better educated than the
common run of servants. Having followed their old employer into private
life out of pure gratitude and affection, they still kept a vigilant eye
on his interests, and mutually disliked the woman who had just walked
away from them with such hard self-possession.
“I tell you, Dave, she’s a clipper,” said John, with a sob in his voice.
“Take care—take care. Who knows what the law will do with this place and
all that belonged to him? That poor, pretty child too. Down in the deep,
black water—think of it! think of it!—with her yellow hair, and them
eyes shut and cold! I seem to see her now! They went together, Dave;
I’ll be bound they went down with their arms around each other. Oh, it’s
hard! it’s hard!”
“But about Mrs. Noel, John; I don’t like this. She come to, awful sudden
for an honest woman. What right has she, after all, in Mr. Lander’s
office, or study, as she calls it? None at all. I tell you, Eben Stone
is the only man who has a right to those keys, and I’ve been a fool to
give ’em up.”
“That’s a fact, if one had but the heart to realize it—but I can’t—I
can’t—with him and her under water,” answered John, wringing his hands
in genuine sorrow. “All that he had seems to be nothing compared to them
two lives.”
“I tell you what I will do, John,” answered David, whose grief was too
deep for much expression. “I’ll jump onto the down train and bring Eben
Stone up here. He’ll know what is right, and do it—women or no women.”
“Yes, I would,” answered John. “To think that a woman could start up in
the midst of a fit like that and ask for keys! Yes, I’d do it. Eben
Stone’s the man to settle her. Bring him up, Dave.”
David went into the back entrance hall for his hat, and John followed
him.
“As a general thing, I don’t think peeking and listening through
keyholes just honorable,” he whispered, “but for this once I reckon I’ll
do it.”
David shook his head and hurried out of the hall, for the rattle of a
distant train admonished him that there was no time to lose. John turned
another way and, with the feeling of a heavy weight upon his shoulders,
crept up the back stairs, resolved to find out what the widow was doing
in his master’s study, and yet honestly ashamed of the method forced
upon him. But he found the door locked and heard no sound within.
Mr. Lander’s study or business office was in the second story, remote
from the bed-chambers, and in the back part of the house. He had been a
man of fine natural tastes, and there was an excellent sense of fitness
in all his arrangements which made that entire dwelling like a
well-studied poem. There was little ornament in this room. Devoted as it
was to the practical realities of life, everything connected with it was
plain and simple. A heavy black walnut desk, almost entirely devoid of
carving; a case or two of the same sombre wood filled with papers, and a
solid iron safe built in the wall, composed the principal articles of
furniture. Three office chairs, cushioned with green leather, a basket
for waste papers, now entirely empty, and a severely plain gas burner of
bronze upon the desk, completed the room. The walls were frescoed in
panels of dove-color, pointed with green, and even the mantelpiece was
one solitary picture—that of a little girl sitting on the grass and
taking off her shoe, with a roguish, naughty expression of the face that
made you love the golden-haired imp even on canvas. Here, in this
business office, where no other signs of luxury were allowed to creep,
Mr. Lander had installed the shadow of his child, the creature for whom
he thought, and calculated, and saved gold by thousands, loving the
exertion because it might bring power and happiness to her in the
distant hereafter.
When Mrs. Lander entered this room a dreary chill fell upon her.
Everything was so orderly, so clean and cold, that it seemed like
forcing her way into a death chamber. But after one half moment’s pause
she walked in resolutely, sat down in one of the office chairs and
unlocked a principal compartment of the desk. It was full of papers
neatly arranged in packages and labelled with the methodical precision
of an old business man. She took up these packages one by one, and
re-arranged them carefully. Her face was no longer pale, but hot with a
living red. Her eyes, vivid and keen, darted from package to package
with the quick scrutiny of a lawyer.
Nothing that she wanted was there, and with her lips compressed till
their sensual fullness almost disappeared, she closed the desk and
locked it with a sharp wrench of disappointment. Then her eyes fell on
the iron door which enclosed the safe, and her face lighted up. What a
fool she had been to waste so much precious time at the desk when the
most important papers must be in the safe, which up to that moment she
had overlooked. In the palm of her left hand she held a key, unlike the
others, but whose secret she understood. She paused a moment with her
hand on the closet door—made a rapid calculation and applied the flat
key. Then the heavy door swung open, and this was followed by an eager
and quick rustling of paper. Directly she came forth from the iron
closet with a folded paper in her hand. Her face was flushed scarlet,
her eyes fairly scintillated with triumph. She unfolded the large sheet
and devoured its contents eagerly.
“As I thought—as I knew,” she said, aloud, pressing down the paper on
the desk with both her hands. “To Virginia. After her, if she dies
childless, Cora—then, then me—me—me!”
Her voice rang through the room clear and exultant; she stooped her face
and kissed the paper passionately, as if it had been a living soul. Then
she fell to perusing it again, and a dead white blank settled on her
face.
“Oh, this is too much—too much—too much! It hurls me down a precipice—I
can grasp at nothing. This sick faintness—no, no, I must shake it off,
or they will come and find me here and it thus.”
The woman thought herself wholly alone, and her passion was so great
that she spoke aloud with rash vehemence. At last she grew quiet and
leaned over the desk, pressing it hard with both elbows, while her white
face pored over the paper with the blank dreariness of despair.
“Great Heavens, what am I to do—what can I do?” she muttered at last,
starting from the chair. “All this so near, so certain to pass from me.
It is hard—it is terribly cruel!”
She paced the floor with quick, impetuous steps, then new thoughts crept
over her, from which she shrunk shivering at first, as if they had been
vipers. Then her movements became slow and measured, her face hardened
to a more deadly white, and taking up the paper, she folded it
carefully, and withdrawing it when half way to her pocket, placed it in
her bosom.
A little time after this, John, who had been baffled in his attempt to
watch all these proceedings, met Mrs. Lander in the upper hall moving
toward her own suite of rooms. She stopped and spoke to him with the
grave sweetness of a person who had striven to resign herself to
inevitable bereavement.
“I could not examine anything in that room,” she said. “The effort was
too much. Where is David? To-morrow he must go to the city and summon
Mr. Lander’s man of business, who knows something of the law, I think.”
“David has gone now,” said John, bluntly. “I dare say Mr. Stone will
reach here before night.”
The woman started and drew a sharp breath, but the keys in her hand gave
an assurance of power, and she merely said:
“Indeed, I am glad of it. Where does Mr. Stone live in the city? I mean,
where is his place of business?”
John gave the required information. She thanked him with an air of
sorrowful abstraction, and turned into a little sitting-room that opened
alike from the hall and her bed-chamber.
CHAPTER VI.
EUNICE HURD.
In this pretty room Mrs. Lander found a woman who had for years acted
partly as her maid, partly as a general superintendent of the household.
This person was some years older than herself, with plenty of gray in
her red hair, and a greenish tinge in her eyes, which had all the
watchfulness of a cat’s without the slumbrous softness peculiar to that
animal.
The woman had no sign of grief on her hard face, but turned upon her
mistress with the sharp vigilance of a fox.
“Is it true?” she said. “All sunk or buried—is it true?”
“Yes, Eunice, it is true,” was the faint answer.
“Dreadful death! No wonder you look white,” said the woman with curt
sympathy. “What’ll become of us, I should like to know?”
“Eunice.”
“Well, I listen.”
“Put on your bonnet and shawl, then walk to the telegraph station just
as fast as you can.”
“What about, Eliza Landers? I ain’t used to being sent on errands, and
won’t agree to it, nohow.”
“It must be done; I can trust no one else just now. Got your things. It
is only a message that I must send to New York.”
The woman arose and went out. Mrs. Landers sat down to her writing table
and wrote this message for Eben Stone:
“Get me all the facts of this terrible disaster. Learn everything, and
come to me at once. A messenger has gone to you, but in my grief I gave
him no instructions. If it is true, be here to-morrow at the latest. I
can do nothing without you.”
“Take this,” she said, when Eunice returned, “and tell them to send it
at once.”
Eunice took the paper and went out, reading it as she walked.
“Make out that word for me—she writes like spider tracks—what is it?”
she said, addressing John, whom she met on the stairs.
John read the message, and went away heartily ashamed of his suspicions.
Eunice threw a glance at him over her shoulder and proceeded on her
errand smiling grimly. That woman understood her mistress thoroughly,
and served her well.
“This will give me time, which is everything,” reflected the widow as
she saw Eunice crossing the lawn with her quick, springy step. “He
cannot go about town, gather up facts and reach this place before
to-morrow. That secures twenty-four hours. If I could but force myself
into composure now. This tremor is what men call nervousness, I suppose.
How it shakes one! But an iron will should make iron nerves. I cannot
afford to be weak; but when I think of my girl—my bright, proud girl,
how I long to lie down and moan the pain out of my heart.”
She looked out of the window, pausing there in her restless walk, and
saw Eunice coming up from the station with the straw bonnet pushed back
on her head and walking forward with great, rapid strides. How coarse
and vulgar she looked with the velvet grass and the glow of richly
grouped flowers all around her. It was the wonder of Mrs. Lander’s
friends that she had kept this woman about her person so long. Without
taste in dress or kindness as a servant, even, she had for years and
years managed to make herself of consequence to this luxurious woman in
a way that no one could understand.
While Mrs. Lander stood by the window, Eunice came into the room,
treading down the moss-like pile of the carpet with her heavy shoes. The
widow was singularly fastidious about these things, but she never
rebuked Eunice, who just then flung off her shawl with a jerk that swept
a Parian vase, all frosted over with snow-flowers, from a console close
by, and dashed it into fragments.
“That comes of crowding up everything with trash that’s of no more use
than moonshine,” she snarled, casting vicious glances at her mistress.
“I wish you’d call somebody to sweep up the splinters—I’m out of breath,
and won’t.”
Mrs. Lander stooped down and began to gather up the fragments herself.
If she intended a rebuke by this action, it was a failure, for the woman
shot one of the largest fragments toward her mistress with the toe of
her shoe while untying her bonnet.
“As well you as I,” she muttered, trampling another fragment to white
powder in the carpet. “I sent your message, and all the house knows that
I’ve done it—a thing that you’d never have thought of with all your
brains.”
“That was well. I am glad of it,” Mrs. Lander answered, apparently
unconscious of her servant’s insolence.
“You want something else of me, I suppose, by the meek way you take
things,” continued the maid. “What is it?”
“Eunice!”
“Well, what is it, I say agin?”
“You have not practised writing much lately, I suppose?”
“Not a bit—who accuses me of it?”
“But you have not forgotten how, entirely, have you?”
“That depends on how much on it is to be done.”
“You can write your name, I dare say.”
“Which name?” questioned Eunice.
“The name you are known by here,” answered Mrs. Lander.
“Never signed it more than twice in my life—felt like a thief—if the old
folks had been alive wouldn’t a done it. But, after all, a woman must
earn her bread and butter in some way, now what was that you wanted. Now
come to the mark—what is it you’re driving at?”
“Eunice, you have always been faithful to me.”
“Of course I have—why not?”
“But the secrets we have had together were nothing compared to this.”
“Well, out with it. Don’t beat this bird around the bush—it’s of no
use.”
Mrs. Lander took the will from her bosom and held it open before her
maid.
“You can read writing, I know. Try and understand that,” she said, in a
hoarse whisper.
Eunice read the paper from beginning to end twice over with the
carefulness of a lawyer. Then she dropped the hand which held it to her
side and looked into the white face of her mistress, which was half
averted.
“Well, I understand it.”
“You are no coward, Eunice.”
“No; but here are three of these catecornered bits of paper. Who does
the other belong to? A good deal depends on that.”
“Your brother—is he about the stables now?”
“I reckon so, his supply of whisky has been kept up regular as you
ordered.”
“But is he sober?”
“He’s always sober when his drink comes regular. I’ve told you so fifty
times.”
“Eunice, can we trust him?”
“I can, and that’s enough.”
“I will speak to him.”
“That’s what you haven’t done these three months, and Josh feels it
awfully, I can tell you.”
“Is it so long? But he never comes near the house.”
“Because his business is in the stables.”
“Well, bring him here this evening after the rest are in bed.”
“No I won’t; he stomps like a horse, and they’d hear him stombling up
the marble stairs. Go into his room yourself. It’s over the
carriage-house; he sleeps there alone. You walk like a cat, and I’ll try
the pussy-dodge for once in a pair of your quilted silk slippers. My
feet are small as yours, if I have got sandy hair and high shoulders.”
Mrs. Lander mused deeply for a minute, during which she took the paper
from Eunice and folded it again, then she said, with a strange oblivion
of her servant’s rude speech:
“Perhaps you are right, Eunice; Joshua so seldom comes to the house,
that it might cause remark; but you must see him first.”
“Of course I must.”
“I will never forget this act of devotion,” said the lady, with feeling.
“I don’t mean that you shall,” was the curt rejoinder. “But I want to
know one thing before we go a single step further. Is there such a thing
as a genuine goose-quill pen on these premises. I wouldn’t use one of
them steel or gold things to save—no, I don’t think I’d do it to save
myself from getting married, or you from being just as poor as I am,
lady as you are. And as for Josh—”
“There is not a pen of the kind in the house, Eunice, I am sure.”
“Then we may as well shut up shop. If there was a goose on the premises,
now, I’d soon manufacture a pen worth while. Goodness, now I’ve just
thought of it. There’s my white fan, that I’ve had ever since you got—”
“Eunice!”
“True as the bible. Well, as I was saying about the fan—it’s got enough
quills in it for a dozen pens; so that hash is settled. Just hunt up
that little gimcrack knife with the gold handle, that you keep in what
you call the dressing-case, and sharpen it up well before I come back.”
Mrs. Lander opened her dressing-case and let out a bright glitter of
gold from its scent bottles and pomade boxes, while she took out a
little knife and began to sharpen it, obedient as a child to the curt
directions of her own servant. Her hand trembled a little in the
operation, for she was a woman and a mother, after all—terribly
bereaved, and, though intensely selfish, not altogether without natural
feeling. Eunice came back directly with an old fan, which had once been
white, in her hands. This she tore apart with something that sounded
almost like a sigh.
“He gave me this the day you bought him off with a hundred dollar bill
and sent him arter that other girl. I’ve kept it nigh upon twenty-five
years, and now it’s got to be torn up for you agin. It had a pink ribbon
in it once, but that consarned young-un of yours tore it out for a
doll’s sash—the little—”
“Oh, Eunice, Eunice!—Don’t, don’t!—She is dead, she is dead!” cried the
mother, with a sharp outburst of anguish.
“So she is,” answered Eunice, pausing in her work of destruction on the
fan. “I’d forgotten that. Well, don’t shiver and shake so. I didn’t mean
it. Here now, try and see if you can make a pen worth while, and do stop
taking on—it fidgets me like anything.”
The quill which Eunice held out was a forlorn looking thing, pierced
with a wire which had left its rust behind and moth-eaten in its
plumage, but the heart of that strange creature yearned after it with
coarse tenderness, for it had been a keepsake from the sole lover of her
long barren life—the only possession she had connected with a sentiment.
When the pretty knife in Mrs. Lander’s hand rasped its way through the
quill, the pang of regret which rose in that hard bosom ended in a
growl, half rage, half pain.
“Give it to me,” she said, “you cut like a butcher. That’s no way to
make a pen.”
Eunice snatched the quill and knife—crowded herself up close to a window
with her back to her mistress, and fashioned a rude pen, which was
pointed on her thumbnail.
“There,” she said, locking both pen and knife in the dressing-case,
“that job’s done. Now I’ll go and find Josh. But do chirk up a little,
that tallowy face fairly makes me sick. Take something, now do.”
She searched among the crystal toilet bottles in the next room for some
restorative, for her mistress was faint and exhausted, but found nothing
to satisfy her, and went to her own room for a huge bottle of camphor,
which was the only stimulant she had faith in. When she returned Mrs.
Lander lay back in her chair, with closed eyes, lips perfectly bloodless
and quivering with distress.
“This won’t do—so just come out of it,” cried Eunice, in a rage. “I
scorn and despise a person who gives up half way. There, there, if that
don’t bring you right up to the mark, nothing on earth will.”
Eunice dashed a quantity of camphor into the hollow of her palm as she
spoke and held it under Mrs. Lander’s nose, spite of the faint struggles
made against it.
“Fainting away—I never saw you mean enough for that before. What has
come over you?—getting childish in your old age?”
“Oh, Eunice, don’t reproach me. Just that moment I realized so keenly
that she was dead, and I all alone in the world,” said the poor mother.
“All alone; ain’t I with you?”
A broken sigh was all the answer Eunice got for this consolatory
suggestion.
“There, thank you, I am better now, Eunice. Take the bottle away, it
strangles me.”
“Of course, but it has brought you to just as I expected. Now lie down
while I go and have a talk with Josh. If I find you in that way when I
come back, don’t ask me to help you out, for I won’t.”
CHAPTER VII.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
Eunice found her brother Joshua in his room over the carriage-house,
busy with a harness which he was putting in order. This man was a heavy,
shambling fellow, younger by ten years than Eunice, and every way unlike
her in person, save that he had the same sandy complexion. His limbs
were short and stout, his countenance sullen, and his movements
sluggish. He looked up as Eunice entered and nodded his head, but fell
to work again without speaking.
“Joshua,” said Eunice, “you have heard of what has happened, I dare
say.”
“Yes, the coachman was telling me of it. But it won’t hurt us, will it?
The place is left all the same.”
“But it’s ten chances to one if _she_ stays in it,” said Eunice.
“Ha! what’s that? If _she_ goes, why what’s to become of us?”
“That’s what I come to talk about, Joshua.”
“Josh-u-a! Well, now, what has come over you to be so polite? Want
something, I know, but what?”
“She wants something of you, brother.”
“Brother! How loving we are all at once.”
“Come this way, Josh, if you like that better; see that no one is about,
first. There, sit down close by me on these carriage rugs, and speak
low.”
Joshua sat down on the pile of rugs where Eunice had placed herself and
prepared to listen, with his legs stretched out and the soles of his
coarse shoes turned toward the door.
For the first time almost in her life Eunice spoke low and in cautious
words. It was a long time before she could make herself thoroughly
understood, and after the sense of her conversation had settled on that
sluggish mind moments of sullen hesitation followed, which aggravated
the hot temper of the woman almost beyond endurance.
“Is it sartin that the gal is dead?” he muttered at last.
“Certain. No woman was saved. Some got into the boats, but they were all
swamped.”
“And _she_ will be turned out doors.”
“Yes, a brother’s wife isn’t a natural heir, you know.”
“I don’t know nothing about it—but it’ll sarve her right—hang her, what
kind of feeling has she got, cutting down a feller’s licker and stinting
off his wages. That wasn’t according to promise; darn her, she needn’t
come to me.”
“But you and I will have to go, or work like dogs for what we get. You
don’t like hard work more than I do, Josh; but we shall get enough of it
if she’s driven out.”
Joshua fell into thought here, and, dropping his chin on his chest,
pondered over this rather unpleasant aspect of his affairs.
“Will she stop interfering with my drink?” he said at last.
“Yes, I promise that.”
“And give me a decent bed. I’m tired of sleeping on horse blankets.”
“I will send a mattress out this very day, with plenty of bedding and a
carpet, if you want one.”
“Which I don’t—wasn’t brought up on one; but the old folks did somehow
or other make out to give us beds to sleep on.”
“But you shall have everything. Would you rather be coachman or wait in
the house?”
“Neither one nor t’other; shouldn’t I make a figger with them fancy
coats on, stuck up on a high seat like—oh, git out with yer nonsense! As
for the house, you’d a been a tarnal sight wiser if you’d kept out of
that. Why, there ain’t no more gentility in one of us than you’d find in
a bush fence. It’s like putting young crows in a brown thrasher’s nest.
No, no, I’ll stay where I am, and potter about just as I’ve a mind to.
She needn’t talk about permotion to me. It’s too late, I’m Josh
Warner—beg your pardon, Josh Hurd—and nothing else can be made of me.
She must let me alone, give a little extra chink when I want it, and
never put no more of her restrictions on the licker.”
“She will promise all you want of her own accord, Joshua, and I will see
that you get all that she promises,” was the conciliatory reply.
“Let her come then,” was the sullen answer. “But send out a lamp of some
kind; she ain’t used to seeing candles stuck in a blacking bottle, and
might turn up her nose. Let her come, Eunice, and I’ll make my own
bargain—consarn her!”
Joshua scrambled to his feet with this concluding speech, and fell to
work on the harness. Eunice watched him for a moment in grim
displeasure, but gathered herself up and went away not altogether
satisfied, for she saw that Joshua understood the situation and was
disposed to make the most of it. Up to this time both she and her
mistress had underrated his stupid cunning.
When Eunice returned to the house, she found her mistress prostrate on
the bed with the curtains gathered so close that the vague outlines of
her form and a wild glitter of the eyes were all that could be seen
through them. She lay like a wounded animal in its lair racked with
anguish but vigilant for her own safety. The closing of a door or a
heavy footstep threw her into a trembling fit, but her thoughts were
keenly at work all the time.
Eunice had no mercy on a state of feelings of which she was and ever
would be profoundly ignorant. So she swept the volumes of lace aside and
looked down upon the suffering woman with harsh contempt.
“Well, sob away; I suppose you will cry it out sooner or later,” she
said. “I’ve seen Josh; he’s growly, as I expected, but I talked him
over, and if you promise fair he’ll be on hand.”
“What time is it now, Eunice?” asked the suffering lady.
“Nigh upon two o’clock, I reckon.”
“Oh, Eunice, I should so like to be still a little while!”
“Well, why don’t you? There is nothing to be done afore dark, when
everybody is abed. Stay alone and cry it out, if you want to, I shan’t
interfere.”
“Thank you Eunice,” said the mistress, meekly. “There is such a struggle
here, and here, that it kills me.”
The wretched woman laid a hand on her heart, then touched her forehead,
sighing heavily as she spoke.
“Take one at a time, that’s my advice; give up the head and tussle it
out with that tormenting thing you call a heart. Thank goodness, I never
felt nothing there worth crying over. But to-night, when the time comes,
just shut down the water-gates and give that head of yourn a chance.
Grief is grief but business is business; mind that!”
Eunice dropped her arms, and the curtains settled over her mistress with
the pliant fall of new snow. Seized by a vague instinct of humanity, she
closed the blinds and filled the room with merciful twilight, then stole
out on tiptoe with a caution that made her shoes creak dismally, and
sent a shudder from the bed.
Hour after hour Mrs. Lander lay upon her bed praying for a moment’s
sleep, which would not come. Her first passion of tears had, as Eunice
predicted, set her mind free, and it came out of her great burst of
grief hard and sharp as steel. Shall I tell you how this woman reasoned
there in her solitude? Do not think it unnatural, for such things may
exist in human nature—up from her worldly heart came consolation in this
form, even when she was weeping for her lost daughter:
“Had she lived, I must have been dependent still—worse off than ever,
for even as a child she was haughty and selfish—and he was generous as
the sun. But—but she _was_ my daughter, my only child—my hope, my
beautiful, beautiful darling!”
Here came a great flood of anguish, which proved the natural motherhood
of the woman, but directly her keen selfishness broke through.
“Mistress of all this—unrestricted and young enough to think of a
future—no, no, I could not give it up. What do these half-cousins, to
whom the law awards it, know of wealth and its uses? Besides he wished
it. The will is every word in his own handwriting; never was a man’s
desires made more positive. Then, I shall do so much good with the
money. Let it pass from me, and the poor would be great sufferers. But
above all, he wished it. He gave it to me.”
Thus the woman reasoned in her tears and wept in her reasoning. She
would doubtless have given up the property could that sacrifice have
brought his child to life. But with the certainty of her death, the
possession of wealth was a consolation the sweetness of which she began
to taste keenly even at this early moment.
Toward night Eunice came into the chamber with a cup of strong tea and
some toast, of which Mrs. Lander partook. After this she became restless
and walked her room to and fro, watching the crescent of a new moon
which just smiled on the lovely landscape and died out pleasantly, like
the dimples on an infant’s face.
At last the door opened and Eunice threw a black shawl into the room.
“Cover up that white dress from top to toe,” she said. “They are all
hived up for the night. Come along.”
There was no sound upon the stairs—scarcely the rustle of a dress, to
tell when those women went out or came in. Two waving shadows flitted
across the grounds, followed by the sound of a deeply-drawn breath, as
the stable door opened and closed with noiseless caution. Then a rough
head appeared at the window a moment, and the light seemed to go out.
Some thick, dark substance had been drawn over the glass.
All this precaution seemed useless. No one was watching. The grounds lay
shadowy and quiet in the calm night. The slow sweep of the river rose
above the sounds of wakeful insects that chirped their tiny music in the
leaves. All at once the roar and rush of an engine thundering along the
road startled the two women, who had left the stable and were creeping
through the shrubbery on their way back to the house. The sound
frightened them, neither could have told why, and they ran forward
breathlessly. The front door being farthest from the household, stood
open, but there was a long stretch of the marble pavement which they
were compelled to pass in reaching it. Before leaving the shrubbery,
they paused to listen to the tread of feet coming up a flight of steps
cut along the face of a stone precipice which lifted the lawn above the
river. Two men were evidently coming up from the railroad, which wound
along the foot of this precipice, and a few moments would bring them in
sight of the house.
“It is David and that man,” whispered Mrs. Lander. “They will find the
door open. What shall we do?”
“Run for dear life,” answered Eunice, and gathering up her skirts, she
made a vigorous rush for the portico.
Mrs. Lander followed close, keeping inside of the pillars, and scarcely
allowing her feet to touch the marble pavement.
“There they come,” whispered Eunice, pausing for one instant to
reconnoitre. “I can see their heads—now for it!”
The next instant both the women stood in the entrance hall, clinging
together and panting for breath. Eunice shook off her mistress, closed
the door with noiseless slowness, drew a bolt and turned the key in its
lock.
“Now get rid of that and go to your room. It’s natural that I should be
up,” she whispered. “I give you ten minutes to get all right. Hark!”
The two men were outside the portico, walking across the terrace. Eunice
took off her blanket shawl, and groping her way to the rack at the lower
end of the hall, hung it up with other out-door garments, and stood in
the dark, waiting.
The sharp ring of a bell sounded through the stillness of the house.
Another and another peal. Then Eunice came forward and called out to
know who was there.
“It is I—David and Mr. Stone,” was the reply.
Eunice struck a match, lighted the hall lamp, and then deliberately
opened the door.
“It is fortunate I was up,” she said. “The Madam has been taking on so,
I was afraid to go to sleep. Have you any news, sir?”
“Nothing more than the papers give,” answered the lawyer. “Poor lady, it
must be a dreadful blow for her.”
“Awful,” answered Eunice. “She hasn’t lifted head from the pillow since
morning.”
The faint sound of footsteps and the trail of a dress came from above
just as Eunice uttered these words. She caught a quick breath and went
on:
“Dear me, that must be her! She’s heard the door bell, and guesses that
it’s you. It’s enough to break one’s heart to go up and tell her there’s
nothing to hope for; but it must be done.”
“Say that I will see her in the morning,” said the lawyer, placing his
hat on the hall stand.
“I’ll go to her at once and have the worst over, or she’ll be wandering
through the house all night. David, you take Mr. Stone to his room.”
With this Eunice went up stairs abruptly, leaving the two men to take
care of themselves.
CHAPTER VIII.
FINDING THE WILL.
There was a heavy rain falling the next morning, and the whole house
took a dreary aspect, spite of the fragrance that came up from the
flowers with every light gush of wind, and the cheerful adornments of
the breakfast-room, which overlooked one of the loveliest pictures that
domain could produce. At another time there might have been a pleasant
variety in this stormy day, for the shifting clouds were beautiful, and
gleams of sunshine now and then struggled through the trees, bathing
them with light for an instant, then throwing them back into the mingled
fog and glitter of a fresh burst of rain.
One grand old willow stood out on the lawn just before the bay window,
with its great boughs dripping down to the grass a mighty fountain of
leaves, and the window itself was curtained with crimson, flowering
honeysuckles, threaded about the lower sash with white jessamines, over
which ten thousand rain-drops trembled and fell away, dashing the broad
window-panes with little rivulets of brightness. The room itself was
both elegant and comfortable. Fruit and flower paintings in harmony with
the scene without hung from the walls. The table itself was a picture,
with its delicate china, its cut crystal and frosted silver. Yet the
lawyer who sat there alone took no heed of these things. His mind was on
the ocean with that burning ship, for Mr. Lander had been his friend,
and he had regarded that bright-haired child, the daughter, with no
common affection.
The only picture in the room was a portrait of this girl, taken when she
was perhaps ten years old. It was larger and less childish than the
picture which hung in Mr. Lander’s office, but there was no mistaking
the identity. She sat with her arms folded on a desk, looking wearily at
an open book, which contained, no doubt, some hard lesson; other volumes
lay scattered on the desk, which added to her disquiet; tears were
brimming into her eyes, and you could almost fancy the lips beginning to
quiver.
Stone looked at this picture now and then as he made a pretence at
eating breakfast. The sight of it saddened him to the heart, and more
than once he rested his forehead on one hand, sighing heavily as if the
child had been his own. He sat in this position when a low, female voice
disturbed him. Mrs. Lander drew towards the table and took a seat, not
as if she intended to partake of the breakfast, but with the dreary air
of one who forces herself to perform a painful duty.
Mr. Stone lifted his massive forehead from the hand which supported it
and turned his eyes kindly upon her. She was very pale, and her face
presented the washed-out appearance of a woman who had cried all night.
“You were looking at her picture,” she said. “It is like her, poor
child. You will find one in every room that her father occupied much; he
doted on her.”
“She was a fine child,” said the lawyer, gently. “They tell me that you
also have lost a daughter.”
“My only child,” answered the mother.
“And who are the nearest relatives?”
“The children of Mr. Lander’s cousin, who died long ago. They are
somewhere out West.”
“Farmers?”
“I believe so.”
“This will be a fine property for them to fall into—a very fine
property,” said the lawyer, gradually gliding into the spirit of his
profession.
“Yes,” answered the widow, faintly.
“Have you any knowledge of a will, Mrs. Lander?”
“I—I—have heard of one, or that he was about to make one before he went
over the seas after the girls; but he might not have done it. There
seemed to be no occasion. He was not a very old man, and worshipped his
daughter, whose health was perfect. I thought of this yesterday, and
went into his study to look for something of the kind, but my heart gave
way; I could not force myself to touch his papers, and sent for you. But
it is doubtful—very doubtful if anything is found.”
“We will have a search. You eat nothing, madam.”
“I cannot taste a morsel.”
“And I have got over what little appetite this news has left to me; so
we will go to my poor friend’s room at once.”
“No, no, I would rather not. The very sight of his chair and desk made
me faint when I went in yesterday. Here are the keys; this, which
belongs to the safe, has some mysterious combination which no one but
David comprehends. But he will go with you—a more trusty creature never
lived.”
“I can believe that,” said the lawyer. “He seems a smart, honest fellow
enough. Let him show me the room.”
Stone had arisen by this time and rang the bell. The sadness which hung
around him when alone had vanished entirely. He took out his watch like
a man impatient to proceed to business. Mrs. Lander kept her seat by the
table and said nothing. She did not seem to know when David came in and
the lawyer followed him from the room. Eunice entered the breakfast-room
soon after, and began to replace some silver on the sideboard, casting
sharp glances at her mistress as she passed to and fro, but there was no
talking between them. Eunice trod softly, and her mistress seemed to
listen with a strain of the senses.
At last a slow, heavy tread came down the stairs, and Mr. Stone entered
the breakfast-room.
“Madam,” he said, with a distinctness that made the widow start in her
chair, “had Mr. Lander, among the people about him, any such persons as
Eunice and Joshua Hurd?”
“One of them names belongs to me, I calculate,” said Eunice marching up
to the table like a grenadier.
“To you, eh? Well, where is the other witness?”
“The other what?”
“This Joshua Hurd?”
“Where should he be but somewhere about the stables? Show me where a
hoss is, and I’ll show you Josh Hurd. Why the critter’s my own brother.
But what do you want of him, if I may be so bold?”
“Did he and you sign a paper for Mr. Lander just before he went away?”
“Jest afore he went away. Well I reckon it must a been nigh on to a week
or ten days afore.”
“But you did sign one?”
“In course we did. I happened to be going by his office door and he
called me in—”
“Well?”
“He was a writing fast, and kept me till he got through. I looked on
till I got a tired out. Then he signed his name to the paper, and told
me to write mine too.”
“And you did?”
“Of course I did; then he told me to call John or some one of the
servants, but John was out and I ran across to the stables for Joshua.”
“Did you know what this paper was?”
“Yes; Mr. Lander told me that he was willing away his property.”
The lawyer was not quite satisfied, clear and simple as all this
appeared. One of those inexplicable feelings that are beyond all reason
had seized upon him, and unconsciously he fell into a spirit of sharp
cross examination.
“Can you find this man, Joshua Hurd? I would like to speak with him,” he
said.
“In less than no time. He’s always on hand about the stables,” answered
the woman, and she marched off with an air of relief.
Mrs. Lander had not spoken during this examination, but her eyes were
bent anxiously on the lawyer, and he could see that some hard strain of
the nerves was harassing her. This was scarcely more than natural,
considering her position in the family. Still the lawyer watched her
with vague doubts, which he could not himself have accounted for.
“Is it true? Has a will been found?” she asked, after a pause which
seemed unnaturally long. Her voice was low and hoarse, her eyes
downcast, she did not lift them fully to his once while she was
speaking.
“Yes, a will has been found in Mr. Lander’s safe, witnessed by the woman
and a man who is her brother.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the widow, and she fell into silence, leaning her elbow
upon the table and shrouding her face with one hand. She evinced no
curiosity to know how the property had been left. Was it because she had
no hopes in her own behalf or from the reticence of fore-knowledge?
The lawyer asked himself this question as he gazed at her from under his
heavy eyebrows. The woman seemed conscious of his scrutiny, and moved in
her seat; then her hand dropped and she lifted her eyes clearly to his.
“To whom does the will relate? Where does the property go?” she asked.
He did not answer her; for that moment Eunice came in, followed by her
brother, who seemed restless and uneasy as the lawyer turned upon him.
First he buried a huge hand in his pantaloons pocket, then drew it out
with a jerk and took off his cap in hot haste, struck with a sudden
remembrance of some early maternal lesson on the subject.
He grew red and sallow under the keen eyes bent upon him beneath Lawyer
Stone’s heavy brows. Indeed, in all respects, this man, Joshua Hurd, was
a remarkably uncouth specimen of a down East ignoramus—an animal
possessed of appetites and plenty of that low cunning which is sometimes
more than a match for absolute wisdom. To use his own term, endorsed by
the more acute sister, Joshua knew as well as another man “on which side
his bread was buttered, stupid as he seemed.”
“Come here, my good man, into Mr. Lander’s office, I want a little talk
with you,” said the lawyer.
Joshua, who had been standing with one foot planted hard on a cluster of
flowers glowing in the carpet, and the other raised upon the square toe
of his shoe, like that of a tired horse, settled down into a walking
condition and shambled out of the room.
“Sit down, Mr. Hurd, sit down,” said the suave lawyer, pointing to a
rotary chair near the desk; “I want a little talk with you about the
paper you signed for Mr. Lander. When was it? I forgot the exact time.”
“It was jest afore the Gov’ner went away from home last time,” answered
Joshua, with the dogged air of a stupid schoolboy.
“But when was that?”
“Last spring.”
“Do you remember the date?”
“No.”
“Was it morning or evening?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Which signed the paper first, you or your sister?”
“Eunice.”
“Was Mrs. Lander present?”
“No!”
“Had Mr. Lander signed it when you came in?”
“Unsartin.”
“Did Mr. Lander say anything?”
“Said it was his last testament.”
“Was that exactly what he said?”
“Jest that. I looked round for the book, but there wasn’t none there,
nor Bible neither; but he said it was a testament, consarned if he
didn’t.”
“Did you tell any one of this?”
“No; ’twasn’t none of my business what the old chap wrote about his
testaments.”
The lawyer was puzzled. It certainly was strange that Mr. Lander, with
two intelligent and tolerably educated retainers in the house, should
have selected this boor for a witness to his will. But there was nothing
to be gathered from the curt answers that had followed his
investigations. So far, the will seemed legal in all its forms, and Mrs.
Lander was, by its provisions, sole legatee of all her brother-in-law’s
wealth.
Mr. Stone went into the breakfast-room again and found this lady gazing
fixedly on the carpet at her feet, so lost in thought that she sprang up
and uttered a little scream when the lawyer addressed her.
“Madam, the will we have found is entirely in your favor.”
There was no surprise in her face; no outburst of satisfaction. Her eyes
were turned wildly on the lawyer, her lips moved, but she did not speak.
“The news overcomes you, madam!”
“Yes, yes—I—I am a little faint—thank you, I am only a little.”
The woman gasped for breath and pressed one hand on her bosom. She did,
indeed, seem ready to faint.
Eunice Hurd came into the room like a grenadier and swept off with the
widow, almost carrying her.
“She’s tired out, and talking ain’t good for her.”
Eunice flung the words over her shoulder, looking back upon Lawyer Stone
with a defiant air which he could not understand.
The lawyer sat down dissatisfied, and taking out the will, read it over
again. It was certainly in his friend’s handwriting, and he was made
joint executor with Mrs. Lander. Why was it that a sense of mystery and
wrong-doing clung to him?
CHAPTER IX.
THE BILL OF EXCHANGE.
A young man entered an eminent banking house in the lower part of the
city, with the air of a stranger, and presented a bill of exchange so
large in amount as to occasion some surprise, for he drew the heavier
portion at once in gold and carried it off in a leathern satchel which
he carried in his hand. The strain upon his arm denoted no ordinary
amount of the precious metal; though he carried it with assumed ease,
the blood rose to his pale face with the exertion. This circumstance,
and something in the appearance of the man, drew the general attention
upon him as he passed out of the bank. There was scarcely a clerk in the
room who did not follow this stranger with his eyes and comment upon his
elegance of manner and person. His air and dress were foreign, his beard
black and bright as the plumage of a raven, was trimmed with great
neatness, and magnificent black eyes completed the manly beauty of a
face which no one could have looked upon without admiration.
“There goes a fellow that ought to be a lord, from the cut of his
figure,” said one.
“Or a government speculator, by the pile of gold he carries away,”
answered another. “Only he looks too modest and walks too quietly for
that.”
“Some English nobleman going out to hunt on the Plains, travelling
_incog._, no doubt—that sort of thing is getting very fashionable of
late,” observed a third. “Stylish fellow, anyway.”
More than one person who met this man in the street made the same
observation. His quiet, yet lofty carriage, joined to a style of beauty
which was both statuesque and manly, singled him out from the crowd.
Both men and women turned to look at him as he passed, wondering vaguely
about him.
The stranger walked on, apparently unconscious of the general regard,
but his observation was keen, notwithstanding this seeming indifference,
and a smile curled the lips beneath the shadow of his black beard as he
entered one of the up-town hotels and proceeded to a suite of rooms
taken that morning an hour after his arrival in the steamer from Europe.
When he entered the Fifth Avenue hotel, the stranger had carried a
leathern box in his hand, such as statesmen and persons travelling on
business sometimes use for convenience when papers are to be transported
from place to place. This box stood on a console in the parlor when he
entered that room on his return from the banker’s. He drew an easy chair
toward the console, sat down in it and unlocked the box, in which were
some papers and small packages, which might or might not contain
valuables.
He pressed these papers down with his hands, then unlocked the satchel
and poured a steady stream of gold into the box till it was even full,
and the satchel scarcely lightened of one-third its contents. Then he
dropped a handful or two of the coin into his pockets, locked the
satchel, and flung it with a heave and a crash on the top of a wardrobe,
which stood in the bed-chamber opening out of the room where he sat. A
massive cornice of carved rosewood formed a hollow which would have
concealed a larger package, and in which this sunk completely out of
sight.
After the exertion of hiding away his gold, the man sat down, brushed
some particles of dust from his coat and took a package of letters from
his breast pocket. These he examined with great care, and seemed to be
taxing his memory severely regarding the writers, for he muttered more
than once, “Well, I never saw this man,” or, “I wonder how the fellow
looks.”
The letters were directed to some of the first statesmen and merchants
in the country. One, which bore the name of Lander, he singled out and
examined carefully.
“They never met, I feel quite sure they never met,” he muttered,
smoothing his jetty beard with one hand as he read. “I wonder how near
the old man lives. But I forget, the luggage will soon he here, and I
have made no preparation.”
Seymour, for by that name the man registered himself, arose suddenly,
took his hat and went out. He was a little bewildered now, and seemed to
be looking for some place which he was reluctant to ask for in words. A
moment he paused before the windows at Tiffany’s, and seemed tempted to
go in, but turned away, crossed the street and stopped at Morley’s,
where he lounged away half an hour examining specimens of antique
furniture with the air of a connoisseur.
A dressing-case, richly appointed, and a desk of ebony, mounted with
silver, seemed to strike his fancy. These he put aside for purchase,
inquiring first if the cases that belonged to them could be found, if
the mountings could be brightened and the whole put in order at once.
The man paid for these articles in gold, and the only remarkable thing
about his purchase was that he ordered both desk and dressing-case to be
carried to an express, from which they would be delivered at the hotel.
The stranger left his name in full; Horace Seymour, and gave the number
of his rooms.
The next remarkable step that this man took was to wander on and on till
he came to a pawnbroker’s shop with a host of miscellaneous articles
hanging at the window. He went in and inquired for second-hand watches,
something unique. If one could be found with the letters H. S., or even
S., singly upon the case, he would not mind the price; a crest, too,
might enhance the value of the article.
The pawnbroker’s sharp eyes brightened at this. Some imprudent Smith,
called Henry, Horatio, Horace or Hector, perhaps, had left his
unfortunate initials tied up unredeemed, on the back of a fine
hunting-watch, worn just enough to become highly respectable. This
Horace Seymour purchased without demurring at the exorbitant price which
the pawnbroker instantaneously put upon it.
When the watch was transferred to his pocket, he desired to examine any
other curious things in the way of jewelry that might happen to remain
on sale. Directly a case of trinkets was brought forth, out of which
Seymour selected a seal ring whose value even the pawnbroker did not
know, for it was an antique head, exquisitely cut, and almost worth its
weight in diamonds.
Seymour’s eyes brightened slowly as he saw this gem, but he examined
half-a-dozen uninteresting articles before he touched it. Then he
carelessly asked the price, paid it without comment, slipped the ring on
his finger and walked away, leaving the pawnbroker almost in tears
because he had not asked an additional ten per cent. on the articles
that had just left his den.
“If I’d only known how much he would bear,” lamented the man to himself.
“Why the fellow never once attempted to beat me down, and wouldn’t if
I’d asked double. But I always was a coward—a mean coward—afraid to set
a price on my own soul. What’s the good of these ten twenty, thirty gold
eagles, when it might have been twice as much and something to drink
thrown in. Oh, the gentleman has robbed me with his still manner and
thoughtful face. It might have been double! It might have been double!”
Meantime Seymour had walked quietly up Broadway toward his hotel, making
his own combinations. Two express wagons stood in front of the office,
and porters were busy carrying up his trunks, while the dressing-case
and desk were brought in. Everything was in order. His rooms would soon
have a homelike appearance.
When the chandelier was lighted over his head that evening, an ebony
desk, mounted with silver, and filled in all its compartments with
papers, stood open on the table before him, and in the shaded light of
the bed-room beyond was a dressing-case, with all its toilet
paraphernalia laid out ready for use.
Seymour rang the bell and desired that some person should be sent to him
from the office. That personage made his appearance and stood some
minutes at the door, while his guest was busily writing. At last Seymour
looked up.
“Ah, I beg pardon.”
“Step in if you please. Is there a person in this establishment who
would take charge of my things and help me a little about dressing?”
“That is, you want a servant.”
“Not exactly. In this country the best servant that ever lived would be
spoiled in a month. But I should like to have a person generally at my
command.”
“That class of men are not abundant in our cities, sir, but I have a
needy chap now and then hanging about the office; one was there this
morning wanting to do odd jobs.”
“An American?”
“I did not take the trouble to inquire; but he may be there yet. He
seems a bright boy.”
“Send him up, if you please.”
The clerk disappeared.
After a time a knock at the door aroused Seymour again, and a young man,
scarcely more than a lad, came in. He was very thin, rather untidy, but
had a look of quick intelligence that pleased the traveller at once.
With a single glance of his great bright eyes, the lad took in every
object the room contained.
“You sent for me, sir,” he said.
“You? Oh yes; you are the person I desired to be sent up. Well, what can
you do?”
“Almost anything, sir?”
“Do you know the city?”
“I can find the way anywhere,” answered the lad, evasively.
“Have you ever been in service?”
“Never; but I know what a gentleman wants, and can do as much as
another.”
“But I might want something out of the common way.”
“Not knowing exactly what the common way is, that would not trouble me
much.”
“What wages will you want?”
“Whatever you are willing to give.”
“Very well, we will settle that after I have learned something of your
capabilities. But your clothes are not exactly suitable for a
gentleman’s attendant.”
The youth looked down on his coat, which was wrinkled and clouded in its
color.
“They have been in the water,” he said, with a shiver. “No wonder.”
“Have you no others?”
“No, I have nothing else.”
“Here; go out and buy a neat outfit. I suppose the shops are open yet.
It must have been a heavy storm that drenched you so!”
The young man reached forth his hand for the gold which Seymour held
towards him.
“It was a shipwreck—a hard choice between fire or water, sir.”
“Indeed! Some other time you shall tell me about it; but just now I am
anxious to see you in neater trim. Those things smell of sea water.”
“No wonder. But—but, sir, can I spend a little of this money for food?”
“Food! Why, man, you don’t mean to say that you are in such a strait as
that?”
“I am nearly starved.”
Seymour started from his chair and rang the bell violently. The youth
had made a step forward to render this service and came into the full
light. Then, for the first time, Seymour saw how meagre and white his
face was. The wonderful brilliancy of his eyes sprang from protracted
and ravenous craving for food.
“Poor fellow!” said Seymour, “poor fellow! I did not dream of it! Wait a
minute.”
A servant entered, answering the bell promptly.
“Bring up something to eat, and a bottle of wine, at once.”
“What will you order, sir?”
“Order? Why everything; beef steak, birds, chickens, turkeys.”
“Sir!” exclaimed the servant, opening his eyes wide, and stepping back
with great dignity.
“Well, say beef steak and plenty of potatoes. Are you Irish, my good
fellow?”
“Yes, I am Irish,” answered the youth.
“Plenty of potatoes then—boiled, fried, stewed, with anything else that
takes no time in cooking.”
The servant bowed and went out somewhat astonished. Seymour laughed
lightly and turned upon the youth, who met his look with eyes full of
tears.
“Oh, sir, you are too kind,” he said.
“Not a bit, my good fellow; nobody on earth can be too kind, it is not
the fault of human nature. I’m not quite brute enough to see hunger like
that in a fellow creature’s eyes and not try to feed it. But no one
shall say that I’m not hard-hearted for all that, especially if any one
offends me.”
“Shall I go down stairs, sir?” asked the youth, who was shaking with an
eager hope of food. “Will they give it to me in the kitchen?”
“No, here. I want to see you eat. Jove! how I envy you.”
The youth drew back and leaned against the wall, clasping his hands
hard, as if imploring the minutes to pass quickly. At length a sob of
joy broke from his lips. He could hear a jingle of crockery coming up
the stairs.
Seymour started up, removed the desk from his table, and ordered the
waiter to place his tray there, directly under the chandelier. The man
obeyed, and lifted the cover from a noble beef steak, which soon filled
the room with its appetizing flavor.
“That is right. You can go now,” said the young man, pointing to the
door.
The man withdrew.
“Come,” said Seymour, “come along. What’s your name?”
“Brian.”
“Brian—Brian! But I suppose you’ve got another name?”
Seymour spoke with a touch of impatience. The boy lifted those great
bright eyes to his face for one instant, but turned them eagerly toward
the food.
“The other name, I meant—the other name first,” cried Seymour.
“It’s Nolan, Brian Nolan, sir,” answered the lad, with an eager catch of
the breath.
“Nolan,” muttered the young man, “Nolan!”
The boy did not heed him, the pangs of hunger were too keen; he quivered
all over with impatience.
“That’s right, my poor fellow; that’s right, fall to without mercy. Sit
down, sit down and be comfortable.”
Seymour rolled up his own soft Turkish chair to the table and patted its
crimson cushions enticingly.
Truly his good nature must have been genuine when he could so far forget
the niceties of refinement. The lad required no second bidding. His eyes
took fire as they devoured the smoking food. With the craving of a wild
beast, he crept slowly toward the table, evidently striving hard to
control himself.
Seymour stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, watching the poor
fellow with a glow of satisfaction as he devoured the steak. A dish was
yet covered, he stepped forward and removed the lid, revealing a mound
of potatoes, deliciously mealy, cracking the tawny skins in which they
had been boiled.
“Mother of Heaven, this is too much!” cried the youth, dropping both
hands upon his lap. “Oh, sir, I haven’t tasted one since I left home.”
“Go at them, then, they’ll taste so much the better,” cried the young
man, laughing and thrusting a fork into one of the potatoes, which he
held up and examined admiringly. “By Jove! I didn’t think these things
could be such a luxury! It makes me hungry to see you eat them. Here,
give me a knife and a little salt. By the way, stop a minute, my good
fellow; it just strikes me that too much isn’t good for a person in your
condition. The half of that steak is a rather powerful allowance, and
that is the third potato.”
“Let me finish this,” pleaded the lad.
“Couldn’t think of it,” answered the young man, replacing the covers on
the dishes with decision. Then he rang the bell.
The lad, with his hunger but half appeased, dropped the knife and fork,
closed his eyes and fell back in the easy chair, sighing heavily.
“Take the things away,” said Seymour, when the waiter came in, “and tell
them down in the office to find a bed somewhere for this young fellow.
He’ll stay with me for the present.”
The man went out, closing the door behind him. Seymour stood watching
the pale face of the lad with a feeling of singular interest.
“This is what money can do,” he thought. “Cheap too—cheap as dirt, and
yet how much happiness. Why, that one meal was like a fortune to him.
But to be kind, to give real happiness, one _must_ have money.”
While these thoughts passed through the young man’s brain, two great
tears stole through the closed lashes of the Irish lad and rolled slowly
down his cheeks.
“That’s the kind of diamonds I’ll buy with the money, if they’ll only
let me,” continued Seymour, still gazing on the lad. “It isn’t just to
enjoy things myself that I want it, but—but—”
With the gesture of a man who finds his reflections beginning to grow
troublesome, Seymour dropped his hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“Come now, wake up and get to bed, Brian,” he exclaimed, cheerfully. “We
will let the clothes go till morning.”
Brian looked up, and Seymour saw that his great black eyes were full of
tears, while his face quivered all over with grateful emotion.
“Oh, sir, how I thank you—how good you have been to me! What can I do
for you?”
“Go to bed now, and forget the last hour, if you can. It has been a
little irregular as between master and servant, and may put false
notions into your head.”
“No, no, no. You have been kind—so kind, I can remember nothing but
that. God bless you, sir, and prosper you in everything. I’d rather be
your servant than another man’s king.”
The boy attempted to rise, but Seymour pressed a hand on his shoulder,
detaining him.
“So your name is Nolan, and you came from Ireland,” he said.
“Yes, sir; oh yes!”
“What part of Ireland, my fine fellow, what part?”
“On the Blackwater, near Waterford.”
The young man was disturbed; he walked the room once or twice, then bent
over the lad again.
“And your father, what is his name?”
“John, sir; John Nolan.”
“Of Rydehurst?” said Seymour.
The boy looked up quickly.
“Yes, that was the name of his place, when he had one,” answered the
lad.
“And how did he lose it?”
“He sold it, sir.”
“Sold it—sold it! Why? How?”
“I would rather not talk about that,” answered the boy.
“But where is your father now?”
“Dead.”
Seymour sallied back and clenched one hand with a sudden spasm.
“And—and your mother?”
The young man’s voice shook as he asked this question, and he was pale
as marble.
“She is dead too.”
“What!”
This single word was uttered almost with a cry of anguish. The young
man’s head fell upon the back of the easy chair, and he grasped at the
cushions nervously with his hands.
“They are all dead—one after another they went down,” said the boy, in a
plaintive whisper.
“Was it in the shipwreck?”
“The steamer was on fire.”
“And they jumped overboard?”
“All.”
“None saved—not one?”
“I alone—I alone!”
“Go,” said the young man, “go sleep, if you can.”
“Good-night, and thank you again and again. I hope you will never be so
hungry or so lonesome as I was.”
“Good-night—good-night, boy.”
CHAPTER X.
MRS. LANDER ENTERS ON HER FORTUNE.
Mrs. Lander had taken possession of her brother-in-law’s estate under
the will, and for the first time in her life began to enjoy the power of
wealth, the sublime egotism of possession. True, all this fortune gave
her no additional comfort, nor insured to her a luxury not hitherto her
own, for since her husband’s death she had been denied nothing by his
generous brother. But this, to a nature like hers, or indeed to any
nature capable of ambition, was the smallest result of wealth. She
wanted its power, its influence among men—the reputation it
conferred—the envy it created. Having been dependent all her life, these
things took a mighty value in her estimation, and no queen ever mounted
a throne with more pride than this woman felt in seizing upon the estate
which seemed to have fallen into her possession by a miracle.
Up to this time, Mrs. Lander had been very liberal in her social ideas
and luxuriously extravagant in her personal habits, having gorgeous
tastes by nature, and that coarse hankering for display which women of
low birth and inferior associations in early youth are liable to
acquire. Beyond this the woman could not go, and a vast capacity for
intrigue lay useless and buried in her life which was likely to find
room for display now. She was not very old either; the years that
carried her beyond forty were hardly worth mentioning. A fresh
complexion, robust but symmetrical form, and rather juvenile carriage,
made her seem even younger than that. With great wealth added to these
attractions, there was much in the future for a woman like that to
expect and hope for.
Mrs. Lander went into deep, deep mourning at once. Crape folds a yard in
depth covered the skirts of her bombazine dresses; crape veils, with
hems that made them almost double, fell from her bonnet; not a gleam of
white was allowed to appear about her person. The very handkerchiefs
wetted by her tears had a black border one-fourth of an inch wide
running under the broadest of broad hems. She stripped her fingers of
their jewels, and sent to the city at once, for chains and bracelets and
lugubrious brooches of jet, which gave a shimmer of brightness to the
volumes of English crape that clouded her mournfully from head to foot.
The woman mourned for her daughter, undoubtedly. This elaborate show of
grief was not all pretence. She would have been delighted to hear that
Cora had escaped the shipwreck on any terms; doubly delighted if the
rescue of her child could have been achieved without disturbing the will
which made her mistress of everything. No doubt she would have been a
generous and munificent mother in that case, proud of her child and
ready to push her interests to the utmost; but she would have shuddered
a little at the thought of depending on Cora Lander for subsistence,
though a thought of this kind never took force with her now. Poor Cora
was gone with the rest, and ten thousand perfections hovered around her
memory. Still the wealth was a consolation.
Five or six weeks after the sad news, Mrs. Lander sent for Joshua Hurd,
who came in from the stables walking after his usual heavy fashion, and
seeming half ashamed of a new suit of clothes, which gave a certain
appearance of neatness to his ungainly person. Joshua’s manner was a
little singular when he came into the presence of his mistress. He
looked around for his sister, and seemed relieved that she was not
there. Then he sat down on the very sofa which held Mrs. Lander and her
voluminous skirts, planting his heavy shoe on the crape folds of her
dress, and sat still, looking stolidly into her face.
Mrs. Lander did not rebuke or attempt to repulse this familiarity, but
she gently extricated her dress from his foot, and smiled sweetly in
doing it.
“Joshua,” she said, “I have been thinking a good deal about the horses.”
“That’s exactly in my line,” he answered. “What about ’em?”
“The pair of chestnuts don’t exactly suit me.”
“They’re splendid critters as ever drew a carriage,” interrupted Joshua,
bluntly. “What on arth can you want better?”
“They are too bright—too showy for my mourning.”
“Mourning! Why, who ever hearn of putting hosses in mourning, I’d like
to know?”
“But they disturb its sad harmony.”
“Never was a better or a purtyer team of hosses druv. Darn’d if I
believe you know what a good hoss is!”
“But they put me in mind of him—of them.”
“In course they du! Why not?”
“The truth is, Joshua, now that I’m mistress here, I’d like to choose my
own horses and carriages, and everything, and have the credit of good
taste in myself.”
Joshua lifted one foot, laid it on his knee and nursed it for a whole
minute in thoughtful tenderness.
“Well, I reckon that’s nat’ral,” he said at last. “So you want ter sell
them chestnuts? How much do you ask for ’em?”
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about. Of course I shall defer to
your judgment.”
Joshua dropped his foot cautiously and drew himself up, blushing to the
temples.
“I’ll sell ’em or trade ’em off for you—but what kind of critters du you
want now?”
“Black—I think we will have black.”
“Not one of them ’ere Black Hawks?”
“No, nothing of that kind, but a pair of fine, well-matched blacks, if
they can be found.”
Just then Eunice came into the room, excited, fiery, and dressed with
incongruous magnificence. She saw Joshua sitting close by her mistress,
and pounced upon him with a vengeance.
“You dolterhead, get up. How dare you?”
She seized Joshua by the collar and almost lifted him from the sofa,
gave him a vigorous pull and planted his feet in the middle of the room.
“I’ll teach you!” she cried, shaking her fiery locks at him. “How often
I’ve told you!”
“Look-a-here,” said Joshua, dashing the cap on to his head, “it won’t be
worth your while to do that ’ere agin! I ain’t a going to stand it; so
you look out!”
“Be quiet, both of you,” said Mrs. Lander, with dignity. “I cannot be
annoyed in this way.”
“You sent for me, or I shouldn’t a come,” said Joshua, sullenly.
“And I wanted you, Joshua, not only to consult about the horses, but to
say that hereafter the entire control of the stables shall be yours. You
shall account to no one but me, now that I am mistress.”
“That’s something like,” said Joshua, brightening up. “When that critter
lets you alone, you’re a trump, and no mistake. But that evil spurret
that went down into the swine and druv them into the sea wasn’t nothing
to her. She’s wuss than a hull drove of hogs, if every one on ’em had a
spurret of his own.”
“Josh!”
“Now jest you keep away, Eunice Hurd. I’m a speaking to her, and not to
you by no manner of means. Don’t come anear me, I warn you, or I’ll bust
right out afore everybody. You’ve trod on me long enough. Now I mean to
stomp on you if you don’t behave yerself.”
Eunice, who had been threatening violence, drew back in blank amazement;
her face grew red in spots, her eyes flashed strange light, like the
green tints in an opal. She was quivering from head to foot with a
vicious desire to box her brother’s ears.
“Oh! you snake you—”
“Eunice, I will have no more of this. You must learn that I am mistress
here,” said Mrs. Lander.
“You!” exclaimed Eunice, turning upon her mistress with intense scorn.
“You, and setting there side by side with Josh!”
Mrs. Lander took no heed of her insolence, for she was a woman of
wonderful self-possession when the occasion required it. Her voice was
quiet and calm as a summer’s morning as she once more addressed Joshua.
“You can sell the chestnuts and buy the blacks, as I directed. Use your
own judgment in the whole matter,” she said.
“So you are a going to buy black horses, are you?—Deep mourning, animals
and all,” said Eunice, spitefully. “Hadn’t you better have a span of
white ones ready for the half-mourning. It ’ed be mighty handy—or grays,
to shade off into white. I hate such airs!”
“That would be a contrast worth thinking about—I am much obliged to you,
Eunice. I will take day to consider it. White or black. Go now, Joshua,
and remember that hereafter you are master out yonder.”
“And who mistress in here?” demanded Eunice.
“I am,” answered Mrs. Lander, with calm firmness, “and this scene must
never be repeated, Eunice. Understand me clearly—must never be
repeated.”
“Jest say that agin!” said the virago, going off into a fit of hoarse
wrath. “I understand you; you want to get the blind side of that
soft-hearted creature, and so be one too many for me if I should cut up
rusty. But let me ketch him in here agin, or you in there, and I’ll show
you what’s what!”
Mrs. Lander was very pale; every vestige of color left her lips, they
were pressed so firmly together. She seemed about to say something
defiant, but the strain upon her nerves had been too great, and she fell
into a chair, faint and trembling. What was she, with all her wealth,
but a slave?
CHAPTER XI.
SALE OF THE CHESTNUT HORSES.
The next day Joshua went to the city with the chestnut horses, proud of
his commission, and resolved to stay a week in town rather than return
without the animals his mistress had expressed a fancy for. He drove
directly to a large public stable well known as a sort of horse
exchange, and at once put up his chestnuts for sale.
While he was hanging about the stables, a young man drove up in a hack
and entered the office, followed by a lad, who jumped down from his seat
by the driver and lingered near the door, as if afraid of losing sight
of his master.
In a place like this, Joshua Hurd felt perfectly at home; he went up to
the lad and spoke to him good-naturedly enough.
“Is that ’ere young man arter horses?” he questioned. Brian Nolan
answered that he thought so, but he was not quite sure.
“Got a smashing team in there that I’d like to sell him,” said Josh.
“What’s his color?”
“I don’t know,” answered Brian; “but there he comes, and you can ask
him.”
Joshua saw that the young man was entering the stables with the
proprietor, and sauntered after them, whistling in an undertone.
“I’ve got the prettiest pair of chestnuts that you ever set eyes on;
just come in. You’re fortunate in your time, sir. Those animals won’t
stay on hand long, I can promise you. The gentleman who owned them was
the best judge of horse-flesh that ever visited my stable, or rather his
man was, and that’s the same thing.”
“Why does he sell them, if they are so perfect?” inquired the stranger.
“They’re splendid critters,” said Joshua, cutting into the conversation
without scruple; “not a fault. The person who owned ’em is dead, and the
lady thinks that the color is too gorgeous for deep mourning. She wants
black hosses, or if them ain’t ter be got, white. Them latter she’d trim
about the heads with crape rosettes, I reckon, for she’s a hull team and
a hoss to let on mourning.”
The young man took little heed of this speech. He was busy examining the
horses, and the proprietor saw at once that he had no ordinary judge to
deal with.
“I can offer you nothing better than these if you fancy the color,” he
said. “They are noble animals.”
“They are noble animals. But why does the owner sell them?” repeated
Seymour, going back to his original question.
“He was lost at sea—the steamer that was burned, you remember.”
The young man shrunk from the subject, which sent the color from his
face.
“I have heard of it,” he said, hoarsely.
“Terrible thing, wasn’t it?” rejoined the horse dealer. “Such a fine old
man, too.”
“Was he alone?”
“No; that is the most horrible part of it. His only daughter and his
niece went down with him.”
“But there must be a survivor—or is there no one to claim the service of
these noble beasts?”
“The property goes by will, I am told, to some widow up the river.”
“She is a fortunate woman,” said Seymour, absently, “that is, if young
enough to enjoy her money.”
This did not seem a leading question, yet there was something like
interest in the traveller’s eyes as he waited for the answer. He could
not have accounted for this feeling himself.
“I don’t know her exact age, but she is a handsome, stylish woman, with
a good deal of life in her. I took these very horses up myself when the
owner bought them, and gave her the first drive. Smart woman, I can tell
you.”
“Wall, I reckon she is jest that,” interposed Joshua, arousing himself
to animation. “Sharp as a steel trap, and harnsome as a race hoss. It’ed
take two of your city gals to hold a candle tu her.”
“You are her servant, I suppose?” said the young man.
“Her sarvant, her sar—. Yes, yes, I am that, only the name don’t suit
me. In New England, where I was born, they called us hired men. But if
she wants to call Josh Hurd a sarvant, so be it. I ain’t a going to
complain.”
This conversation had drawn the young man’s attention from the horses,
to which he now turned, but with something of decision in his manner.
“Have them put in harness,” he said, “and let us take a turn in the
Park. I should like to try their action. I will drive them myself, and
this fellow shall go along.”
The horses were attached to a light wagon, and Seymour took his seat
with the ease of a man accustomed to the position. Joshua climbed up to
his side, and they were about to drive on, when Seymour remembered Brian
Holan, and bent over the wheel to address him.
“Stay about the stables, and find out all you can regarding these
horses,” he said, in a low voice.
The lad answered with his eyes, which were full of intelligence. Seymour
tightened his reins and drove on in splendid style.
The Park was beautiful that day. It was too early for the regular
exhibition there, and the chestnuts had a fine, free sweep along the
avenues, delighting their driver and almost giving animation to Joshua.
By the delicious little lakes, whitened with flocks of graceful
swans—across arched bridges and around Prospect Hill they swept making
the air eddy as they went. The breath of ten thousand flowers came up
from the hollows and down from the broken uplands, sweeping fragrance
all around them. But Seymour, keenly as he relished the beauties of
nature, scarcely regarded the sweet air he breathed or the lovely
objects that surrounded him. A strange feeling of depression fell upon
him. He drove the horses splendidly, but with a grace and ease that was
purely mechanical. At last he fell into conversation with Joshua, not
about the horses, as was most natural, but dwelt with a sort of weird
fascination on the fate of their former owner.
Was he certainly dead? Yes, there could be no doubt of that. And the
young ladies, was it positive that they had perished too? Yes, all had
gone down—the old man without a struggle, but the girls had managed to
get into a boat, which was swamped after they almost felt themselves
safe. How long had they been abroad? Why full eight years. They had been
like sisters all their lives, took the same lessons, wore the same
clothes, and were allowed the same spending money. In fact, you could
hardly tell them apart when they were little girls; but eight years must
have changed them a good deal. Joshua would always know them by the
temper, if nothing else, for the niece had that, and no mistake, while
the other was like an angel. But they were both dead now, and no harm
was done since the brother’s widow had got the money. What had they been
doing abroad? Why going to school to be sure, what else could girls of
that age be expected to do? For the last six months they had been
travelling about in what people called the Holy Land, which Joshua
supposed was just the thing to do if they had got to die so soon.
All this time the names of these persons who interested him so much had
not been mentioned. For some unaccountable reason Seymour had shrunk
from asking it.
Vague fears were creeping over his heart, and his voice was husky when
he at length forced himself to say:
“But the name—you have not yet told me the name.”
“The name, sir—why Lander, of course.”
That instant the chestnuts gave a wild leap and strained hard upon the
reins, that had been sharply tightened, till one of them began to rear.
Joshua turned, looked into the deadly white face of the young man, and
snatched the reins from his hands.
“What on arth are you about? Sich driving would put wolfishness into a
pair of lambs! So, so, old fellows—easy—easy, that’ll do. There, sir,
you see how easily they are managed.”
“Home, home,” said the young man. “I am satisfied. Drive back.”
“What’s the matter?” inquired Joshua, bluntly. “Did the horses scare you
so? Why you’re white as a sheet.”
The young man was trembling from head to foot. His face was contracted
like marble, his very lips were bloodless.
“Home, home,” he said.
Joshua drove to the stables in wondering silence. The color had come
slowly back to Seymour’s face, but there was a look of suffering on it
that startled the proprietor of the stables as he drove up. Had anything
happened? Were the horses restive?
Joshua shook his head. Seymour did not seem to hear him, but stepping
from the wagon, walked away. The proprietor followed him.
“Did he not like the horses?”
“Like them? oh yes—oh yes,” said Seymour, slowly retracing his steps.
“Put them up on my account, and send to my hotel for the gold.”
All this was said in a calm, low voice: but it seemed as if a statue
were speaking. No price had yet been named for the horses, and he had
forgotten it entirely.
“But we have not agreed on the terms,” said the proprietor, glancing at
Joshua.
“No,” said the young man, absently. “What are they?”
The proprietor named a tolerably reasonable sum.
“That will do. Take good care of them.”
“But your address, sir?” said the proprietor, taking up a pen from his
office desk.
Seymour took the pen and attempted to write, but his hand shook upon the
paper, and after he left, the address could hardly be made out.
Brian Nolan followed his master in silence. He saw the look of pain in
those dark eyes, and the young heart ached in his bosom with a rush of
keen sympathy.
They went into the hotel together, and passed into the ladies’ entrance
hall. Coming down the long passage on the second story was a hunchbacked
girl, who seemed to have lost her way, for she was looking anxiously at
the numbers over each parlor door. Brian caught hold of his master’s
dress, and the violence of this action drew the young man out of
himself.
“What is it, Brian, are you ill?”
The lad held him fast. His pale lips were parted, but he could not
speak. His eyes followed the hunchback almost in terror.
“Poor fellow! the old suffering has come back,” muttered Seymour, laying
a hand kindly on his shoulder. “Brian, my boy.”
“It is her! Those are Ellen’s eyes. I know her! I know her! she is my
sister!”
“Your sister!”
The lad uttered a cry and darted away.
“Ellen! Ellen! oh, Ellen, it is me! It is me!”
The girl started, turned her great stag-like eyes on the boy, and came
towards him with both hands extended.
“Alive! alive! you and I!” she said, clinging to him, while tears rained
down her radiant face. “Is it, is it you?”
“Oh, sir! it is my sister—my own sister Ellen, that I told you of! She
jumped overboard with the rest, and is saved. I know you will be glad
for me,” cried Brian, drawing the girl up to his master. “See how
helpless she is!”
“Poor thing! dear little girl! I am glad to find you here—glad for his
sake. He is a good boy,” said Seymour, with great feeling.
“He always was a good boy, sir,” answered Ellen smiling through her
tears. “Oh, so good!”
“And she, sir,” joined in Brian, “she, sir, for all her size, and—and—”
“He means this, sir,” said Ellen, gently glancing at her shoulder. “It
makes me ill sometimes.”
“She is brave as a little lion, though, and kind—kind—yes, she would be
just as kind as you are, sir, if she had anything but her two hands.”
“Let me look at you, dear,” said Seymour, laying one hand on her
forehead and bending her face back. “Yes, you have the family look.
These are Brian’s features—softer, though, as a girl’s should be.”
“Do I look like him—do I, really?” cried the girl.
“Yes, child, I think so.”
“Then people must like my face, at any rate,” she said.
Seymour smiled faintly and moved a little way from them.
“Oh! Brian, we went through so much!” said the girl, “so much!”
“But you are saved!”
“And you!”
They clung together in newborn joy, closer and closer, as if some one
threatened to tear them apart. The young man looked on from the
distance, interested.
“But how came you here?”
“Brian, an angel brought me!”
The girl spoke earnestly, and her eyes filled with eager warmth.
“An angel!”
“So beautiful, Brian! so good! so full of courage! She helped me through
the water. I pulled her down, but she would not let go of me. There!
there she is!”
A parlor door had opened as Ellen uttered her shriek, and two young
women looked out, wondering what the sound could mean. Ellen led her
brother toward them.
“Oh! Miss, forgive me for screaming out. It is my brother. I thought he
had gone down with _them_, but it is he. Don’t let anybody take him away
from me again—oh, don’t! don’t!”
One of the young ladies stepped into the hall and laid her hand kindly
on Brian’s shoulder.
“So you are her brother?” she said, in a sweet, sympathetic voice. “I am
glad of that. How were you saved?”
“Somebody flung a chair over, and I got hold of it till one of the boats
picked me up.”
“What if some of the rest were saved?” said Ellen.
“Oh! it seems to me as if an angel had taken care of you too!”
The young creature lifted her eyes to the beautiful face of her
mistress, smiling gratefully, though tears were again streaming down her
face.
“Let us hope for the best,” said Virginia Lander. “But tell me, my lad,
how did you reach this place, and what are you doing here?”
“A vessel that picked us up brought me. I was sick and almost starved,
looking for work, when a gentleman, so kind and good, hired me to wait
on him. He is here, I just came in with him.”
That moment a form glided by the little group and went swiftly down the
hall, so swiftly that no one saw more than the flutter of Cora Lander’s
black garments as she swept down upon Seymour, her eyes wild with
delight, her hands held out eagerly.
“Oh, my God, be thanked!” cried out the young man. “My love, my darling,
I thought that you were dead!”
“You here! you here!” she answered, giving him both her hands. “And I
felt so wretched a moment ago.”
“Cora! Cora! I shall go mad with joy! Not an hour since, they told me
that you had perished at sea.”
“And you had but just heard of it. You believed me lost? Was that why
you looked so sad?”
“Judge for yourself. I have followed you, at what sacrifice no human
being will ever know. Everything that a man holds dear I risked rather
than lose you. My sole object in coming to America was to win you, claim
you, love you forever and ever. An hour ago they told me you were dead;
my life seemed to go out then.”
“Then you mourned, Horace?”
“Mourned! Great Heavens! can you ask me?”
“But now—now that you see me alive and well—yes, yes, I think you are
glad.”
“Glad!”
“I know you are. Oh, Seymour, I do think you love me.”
“Better than my life—better than my own soul! There is nothing on earth
that I would not do for you, nothing a man holds dear that I have not
sacrificed for you already.”
“I do not understand.”
“Perhaps not—you never may. But who is that lady with hair like
yours?—That form, the face too?”
“That is my cousin. Some day I will introduce you—not now. She is but
just come on shore. We shall start up the river this evening or early in
the morning.”
“Not to-night; let it be to-morrow. This evening I must see you again.”
“I shall abide by my cousin’s decision.”
“Abide by her decision! Does this cousin control you, then?”
“Control me! No; she hasn’t the spirit to control a mouse.”
“Then you win stay?”
“Yes, if you desire it so much; but—”
Cora broke off abruptly. Seymour was looking at Virginia Lander, who
that moment was listening to Brian and looked that way, interested in
the man of whom he spoke so gratefully. The expression of her face was
beautiful just then. Sympathy with those two helpless creatures had
filled her eyes with compassionate tenderness. A sweet smile hovered
about her mouth, and all her face was bright with feeling. She did
indeed look like an angel rejoicing over the salvation of two innocent
fellow beings.
The young man himself, unnoticed by Virginia, gazed upon her,
fascinated; he had not even heard Cora’s last promise. A shadow, which
was almost a frown, swept over the girl’s face.
“How very lovely she is. True, there is a wonderful likeness, but—but
such a difference. I never saw a sweeter smile on human lips!”
Cora swept by him with angry scarlet burning in her cheeks.
“Virginia, does it strike you that we are getting up a scene here?” she
said. “Let these two strange creatures go up to Ellen’s room. It will
not do for us to form interesting tableaux in the hall. Hear how they
laugh and sob! Go, Ellen, go and take your brother away.”
Ellen and Brian started off, clinging together and smiling in each
other’s faces, but crying all the time. Virginia withdrew into the
parlor, delighted with this one gleam of happiness, coming as it did out
of the awful catastrophe which had made her an orphan. She had been so
occupied with the brother and sister that the meeting between Cora and
Virginia had passed unregarded. After Virginia had gone, Cora stood in
the hall, proud as Juno, waiting to be conciliated. Seymour drew close
to her.
“So this is your cousin,” he said. “I never thought that any human being
could mate you before.”
Cora answered him with a haughty lift of the head.
“If you think so now, I am glad to hear it in time.”
The pique and jealousy which embittered these words were manifest and
genuine. Seymour was a man of the world, and had read many a woman’s
heart before that day to the owner’s cost, perhaps.
“You are angry with me. For what?” he questioned, in a low voice.
“Angry? No, no; but my cousin will miss me and wonder that I stay so
long with a stranger.”
“A stranger, Cora!”
“That is what she thinks you, and what you in fact are. How much do I
know of you?”
“Everything; I wish no concealment. Grant me one interview where we can
converse in quiet—when shall it be, and where?”
Cora started; her cousin was standing in the parlor door looking for
her.
“This evening, come to our parlor. She will retire early.”
Seymour bowed and walked away, smiling over his success. Cora joined her
cousin.
“It is the boy’s master,” she said carelessly. “A fine-looking young
man—don’t you think so?”
“Yes, very. Did you speak with him?”
“Only a few words—but tell me, dear, had we not better rest where we are
to-night? Think how great the shock would be at home if we go,
unexpectedly there.”
“That is true, in my haste to get home I forgot that; but we can
telegraph before the train starts.”
“That would bring our arrival close upon the telegraph. Give a night to
think of it. At the best, our return home will be painful enough.”
Virginia looked down at her black dress and thought of her father with a
pang of sorrow.
“Arrange it as you please, Cora. Heaven knows, I shall not be happy
anywhere.”
CHAPTER XII.
MEETING OF THE LOVERS.
Joshua Hurd went down to the hotel where Seymour was staying to get the
gold for his horses, and chanced to pass up the hall just as Cora and
her cousin were standing within the parlor door. The beauty of these
girls would have been striking anywhere, but, in deep mourning and
saddened by misfortune, the effect of their appearance was calculated to
excite something deeper and purer than admiration. Joshua was not much
given to emotions of taste or feeling, but he stopped short in his
quick, plunging walk, and stared at them with doubt and astonishment in
his face.
“By goram, if grown folks ever looked like children, them gals belong to
the family somehow. Sich hair as that doesn’t crop out on any other
heads that I know on. What if it was them? All her bread ’ed be dough
mighty quick.”
While he stood muttering these words to himself, Virginia Lander came
out of the parlor and passed him. Her long black dress swept across his
heavy shoes, and her side face was turned toward him.
“Marm, marm—I say is—is—it you, or ain’t it nobody as I cares about? My
name is Joshua Hurd.”
“Joshua Hurd!” exclaimed Virginia, turning back. “Oh, I am so glad you
are here!”
“And it’s you, and t’other one tu; I saw you a standing together, and my
heart riz right up inter my mouth. But the old gentleman, is he on hand?
Thought you was all gone to smash at once.”
Virginia turned her face away, not in anger at the stolid creature, but
the pain at her young heart was terrible.
“We come back alone,” she said, with tears in her voice. “Do not let us
talk of it. My cousin and I are all that you will ever see!”
“That’s tough,” answered Joshua, really disappointed. “Good gracious!
who’d a thought of finding you here arter we’d all gone into mourning
for you, and got kind’er pacified about so many going down at once. I
only hope _she’ll_ take it mild.”
“We have just been speaking of that—my cousin and I. No one must be
taken by surprise.”
“I reckon I’d better go right hum my own self and kind’er break the news
to her easy. She’s got sort a used to the property, you know.”
Virginia smiled faintly at this and said, in her innocence, “Oh, she
will never think of that. It will make no difference to her.”
“Who is this?” exclaimed Cora, joining them. “What, Josh! dear old
Josh!”
“Yes mam, it’s me, sure enough. But you—by jingo, I can’t tell which is
which. How you have grown, both on you.”
“Then you cannot tell us apart, Joshua?” said Cora, smiling. “Try! try!”
“Couldn’t du it to save my life,” was the puzzled answer. “Defy _her_ tu
tell which is her own darter and which isn’t.”
“What nonsense, Joshua! Why I have ridden on your shoulder a hundred
times.”
“And so has both on ye, that’s nothing.”
Virginia, who was falling back into the sadness which had become
habitual to her, seemed distressed by the light tone of this
conversation, and asked Joshua if he could go up the river by the first
train and carry the news of their arrival to the home which they would
be sure to reach in the morning.
“Yes,” Joshua said, “he was on hand for anything, and would make a
straight line for the depot the minute he’d secured a bag of gold a
young chap in the hotel owed him.”
“I will write a line and have it ready,” said Cora, exhibiting a good
deal of nervous excitement. “Are you going up stairs, cousin?”
“Yes,” answered Virginia, sadly. “Even this meeting troubles me more
than I expected.”
A strange light came into Cora’s eyes; she was evidently glad to be
alone.
For ten minutes after she entered the parlor, Cora Lander walked up and
down the room, at first rapidly, like one whose thoughts were in a
tumult; then with measured paces, as she collected those thoughts out of
chaos and planted them in her mind. She took up a pen to write at last,
but flung it down again, having formed a quick resolution.
“Let him go,” she said, beginning to pace the floor again. “It is better
not. I will neither send note nor message, but let me be certain.”
She rang the bell, and when the servant answered it inquired what was
the latest train up the river. The man answered that one would leave a
little before eleven. She dismissed him and gave herself up to anxious
thought again.
When Joshua came down for his instructions, Cora was sitting in the
parlor alone, grave and apparently composed.
“She had changed her mind about writing. Indeed the effort was too much,
but Joshua could tell all that was necessary. Her cousin and herself had
escaped and were in New York. A vessel had picked them up at sea when
almost starved, and in her they had gone back to England, but these
things would all be explained in due time without burdening his memory
with them. Tell the people at home that he had seen them, that would be
enough.”
This she said very quietly, looking in his face all the time, as if to
challenge close observation. As he was going out she called him back and
said, with a smile:
“So you cannot make out which of us belongs to the lady up yonder, or
which is the orphan and heiress?”
“No, I’ll be hung and choked to death if I can.”
“Oh, you are dull, Joshua; but there will be plenty of the people who
can tell us apart, I dare say.”
“Not a critter, without it’s our Eunice. She might.”
“Oh, Aunt Eunice, as we used to call her. How cross she was,” said Cora,
holding up her hands in mock terror.
“Cross! Wall I reckon she is.”
“But she was always devoted to—to Mrs. Lander.”
“And is yit; but natur is natur, and Eunice’s is awful sometimes. Now
Mr. Lander was a good man, but she e’enamost hated him.”
“But his daughter, she was a favorite with Eunice.”
“No, she wasn’t. If you’re her, you must have found that out. She took
to the other gal mostly, and so did I.”
“Indeed! Well, well, you will think better of it when we get home. Go
now, Joshua, or you will be too late for the train. By the way, had you
not better go early in the morning? It will give you plenty of time. We
shall not start before ten.”
Joshua gathered up the end of a shot bag, which he had brought from the
stable to carry his gold in, and resting it on his knee, tightened the
string with both hands.
“Jest as you think best,” he said. “Shouldn’t wonder if the madam ’ell
be disappointed when she finds out that this isn’t all hern,” he
muttered. “It’ll come awful tough for her to give up. Jest as you think
best.”
Cora arose, and, in order to hurry the man off, tied up the bag with her
own hands.
“Go now; go, my good fellow, or you will get but little rest,” she said,
taking his cap from the marble console and putting it on his head. “Be
sure and start very early in the morning.”
Joshua lifted himself heavily from the damask chair on which he had been
seated, and moved away with the bag of gold grasped tightly in his hand,
muttering to himself:
“I’ll make sure of that by going up to-night.”
The moment he was gone, Cora went up to her cousin’s chamber, and
flinging herself on a couch complained bitterly of a headache, which she
said was torturing her. But she declined Virginia’s offered help, and
lay with her face to the wall, apparently asleep, but buried in deep
thought. At dark some tea and a light supper was sent up, of which they
both partook with considerable appetite, Cora observing that a headache
like that was sure to make her hungry, while her cousin suggested that
they had eaten nothing since morning—an unwise thing when they had both
so much need of strength. After a little, Cora arose and proposed going
to bed at once.
“We have had a weary day,” she said, “and you look very pale, dear;
besides I am so depressed.”
“Yes; it is a sad return home. I do not feel as if I should ever sleep
sweetly again.”
“But you must. I will not go to my own room till you are safe in bed;
you would sit up crying half the night if I left you alone.”
“No, my heart is too mournful for tears.”
“Still you must try for rest, or no sleep will come to me.”
“For your sake, then, I will go.”
Virginia arose with a weary look and prepared herself for bed. Cora
helped her to undress, and with a gentle hand brushed out the masses of
chestnut brown hair which glowed with a ruddy tinge in the light as she
braided it loosely in one massive cable. These pleasant feminine
attentions were rather unusual to her, and Virginia received them
gratefully.
“Ah! what a mournful day we shall have to-morrow,” she sighed, wearily
taking off her dress. “You have something to look forward to, Cora, but
I—”
The unhappy girl turned away her head, and lying down half undressed,
with her cheek to the pillow, began to cry.
“Don’t, don’t give way so,” said Cora, bending over her. “Remember,
to-morrow we shall be home.”
Virginia sobbed still more piteously.
“At home, without him! Rich, helpless, oppressed with cares. How shall I
ever fill his place?”
A strange look swept Cora’s features. She almost smiled, yet a hateful
expression mingled with the smile.
“Do not think about that now, but put on your night dress; you will take
cold.”
Virginia arose and invested herself in the full white garment which gave
her a nun-like purity of look. She dropped on her knees, and with her
face buried in both hands, prayed meekly for several minutes. Then she
arose with a heavy sigh, and kissing her cousin good-night, lay down,
turning her face to the wall.
“Good-night, dear; rest well,” said Cora, smoothing the counterpane with
her hand. “Now I can go content. Good-night.”
With these words, Cora stole softly out of the room, murmuring
good-night as she went.
Instead of going to her own chamber, the girl turned toward the
staircase and swept down to the broad hall on which their parlor opened.
At the lower end of this passage she saw Seymour walking up and down, on
the watch. The moment her dark garments fluttered into sight he came
forward and followed her into the parlor. She closed the door and drew a
bolt, so gently that he did not detect the action.
“Now, now tell me everything,” she said, seating herself on a couch and
motioning him to a place by her side. “I am anxious, eager to know what
brought you here.”
“Why ask that?” cried the young man, bending his radiant eyes upon her,
while her hand was pressed between both his so ardently that her fingers
unconsciously returned the clasp. “Why ask? You brought me here. I could
not live with the Atlantic between us—death seemed better than that.”
“And you love me so?”
“Love you! Don’t ask me how much, or I might tell you what I have done.”
“What you have done? But I do ask.”
“Ask what, dear one? There is nothing to tell. I have moved Heaven and
earth to reach this place—to obtain the means without which you would
not be yourself. I have money now, brightest and dearest—ready gold and
plenty of it, at least for the present; enough in fact, to give us a
fair start in life. Only say that you love me dearly as I love you, and
a glorious future is before us.”
“I have said it a hundred times, Seymour,” she answered, bending fondly
toward him, but remarking, even in this rush and glow of affection, that
he looked wild and spoke hurriedly, with his eyes bent downward.
“But again, and again I want to see love-light in your eyes and passion
on your lips every moment of my life. It is my food, my drink, the air I
breathe. Oh, girl! girl! how I love you!”
He threw his arms around her and strained her to his bosom with a
vehemence that frightened her. She was ardent and given up to her own
wild will like himself, but there was something beside love in all this,
and she felt it with a thrill of terror.
“You are cold; you shrink from me, after all that I have done to win
you—while my heart is struggling so madly to find yours.”
“No! no!” she protested. “I love you—I love you—ten thousand times over
I love you! It may be folly, it may be madness, but I _do_ love you.”
“My darling! my brave, bright, beautiful love! Now I am no longer
afraid. I regret nothing. There is no treachery, no wrong that love like
this would not sanctify. Let me look at you. Heavens, how beautiful you
are! These little, warm hands, how they cling to mine! how white they
are! But I will make them rosy with kisses. Oh, girl! girl! I thought
you were dead, that this glorious form was weltering in the deep, torn
by sharks—lost! lost! The thought was driving me mad. But you are here!
you are here! I can see your heart beat and your cheeks flush, and these
dear lips parted with smiles as you listen. Tell me! tell me once more,
how much you love me!”
“Why ask me again?” she said. “Did I ever deny my love when you were
penniless?”
“No, girl, no; but you refused to share that penniless state.”
“Because I hoped for something better. My—my relative was then alive. He
was generous, and loved me. When we reached home, I intended to appeal
to him. It would not have been in vain.”
“Was this your real intention?”
“I had no other—you would have heard from me. I might have asked such
letters as would satisfy him of your honorable position, nothing more.
But he is dead.”
“And so we must fall back on my little hoard of gold. Will that be
enough for you?”
“It would be difficult to say how much would be enough,” answered Cora,
with a bright smile. “Plenty of property is necessary to make love like
ours perfect. I should perish, body and soul, without objects of beauty
all around me. Is it because you are so handsome, so peerlessly
graceful, that I can think of no one else? I often ask myself, if you
were plain and insignificant, even common looking, would not my pride
sweep you off among the herd of ordinary men?”
“I never thanked Heaven for good looks before,” said Seymour with
genuine warmth. “In fact, I never thought of it; few men do, I fancy.
Then, if I had been good and great, and all that men study and strive
for, you might never have thought of me?”
“Oh, I would have everything, but I shall make you vain; your eyes flash
with triumph already. See how easily a woman loses her power when she
says honestly, ‘I love you.’”
“No, no; she exalts herself. Would that I had millions to lavish upon
you instead of twenty paltry thousands.”
“Twenty thousand! that is not much,” she said, growing thoughtful for a
moment. “But what then? We shall not be without resources; I have ideas,
and courage and will enough for anything. What if I were richer than you
think?”
“So that you loved me still, I should rejoice—but only for your sake.”
The young man spoke honestly, and with a tone of sadness in his voice.
“Could I have been sure of you, poverty would have been nothing. Oh! how
much better to work for you! But all that is over, and I am brave enough
to be glad.”
“We must not talk of work—I hate it,” said Cora, smiling brightly upon
him. “To me the world is divided into two classes—those who work and
those who enjoy. Had I been of the working classes, the very loathing of
it would have driven me to struggle upwards, as both men and women can
in this country.”
“Ah! if we could have had patience to wait for that!” said Seymour, with
sudden passion. “To work alone even, hoping for you in the end, would
have been Heaven to me; I could have served any hard task-master, like
Jacob, for seven long years.”
“And in the meantime I should have grown old and ugly—you,
round-shouldered, perhaps,” said Cora, laughing. “No, no; let us have
all or nothing. The world is before us—Fortune has always been true to
me. Like the lilies of the field, I have neither toiled nor spun, and it
will go hard if fate puts me to it now.”
Seymour looked at her animated face in thoughtful admiration. Truly she
was very beautiful. All the love she was capable of feeling flooded her
eyes and burned on her cheek. She seemed supremely happy, and the young
man believed that affection for himself alone kindled her features into
superb loveliness. They sat in silence awhile. He was thoughtful and
grave, though her head rested on his shoulder and the perfume of her
hair swept across his face.
“I wonder if any one ever can be perfectly happy?” he said.
“I think so,” was her soft answer. “I feel so.”
“When you are mine—all mine—when fate itself cannot wrest you from me, I
shall know,” he murmured. “When shall it be? There is no cause for
delay.”
“I will tell you after to-morrow,” she whispered.
“But you leave the city then.”
“It is only a short ride on the railway.”
“May I come there?”
“Yes, but not directly. There may be reasons against it that I do not
know of. But close by the depot is a public house, where you can be
comfortable for a few hours or days. On the third day from this you will
find me in the grounds. There was formerly an odd little summer-house up
a ravine which opens to the river; you can almost see it from the depot.
Wait for me there.”
“I shall have but one thought till then.”
“And now good-night!”
“But you will not send me away yet?”
“I must. My cousin is ill and may want me.”
“Ah, this is cruel!”
“To myself most of all. She does not know of your existence, and might
find you here. There! there! you hurt my hand. We shall meet again very
soon.”
“Not to part—say that, dear girl!”
“I hope so—I think so. But be prudent, and if necessary patient.
Remember we have a whole life before us.”
“A Heaven, you should say.”
She smiled sweetly, gave him for the first time her lips to kiss, and
went to the door with his arm around her waist. With a dexterous touch
of the finger, she shot the bolt and let him out, almost delirious with
mingled feelings of joy, pride, shame and regret.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MIDNIGHT HOUR.
Cora remained in the room some time after Seymour left it, walking up
and down, sometimes slowly, sometimes with the quick, impetuous tread of
an empress whose power was threatened. Her heart was in a tumult of
passionate feeling. The wild rush of joy that had overwhelmed her when
she first saw Seymour still beat in her bosom and crimsoned her cheeks.
So far as love is a passion, she felt it deeply toward that man—felt it
with that blind impulse which would have overmastered any obstacle and
rendered her capable almost of goodness, if that alone could have united
them. She would not have married him penniless because self-sacrifice
was not in her nature, but she possessed force of character to surmount
any difficulty which lay between them, and all her love and ambition
craved.
“He is young, accomplished, ambitious, splendidly handsome,” she said to
herself. “What more can I ask. One thing, and that I will procure. It
requires courage, audacity, an iron fixedness of will, almost impossible
self-possession; but I have all these things. This thought has been in
my mind too long for failure. Once it was a dream, now a fixed purpose—a
purpose that cannot fail unless she has grown generous or cowardly—no,
she is not old enough for that. I know all her weak points—a love of
display, luxurious habits, a hatred of the class from which she sprung.
No, I cannot fail with her. Well, the others? This man, for instance, he
is easily managed; but then Aunt Eunice, that sharp, hard old Yankee
woman, who never forgets. Well, I have courage even to defy her.”
Here Cora took out her watch, started on finding how late it was, and
hurried up to her room. Without a moment’s delay she changed her dress,
enveloped herself in a water-proof cloak, tied a thick veil over her
bonnet, and, locking the door after her, went down to the street,
passing unobserved as some sewing woman going about her ordinary
business. She beckoned a carriage which stood near the entrance, ordered
it to be driven to the Hudson River depot, and in half an hour was
seated in the remote seat of a car, ready to start up the river.
The train started slowly from the depot, and went with some caution
through the streets, seeming to scatter back stars along its path as it
passed lamp-post after lamp-post, linking them as it were in a swift
chain of fire. At last the engine plunged into the country, lighting up
the track and the shadowy trees in its swift progress. Cora sat still,
muffled close in her cloak of dull gray, and with her brown barege veil
drawn close over her face. She had no luggage, not even a travelling
basket or satchel, and sat motionless, looking out of the window as if
something enthralling lay in the dark rush of the river and the broken
shore along which she was whirled.
At the nearest station to the Lander’s dwelling she arose, softly
gathered the cloak around her, and, without speaking to the conductor,
stepped out upon the platform. She was not the only person set down at
that point, but a few moments found her standing there, as she supposed,
quite alone, while the train rushed up the river bank panting under
every impulse of its fiery heart.
When the train had disappeared like a huge black serpent scaled sparsely
with spots of fire, this young girl turned and walked hastily toward a
flight of steps which led up the terrace and would conduct her at once
to the lawn in front of the late Mr. Lander’s dwelling. Even in the
darkness, she could detect the gleam of white marble pillars and a lofty
façade breaking through the night, contrasted with the huge trees that
encompassed them with a world of black shadows.
It was a weird picture of home to which the young girl came, like a
thief and with the thoughts of a robber in her heart. If the darkness
had permitted it, her face would have shone out white and hard almost as
the marble on which her eyes turned with such burning greed. She stood a
moment on the verge of the terrace regarding the building, which soon
outlined itself in the sable cloud which surrounded it with vast
spectral indistinctness. Even thus, it was a noble pile, appealing
grandly to the imagination, and her heart swelled with rapacious
satisfaction as she gathered its value into her mind.
After a little, she began to regard the house with other thoughts. Her
eyes wandered over the building in search of a light, which she hoped to
find shining through some of the windows. But none appeared, and she
walked on, burying her footsteps in the crisp grass of the lawn, for it
was too dark for any hope of finding a path. There was no wavering or
hesitation about her. Swiftly as a human being could walk, she passed
through the shadows and turned an angle of the house. In the window of a
second story room, which overlooked a portion of the lawn most thickly
planted with flowers, a faint light was burning behind curtains of white
lace, which softened it as clouds envelop a star.
“That is her room, I know,” muttered the girl; “she never slept without
a light. But she has changed apartments with her new fortunes. That used
to be a guest chamber.”
As she spoke the light seemed to waver as if some one held it
unsteadily. It was only the curtain stirred by a gentle wind, for the
sash was open that pleasant summer night, and Mrs. Lander, being an
epicure, loved to have perfume from the dewy flowers wafted to her as
she slept.
“Thank Heaven for that coward habit of a night lamp,” thought the girl,
stealing softly around the house in search of some unbolted door through
which she might let herself in. She tried the back doors first, but to
no avail. Then searched for an open window, but Eunice had taken care
that no means of entrance should be left exposed. On the ground floor
every point was locked and guarded.
After satisfying herself of this fact, Cora went round to the flower
garden again, resolved, by some means, to reach the window which had at
first occupied so much of her attention. Sharp and vigilant as a fox,
she searched the wall for some means of ascent, but the white marble was
smooth as snow-crust and nothing but a vast rose-bush broke its polished
surface. This hush, however, hung loosely on the wall, and its branches
swayed to and fro in the flickering light. Cora was seized with a wild
impulse to climb up this uncertain support, and thus, if possible, reach
the window. She seized the rose-bush by the stem and brought it down
violently, with all its blossoming branches trailing on the grass. In
starting back, Cora trod upon something hard, which almost threw her
down. She groped in the grass at her feet and found that she had
stumbled against a ladder, which lay half-buried in the grass where it
had been thrown by the gardener; who had been busy about the climbing
roses the day before and had left his work unfinished. Cora lifted the
ladder, with some difficulty, and planting it against the white wall
found that it reached the open window. Light as a bird, she climbed from
round to round, till half her form and her entire side face was framed,
like a picture, against the faintly illuminated sash.
The stillness within the room fell upon her with a sudden check. She
leaned forward, holding her breath, and looked in. A bed stood in a
corner of the room clouded with volumes of white lace, through which the
outline of a female figure could be seen slumbering in the soft radiance
which stole like moonlight from a lamp that seemed shaded with
transparent snow. All the while Cora Lander remained as it were framed
in by the window, a stout man stood beneath that great willow, which
drooped over him like the curving waters of a fountain, and watched her
movements curiously. But when she disappeared through the window he
moved towards the stables a muttering,
“Well, it aint none of my business as I know on, but that is a mighty
queer way for any gal to come home. I wonder which on ’em it is!”
Cora Lander, all unconscious of this scrutiny, paused a moment to listen
before she crossed the room and drew the lace curtains back from the
bed. Mrs. Lander lay sleeping upon her pillow, frilled, laced, and
embroidered with that excess of ornament which those who come suddenly
into the possession of riches are apt to indulge in. A quantity of
Valenciennes lace lay softly around her forehead and temples. The plump
white hands crept out from double frills edged with the same rich
material, and the bosom of her night dress presented one mass of
insertion and embroidery. She was a tolerably handsome woman and these
things became her well, though a close observer would have understood
something of the suddenness of her late good fortune by those elaborate
appointments.
Cora Lander’s proud lip curved, and a gleam of malicious humor shot into
her eyes.
“Upon my word, she dashes into the thing with a will,” was her first
thought, “No fool like an old fool! All her toilet bottles mounted with
gold. Both hands loaded with diamonds even in her sleep! How
self-satisfied she looks. No wonder—no wonder! A property like this
might make any one rest sweetly. The more she prizes it, why the easier
my task.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPTED.
Cora Lander bent close to the sleeping woman’s ear, and uttered the word
“mother,” in one of those sharp, sudden whispers which thrill the heart
even in slumber.
Mrs. Lander started up with a faint cry, and pressing one elbow into the
down of her pillow, gave a wild stare at the face bending over her.
“Who is this? What are you?” she cried, in sudden terror.
“Mother! mother! surely you know me!”
“Know you! know you! I was dreaming of those eyes, but not of you. My
child was younger, frailer, lovelier. She is drowned! She is drowned!
What do you want of me? I do not know you. How dare you call me mother?”
The woman spoke wildly, almost with defiance. Her hands quivered under
their lace ruffles; the embroidery on her bosom rose and fell with a
sudden spasm of dread.
“Mother, you know me well enough; I am Cora Lander, your own child.”
“My own child?”
“You thought me dead, I dare say. But here I am safe and well. Touch my
hand—that will prove it.”
“But—but you are taller. You are a woman!” gasped the mother.
“A girl grows taller in eight years. But look close, mother—you would
have known me by daylight.”
“No, no, I shouldn’t—I don’t. The hair is like, but darker—the eyes—the
mouth—that smile. Cora! Cora Lander! my child! my child!”
All the motherhood of the woman sprang into action then. She seized the
young girl in her arms, drew her down upon the bed and rained kisses
upon her, sobbing, laughing and shivering under a rush of natural
tenderness that swept all other feelings out of her heart. At last she
pushed the girl back from her bosom and examined her face line by line.
“And you have come back—my child! my darling!”
“Hush! hush! we are having too much of this,” said the girl, sitting
down on the bed. “Some one will hear us.”
“Well, why not? They will all know in the morning.”
“I think not, dear aunt!”
“Dear aunt! What is this for? But it reminds me that perhaps you and I
are paupers. What has become of him? Is he alive too?”
“No, thank Heaven! he is safe, fathoms deep in the Atlantic.”
Mrs. Lander drew a quick breath. “Oh! dear, it seems terrible to hear
you say this!” she said, with a frightened look. “But if he were alive
what _should_ we do? Poverty! poverty! poverty! I shouldn’t endure that
after having so much!”
“But it may come upon us yet,” said the daughter.
“How? how? Oh! I remember—that other Cora, the girl they called
Virginia. But she is fathoms deep too.”
“She is alive and well, down in New York, this moment,” said Cora,
drily.
“What? what?” cried the woman, strangling with a hysterical rush of
feeling. “She alive! Then we are a thousand times worse off than if
Lander had lived. He was kind and generous enough. But that child, with
her soft ways, and that smile, acting always as if she had been born a
lady, while you would let the old Adam out—I would rather starve than
take my bread from her! Oh! what will become of us?”
“That is what I came up from New York in the dead of night to talk to
you about. No one knows that I am here—no one must know anything about
it. Do try and be calm; everything depends on that.”
“Well, child, I am calm. Despair has this one good quality—it brings
dead repose with it. After a little, I shall find strength to look this
thing in the face. But it is hard.”
“I know that, mother; you have not tasted the bitterness of dependence
alone. I know what it must be to give up a fortune like this. But how
came you with it? Did my uncle make a will? The man you sent to New York
with a pair of horses told me so.”
“Yes, he made a will—all to no purpose now. Oh! it was to no purpose!”
“And how did this will read? Tell me?”
“It gave everything to her.”
“Everything! And you blundered like that?”
“Yes, Cora. He wrote it with his own hand. Upon my life and honor, it
was every word in his own handwriting!”
“But was that all? The law would have given it to her!”
“Yes, yes, I know; but the law, instead of giving you and I a chance of
the whole, would have scattered it among those country cousins. That was
what made Lander’s will valuable. If she died without children, you came
next, and I after.”
“Indeed! Then it was under this that you took possession. It is hard on
you that we turn up alive—hard on me too, for Cora may marry and have
half-a-dozen children to cut us out. Will do all this, certainly, if we
are fools enough to let her.”
“But how can we help it? What have we to do but sink back into our old
dependence?”
“Mother, listen to me,” said Cora, in a hard, firm voice.
“Well, I listen,” was the wondering answer. “But how hard your face
looks—there is no childhood left in you, Cora Lander.”
“I hope not, for the thing I came to talk about is no child’s play. It
needs firmness, courage, audacity even. I fear that you will be wanting
in these qualities when the test comes.”
“Why, do you fear me because I am taken by surprise, when roused out of
a sound sleep, to find you at my bedside—not white and dripping, as I
have seen you so often in my dreams—not the child whose brightness I was
so proud of, but a calm, hard woman, taking the lead even with me, your
own mother?”
“True, true, there is something in that. The surprise was enough to
stagger any one. I might have bent under it myself, especially after
tasting the sweetness of such wealth. But what I am thinking of requires
the most consummate coolness, nerves of iron, a face of marble. It
requires that determination which enables a man to commit what the world
calls crime quietly, firmly. You could never do that.”
Mrs. Lander looked at her daughter half in triumph, half affrighted.
“You say this to test me, Cora—to make yourself certain that I am
incapable of wrong. You suspect me, perhaps?”
“No, no; I wish that were possible.”
“What were possible?”
“Why, that you had the courage to reach forth your hand for this noble
inheritance.”
“But I have the courage. You do not know—”
“Yes the courage to submit.”
“No, to struggle—to fight. Only all struggles are hopeless now.”
“But you have not the courage, I repeat, to commit what men might call a
crime even to make your child, and through her yourself, heiress of all
this wealth.”
“What—what is it you mean? Are you setting up an inquisition over your
own mother? Of what can you suspect me?”
Mrs. Lander was deadly pale, her mouth contracted itself, her eyes
gleamed with apprehension.
The girl looked into that craven face with keen inquiry. It puzzled even
her penetration. If the mere thought of wrong had so disturbed her
mother, there was little hope that the scheme which had brought her
there could be carried out. But her searching eye soon discovered more
than the mere revolt of innocent conscience in this strange agitation.
There was actual guilt in that face. What could that guilt be? Quick as
lightning that sharp intellect ran over all possible causes for this
singular agitation, and settled on the will.
“I only suspect, mother, that you tampered with Uncle Lander’s will.”
Mrs. Lander fell back upon her pillow, white and breathless.
“The will! the will!” she whispered. “Who told—who has dared?”
“Be tranquil, do be tranquil, mother,” said the girl taking the
trembling hand put forth to repulse her and kissing it tenderly. “All
this makes our way clear; I do not blame you. What else could you do?”
“It would have gone to those stupid cousins,” pleaded the woman.
“Besides, the will was his, every word—”
“Except the names,” said Cora, gently. “I understand. Well, after all,
that was risking a great deal, while my plan has positively no danger in
it.”
“But will it secure the property?” asked the mother.
“Yes.”
“To me, just as it is now—and without danger?”
“Not to you; that is impossible.”
Mrs. Lander’s face contracted with disappointment, while her daughter
went on:
“But through me your only child, everything can be done.”
Mrs. Lander did not speak, but her eyes asked eager questions.
“What matters it,” said the girl, “which is absolute owner here? Are not
a mother and daughter one?”
“But it seems most natural that a mother should possess the power,”
faltered Mrs. Lander.
“And so you shall in everything but the name. Only aid me in getting
possession, and there will be no dispute about power between us.”
“But how?”
“It is easy, mother, and perfectly safe. To-morrow, when we come home,
forget that I am your daughter, and in my place accept the girl called
Virginia Lander.”
Mrs. Lander rose to a sitting posture in the bed, her eyes were full of
wild light, her lips parted.
“What!”
Cora answered this sharp exclamation very calmly.
“We two girls are so much alike that people take us for twins. We have
been away from the country eight years. No human being is qualified to
contradict you when you claim Virginia and disown me. No other evidence
of identity will be needed, even if it comes to a court of law. I shall
support you—from the first I shall recognize you only as my aunt, claim
Amos Lander as my father, and quietly take the position of his child. By
what force can she dislodge me?”
Mrs. Lander sunk back to the pillows, astounded by the bold scheme which
was to deprive her of a daughter.
“Let me rest—let me think,” she said; “the audacity of this thing appals
me.”
“Do think—reflect; nothing can be safer. It is simply to say a thing and
persist in it.”.
“But the people abroad—those who knew you both at the schools—should
there be a contest, they will be called as witnesses.”
“What then? They know nothing. We passed as Mr. Lander’s children; no
distinction was ever made; I doubt if any one knew that we were not
sisters. Thanks to Virginia’s sensitive generosity, she never spoke of
my dependent position, and as for Uncle Lander, he always introduced us
on shipboard and elsewhere as Miss Lander and Miss Cora Lander.”
Mrs. Lander drew a deep breath; the anxiety was dying out from her face.
“And this would make you heiress of everything?” she said. “But where
would my claim be?”
“In your power to dispossess me by a word. That would make you, in fact,
mistress here.”
“True, true; but they might force me to swear that you were not my
child; then my power of retreat would be cut off.”
Cora Lander could be sweet and affectionate enough when it pleased her
to put forth these gentle qualities. She stooped down to her mother,
threw one arm caressingly over her and pressed half-a-dozen soft kisses
on her face.
“It is for us both—for you, dear mother, more than myself. I am ready to
risk something rather than see you cast back into poverty. Think how
hard it will be to give all this luxury up to another—think of my fate,
compelled to take every mouthful of bread I eat from her bounty. Mother,
if you prove coward and force me to this, I shall hate you!”
“If we could share it together, I would not hesitate, but the wrong and
falsehood will be all mine, the reward yours.”
“Only in name, sweet mother—only in name. The wealth and power you shall
possess alike with myself.”
“But this girl, this poor Virginia, whom we are wronging so—what will
become of her?”
“Let her stay here and learn the bitter lesson she has taught you and
me—that of a poor relative subsisting on a rich man’s bounty. We must
change places. I will be gracious, kind and killingly generous to her,
as she has been to us.”
“But she will protest, appeal to the law.”
“Let her; without proof against that best of evidence, the woman who
claims to be her mother, what will her protest amount to?”
How well this young creature had considered her plans; not a thread of
the web was wanting; even the law itself seemed powerless to break into
its meshes; never did a fraud seem more certain of success. The widow
had yielded herself to Cora’s blandishments; they seemed to insure her a
splendid future. With a creature like that, so beautiful and bright,
wealth would have tenfold value. The joy of her child’s return was
mingled with all this. She loved the fair young creature with newborn
affection. Her voice was sweet, her smile persuasive. The very crime
that she proposed assimilated so well with that already committed by
herself, that it broke down the barriers of reserve which long absence
and the change from childhood to womanliness would naturally have
produced. Sympathy either in good or evil draws hearts close together.
Cora leaned toward her mother and kissed her cheek, which was scarlet
and hot with struggling emotions.
“Say, now,” she pleaded, “if you and I are to be mistresses of this
noble property, this house with all its luxurious appliances, or beggars
again?”
“Cora, I never could endure that. Possession has been too sweet. This
broad, free sense of independence has expanded my whole life. I love to
give orders and receive the homage of those whom money has made the
slaves of my will. I love to feel that the marble under my feet is mine
to tread upon or tear up as I will; the fruit and flowers growing around
me are mine, mine, mine to give, keep, sell or leave on the boughs.
Cora, I never knew till now the entire bitterness of poverty, the abject
humiliation of dependence.”
“But all this must come unless you act as I wish.”
“Yes, I see; I see. But to give up my own fair child and take another in
her place, one too whom I have wronged so, that too seems impossible.”
“I know, I know; but in secret I shall still be your child.”
“But I shall be nothing, not even mother to the heiress.”
“You will be her aunt. The most loved and honored relative that ever
controlled a household. Besides, pray remember, a few months will put
this entire property into my hands, then I can divide it with you.”
“And will you? She too can be provided for, and it will not seem so
hard.”
“We will think of that—but tell me now, are you prepared? Will you
promise to be firm? In a little time the train will come down; I must be
assured of my position before I go.”
“I wish Eunice were here!”
“Eunice, the hard-faced woman with the red hair? Surely you do not trust
people like her!”
“She is—” Mrs. Lander stopped suddenly, checked herself, and added, as
if from some after-thought, “She is faithful and devoted to me.”
“Mother,” said Cora, with great firmness, “this secret rests between us
two. On your life, I charge you, share it with no other living soul!
That would be to make ourselves slaves indeed.”
“Not with Eunice? Not with Eunice?” almost pleaded the widow.
“Mother, a secret shared is an object lost. What is this iron-faced
woman to us, that we should take her into our souls?”
“Eunice—Eunice. Oh, nothing but a faithful old servant, who loved me
well before I became rich.”
“Let her remain a faithful servant, nothing more,” answered Cora. “I
want no confidants bred in the kitchen, no love from any quarter which
cannot be paid for with money. So let her pass, for we have but little
time. I hear a clock striking, or rather giving out fairy music. What
sumptuous tastes you have, mother! It would be a pity to give all these
pretty things up to my cousin!”
“That I never will—never! never!” cried Mrs. Lander.
“Then be firm and prepare to receive that other one as your daughter.
Good-night, I must go now.”
“Good-night! With these words we are torn apart never again to be mother
and child! God has given you back to me, and in your place I take money
got by crime.”
Mrs. Lander spoke low, but with deep, passionate feeling. She was not
hard by nature, like the fair young girl who looked down upon her,
beautiful as Lucifer and almost as wicked.
“This is sentiment—nonsense—and such things are out of place when an
object like this lies before us. We can love each other and live
together. Why not? Aunts are often very, very fond of their nieces. It
excites no wonder.”
“No, no; crime strangles love.”
“Not with the strong and bold. Take courage, you have little to do; I am
not afraid to lead the way.”
Cora turned toward the window, gathering her cloak tightly around her.
Mrs. Lander sprang out of bed and followed her with both trembling hands
held out.
“One embrace, Cora! Let me feel you close to my heart before you go!
Call me mother again!”
“There, mother, am I close enough? Why how you tremble!”
“My child!”
“There! there! kiss me a hundred times if you like; but when that little
clock chimes the quarter I must be gone. Why, how foolish you are! how
weak! We shall meet again to-morrow or next day, and there will be no
more parting.”
“Crime parts everything, Cora; I have learned that already. Heaven help
us! it had almost reconciled me to your death, and now that you have
come back, awaking my heart to its old tenderness, you would pile up
barriers between us. No! no! let us be poor again—very poor! I shall not
care, so long as we are innocent and love each other.”
“But I should not love you.”
“Don’t say that! I could give these things up, indeed I could!”
“And repine over it forever after. Know yourself better; but this
argument would last forever. Once for all, will you act as I desire?”
“Yes! yes!”
“That is right. Now I love you dearly. You shall be the grand dame of
the establishment.”
“I know that you will be kind, dear.”
“Trust me. There goes the quarter—good-bye! good-bye!”
When the last word left her lips, Cora was outside upon the ladder, with
her beautiful face uplifted to the light. In an instant she glided
downward into the darkness. The ladder was drawn after her and fell
softly to its old place in the grass. A branch of the rose-bush swayed
back, as if something had dragged it out of place, and that was all.
CHAPTER XV.
THE DISTURBED CONSCIENCE.
Mrs. Lander sprang out of bed and ran to the window, resolved to call
her daughter back and revoke the evil promise she had made. She leaned
out into the chill air, careless of the wind, which stirred her night
dress as if it had been snow, searching for her child in the darkness.
As her eyes got accustomed to the gloom, she saw what seemed like a
deeper shadow fluttering on the edge of the terrace, but that was all.
The rattle of a coming train in the far distance kept her at the window.
The noise grew louder, wilder and more impetuous. Then a great burning
eye, fiery and seemingly bloodshot, glared out from the blackness of
crowded trees, lighting them up like the smile of a demon, and a shriek,
horrible in its shrillness, cut through the night, making the woman’s
heart quake in her bosom as if a fiend had mocked her. Then came the
sharp clang of a bell, the rattle of iron, and the train swept away
again, rushing off like a storm.
Mrs. Lander listened to its receding noises with absolute terror. It
seemed as if some awful visitation had left her there trembling and
helpless. Such dreams had visited her before. Mr. Lander himself had
swept down upon her from mountainous waves, dripping wet, and with his
gray hair turned to icicles, clamoring for his property. Her daughter,
too, had haunted her sleep, crying for help from some yawning gulf of
waters, and she had seen Lander’s heiress dancing fantastic flings on
the surface of a calm ocean, bright as quicksilver. All these
apparitions had demanded a restitution of the property she had just
begun to enjoy with such zest. The struggle to retain it, and yet allow
them to come out free from their prison in the great crystal deep, had
often sent her out of these dreams sobbing with dread and bathed in cold
perspiration.
But hard as these dreams had been, nothing could equal the scene that
had just swept past her. Was it real? Could it be a vision, like the
rest, tormenting her sleep? She pressed her bands on the marble
window-sill and leaned out into the night, searching it wildly for some
trace of the presence that had seemed so real. The slow rush of the
Hudson, sweeping toward the ocean just below the terrace, and a soft
shiver of leaves, was all the sound she heard. Nothing was visible save
the outline of the flower-beds and groups of shrubbery merging dimly
into the pale grey light which was just beginning to dawn in the east.
The woman drew back with a sob of grateful relief. A new class of demons
had begun to haunt her. Fiery trains, trailing smoke as they went, out
of which came her daughter, more beautiful than she had ever dreamed of,
to tempt her into new crimes, had been coursing through her sleep. This
vision had driven her out of bed into the chilly night air. All about
her shoulders and bosom the linen robe she wore was wet with dew. She
was shivering with cold in all her limbs. For the world she would not
encounter another vision like that. Such things were getting to be
frightfully real. Eunice should sleep in the next room and that would be
a protection hereafter. She withdrew herself from the window and crept
into bed, shuddering with cold, but rest was impossible; she had been
too severely shocked; all that she could do was to lie there with her
eyes wide open and watch the daylight as it crept across the window. At
last a sunbeam shot through the lace curtains, silvering them like a
cloud and filling her room with light.
It was very strange, but the brilliancy and stir of morning only made
that vision more definite and certain. Before this her dreams had
vanished with the darkness, but this—its distinctness terrified her. She
reached forth her hand, it fell upon a hollow place on the counterpane.
Lifting herself up from the pillows, she examined the spot. It was
pressed down as if some person had been sitting there. She remembered
that figure in the gray cloak with its hood falling back, and a sick
feeling crept over her. Was it reality? Could it be that Cora, in her
natural person, had occupied that place? She started from the bed,
resolved to search for other traces of the strange presence.
Mrs. Lander left her bed, she leaned from the window, looking forth upon
as bright a sunrise as ever blessed the earth. A shimmer of dew lay upon
everything—grass, leaves and branches, were bright with it. A rain of
diamonds trembled on the great drooping willows, and the flowers knew a
double brightness, for the sunshine turned the moisture in their cups to
a living fire. All this dazzled the woman without satisfying her. She
leaned out of the window, searching the grass beneath it. A ladder lay
half-buried in the grass, but near it, slanting down one side, was the
print of all its rounds and supporters pressed into the turf like a
material shadow, if that could be. Straggling out from under this ladder
was a broken rose branch full of sap and fresh at the splintered end.
Away from that, crossing the lawn, a trail of small footprints was
plainly visible leading to the terrace stairs.
The faintness of slow fear fell upon Mrs. Lander as she saw all this.
She could not yet realize that her child was alive, the impression left
by her presence was still so weird. But she knew that the vision of that
night could never be shaken off—that, as a blessing or a curse, she must
meet it with all her intellect and all her strength.
The woman did not go back to her bed. Those wild, bright eyes were too
widely open for that, but she dressed herself in haste, stopping in deep
thought sometimes with the comb drawn half through her hair, and gazing
on herself in the glass, as if that image had been her enemy, for
minutes together; then she would hurry on her garments with sudden
impetuosity and drop into thought as before. The woman had no object in
this; for when she was dressed the whole effort ended in a hurried walk
up and down the room with an energy that was almost appalling, for her
feet gave forth no sound from the moss-like carpet, and the workings of
her face took unnatural force from the stillness, as if the passions
within her were smitten with dumb agony.
Thus it was that Eunice found her mistress when she came to her chamber,
late in the morning. No, not exactly thus, for, at the first sound of a
step in the hall, Mrs. Lander drove the trouble back from her face, and
quietly asking if breakfast were ready, passed down stairs. She had
resolved to keep her own secret, had forced herself to _wait_, the
hardest lesson an ardent nature ever learned.
During the first hours in which this woman was mustering her strength,
Cora Lander, who had haunted her like a ghost, was being whirled toward
the city in the remotest seat of a car filled with passengers, sound
asleep or too drowsy to notice her. There she sat folded in her cloak,
vigilant and thoughtful. So far, her proceedings had passed unnoticed,
but it would be daylight when she reached the city, and great caution
might be needed on entering the hotel. When the train reached its depot
she entered the hotel coach, pausing by the steps a moment to observe if
any passengers were bound for the same destination, and was relieved to
find that half-a-dozen persons, two of whom were ladies, came crowding
in after her. The coach thundered rapidly through the still streets, and
in a brief time sat down its occupants before the hotel Cora went with
the rest to the reception room, but while the travellers entered she
glided away up the stairs to her own chamber, and no human being save
one ever knew positively that she had left it.
CHAPTER XVI.
KINDRED LOVE.
That night, while Cora Lander was working out her evil plans and
Virginia had fallen asleep, with tears in her eyes, thinking of her
loneliness, Brian Nolan and the hunchbacked girl sat in a little upper
room of the hotel, talking together in that sad, hopeless way which is
most likely to follow a great misfortune. The light was dim, for Brian,
with that sensitive delicacy with which a refined nature strives to
throw a veil over deep feeling, had turned down the gas, and in this
semi-obscurity held his sister close in his arms.
“Don’t cry so, darling, don’t. It breaks my heart to feel you shake and
sob in this way,” said the boy, trembling, himself, as he spoke.
“I was thinking how many of us went on board that ship, Brian. Now you
and I are left alone! all are gone! all are gone!”
“I know! I know!” answered the boy. “Oh! my poor mother! my grand,
strong father!”
The boy shook and trembled as he spoke, and the girl clung to him more
tightly, sobbing with half-suppressed bursts of grief.
“He looked so grand—just as Abraham must have stood when his boy lay on
the altar. When I mounted the bulwark, I knew it was death; people were
sinking all around the ship—”
“Don’t, Brian! don’t, or my heart will break!”
“Poor sister! poor Ellen! I am sorry! But these things are always in my
mind. Only a few days ago I prayed God to take me where they have gone.
I was all alone—hungry, oh, _so_ hungry!”
“Poor Brian! I never was that since we left the boat. _She_ has fed me
as if I had been a bird that she loved.”
“God bless her sweet face! But tell me how it all happened. I know that
she swam to the boat with you hanging about her neck, but that is months
ago. Where have you been ever since?”
“We floated about for three days, cold and hungry, till some of the
strong men prayed to die; but she was patient, and tried to make them
hope for the best. It would have made you cry to hear her comforting
that other proud girl when she gave way and would sit moaning and
wringing her hands like a crazy thing. _My_ lady was calm and still as
an angel. Some of the men had tossed some bread and a keg of water into
the boat before she put off, and that kept us from quite starving. My
lady only ate half that was given to her and would have divided the rest
between her cousin and me. I would not touch it—no, no, I would have
starved to death first—but Cora, that hard, beautiful Cora, devoured it
all without a single thank. Oh, Brian, my lady is so good!”
“I know it, darling; she looks good. But you were taken up at last.”
“Yes, Brian, a ship bound for South America hove in sight. Oh! what joy
came upon us! Then it was, brother that my young lady gave up and burst
into tears. Her white face was so beautiful then. She snatched me close
to her bosom and kissed me, thanking God with every kiss. I clung to
her; I laughed—I cried—I shivered with joy. The other girl stood up in
the boat and beckoned the great ship with both her hands. She was eager
as a hawk, but never spoke one word of thanks or seemed to care whether
the rest were saved or not. Why, brother, the tough old seaman were on
their knees with great tears rolling down their cheeks, sobbing like
babies and blessing the ship, as if she had been a living thing that
could feel their thankfulness; but her face was one white glow. She
looked ready to trample us all down just to get into the ship one minute
before us. Once the boat gave a lurch and almost flung her overboard.
Then she caught hold of my young lady with both hands and sunk down on
her knees, but not to pray. ‘Those horrid men wanted to kill her,’ she
said, ‘and tried to throw her into the sea, just when life was so sweet
and she was so near being safe.’”
“And you, my poor little sister, were taken on board with the rest and
treated kindly?” questioned the lad, kissing that eloquent face with
tender sympathy.
“Me? oh yes, everybody was kind to me, you know, for I never left her
side, and she was like an angel among them. I wish you could have seen
her talking to the men who were very downhearted after the first few
days; for they had not a cent left in the world.”
“And you, my sister, had nothing?”
“Oh yes, I had everything, for I had her! She took great care of me, and
loved me dearly; and I—oh, Brian, I am afraid it’s a sin to worship
anything as I worship her.”
“No, no, Ellen; such feelings as you and I have for those who saved us
are not wrong. It would be wicked if we did not almost worship these
people.”
“Well, I do; I do—my lady had rings on her fingers worth a good deal of
money, and the other one had just as many, so there was no want when
they set us on shore. But she pined and grieved for her father. I never
saw anybody so troubled and so still. The other was always brooding,
brooding, brooding—I didn’t like her—I never shall like her, Brian. When
she touches me only with her dress I start as if a snake were creeping
by.”
“Ellen, dear, this will never do. It is the old trouble coming back. I
can remember, when you were a little child, these fits of dislike coming
over you.”
“But they were always true, Brian; I never shudder so at the sight of a
good man or woman. When the snake fear comes on, I know that it is to
warn me.”
“All this is because you are what people call sensitive, Ellen, and that
will never do for a poor girl who has her way to make in the world,”
said Brian, tenderly.
“But how can one help such feelings if God has given them? You might as
well attempt to straighten this poor back as ask me not to shrink when
anything bad comes near me. I feel it in the air. It troubles me like a
fever. It seems as if nightshade and henbane were growing all around me.
But goodness—oh! that is so different. When my young lady comes near I
grow strong, and seem to stand up straight like other people. The air is
full of bloom—roses and lilies seem breathing through the light. I long
to fall down on my knees and thank God for something.”
“Ah, Ellen, my poor sister, all this makes you unhappy.”
“No, no; I am very, very happy sometimes.”
“But not generally.”
“How can I be, and they all gone?” answered the poor girl, plaintively.
“Still, when I think how grandly he died—”
“Don’t! don’t let us talk of that!” cried the lad, with an outburst of
passionate grief.
Ellen lifted up her mouth and kissed him.
“No, dear, I won’t—only it is a comfort to me sometimes.”
“Oh, Ellen, if he had but lived!”
“Yes, dear; but God wanted our father. Grand angels like him do not
often enter Heaven, I dare say.”
Brian held her in his arms, and, bending his face, was about to kiss her
forehead.
“Not there,” she said, with sweet solemnity. “Don’t touch my forehead.
_He_ kissed it—so did _she_—all the salt waters of the ocean could not
wash those two kisses out. Her poor lips trembled, but his fell upon my
forehead like a seal. Was it to make me gentle and sweet, like her—or
great and strong, like him, I wonder?”
Brian looked down upon his sister and smiled through all his sadness.
The idea of strength, connected with a creature like that, struck him as
almost ludicrous. She smiled also, but with a sort of confidence.
“If I were tall, and large, and grand in my person, you would believe in
me.”
“I believe in you now, dear; people can be loving and good without being
very powerful.”
Ellen shook her head, and her fine eyes shone with sudden light.
“But if _she_ were in trouble, they would find me powerful, feeble as I
am. Sometimes I think she will want me, and then I am so thankful for
the education our father gave us. It is ignorance that makes a soul
weak, I think. They would not believe, Brian, that you and I have been
brought up a gentleman’s children.”
“But he was a gentleman.”
“Hush, dear, he told us to forget that.”
“I know, I know.”
“And I want to forget it. Let that proud girl think me ignorant and
low-bred; let my lady think so too, or they might both suppose me unfit
for a servant, and that I must be, if anything. You and I will take our
places low down without fretting about it, Brian. They don’t want
education, but faithfulness. Brian, there is something wrong about Miss
Cora, I am positive. But the gentleman, who is he?”
“I do not know, Ellen, only when I was hungry he fed me; when I was
tired to death he gave me a bed to rest in.”
“Bless him for that!” said Ellen, with deep feeling. “He laid his hand
on my head and looked into my eyes just as _he_ used to look.”
“And did the snakes creep then?” inquired Brian, with a faint laugh.
“No, no, Brian; but there was something that troubled me. I wanted to
throw both arms around his neck and cry.”
“That was gratitude. That is the way I felt when he first spoke to me.”
“No, it is not gratitude, brother; I think it is pity, sorrow—a wish to
help about something.”
“But how could you help him?” asked Brian.
“I don’t know, but it will come clear yet.”
“I love him dearly,” said Brian, with tears in his eyes. “Ellen, I would
die for him.”
“Brian, that girl knows him; I saw it in her eyes.”
“Perhaps; but what then? He has been a great traveller.”
“But my young lady did not know him.”
“I wish she had; he is splendid, like herself,” said Brian.
“Isn’t she lovely?” Ellen broke forth. “And he too, Brian?”
“Well, sister?”
“His eyes are like father’s.”
“Ellen!”
“Dark and large—gray when he thinks, black when he talks.”
“You have such strange fancies, sister. It is because _his_ looks is
always in your mind—that look when he blessed us.”
“It is burned into my heart,” said Ellen, in a low voice. “I see it
everywhere.”
“Even in the eyes of my benefactor,” replied Brian, with a faint smile.
He liked this fancy in his sister, and provoked her to express it again.
“It _is_ in his eyes,” she answered, in solemn earnest. “Not always; but
I saw it once when you told him who I was. He looked at me then with
such tender pity. Brian, I love that man.”
“So do I, with all my heart and soul.”
“I pity him too,” said Ellen; “more than he pitied me. But why?”
“Because your heart is so kind, little sister,” said Brian, pressing her
to him.
“No, it is not that. He is rich, handsome, grand. Why should any one
pity him?”
She spoke thoughtfully and as if questioning her own mind. Brian sat
with his arms around her, and softly smoothed the beautiful hair back
from her head, which lay upon his shoulder. She had a fair complexion
and a grand cast of countenance, delicate and yet powerful. The forehead
was not remarkably high, but broad and almost massive. When she spoke
earnestly it expanded over two large eyes, bright with a deep
illumination. When she was wounded or perplexed, two faint lines defined
themselves between the brows, which would have been rather heavy had her
hair taken a deeper brown. This was not a beautiful face, perhaps, but
it was one to enter a true soul and picture itself there forever.
“What will they do with us? Where is your friend going?” she said,
clinging to him. “Will they separate us?”
A faint shudder passed over her frame as she asked the question, and she
laid her face, which seemed chilled, close to his.
“I do not know where he is going,” answered the lad.
“She will stay here, or up the river a little way. If your friend lived
in New York we could see each other very often,” Ellen continued.
“Perhaps he will—I hope he will!”
“I will pray for that,” said Ellen, whispering softly to herself.
Her head fell more heavily on his shoulder. This trustful whisper set
her soul at rest. She was very weary and feeble yet from previous
suffering. He saw the broad white lids droop slowly over her eyes and a
smile crept around her mouth.
“How tired she is, poor soul,” thought the brother, looking down upon
her face. “I love to feel her so near me! How sweetly she sleeps—how
still it is—Ellen, dear, dear Ellen!”
His head sunk downwards, his cheek touched her hair. Her soft breath
floated across his lips—his eyes grew heavy and he began to dream of
wandering off in the fields hand in hand with a baby sister who insisted
on filling her tiny apron with the blue violets and golden cowslips
which grew along the path they had taken. Near them a little woodland
stream laughed, and rippled, and dimpled around the roots of some
crooked old hawthorn trees, which loomed up through his dreams, white
with blossoms. Above these towered a clump of elms, cumbered with
innumerable rooks’ nests, which they lifted into the sunshine and half
concealed amid a green abundance of foliage. How pleasant and still it
was—how softly the waters sung under the bending rushes—how meek and
pretty that little sister looked with those blue and golden flowers in
her lap.
What was that? Had one of the elm trees broken from its base and
thundered to the earth? How dark it was—where was his little sister?
“Ellen! Ellen!” he cried out, in bewilderment.
“Here I am, Brian. Don’t be frightened, it is only some one at the
door.”
“How long did I sleep, Ellen?”
“Oh, a long time; it was a sweet sleep; I was dreaming of the Hawthorn
hollow, where all those violets grew.”
“And I—”
“Yes, I was sure that you dreamed of something pleasant—but they are
knocking again. Yes, yes; Brian will come down in a minute. He hears
you.”
Brian kissed Ellen tenderly and turned to go.
“I am happy now,” he said, “quite happy. God himself has brought us
together, little sister. We cannot lose each other again. Good-night. He
is wanting me.”
“Good-night, Brian. How sweet it will be to wake in the morning and know
I have a brother.”
CHAPTER XVII.
DREAMS AND STRUGGLES.
Eunice Hurd was almost invariably out of sorts when in her normal
condition. The particular morning when we join her again she was
unusually crabbed, and disposed to be rather loud in her ill-humor. No
person in the whole household had changed so much, after Mrs. Lander’s
good or ill fortune, as Eunice Hurd. From a gaunt, hard-faced, rigid
female of few words and no pretension, she had graduated suddenly into a
fine lady of wonderful experiences and ridiculous proportions. Hitherto
the grand aim and object of her life had been to hoard up her liberal
wages, wear out as few dresses as possible, accumulate second-hand
bonnets, and cover all the old parasol skeletons in the house with brown
muslin and checked linen, which material sometimes formed a ridiculous
contrast to handles of carved ivory, or ebony tipped with cornelian. In
fact, a more prudent, economical, not to say parsimonious woman, than
Eunice Hurd had been up to this point, was not to be found in a ride of
ten miles.
But a sudden outburst of prosperity had fallen on the woman whose
patronage had hitherto kept her rather above the level of other servants
in the house, and Eunice had been among the first to profit by it. When
Mrs. Lander went into the gloom and solemn magnificence of deep
mourning, Eunice pounced upon her previous wardrobe like a kite upon its
prey. A cheap dressmaker was called in. Velvets, moire antique, and
silks of various shades and dimensions were let out, taken in, tucked,
puffed, trimmed and vulgarized generally into so many grotesque forms
that poor Mrs. Lander failed to recognize any of the elegant garments of
which she had once been so proud. Nor is this wonderful. Eunice was at
least four inches taller than the widow, and her gaunt figure possessed
no more proportions than a broomstick; whereas Mrs. Lander was
symmetrical, rather plump, and walked with the dignity of a Juno,
notwithstanding her years.
Beside all this, Eunice had no idea of fitness. To her a handsome dress
was proper for all occasions. She rather affected an elaborate toilet
early in the morning, and sometimes appeared with the breakfast in silks
rustling like a forest in the wind. Eunice had another peculiarity,
which rather impaired the full splendor of her appearance. After living
so many years on the hoarding system, it was impossible to come out at
once into the magnificent disregard of expense which she considered
necessary to her advent as a semi-lady. The old leaven was working in
her nature continually, and it fairly broke her heart to leave the
prodigal length and breadth of Mrs. Lander’s dresses in their original
amplitude. So, as each garment came under her manipulation, she
bethought herself of aprons, saques and other minor articles of dress
which might be “got out,” as she called it, by subtracting a breath here
and there. For these she told the dressmaker to “skimp out” sufficient
trimming, and the result was a wardrobe of marvellous variety and
picturesque scantiness.
The morning after Mrs. Lander had been so strangely disturbed, Eunice
came rustling into her bed-room in a purple moire antique, short enough
to reveal her ankles in front, and fluttering out in a train behind,
rendered sparse and scant by two missing breadths, which were that
moment at the dyer’s with various other strange abstractions of like
nature. A cap of rich but very dirty blond fluttered on her head, and
the deep ruffles of heavily-embroidered under-sleeves fell over her
bony, red hands, giving double effect to their coarseness.
“Goodness gracious, if you haven’t got up once in yer life without
calling!” she cried, on finding Mrs. Lander seated in her easy chair,
pale and quiet, but with a strange look of unrest in her face. “How long
have you been up? Gracious knows, this is a new streak! The window wide
open, too, and the lace curtains streaming through, a ketchen and
tearing in the rose bushes! Well now, I never did!”
“Eunice! Eunice! did you hear anything in the night?”
“Hear anything!—sakes alive, no; how should I? Nothing but the river,
that’s al’ays sounding like an etarnal troop of hosses that never will
hold up, and the yell of a railroad whistle, which sometimes makes me
e’enamost think the judgment day has come on arth, when it wakes me up
sudden out of a sound sleep. Well! what’s the matter?”
“Nothing—nothing at all, Eunice,” said the widow, rising and walking
across the room.
“I know better. Don’t try to cheat me; I ain’t a bird to be catched with
chaff, nor a hoss that can be bridled with a halter nohow. Once agin,
what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, only I must have had a strange dream last night.”
“Like enough, or you wouldn’t a been up this morning, sitting like a
ghost in that blue chair, huddled up in your shawl. It’s enough to give
you yer death of cold I tell ye!”
Mrs. Lander went to the window and looked out. A bright morning sun was
slanting warmly across the turf, which looked fresh and crisp under its
dew. The ladder lay half-buried in the grass which had regained its
elasticity and did not seem to have been moved for days. A branch of the
rose-bush lay trailing along the stone-work of the house, but that might
have been left there among the gardener’s uncompleted work. No other
trace of the midnight presence that was preying on her mind presented
itself to Mrs. Lander. She drew a deep breath, and turned toward Eunice
with a look of doubtful relief.
“Did you ever have a dream that was absolutely like reality, Eunice?”
she said.
“What, I? Yes, I have, and sich dreams! Once I was a married woman, and
hated my husband like pison for whipping three tow-headed young-uns that
was the torment of my life. That ’ere dream was enough of matrimony for
me for a hull lifetime. Real! I should think it was!”
“But did it seem as if you touched the person—kissed him?”
“What, I? Eliza Lander, I never kissed nothing whatsomever to the best
of my knowledge and belief, sence I was a nussing baby. It isn’t in me.”
“But did you converse? Did the words seem clear and real after you
awoke?”
“I don’t kind’er remember about the words, but the blows did, orful
real. I must have hammered away like all possessed at the bed-post, for
my knuckles were sore as if they’d just come out of a hard day’s work on
the washboard. As for the man—well, it’s of no use talking—I’ve hated
him like henbane ever since. He’s jest as real to me as you are, though
I never saw him in my born days.”
“Eunice,” said Mrs. Lander, impressively, “I had a strange dream last
night—a dream so like reality, that even now I believe in it—almost.”
“What was it all about? Now don’t tell me that you’re old fool enough to
have got a husband into your head! I wouldn’t put up with it, asleep or
not.”
“No! no! It’s not that.”
“Wal then, what is it? Do speak out, it riles me to see you standing
there, shivering and white, like a woman kneaded out of snow.”
“Eunice, I saw, or thought I saw, my daughter last night.”
“Like enough—you’re al’ays dreaming about her—it’s to be expected; poor
gal, I’ve dreamed of her myself more’n once. Woke myself up scolding at
John for not letting her in only yesterday morning! Nothing in that.”
“But I held her in my arms. She talked with me—reasoned with me—kissed
me—”
“That is wonderful! Cora wasn’t much given to making fuss over you—no
better proof of its being all a dream than that. She took after me a
little in the way of grit.”
“Eunice, she did kiss me.”
“Don’t tell me that, without she wanted something awful bad.”
“She did, Eunice.”
“What was it?”
“Nothing, nothing; I talk such nonsense. What could the shadows that
haunt our dreams ask?”
“Well,” said Eunice, maliciously, “if any of ’em took to coming back, I
shouldn’t wonder if it was the old man; he might feel kind’er uneasy
about that will.”
“But he made it! He made it, Eunice!”
“I know that well enough. But he might take it into his head that the
thing wasn’t signed according to order. Still he’s never troubled me
about it, and won’t, I reckon, afore the day of judgment, when I mean to
give him a piece of my mind for not finishing up his work like a man,
afore he went to sea. I’ve no patience with him!”
The shrill cry of a railroad whistle near the station stopped Eunice in
her denunciations. Mrs. Lander started up with a half-terrified look,
and went to the window in breathless haste.
“Who is it—who can it be? This train does not usually stop here,” she
said. “Has it stopped?”
Eunice came up, stood on tiptoe, and stretched her long neck over Mrs.
Lander’s shoulder.
“I don’t see nobody coming up from the station. But, as true as I live,
there is our Josh a standing in the stable door. I suppose he’s swapped
off the hosses and come home to brag about it.”
“Only Joshua!” exclaimed Mrs. Lander, with a sigh of profound relief.
“I’m glad he’s come. I thought—I feared—”
“What?”
“Nothing—nothing, only that dream was so real—so very, very real,” said
the widow, drawing a hand across her eyes.
“But Josh Hurd is a good deal more real, and here he comes, large as
life and twice as nat’ral. Why, the feller is coming right up stairs!
What’s got into him?”
The tramp of heavy feet made itself heard despite the thick carpet on
the stairs, and directly a clumsy knock sounded from the door.
“Come in!” shrieked Eunice, in dire wrath.
Josh opened the door and strode into the room with his cap on and both
hands in his pockets.
“They’ve come, both on ’em,” he said. “I’ve seen ’em with my own eyes.
Got here too late to tell you last night, but it’s so.”
Mrs. Lander fell back into her chair and gazed wildly on him, without
the power to speak, while Eunice drew close to her brother, flaming with
indignation.
“Who’s come, Josh Hurd? Who’s come, I want to know?”
“The two young gals, Cora Virginia Lander and Virginia Cora Lander. I’ve
seen ’em, I tell yer, and talked with ’em both, face ter face, and
they’re proper purty, I can tell yer, both on ’em.”
“Joshua Hurd, what do you mean?”
Eunice seized her brother by both shoulders, and gave him a vicious
shake as she shrieked this question in his ear.
“I mean ter say that both gals are alive and ki—. Well, I won’t say
that, because they are both on ’em so genteel. But in about an hour,
when the next train comes in you’ll hear thunder, that’s all!”
Mrs. Lander had arisen and came close to Joshua. Her hand shook like a
leaf as she laid it on his arm, and her white face was full of pitiful
anxiety.
“Tell me,” she said, “tell me all the truth! Is my daughter alive?”
“Yes; and Mr. Lander’s daughter’s too. They are both of ’em down in
York.”
“How—how were they saved?”
“In a boat. It was another boat that sunk. They floated, and floated,
till a ship picked ’em up. There is a good deal more to tell, but that
is the long and the short on’t.”
Eunice pushed Mrs. Lander away, and seized upon Joshua a second time
with two or three rough shakes.
“Josh Hurd, you’ve been a drinking! This is what they call delirious
tremars. I knew you wasn’t ter be trusted! I told her so!”
Joshua shook himself loose, growling like a Newfoundland dog with a
terrier at his throat.
“Hands off! hands off, I tell you! or I’ll pitch in, woman or no woman,
jest as sure as you live.”
“Speak, then! speak the truth, or I’ll shake it out of you!”
“I have spoke the gospel truth. What more do you want, Eunice?”
“I want ter know what you mean by saying that them two gals are alive.
It’s a trifling with Providence to lie so, Josh Hurd!”
“Jest you wait and see, then,” said Josh, shaking himself slowly back
into his coat.
“Eunice! Eunice!” said Mrs. Lander, in a low voice. “It is true, they
are alive, both of them. I felt almost sure of it this morning.”
“I don’t believe it—I won’t believe it! Eliza Lander, that chap’s lying
like a Connecticut trooper; I see it in his face.”
“Wait till the train comes in,” growled Joshua.
“I am satisfied that he speaks the truth,” said Mrs. Lander, faintly. “I
felt it—”
“Yes, that dream;” sneered Eunice. “Eliza Lander, you are a bigger fool
than I took you for!”
Mrs. Lander arose, pale as snow, but with resolution in her voice and
air. A gleam of wild, unsatisfied joy began to deepen in her eyes.
“Go down, Eunice, and prepare everything. My daughter is alive—my niece
is coming home to take possession here.”
“Take possession!—She! I’d like to see her try it! What’s to become of
the will, then?”
“That leaves the property to her!”
“So it does!” groaned Eunice, dropping into a chair, while both arms
fell heavily downward. “Our cake is all dough, sure enough! Why it’ll be
wuss than it was afore the old man died! Oh my! isn’t this a blow right
on the head!”
“You forget that my child is alive,” said Mrs. Lander. “This is a joy to
compensate for all loss.”
“That’s true; but then I ain’t her mother, and everything was going on
so pleasantly. Now all is to be given up! It’s enough to grind one’s
soul out! I shouldn’t wonder if she begrudged me these clothes, and
everything I’ve got. I tell you, Eliza Lander, I’d show fight! She isn’t
your daughter.”
“She’s a mighty purty gal now, I tell you,” Joshua cut in “and I’m glad
she’s got it. That tarnal will won’t set heavy on my stomach any longer.
When that harnsome critter comes into her own, I shall be an honest man
again in spite of you, Eunice Hurd.”
“You never had sense enough to be anything else!” sneered Eunice. “Don’t
talk to me, I’m sick!”
Mrs. Lander was walking up and down the room, wringing her hands and
tearing them apart in great excitement. She was certain now that her
midnight visit was a reality, and the great struggle, which was to leave
her guilty or innocent, commenced then. Her first meeting with the
child, whom she had so honestly believed dead, was to leave her an
impostor or a beggar. She had been poor, and knew how hard poverty was;
how it ground down the soul and palsied the pride within it; how men,
even good men, despised it as a proof of incapacity. No one living,
perhaps, had felt the bitterness of these facts more keenly than the
woman who paced that sumptuous chamber, which now belonged to another.
No creature living could have found more exquisite enjoyment in wealth.
For itself and for the power it gave she held it as the great good of
life—yesterday it had been hers, untrammeled, unquestioned, almost
unlimited. In her domestic life she was a Sybarite. Every enjoyment of
sense was perfect in her organism. Her taste in matters of beauty was
perfect. Even now, when she thought of her daughter, it was to remember
with a glow of pleasure how exquisitely lovely she was. Already she
disliked that other girl, the rightful owner of all the wealth which lay
around her. Could she surrender everything and take up her dependent
life again? The very thought was hateful.
She had but an hour to decide in—one little hour, and half of it was
gone already.
“What shall I do? What can I do?” she cried, appealing wildly to Joshua,
who sat upon one of the silken chairs, watching her with kindly interest
in his rough face.
“I don’t know what you are thinking on, or what you could do, if you
wanted to,” he answered, honestly. “But do just what’s right, that’s my
advice.”
The man spoke clearly, earnestly, and with something impressive in his
manner that arrested Mrs. Lander in her walk. She looked him steadily in
the face a moment, drew a deep breath, and her eyes fell under his
honest gaze. She did not look in Joshua Hurd’s face again for many a day
after that.
Slowly and steadily the woman paced up and down the room; she had
evidently arrived at some resolve; her step fell firmly on the carpet;
her face settled into hard composure. Her bosom no longer heaved with
sighs or struggled with irresolution. She was mistress of the occasion,
and for good or evil had made up her mind.
Eunice watched her with sharp, searching glances. What was the secret of
her emotion? This was not the joy of a mother who first hears that her
child is safe, nor was it altogether distress. Some struggle was going
on which racked the woman’s whole being. What could it be? Eunice was
herself greatly disturbed; if Mrs. Lander had reigned in the hall,
Eunice had been even more powerful in the basement. How would this
change effect her? Would the second-class sceptre be wrested from her
hand by this young girl? Not without a fight for it. Eunice was decided
on that. As she came to this conclusion, a railroad whistle cut to her
ear.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHICH WAS THE DAUGHTER?
Mrs. Lander drew slowly toward the window. Eunice Hurd followed her, and
behind the cold, hard face of the mistress, peered the sharp, anxious
features of the servant.
“There they come, three of ’em,” snarled Eunice, laying her bony hand
heavily on Mrs. Lander’s shoulder. “Who’s the other?”
She turned sharply to address Joshua, but he had left the room. Mrs.
Lander did not move, but spoke to her servant in a forced, husky voice.
“Go down to your place, Eunice.”
“What!”
“Go down stairs and see that the preparations are complete. I shall meet
my child and niece in the hall.”
Eunice hesitated, and stood in the middle of the chamber eyeing her
mistress venomously; one would have supposed that the lady had deprived
her attendant of some great fortune by the anger she betrayed. Mrs.
Lander took no apparent heed of this, but swept slowly across the room,
down the marble stairs, forcing a smile to her white face.
They stood in the hall, forming a little group on the tesselated
floor—Cora, Virginia and the hunchback, whose face alone was bright with
generous exultation. The two girls were pale and troubled; Virginia
trembled visibly, but Cora was firm as granite.
When Mrs. Lander reached the bottom of the staircase, she paused a
moment, reached out her arms, and, looking at Cora, cried out:
“My child! my child!”
Cora Lander drew back of her cousin, meeting that wild, motherly impulse
with icy looks. Virginia cast an astonished glance back on her cousin,
and, filled with pity for the mother, whose arms had dropped like lead,
went up with tears in her eyes and embraced her. Those arms were lifted
heavily and wound over the young girl’s shoulders. Kisses fell on that
white cheek, cold and sharp, like hailstones on snow. Twice the woman
attempted to utter a welcome but the forced voice rattled in her throat,
and at last broke forth in a hoarse cry that made Virginia start from
her arms.
“My child! my daughter!”
The young girl looked into the hardening face turned upon her one
instant in profound astonishment. Then the warm, true heart swelled in
her bosom, and she reached out her hand to Cora.
“Not your daughter. It was kind to mistake me so tenderly, but this is
your child, dear aunt.”
Cora stepped back and waved her hand with a gesture of dissent. Mrs.
Lander looked from one to the other with a searching glance, then threw
her arms around Virginia again, crying out, still hoarsely and in an
unnatural voice:
“No, no; an attempt at deception at this moment is cruel! Do I not know
my own child?”
“But, Aunt, you _are_ mistaken. Cora—Cora, you can satisfy her. A
mother’s heart must leap to the touch of her own child.”
“But this lady is not my mother,” answered Cora Lander in a clear,
ringing voice.
Virginia released herself forcibly from Mrs. Lander’s arms and turned
upon her cousin in dumb amazement. Cora was calm and cold; her lips
parted firmly, her eyes were bright, but all the rest of her face
bespoke simple surprise, merging into displeasure.
“This is a strange time for joking, cousin,” she said.
“I wonder that you can trifle with feelings that should be sacred. You
might have known from the first that she could not be deceived.”
Virginia stood dumb. She could not comprehend the enormous fraud being
practised upon her. Once more Mrs. Lander embraced her. Again those cold
kisses fell on her forehead. She shrunk from them, shuddering.
“Madam! madam! you should feel—you should know that I am not your child!
She stands yonder. I will be no party to a mysticism so cruel. Cora!
Cora, I entreat you, put an end to this!”
“What can I do? How can I act? If you persist in disclaiming your own
mother, I can only denounce it as a great cruelty whether done in jest
or earnest. In my father’s time you would not have ventured on a piece
of pleasantry like this.”
“Cora Lander!” cried Virginia, aroused to indignation by this cool
speech. “Cora Lander! is this a farce, or some horrible fraud?”
“I do not understand you, cousin,” said Cora, with a gentle lift of the
eyebrows. “It seems to me that all this is at least in bad taste—I will
not say unfeeling. Remember you find a mother overjoyed to receive you,
while I have left the kindest and best father that ever lived buried in
the ocean, and return to my own home wholly an orphan. Aunt, forgive me
if this feeling has made me seem less glad to see you than I am. Believe
me, if your child seems unkind, it is not in her nature to be so in
reality. As for me, all the noble generosity which you and my cousin
have received from my father shall be renewed in his child. You shall be
to me as a mother; your child has always been my sister. There need be
no change.”
Virginia Lander drew slowly toward Ellen Nolan, and there she stood,
lofty, pale, statue-like. The audacity of this scene kindled all the
energy of her fine nature into resolute resistance.
“Cora Lander,” she said, “there is either a terrible crime in your
thoughts or this is a joke so coarse and ill-timed that I can never
forgive it.”
Ellen Nolan had been vigilant during this scene; her eyes turned sharply
from Cora to Mrs. Lander, and she observed that these women never once
looked each other in the face. She saw, too, that Mrs. Lander trembled
violently and shrunk away from Virginia even while embracing her.
“Dear lady,” she said, in a voice so sweet that it sounded strangely in
that atmosphere of discord, “come away—do come away.”
“I will,” answered Virginia, casting a look of affection on her
attendant; “I will. When I am gone, these people may come to their
senses. Eunice Hurd, I am glad to see you—very, very glad to see you. Is
my old room ready?”
“Yes; the room is ready exactly as you left it, Miss Lander. I have kept
it in order, but haven’t changed a thing. Mr. Lander wouldn’t have that
altered.”
Cora Lander turned sharply upon Eunice, and the widow lifted an
imploring look to her face. But Eunice gave her head a fierce, angry
toss, and marched up stairs, muttering defiance as she went. Virginia
followed her, treading the steps firmly as a queen enters her palace.
But for the strange obstacle which she had encountered, this poor girl
would have shrunk from entering the rooms which the presence of her
father had once made so homelike; but now all the energy of her being
was up in arms. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes burned blackly. Never
in her life had such anger filled her heart. She did not yet comprehend
the magnitude of the wrong intended her, but the single fact that some
mysticism had been practised upon her in the sacred moment when she
entered her home, an orphan and a mourner, revolted her whole being. The
tears which she would have shed for her father were turned into angry
fire by this insult offered to his memory.
“Come, Ellen,” she said, “from this hour you are my cousin and friend.”
Eunice turned sharply and looked at Ellen.
“Humph!” she muttered. “Sharp and honest! No place for her!”
A shade of feeling crept over that hard face when Eunice turned the key
in one of the chamber doors and stepped aside that Virginia might pass
her. Ellen lifted her eyes and caught the expression.
“Be good to her,” she said, in her sweet, low voice.
Eunice started and looked down upon that upturned face with the shadow
of a smile on her thin lips.
“Go in, both of you,” she said, “and take the key inside. I say nothing,
because nothing has been said to me; but just now I’d like to wring that
white neck, gold chains and all—not yourn, I don’t mean yourn,” she
added, with a swing of the hand. “Go in; go in, you’ll find your things
right, letters and all. I took care that nobody should get nested here.
There, that’ll do, turn the key. Sure bind, sure find, as the Bible
says.”
Virginia stood in the midst of her own room, half terrified, and feeling
painfully strange, while Ellen softly closed the door and turned the
key. She, poor girl, felt like a deer hunted into its lair by an
unexpected rush of hounds. She looked around—old memories came
back—there was her little writing-desk, ebony, encrusted with gold,
where many a hard lesson had been conned under the loving eyes of her
father. Close by stood a low chair, covered with rich embroidery
entraced by the hands of a mother she had never seen, save as a shadow
hovering over her first idea of life. The colors were faded, the
delicate tints of the blossoms had long since been drawn out by the
light, but it was still the dearest thing in that exquisite little
chamber—that and the desk, which had been one of the last gifts of her
father before he took her and her cousin to Europe.
Everything reminded her of that good man; his taste had selected all the
ornaments of the room. The carpet, composed of a single medallion, in
which masses of blooming flowers seemed to have been cast on newly
fallen snow, framed in with arabesques of dove-color and delicate blue,
knotted together with garlands of roses, had been of his selection. The
walls, so delicately frescoed that the designs seemed like tinted
shadows, were more his idea than the artist’s. The great carved easy
chair in which he had spent so many hours, while she was sitting at his
feet with her little porcelain slate studying out one of the problems he
delighted in teaching her. The very books that lay on that pretty table
of Oriental alabaster, inlaid with golden beetles, spoke so clearly of
him that she gave one broken cry and fell upon her knees by the great
chair, convulsed with a storm of grief which shook her from head to
foot.
“Oh, my father! my father!” she cried, “help me! help me! for it seems
as if I must die!”
A pair of feeble arms were softly flung around her, a little crooked
form crept in by the side of her superb beauty, and a voice that seemed
that of an angel pleaded also.
“Father! my father! help! help! for she is alone, with no one but me—no
one but me!”
For some moments these two voices blended in one prayer, then the sobs
that filled the room grew fainter, and the stillness of an exhausted
tempest fell upon them. Ellen was the first to move. She arose, and
going to a broad window which opened on a balcony, saw two women
standing together and conversing earnestly. They had paused a little way
from the front portico, and by the gestures of the younger person she
judged that some stormy debate was passing between them. As she looked,
Mrs. Lander held out her arms with a gesture of imploring tenderness,
and would have flung herself upon the bosom of the proud girl who stood
before her. But Cora took a swift survey around, caught a glimpse of
Ellen’s face at the window, and pushed the woman away so impetuously
that she reeled back against one of the marble pillars, and thus saved
herself from falling.
Ellen turned away from the window, convinced that some great wrong was
being done to the young creature who lay weeping, half upon the floor,
half on the great easy chair.
“Lady,” said the hunchback, “do stop crying so, and let us think what is
best to be done.”
“What can be done? He is dead—my poor father is dead, and I am so
helpless.”
“Perhaps I can think a little for you,” said Ellen, with tender
meekness. “You, sweet lady, were strong enough to carry me safely
through the deep ocean. Now let me help you.”
“But how, Ellen? What help is there for me?” cried Virginia, lifting her
beautiful face, wet with a rain of tears, to meet the kind eyes of her
attendant. “Astonishment and grief bewilders me so! What can they want?
What do they mean? They cannot be in earnest, Ellen!”
“Yes, lady, I am sure they are in earnest.”
“But he was my own father. They know it—that woman was present when I
was born.”
“Still they mean what they say, I am sure of that.”
“But it is impossible. They cannot carry it out.”
“No, no; there must be plenty of people who know you.”
“Plenty who know me—yes, yes; but we are so alike. We have been away
eight years. If her mother does not recognize the difference, who will?”
“But her mother does recognize the difference,” said Ellen, quietly.
“Then I have nothing but trouble before me!” said Virginia, sitting down
in her father’s chair and dropping both hands into her lap in an
abandonment of sorrow.
“What _can_ I do?”
“Wait, and God will show us the way.”
“But I am so helpless—more helpless than you were when I found you in
the water, poor little friend! Until my father was taken from me, I
never knew what trouble meant. Oh, Ellen! _can_ my cousin be so wicked?”
“I think she is a very wicked person, hard as rock. But God is above
all. Let me take off your bonnet, sweet lady, and smooth your hair.
Don’t, don’t shiver so—poor little hands, how the cold strikes through
your gloves! Let me kiss them warm. That’s right, lay your head on my
shoulder, it’s broad enough.”
Here the kind hunchback gave a short, sobbing laugh, and searched for an
answering smile in the beautiful face of her mistress. But Virginia
shook her head, and replied tenderly:
“Oh, Ellen! you should not do that. This honest face and true heart is
worth a thousand straight forms. How miserable I should be without you!”
“Then there is Brian, my brother, who has such a grand heart; besides he
is sharp and bright as a lawyer. Think how many friends you have close
by.”
“I will—I will.”
“That’s kind—that’s nice! Look out and see how brightly the sun shines.
That is the way God smiles when he wishes to cheer us in the midst of a
great trouble.”
“It does not seem bright to me. This is a sad return home—if it is my
home!”
Virginia fell into despondency again. She really was very helpless, but
Ellen brightened up and prepared herself for usefulness.
“This is your own room, so here we stay; but the closets are locked.
Must I ask them for the keys before I can put away your bonnet and
shawl?”
Virginia started from her seat. “No, no,” she said, taking a gold chain
from her neck, to which was attached a small master key. “My father told
me to lock everything up, and promised that nothing should be touched
till I came home again. The keys are in that Malachite box on the table.
He gave it to me just before I went away.”
Ellen unlocked the box with the tiny key, half gold, half steel, which
Virginia had worn suspended from her neck many a year.
“Here is a bunch of keys, a package of letters, and some jewelry,” she
said.
“They are my father’s letters and birthday keepsakes,” answered
Virginia, turning pale with a sudden rush of memory. “My poor mother’s
jewels, too, should be there.”
Ellen closed the box and stood with her hand on the lid, quietly
thoughtful.
“These things belong to you, sweet mistress. There may be proofs here of
the truth. Let us make sure of them.”
“What, child! do you think they would rob me of them?”
“They are robbing you already. Please open this desk and see if anything
is here.”
Virginia unlocked the desk and Ellen swept out its contents into a
corner of her shawl, which she gathered up in one hand for the purpose.
There was a quantity of papers, jewel cases and one or two books. One of
these cases fell out of her dress and broke open on the floor, revealing
a necklace and bracelets of large pearls, rolling away from their purple
satin cushion.
“They belonged to my mother. She wore them on her wedding day—that once,
but never again,” said Virginia, with tears in her eyes.
Ellen snatched up the case, huddled the pearls into their purple bed and
thrust them back among the papers.
“Where can we put them? I forgot to think of that,” she said, appealing
to her mistress.
“Wait a moment—I know of a place,” answered Virginia, drawing back the
drapery from an arched recess, fluted from roof to floor with light blue
satin. Under this was a pretty, snow-white bed, clouded in from the
chamber by curtains of lace delicate as the frost-work on a window, and
so voluminous that it seemed like sweeping back a summer cloud from the
blue of Heaven when they were thrown aside. Close by the bed stood an
exquisite little toilet table surmounted by an oval glass, in a frame
that seemed woven from the most delicate golden spray, over which a
dove, cut from mother of pearl was flying with a mass of filmy lace
drapery in its bill. An ottoman of amber colored damask stood before the
toilet.
“Here, here,” said Virginia, dropping on her knees by the ottoman and
flinging the top back, which opened on hinges.
A moment after, a peremptory knock was heard at the door. The two girls
held their breath an instant, then Ellen ran to the desk, threw the
bunch of keys into the Malachite box, and locking that, flung the chain
and key over the neck of her mistress exactly as she had been in the
habit of wearing it.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE AUDACITY OF CRIME.
Aunt Eunice had gone off to the back regions of the house with her nose
high in the air, and her thin lips pressed together in fierce wrath.
There was something going on of which she had been kept in ignorance.
Even Joshua seemed to have a share in this something, and took airs upon
himself accordingly. Did they think to cheat her? Did they fancy that
she was likely to sit still and have sand thrown in her eyes? Did they,
indeed!
Aunt Eunice gave her head a magnificent toss as she asked these terse
questions of herself, and fell to berating the servants in the kitchen
till the red of her face seemed born of brick-dust, and the fire in her
eyes grew venomous as a wild-cat’s. They absolutely blazed when she saw
Joshua striding cheerfully towards the stables, more upright in person
and free of mind than he had been for months.
Meantime Mrs. Lander and Cora were left together, standing face to face
in the hall.
Cora opened the drawing-room door and went into the room. Mrs. Lander
followed more slowly. There was sorrow and hesitation in her heart, but
the younger woman felt nothing of this. Her face wore a triumphant smile
as she looked around the room.
“Splendid draperies, and walls tinted like opals,” she said, looking
around. “Upon my word, madam, you display magnificent taste, and have
lost no time. A Turkish divan along the end of the room yonder, with
plenty of Oriental cushions, might be an improvement—though I am not
quite certain. What a lovely break in the trees that is we see from the
window. It gives one such cool glimpses of the river. Oh! Aunt, this is
a place worth having.”
“Aunt!” repeated Mrs. Lander.
“Yes, Aunt now, Aunt always. That other word is forgotten.”
“But, Cora, we are alone!”
These words were uttered in a pleading voice, through which tears were
breaking.
That young girl, so hard and self-possessed, had no patience with the
woman whose heart was not all base. She sat down in one of the most
luxuriously cushioned chairs and motioned Mrs. Lander to take a seat
close by.
“Let us understand each other thoroughly,” she said. “We have made the
first plunge hand in hand, mother and child—I find the water
exhilarating—you feel it cold and begin to shiver already. This will
never do! We are in the depths, and must swim out boldly or drown. A
little firmness, a little of that self-abnegation which is expected from
a mother who has her children’s advancement at heart, will secure
everything. If you falter, madam, we are lost.”
“Madam! Madam!” exclaimed Mrs. Lander with a sharp pain in her voice.
“You call me madam!”
“A little more of this, and I shall call you coward!” retorted the girl,
starting up from her chair with angry vehemence. “Are you tired of all
these things, that you falter so at the first step?”
“I did not think it would be so terrible that I should hate myself as I
do!”
“Terrible! Why, Aunt, we are triumphant! I am mistress here—absolute
mistress—nothing on earth can dispossess me so long as you stand
firmly.”
“But Eunice?”
“The grim housekeeper—what of her?”
“Nothing, nothing; only she knows so much.”
“What can the tigress know? and what do I care for anything she can say?
Does a mother’s knowledge of her own child require the confirmation of a
servant? Let us have no weakness of this kind, madam! We want no
confidants, and will have none. If this red-crested serpent attempts to
bite, I will crush her under my heel. Such people are to be defied, not
conciliated.”
“But you do not know her. She is sharp as steel, sly as a fox.”
“Let her search and prowl—I fear nothing but the weakness which makes
you so white and woebegone. Remember, the worst is over. Every hour will
harden your resolve and sweep away these puerile emotions. Come, come, I
love you so dearly that all this suffering recoils on me. Let us work
together, support each other. It was for your sake I did it—or mostly
that. What a paradise you have made of this place! Could you give it
up?”
“It would be like death, I know, child; but this sense of crime takes
away all sweetness from possession.”
“Sense of crime!” answered Cora, drawing the words out with a prolonged
sneer. “Was it your fault that my father happened to be miserably poor
and his brother rich? Was it mine that this poor man chanced to be my
father? After all, possession is but an accident. Am I not more capable
of appreciating all this wealth—more willing to distribute it than the
creature up stairs? Sense of crime!—I wonder at the words! Much more at
the feeling. It is only weak people who condemn themselves, even in
thought. But, if you must have them, money will supply an antidote—you
shall have no stint in your charities. I will build a church somewhere
on the grounds, and you shall own the minister, pay his salary, have
lectures six times a week, and be the Lady Bountiful of this
neighborhood. There, you almost smile. Let us take a little walk in the
grounds while my cousin and namesake reconciles herself to my old
position; I am dying to look over the place. The grounds extend ever so
far, I believe, and beyond them are any number of farms that bring in
money. Who is executor under the will? Oh, I remember. To-morrow we must
go to the city—you and I alone.”
“Come out on the grass before you talk of this,” said Mrs. Lander,
looking suspiciously around the room. “With so much drapery hanging
loose, there is no certainty against listeners.”
“You are right; this thoughtfulness looks well. Ah! here is a window
unfastened. This way. What a lovely scene it is!”
Cora Lander swept back a mass of lace and rich amber damask from one of
the windows as she spoke and stepped through, pausing under the marble
colonnade till Mrs. Lander followed her, and closed the window. Then the
little scene Ellen had witnessed transpired, and they walked together
into the centre of the lawn, where a bed of standard roses was cut into
the sward, and Cora pretended to examine the flowers as she talked.
The conversation was but a sequel to that which had passed in the
drawing room, but, in the open air and free from all chance of
listeners, Mrs. Lander spoke more freely and entered into her daughter’s
wicked plans with greater boldness. Cora was bending over a splendid
rose and inhaling its perfume with keen relish, for so keen was this
girl’s zest for pleasure that, with her mind thus sharply occupied, she
could pause for a sensuous enjoyment and receive it to the full, but a
sudden exclamation from her companion startled her away from the flower.
“What is it?” she inquired, sharply, following the wild glance which
Mrs. Lander fixed on one of the windows, and seeing the face of Ellen
Nolan looking out.
“I see nothing but that tiresome little hunchback peering at us still.”
“But she is in that room—no one has entered it since my niece—”
“Madam, that is not a title to use applied to that young lady, even in
this solitude,” said Cora, sharply.
“But the room contains all her things—her letters, her papers, her
mother’s trinkets. I never thought of that till now.”
“What folly! what madness!” cried Cora, twisting the rose she had
inhaled from its stalk with a violence that half uprooted the plant.
“That room, and all its contents, belongs to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes: I comprehend all the mischief that may spring from this; but
it was Eunice! I am sure it was Eunice!”
“Whoever has done it, there is a remedy,” replied Cora. “Come with
me—or, rather, stay here. I am mistress of the house, and will arrange
the rooms as I please.”
This idea, false and mean as it was, seemed to have filled Cora’s whole
being with pride; she lifted her head with the poise of an empress, and
giving a wave of the hand, intended to keep Mrs. Lander back, passed
into the house.
Ellen Nolan opened the door of her mistress’ chamber, and stood back
from the threshold, looking quietly in that hard, beautiful face.
Virginia had seated herself in the easy chair and sat with her anxious
face turned on the door, waiting for what might come.
“Cousin, I am very sorry to disturb you, but the housekeeper made a
mistake in sending you here. This room has always been held sacred to
myself. Your old room shall be prepared at once.”
She said this firmly, almost quietly, but there was a hard metallic tone
in the voice which betrayed something of the wonderful self-restraint
which kept her apparently so calm. “You can have more rooms if you want,
but not this.”
Virginia arose from her seat, pale and firm, but with the pain of a
wounded spirit in her face.
“Cora,” she said, in her soft, clear voice, “Cousin Cora, if this is a
joke, it is a very, very cruel one! Remember how mournful this coming
home is—no father, no mother to receive me—no relatives in the wide
world that I have ever seen except yourself and my aunt. Cora, my father
was always kind to you, considerate and generous to your mother. Think
how unseemly a joke of this kind is from her child, under his roof.”
Virginia paused a moment, wiped away the tears that were filling her
eyes, and went on with a passionate outburst.
“Or is this real, Cora Lander? That look almost warns me that it is. But
pause—pause while there is yet a chance of retreating from a fraud so
black that it must bring exposure and bitter punishment upon you and
your mother! Do not think that I shall submit; that would be to share
the infamy. Oh, Cora! Cora! remember what we have been to each other,
how dearly I have loved you! I was thinking, cousin, to make you
independent the moment I had the power. There is enough for both—enough
for us all. That hard, hard look yet! Oh! cousin, will nothing move
you?”
The color had once or twice swept like flame across Cora Lander’s face,
but it settled back instantly, leaving it of a cold, grayish white.
“I do not understand all this, cousin. That horrible fright which drove
us from the burning ship must have left your brain disturbed. It shocks
me to think so, but this scene almost forces the belief on me. For your
own sake, try to drive these strange ideas from your mind; they distress
me, indeed they do!”
Virginia stepped a pace back and fixed her gaze on that immovable face.
Every feature seemed cut out of stone. The eyes alone shrunk and fell
under that calm, rebuking scrutiny.
“I shall not speak to you again, feeling as I do how deeply-laid is the
evil in your heart. But I will at once take such steps as must ensure my
legal rights,” said Virginia, in a low, still voice, that contrasted
strangely with the grating hoarseness which broke through the forced
composure of Cora’s speech. “Heaven knows, I wished to be good to you!
It was in my heart to deal with you as if we had been what so many take
us for, twin sisters; but you will not have it so.”
Virginia’s eyes filled again and her voice faltered. She cast an
imploring glance on that hardened girl, and, with an impulse of generous
tenderness, held out her arms.
“Let it be thus, Cora. I have no craving wish for all this property—cast
this demon thought out of your soul, and let us be as sisters once more.
Half of all that I have shall be yours, only lift this awful feeling
from my heart and let us be friends again! Oh, Cora! you never will know
how dearly I have loved you! Take half—I will gladly give it.”
While she was speaking, the form of Aunt Eunice darkened the door, and
behind her stood one of the housemaids. Cora recognized their presence
at once, and quick as lightning turned upon them.
“You hear her—you hear this magnificent proposition? She will give me a
clear half of my own property! You will bear witness that she makes this
offer—she, who never had a cent on earth that did not come from my poor,
generous father!” she cried, appealing to them, and fastening Ellen with
her eyes. “She will compromise for half my inheritance, and condescend
to become my co-heiress with all the glory of a generous act upon her!
This audacity is beyond belief!”
Virginia sat down speechless and pale. The reality of this wicked design
fell upon her with appalling force.
“Take my poor cousin to some other room. In her present state it is
impossible for me to have her here,” said Cora, addressing Eunice. “The
chamber she occupied before is ready, I suppose. If not, ask my aunt to
take charge of her daughter till some better disposition of things can
be made. I much fear it will be impossible to keep her in the house. I
have seen this coming on for a long time.”
Eunice Hurd strode into the room, swept by Cora with a sniff and a toss
of the head, and went up to Virginia.
“Come here, child,” she said, almost kindly. “They have determined to
drive you out of this room, and will do it anyhow. But I’m in the house
yet, and know a thing or two that they don’t maybe give me credit for.
As if my eye-teeth wasn’t cut afore she or her mother either were born!
So she is Mr. Lander’s daughter, is she?”
Virginia recognized the rough kindness conveyed in these words, and
clung to the hard hand extended to her with gratitude.
“Yes, I will go with you, Eunice Hurd. You knew me when I was a little
baby, and used to be kind. Surely you remember me!”
“No matter whether I do or not. I’ll stand by you now, if it’s only to
learn that self-sufficient gal not to try and cheat me! Pshaw! it ain’t
to be done! Come along; I’ve got a room ready for you—purty as a picter
and neat as wax. Let her bustle about here if she wants to; but I tell
her here to her face, she can’t trample me under foot, nor her mother
neither, till I make up my mind to let ’em.”
Tortured and astonished as she had been when wounded by grief and
saddened by this mournful return home, Virginia turned gratefully toward
the only friend who had received her with kindness.
“Yes, I _will_ go with you, Eunice Hurd—Aunt Eunice we used to call you,
I remember.”
“Of course you do; and as for her—well I say nothing as yet—but,
Jerusalem! won’t she cuss the day she ever attempted to do her tall
walking over me!”
“Woman, be quiet, and take your charge from the room. To-morrow we will
have a physician. Just now I wish to be alone.”
“Hoity-toity! Who was your servant last year?” cried Eunice, putting her
red arms akimbo and shaking her fiery locks till the comb rose from them
like the crest of an angry cockatoo. “How much wages have you ever paid
me?”
“All that you will receive under this roof,” answered Cora, with a dry
laugh. “From this moment, I discharge you.”
This time Eunice gave her head a sudden jerk, that sent the comb flying
half across the room.
“You dare attempt it! you she im—, but I say nothing; only try it, if
you dare!”
Virginia, shocked and trembling under all this rude violence, arose from
her seat and walked toward the door. Eunice darted a venomous look over
her shoulder and marched after her, followed by Ellen, who looked as if
some sudden blow had fallen upon her head, bowing it down upon her
chest.
The moment the room was cleared, Cora Lander locked the door and began a
search for such objects as might prove of value to her. But the drawers
were all locked, and, save the pretty ornaments about the room, nothing
of interest to her black scheme presented itself. At last she recognized
the Malachite box, and remembered for what purpose it had been used.
That was locked, but she broke it open with a wrench of her hands, took
the keys, unlocked the desk, and found it empty.
CHAPTER XX.
EUNICE HURD EXASPERATED.
Eunice Hurd was in a state of fierce indignation when she left that girl
in the chamber which she was morally certain belonged of right to
another. So fiery and intense was her feeling, that she passed by that
wing of the building where her own empire was established, and began
marching up and down the green sward close to the house, shaking her
head viciously and flinging out her hands, as if the very atmosphere
were an enemy which she longed to grapple with. After awhile her natural
strong good sense conquered all this turbulence, and she began to think
and calculate on the existing state of things in that dwelling.
“One thing is certain,” she reasoned. “Something is going on which they
haven’t let me into, and don’t mean it. Well, that’s good for ’em. I
ain’t by no manner of means the person they can depend on to cheat a
young critter like that out of home and name. Them country cousins was
another thing. Who cared for them? But when it comes to a choice between
these ’ere two gals—one of ’em as good as pie and better, while ’tother
al’ays was a sneaking, selfish, foxy critter, jest calcerlated for this
kind o’ business, and nothing else—why it isn’t in me to take up that
side. Besides, one is liberal as all out doors, and ’tother, consarn
her! never was ginerous to anybody but herself since she was born, and
never will be. So I’ll stand up for the right. They’ve got me to tussle
with, let me tell ’em, and they’ll find out that Eunice Hurd isn’t a
baby, by no manner of means!”
Eunice paused as these thoughts filled her mind, and then went on,
sweeping the grass with the train of her purple dress, which at length
caught on something and dragged at her unmercifully. She turned with a
snarl and seized upon the branch of a rose-bush that had fastened its
thorns in her dress, and wrenched it away, flinging it to a distance.
Again she moved on, and once more a long, thorny branch rasped the rich
silk, tearing it in places.
“What on arth is this rose-bush down here for, ripping away at my dress
like all possessed? I saw the gardener nailing it up yesterday with my
own eyes, yet here it is, trailing off yards and yards in the grass, or
at any rate half of it. How came it here? There was no wind last night
to tear it down.”
While asking herself these questions, Eunice stepped backward, and was
nearly overthrown by a ladder, which lay on the sward behind her.
She turned with a fresh snarl and examined the ladder. It lay almost
directly under the window of Mrs. Lander’s room, holding down a
straggling spray of the rose-bush, which had annoyed her so.
“Somebody has been here—somebody has done this,” she muttered. “That
ladder has been moved since the dew fell, just as sure as I’m a sinner!
There’s fresh sile on the end. The gardener hasn’t been here since
yesterday forenoon. Who has?”
Eunice folded her arms here and fell into thought for a full minute.
Then she stooped down, lifted up the ladder and set the rose branch
which it had imprisoned free. It swayed back against the wall of the
building, and then Eunice saw that at least half the bush remained
firmly in its place.
“Somebody has been here. What for?” she muttered. “What for, I should
like to know?”
That moment her eyes caught two stains of fresh earth just beneath Mrs.
Lander’s chamber window—exactly such stains as the supporters of that
ladder would leave on the white marble.
“Some one has been up there,” she thought. “In at the window, as true as
I live! Jerusalem and California! that was the dream she had! They made
up this wickedness in the night, the foxes! But Eunice Hurd is peeping
into their hole, she is. That’s why the window was so wide open and the
curtain streaming out—that’s what made her snivel and shake so—as if she
could do anything in earnest without me to back her. What’s that?
Jerusalem and so forth, what is that?”
Eunice saw a fragment of cloth fluttering from an upright branch of the
rose-bush just below the window. Snatching up the ladder, she dragged it
forward, planted it against the wall, mounted it with the agility of a
cat, and came down with the fragment grasped in her hand.
“It is blue merino; is it like her dress? I’ll go in before she has time
to take it off, and make sure,” she said, in high excitement. “They mean
to cheat me, do they? Let ’em try it!”
Meantime Virginia and her little maid locked themselves in the chamber
which had been forced upon them, and there, like two caged birds, they
stood and looked at each other in pitiful helplessness. At this time
Cora was ransacking the closets and forcing the drawers in that other
chamber, which contained all the young creature’s household treasures.
“What can I do? What ought I to do?” she said, leaning her fair forehead
down on Ellen’s shoulder. “This is terrible! Only half an hour ago I was
thinking all this mine—thinking how to share it with them in a way that
might not wound their pride. Now—now, oh Ellen! I feel like a beggar!
They would rob me twice. My inheritance and my faith in the goodness of
God’s creatures they have swept off at a single swoop.”
“No, do not think that, lady. Some of God’s creatures are very, very
good.”
“You are good, Ellen; I know that.”
“And so are many, many persons that never will be known. I have heard my
father say that half the generous deeds and noble sacrifices of the
earth are such as will only be recognized in Heaven.”
“Your father had great faith in humanity, then.”
“Oh yes; he was so patient, so forbearing. He never believed that any
one could be entirely depraved, but hoped for the best and did for the
best.”
“Ah me! only yesterday I thought of the best. How everything is
changed.”
“Is it only because these people wish to wrong you and steal your name?”
“I thought yesterday,” continued Virginia, “that mourning and the
sadness which springs out of bereavement were the worst of sorrow. But
now that the bitterness of wrong has come, I know better. This lost love
and lost faith in the living is worse than death. It seems to me as if
the cousin I loved so had passed into another being. My heart aches with
bitter pain when I think of her.”
“I heard my mother say this once when we had a sharp sorrow to bear, but
_he_ soothed her and told her in his deep, calm way to leave the wicked
with God, who sometimes permits wo and strife in nations, sin in
households, that some evil may be driven out, some wonderful good
secured to the great bulk of mankind.”
“I never thought much of these things, Ellen,” said Virginia, gently.
“Indeed, I never had a trouble till now.”
“Then I am older and wiser in this way than you. I knew what hard, hard
trouble was when a little girl. It was because you suffered that I loved
you so from the first.”
“And have you been always in trouble, my poor girl?” said Virginia,
smiling sadly on that earnest face.
“No, I was happy once; but that was long ago.”
“Long ago, and you so young.”
“Am I young?” said Ellen, lifting her stag-like eyes innocently to her
mistress. “It never seemed to me so.”
Virginia sat down and drew the hunchback close to her. There was a
comfort in this, and a sense of protection, feeble as the little
creature was.
“Ellen, tell me what this trouble was. You and I are alone in the world;
I would like to know all that lies back in your life, because I love you
and trust you, Ellen.”
Tears rose thick and fast into Ellen’s eyes. She sunk down upon the
floor, half kneeling, half sitting, and uplifting her honest young face
so that her eyes looked straight into those bent upon her with such
sympathetic earnestness, smiled as people only smile when ready to make
a painful sacrifice.
“Yes, I will tell you everything, and would if death had not swept all
away. My father was what they call a gentleman once. You saw him and
know that he was one. He was married very young indeed, and his wife
died, leaving a little boy behind her that my father loved dearly; so
dearly, that he gave up everything and lived almost alone on a pretty
place he owned near Waterford, in Ireland, in order to bring the boy up
under his own care. For twelve years my father kept himself out of the
world and gave up his life to the child. Alfred had no other teacher,
and scarcely any other companion. He loved my father dearly, I think,
and I know that my father’s love for him was like worship.
“At last Alfred was sent to Heidelberg, in Germany, where a great many
young men are educated, and my father went into the world again,
commencing life as it were then. He had some property, enough for all
their wants, and more; but went to work in earnest at his profession,
ambitious for his son. After a year or two he saw my mother and married
her. More children came—first a son, who died; then my poor self;
afterward Brian, but even Brian, bright and handsome as he is, was not
to be compared to Alfred. This must be true, for all the people about
our place agreed in saying that he was the most splendid young man that
the sun ever shone upon. He came home once when I was a little child,
but I can only just remember how magnificent he seemed. My father was
expecting him to come back to Waterford and join him in the business of
his office; but he wanted to travel, and my father felt it a happiness
to work that he might enjoy.
“I think Alfred was in Paris a great deal and sometimes in London, for
my father went three or four times to both these places in order to meet
him. I was a sharp child; people like me often are, I am told; and
though my mother never spoke of it, I saw that these visits were always
followed by seasons of anxiety, and that men came more frequently to
talk with my father about loans of money. Then came discussions about
household expenses, and care on every side. So our home grew darker and
darker year by year. If Alfred had seen this, and heard my father
walking to and fro in his chamber till after midnight, as I often did,
he might have been more thoughtful. But he never came home. When he
wrote, the shadow of some great trouble always followed his letters. I
used to watch my father when he received these letters, and could see
his hands shake and his lips turn pale as he opened them.
“At last a letter came which took my father suddenly from home. We
children knew nothing of his business, but the wistful sadness in our
mother’s face made us thoughtful, even to the youngest, for there were
five of us then, not counting the splendid young fellow whom my father
loved better than us all.
“When my father came back he looked thin, and his hair had grown
white—very white for a man of his age. He was terribly cast down, and
for the first time in my life I saw tears in his eyes when he took us
one by one into his embrace. It was a miserable greeting, and we
children sat down and cried together when he took my mother into a room
alone with mournful solemnity, as if they were going to a funeral.
“When they came forth again, my mother was white as death, but there was
something in her face that told us that she was ready to make a great
sacrifice. Through all the gloom of my father’s sorrow there shone out a
grand and settled love for her. Something that she had done or consented
to do seemed to have anchored her into the very depths of his heart.”
Here Virginia interrupted the girl.
“How strangely your words sound, Ellen. They are those of a woman, not
to say a poet. I cannot realize that you are little more than a child.”
“Nor I; but I was almost always with my father, seldom with the
children—and he _was_ a poet, though I think he never wrote a word of
verse in his life. That, perhaps, is why I speak words that seem strange
and out of place.”
“Strange child—strange child,” said Virginia, tenderly. “I think we do
sometimes entertain angels unawares. But go on, I did not mean to
interrupt you.”
“That night my father gathered us all into the library for family
prayers. He did not read the service—I think his heart was too full for
that—but his prayer to God, as we all knelt around him, was like the
pleading of a sinner for mercy. It was not for himself, we all knew
that, but some thought deep in his soul broke forth in a wail of pain
that made even the little children look around upon his quivering white
face with tears in their eyes. This passionate cry of sorrow merged
itself into a swell of mournful thanksgiving for the love and comfort
which God had bestowed upon the darkness of his life, even in that black
hour. When we all arose from our knees and gathered around him, weeping
in blind sympathy, he blessed us with a smile upon his lip.
“‘Children,’ he said, ‘this is not our home. I—I have sold it and spent
the money. We are very poor people now; scarcely a family in all Ireland
is so poor.’
“‘Father, father, shall we live in a cabin and have a nice white pig to
sleep in the corner and play with, like Michael Croft?’ asked one of the
children. ‘Oh, we shall like that!’
“A faint smile quivered over my father’s mouth. He patted the little one
gently on the head. ‘Yes, child, we will live in a cabin, but it shall
be far away from here, with wild woods and green prairies to look out
upon; where no one will ever learn that we have been better bred than
our neighbors. There shall be plenty of white pigs too, little Willie,
but they must have a cabin of their own, and you shall own a young fawn
to play with.’
“‘That will be brave!’ said little Willie, clapping his hands and
laughing through his tears, while the younger ones brightened up and
scattered off into the next room, eager to talk the thing over, leaving
Brian and myself sitting together, sorrowful with thoughts that they
were too young for.
“‘Is it to America we are going?’ inquired Brian looking wistfully at
his father.
“‘Yes, my son—does the thought frighten you?’
“‘No, father. But must you work there—till the soil like a peasant?’
“‘And does my son fear that?’
“‘For my father, yes. He was born a gentleman,’ answered Brian, ‘for
myself, no.’
“‘That is bravely spoken, my boy! Fear nothing for me. The education
which unfits a man for any duty that lies before him must be imperfect
and, in so much, unworthy. You and I will take our first lesson at
wood-chopping together, while Ellen here shall help her mother with the
housework. We may be very happy in the far West. No one will think of
inquiring there how much or how little we have worked before.’
“He spoke cheerfully, and looked at my mother, who put her hand softly
into his and smiled upon him.
“‘You see this is not so terrible, after all. I knew the children would
not complain,’ she said, in her low, tender voice. ‘We shall only love
each other the better in a strange country. _He_ may yet join us there.’
“My father turned a grateful look upon her, but gave no answer in words,
though a gloom slowly gathered over his face and he sighed heavily.
“Brian went up to him and rested one hand on his shoulder.
“‘Father, I will be a good son, and if ever the time comes that he wants
kindness from a brother, let him try me.’
“Then my father burst into tears. I had never seen him weep before; but
now he sobbed like a child.
“‘Who told you anything of this?’ questioned my mother, fluttering like
a wounded dove around its mate. ‘Why does a child of mine speak in this
way?’
“‘No one has told us anything,’ answered Brian, ‘but we feel, and our
hearts speak.’
“‘See how you have hurt him,’ she said, still dissatisfied.
“‘No, no; I am not hurt. This is gratitude. Why should we hold aloof
from the sympathy of our children? It needs no words. Brian, you and I
will be fellow-workers—fast friends—we understand each other.’
“‘I wish you could feel in earnest how much I love you,’ said Brian,
standing up proudly, like a man.
“‘I did not know myself till now. Here is Ellen, too, with such
sorrowful eyes—’
“‘It is because I am so helpless,’ I answered, when the great swell of
my heart would let me speak. ‘Because I can do nothing.’
“‘Is it nothing that you can be your mother’s comforter and mine?’ said
my father, gathering me in his arms. ‘What could we do without you, my
Ellen?’
“In this mood we broke up that pleasant old home—sold everything, and
with a little money—so little that we could not afford a first-class
passage, even for my mother—went on board that steamer. You know the
rest, but you do not know how often I stood on the verge of our limits
on the deck watching you as you read or talked. Dear lady, my heart went
towards you at the first glance: I longed to throw myself at your feet
as you lay on that white rug, to kiss the hem of your dress. When the
fire broke out—”
Virginia lifted both hands to her face and shrunk back in her chair,
moaning with pain of that awful memory.
“I wanted to tell you something more about my father,” said Ellen, in a
low, penitent voice. “I did not mean to hurt you so. When the fire raged
fiercest, and there was no longer a hope, my father gathered us close to
the bulwark—all but Brian, who had gone to the other side of the deck,
where a boat still swung with its tackling half burned away. While they
were trying to right it, all the cordage parted and it plunged into the
ocean stern foremost, almost carrying Brian with it. A great body of
flame burst up from the deck, separating us with a storm of fire. Then
my father turned away with his face to the water, and said to my mother
and myself what he had wished to say to Brian.
“‘My wife—my child—some of us may be saved. There is no torture in
drowning. Fear nothing worse than death. They have flung spars and
planks into the water; one of you may reach them, and so float till a
ship comes up. Should this happen to either of you, remember the charge
I give. Some time in life you may meet him—I mean my eldest son, Alfred
Nolan—keep nothing back, tell him all that you have seen, all that you
have thought. Say to him that the last words of his father before he
went into eternity were these—remember them well, there may be a soul’s
salvation in them—say to him: Your father dies blessing you, praying for
you, rather than his own life. Say—and mark the words well—that his
father would gladly die this horrible death even of fire, if its agonies
could redeem his son. Tell him that you saw the flames swooping toward
me as I said this—that the fire was roaring under my feet and leaping
into the sky, leaving only a moment of life, which I used for him. Tell
him that the innocent children that will go down with me into eternity
are less dear to me than the one guilty son for whom my last breath of
prayer shall be given. Say that I perish believing that out of my fiery
grave will come repentance, regeneration, and perhaps a useful future to
him. Will you tell him this, my child, my wife?’
“‘We will! we will!’ cried out two voices, blending in a solemn promise.
“Mother stood by, white and trembling, with the little ones clinging to
her skirts. She looked down upon them with low moans of pain, and on her
part clung to the garments of my father. I think if the fire had leaped
upon us then we should have perished embracing each other. The fire did
leap upon us, and went roaring after us foot by foot till we were driven
to the bow, where you stood crowded close with that good man. Then Brian
came through the flames, determined to die with us. We two were saved,
and these last words of our father are all that we brought with us out
of the deep. Some day, lady, I shall see and know my brother Alfred.”
“It was an awful scene; my whole being shudders when I think of it!”
cried Virginia, quivering with the terror of her own memories. “We are
here—you and I, safe; but, ah! me alone! Ellen, I am glad you told me
about this noble father. I saw him then, and the very remembrance fills
me with a solemn trust in the eternal justice of God. Let us watch and
be patient. One person we can trust, and that is your brother. He has a
bright, honest face, like yours, dear—only—”
“More life in it; and his figure is so straight and tall. What a man he
will make!” cried Ellen, brightening all over. “You would not think it,
but he has the pride of a nobleman. That is why he will not acknowledge
to the education which cost his father so much trouble. He does not wish
to be thought a gentleman’s son. As for me, no one would ever suspect
good blood or gentle breeding here. So I pass without question. The
first sight decides my claims to notice. Even that red-haired woman
settled me with a sweep of her hand into something more insignificant
than a servant.”
“Let them think what they will, Ellen. It is enough that I know and love
you as a dear friend,” said Virginia, smoothing the waves of lovely hair
that shaded that earnest face.
“Hush, some one is coming,” said Ellen starting to her feet; “they must
not find me here leaning on my mistress. Shall I open the door?”
There was a knock and the jingle of china in the passage.
“It is Eunice Hurd, I think,” said Virginia, trembling, for the scene of
that morning had shaken her nerves sadly. “Let her in; she seemed
friendly.”
The door was opened and a servant came in with a great silver tray
between her outstretched arms, on which was a delicate tête-à-tête set
of Sèvres china, some glittering silver, and all the paraphernalia of an
epicurean breakfast.
“I thought I’d bring it up here, as you didn’t seem to hitch hosses with
them people down stairs,” said Eunice Hurd, marching after the servant.
“They haven’t taken a morsel yet. Other things to think of, I suppose.
How do you feel now, Miss Lander? Chirker than you did, I reckon. At any
rate, here’s a briled chicken and some biscuit, and _sich_ butter.
Remember the cheny, I calculate?”
While she was speaking, Eunice, opening out a rosewood card-table,
spread a damask cloth upon it with both her large, red hands, while the
purple moire antique shook and rustled under her quick motion.
“Reckoned you would,” she muttered on. “Twelve years old the day he
brought this set of china home. Thought it was for the big wax doll at
first. Mercy on us, how he did laugh! Most people would have let ’em all
been broken up, but I ain’t of that sort. There, marm, is a cup of
coffee smoking hot, and plenty of cream to settle it down—and sich cream
too! The cows have grown so dainty that they won’t touch any thing less
than white clover, with nipping from the rose leaves and apple blossoms
when they flutter into the grass—queer critters, them English cows are;
and sich milk as they give! The calves had a nice time of it this
spring, I can tell you. There’s a snow-white one, with a black spot
shooting up its forehead like an Injun arrow, Joshua wouldn’t have it
killed nohow till you got home. It’s a beauty, I tell you! anything
more, Miss? I’d stay and hand the things my own self, only Miss
What’s-her-name will be prowling inter the kitchen, for anything I know.
Make yourself to home, for it _is_ home so long as Eunice Hurd is under
this roof.”
Eunice gathered up her purple dress with both hands, and was marching
out of the room, then she turned back and added:
“If the little flippertegibbet has a mind to, she can come down any time
and tell me if you want anything—wouldn’t go near the madam or that gal,
if I was you.”
Eunice retreated with these words, sniffing the air as she went.
CHAPTER XXI
MRS. LANDER AND CORA VISIT LAWYER STONE.
Eben Stone was in his office, sitting at a black walnut desk,
honey-combed with pigeon-holes and bristling with papers, given endwise
to the light. He occupied the most remote of three rooms, all carpeted,
with green; along each carpet, from door to door, a footpath was trodden
into the fabric revealing its hempen foundation, as grass is worn from a
meadow track. This footpath bespoke many clients, and the whole
surroundings a prosperous business. Indeed few lawyers of the city
boasted a larger practice or higher standing in the courts than Eben
Stone.
It was not often that this man lost his equanimity, but he was a little
astonished when a clerk from the front office came into his room,
followed by the widow Lander and a young lady, so like Lander’s
daughter, as he remembered her, that the resemblance really startled
him.
The widow sat down in a chair placed for her by the clerk, but did not
lift her crape veil, though the young lady put hers aside with a rather
defiant sweep of the hand.
“Mr. Stone, I have come to you at once,” said the widow, moving
nervously in her chair; “something so strange has happened. Please to
look on this young lady and tell me if you know her?”
The lawyer, who was a handsome man for his years, which had numbered at
least fifty, turned his fine gray eyes on the girl with a look of
puzzled recognition.
“But that I am certain it is impossible, madam, I should say, allowing
for growth and time, that this young lady might be Lander’s daughter.”
“You have remembered rightly, sir,” said the widow, starting up with
nervous eagerness. “She is Mr. Lander’s daughter, saved from the wreck
almost by a miracle—restored to us only two days ago.”
“And Lander—my friend Lander!” exclaimed Stone, eagerly. “What of him?”
The widow shook her head, and her black veil waved mournfully.
“He is dead, sir; my brother and benefactor went down with the steamer.”
“And your own child?” inquired the lawyer, in a restrained voice.
Mrs. Lander’s black-bordered handkerchief went up under the veil, which
was mournfully agitated again.
“Not dead, I hope,” exclaimed the lawyer. “Dear me, that is terrible!”
“Not dead, but so much worse. Oh! Mr. Stone, I fear she is insane!”
“Insane!”
Mr. Stone turned his eyes on the young girl as he said this. He saw
nothing in her handsome face but a look of gentle concern.
“It was the exposure,” she said in reply to his look, “the horrible
scene of the fire, that drove her out of her mind, sir. She is not
violent—far from it—but I sometimes think it would have been better if
she had never been picked up. Why, sir, she does not know her own
mother!”
“She does not, indeed, Mr. Stone!” cried the widow, sobbing out the
words from behind her veil. “Refused to own me from the first—fancies
that she is Mr. Lander’s child, and sets herself up for the heiress! You
have no idea how painful it is!”
Mrs. Lander was evidently in a sad, nervous state; she began to sob
piteously, and trembled so much that the young lady put one arm around
her and made a gentle effort at consolation.
“She is so disappointed—so sadly harassed by her daughter’s reproaches,
sir! You can imagine what it is!” she said, turning her beautiful face
on the lawyer. “My heart aches for them both.”
“It is a mournful state of things, certainly,” said the lawyer, with
earnest sympathy.
“What can be done—what steps shall we take regarding my poor cousin? I
would give half my father’s estate to-morrow, sir, if that would restore
her mind. Oh! sir, you have no idea what a lovely character she is—or
was before this horrible calamity fell upon her. So fond of me, so
grateful to my father. Indeed that she might well be, for he made no
difference between us. Pray tell me what can be done for her—you are my
father’s old friend—point out some way for us. My poor aunt, here, is
breaking her heart.”
The impetuous feeling with which these words were spoken carried the
sympathies of the lawyer with it. The bright, generous glow of that face
made even his practised heart beat quicker.
“I cannot advise, I cannot even judge correctly,” he said, “without
having seen the young lady. It is a hard case—a very hard case.”
Here Mrs. Lander bowed her head gloomily and sobbed out:
“Ah! sir, you cannot think how I suffer! How sadly all this has shaken
my nerves!”
“But your daughter is not dangerous. I think you told me that she is
never violent.”
“Not exactly violent as yet. But her conduct in the house is very
distressing. She has locked herself into her old room with a little
deformed creature saved from the wreck, and refuses to come out. But the
servants get access to her, and she talks to them as if she were
mistress of the house. As for her cousin and myself, she seems to hate
us.”
“That is no unusual thing with insane people,” said the lawyer. “It
often happens that they take dislikes to those nearest and dearest; but
this may only be temporary. Has any physician seen her?”
“No one has seen her,” answered the widow. “We came to you, as her
uncle’s old friend, first.”
“Still, I think a physicians’s opinion important.”
“What physician would you recommend?” inquired Cora Lander.
“Any respectable practitioner. There must be one in your neighborhood.
Indeed, if it should become imperative to shut her up, two would be
necessary.”
“Oh, don’t! don’t speak of that!” exclaimed the young girl. “The very
thought wounds me.”
“Still it may become necessary,” said the lawyer. “In what way was she
first taken?”
“I can hardly tell,” answered Cora. “At first she was terribly
depressed, and mourned continually over the loss she had met with in the
death of my dear father, whom she persisted in calling _her_ father. At
first I did not correct her, for sometimes she had, in a caressing way,
called him father on board the steamer. But when I heard her constantly
doing this—with such deep earnestness, too—I spoke to her about it, when
she flew at me like a fury, told me that I only wanted to cheat her out
of the property and take her birthright from her. From that day she has
been possessed with this wild idea. When she came home, after all our
troubles, and found her mother yearning to receive her, she absolutely
pushed the dear lady aside, and refused to recognize her. Dear, dear
aunt, don’t look so sad! it breaks my heart! Indeed, sir, you cannot
blame her if she does give way. Oh! Mr. Stone, it was a terrible
disappointment! Poor mother! poor, dear aunt! why how you shiver!”
Mrs. Lander was indeed trembling, and her pallid face looked frightful
through her crape veil. She had told no more than the truth; her nerves
were dreadfully shaken.
“I can endure this no longer!” she exclaimed, starting up in wild haste.
“It wrings my heart to hear you say these things, Cora Lander!”
Cora broke off in her speech and looked steadily in Mrs. Lander’s eyes.
They were wild and impatient. The conversation had evidently overtaxed
her strength.
“Well, dear aunt, we will drop the subject,” she said, sweetly. “It is
painful to us all. Mr. Stone understands how it is with my cousin, and
will think for us. We are so helpless, sir.”
There was a quick decision in all this which did not strike that keen
lawyer as so very helpless. But he made his observations and said
nothing. Once, Mrs. Lander lifted her veil and turned a long, wistful
look upon him, as if there was something she wished to say, but the veil
dropped again, and she went out, following Cora Lander to the carriage.
CHAPTER XXII.
ANOTHER STRANGE VISIT.
Mr. Stone sat a long time after the two women left him, playing idly
with his paper-knife, dissatisfied, he could not tell why, and restless
even to irritability. Why was it that, from the very beginning, he had
been possessed of unreasonable doubts and suspicions, so vague that they
melted into nothingness when questioned closely by his reason? Why was
it that he could like neither Mrs. Lander nor her Beautiful as the
creature was, she utterly failed to touch one chord of his heart or
charm one ray of his intellect.
“She has the Lander look and the Lander voice,” he said. “I felt the
tones as if my old friend had been speaking, but the air, that one
glance of the eye, those never belonged to my friend Amos.”
While Stone was thus thoughtfully playing with his folder and frowning
heavily over it, the young man from the outer office broke in upon him.
“Two more ladies, sir.”
“Two more, James!”
“Miss Lander and Miss Nolan. They want to speak with you.”
“Send them in—send them in.”
Again the bachelor office was darkened by two females in deep mourning.
One, the tallest, struck him so completely as the girl he had just
parted with, that he started up in astonishment and stood gazing upon
her with softened feelings, for the expression he had not quite liked
was gone, and a sweet sadness, such as he had often seen on Amos
Lander’s features in his hours of grief, had taken its place.
“Sir—sir, you were my father’s friend, I know,” said the young lady, but
with more impressive earnestness than had marked the conversation of his
other visitor. “I have come to you in my distress—in my utter, utter
helplessness!”
“Tell me first exactly who you are, young lady,” said the lawyer,
nervously laying down and taking up his paper-knife. “Have I seen you
before to-day?”
“I am the daughter, the only daughter of Amos Lander, an old friend and
client of yours, if you are Mr. Stone. No, we have not met in eight
years.”
“I am Mr. Stone, undoubtedly, and knew Amos Lander.”
“I know, I know; I ought to have remembered you anywhere,” said the
young lady, seating herself.
“His daughter and his brother’s widow were here only a few minutes ago,”
said the lawyer, fixing his keen eyes on that lovely face.
Virginia met his glance with the earnest, grieved look of a child
innocently maligned.
“That cannot be. I am the daughter of Amos Lander,” she said, with
gentle dignity.
The lawyer looked at her earnestly. Surely there was no insanity in that
face. Truth itself was not more pure.
“I almost believe you,” he said. “I almost believe you.”
“Oh! believe her quite, for all that she says is true,” cried the young
girl who stood by her chair, advancing close to the lawyer and lifting
her honest eyes to his. “There is some great wickedness here, sir. That
hard, bad young woman, who looks so like my lady, is determined to drive
her from her own home, to take all her money—her name—everything—and
send her out to die. Here—here, where my young lady had a right to
expect friendship, she has been robbed of the last friend her father
had! It is a terrible, terrible thing they are attempting to do, sir.”
“And who is it that talks so boldly, and so well, I must say?”
questioned Stone, more and more bewildered.
“I, sir—I am only a poor girl whose life she saved—a helpless creature
that can do but little good in the world—God help me—but so long as I
can speak, or think, or look, I will protest against the wrong these
bad, bad women are doing to her.”
“You speak of the widow Lander and her niece, I think.”
“I speak of the widow Lander and her daughter—the two persons who have
just been here. They are in a plot to rob my young lady—I have watched
them, sir, with all my heart and all my brain, for both belong to her.
This is what they are doing.”
“Sit down, young lady, and let us talk more calmly; these are strange
things you are telling me.”
“But you will help her?”
“I would help Amos Lander’s child in any way. Only let us understand
each other.”
“There is little to explain,” said Virginia, putting aside her veil and
drawing close to the table, on which her arm rested. “You know that my
father, Amos Lander, had but one child.”
“I know.”
“I, sir, am that child.”
The lawyer bent his head, but made no observation.
“My father was lost at sea, you know how.”
“Yes, yes; no need to pain yourself with the story; I know about it.”
“You know as well as I do that he took the widow of my uncle into his
house—her only child was made one of the family, and in all things
treated as a daughter. Eight years ago we went to school in Europe,
studied together, and in all things continued to be as sisters. We had
the same name exactly, Cora Virginia Lander. She, being a little the
elder, was named after my mother, who afterwards gave her name to me on
the very day of my birth. Thus we were scarcely to be distinguished from
each other. True she took the name of Cora, and I bore that of
Virginia—after we went to Europe, reversing what had been before. But we
looked so much alike that there was constant confusion in the names, and
our signatures were exactly the same. We liked this; it pleased us to be
mistaken for each other, especially as Cora loved people to think her
the heiress, and I cared nothing about it. I remember when my father
came she saw him before I did, and tried to make him believe that it was
his child who claimed the first kisses. But she failed. He knew the
difference at once, and was angry with her for trifling with him. I
never saw him so much excited before or since.”
“Was any one present when he rebuked her?” asked the lawyer.
“No; we were alone. I think Cora was offended at this, for she was
sullen and unkind for days and days after that. But we soon went on our
travels and it all wore off for a time. Papa was known to a good many
persons on board the steamer when we returned home, and they made a
distinction that wounded Cora dreadfully. It was not our fault. Papa was
kind as kind could be to her, but he had not seen his own child in so
long, and loved her so dearly, that he also seemed to put Cora aside. It
was not intentional, and she carried herself proudly under the pain but
I knew that it was there. Then came that awful, awful day.”
“And how did she behave then?”
“Sir,” broke in the hunchback, “she saw a boat putting stealthily from
the steamer and plunged into the sea, screaming to be taken in—not one
word to the old man whom she now claims to be her father—not one look on
her cousin. She left them like a coward and saved herself—I saw it all,
I saw it all.”
“Then you saw her abandon Amos Lander and seek her own safety?”
“Yes, I did. I saw also this lady, his child I know, stand between him
and the flames till her garments were scorched. I saw them driven inch
by inch before the howling flames, till they leaped together, clinging
to each other from the bow. He begged her to go first, but she would
not. Even in the water, she went swimming to and fro searching for him,
and crying out to know if we had seen him. Then she saved me; bore me
through the water when she was herself sinking—and that wicked girl sat
in the boat watching us. I tell you, sir, she would not let the men come
to our help. One of them told me so afterward. She wished them to see
her cousin die that she might claim her inheritance. I saw this from the
first. When my lady was taken, senseless and white, into the boat, that
girl felt for her heart, and almost laughed when she found how cold and
still it was; but when those poor lips moved and the dear eyes opened,
Cora Lander’s face grew deadly. It was like that of a fiend. Oh! sir,
she is a wicked, wicked girl!”
Ellen spoke with the energy of truth. Her fine eyes filled with light,
every feature of her face beamed with honest indignation. She swept away
even the cool reason of the lawyer with her enthusiasm.
“Go on,” he said; “tell me all that passed after this. You have been
with these two ladies ever since the shipwreck, I believe?”
“Yes, always,” answered Ellen. “With all my brain and all my heart, I
have been watchful over the lady who saved my life. I felt that some
evil thought slept under the frowns that girl could not invariably
conceal. I have spoken again and again of the wealth which would belong
to my lady, always to see that curved lip grow white over the set teeth,
and an evil fire flash into those eyes which could not be concealed even
by the drooping lashes. That girl, sir, from the very first had resolved
to personate my lady and thus rob her. How she came to an understanding
with her mother I do not know; but of one thing I am certain, they met
before that morning. There was mutual trust and mutual dread between
them. The girl had mastered her mother. From the first moment of our
return she has ruled her with a rod of iron. She is fearless,
unscrupulous—terribly wicked.”
Ellen broke off and began to pace the floor, clasping and unclasping her
hands in her unexhausted excitement.
“It is a base, wicked, deep design,” she said, “and they will
succeed—they will succeed!”
“You have an ardent friend there, and it may be one who can return the
debt she owes you,” said the lawyer addressing Virginia. “Now tell me,
if you can, how far your own impressions go with hers. Tell me all that
has passed—do not allow yourself to be excited—try and speak calmly, I
have plenty of time and will listen.”
“Oh, I am not excited. This trouble seems so small after the terrible
sorrow of his death, that I am likely to give it less importance than it
deserves. Ellen has spoken the simple truth in every particular. She has
been with me all the time, and having her suspicions excited, has
observed keenly. She is not generally uncharitable, and has no cause to
judge my cousin harshly. One thing is certain, Cora has assumed my name,
my identity, and will, if I have no power to check her, despoil me of my
father’s property. She has even attempted to confine me in my own house.
Ellen and I escaped from it as if from a prison.”
“Did she give you no reason for this attempted confinement?”
“None; in truth I have not seen her since she drove me from my old
room.”
“Drove you from your old room! But give me all the particulars. Let me
know everything that passed—I would rather hear the facts from your own
lips.”
Virginia obeyed him quietly, and with less betrayal of excitement by far
than Ellen had exhibited; her voice was clear, her narrative connected
and her language temperate. Tears came into her eyes once or twice as
she spoke of her keen disappointment on returning home, but there was
not a trace of mental derangement in anything she said or connected with
her manner.
The lawyer watched her keenly as he possessed himself of the facts.
Every instant he saw some trait in her face, some tone of her voice,
which reminded him painfully of his old friend. These shades of
expression he had not remarked in the other face. In features the two
appeared so completely alike that the resemblance was startling; but
that which impressed the lawyer most forcibly was an indefinite air—a
shade of the soul which no court of law could ever be made to recognize.
“This is Amos Lander’s daughter, and she is sound of mind as I am,” he
thought, “but how to prove it—how to prove it. If that woman persists in
claiming her and renouncing the other, what evidence can be brought to
refute the perjury? Who shall claim to know more of a child than its own
mother?”
Then the lawyer remembered what had been said of Virginia’s insanity.
What was the object? Did they intend to make this an excuse for getting
her out of the way? Such things had been, even in the close neighborhood
of New York, and in the nineteenth century. This case, take it for all
in all, was the strangest and most incomprehensible that had ever came
within the lawyer’s practice. How was he to unravel it?
For some time, Stone remained pondering over these points of the case,
that seemed most complicated, and the two girls sat by in silence,
waiting for him to speak. At last he looked up.
“Did this woman know that you were coming here?” he said.
“No, she left in the early train; they both left. Then a woman in the
house, whom they seemed to have offended—”
“Eunice Hurd?”
“Yes, Eunice Hurd came, unlocked our door, and told us to go out and get
some air. She was mistress just then, and didn’t mean to make prisoners
of us or let anybody else. We put on our bonnets and went out to the
terrace. A train was just that moment in sight. It stopped—we sprang in
and were on our way here before any plan of the kind had been thought
of.”
“That is well. Now take the next train back. It is possible that you may
reach home before Mrs. Lander and her companion. Say nothing of your
excursion. Do not mention my name, but if they bring any strange men to
see you, let me know at once.”
“I had thought that you would perhaps advise me to leave the house,”
said Virginia, “it is so very painful living under the same roof—”
“Leave the house, and so give them possession—nine points of the law
flung up at once—not a bit of that—stay where you are—keep together and
give them a free rope. That is my advice. But if they make any desperate
move, send for me. If possible, make friends with that hard-faced
termagant with the red hair. She may be useful.”
“She has been kind to us—very kind in her way,” said Virginia. “I think
she knows me.”
“Heaven send that they exasperate her—but they will, she is forever on
an edge, and this successful audacity will be sure to turn the girl’s
head. That is the way crafty persons usually defeat themselves. It is
the small people whom we despise too much for conciliation that play the
mischief with us. This girl will run into some mistake of the kind, be
sure of that; but we must give her time, plenty of time. Things will all
come out right, I dare say.”
“The power of justice lies with God,” said Virginia, solemnly. “Why
should we fear to wait?”
“Wait and work—wait and work, my dear child! Never trust entirely to the
Lord while you can work for yourself. Remember he has given you energies
to use, and these are his instruments. I do not know what your clergyman
might say on the subject, but that is a lawyer’s opinion.”
“I cannot realize that my cousin really means to defraud and displace
me. It seems like some hideous dream,” said Virginia, sighing heavily.
“Make up your mind to that, young lady. She is in deadly earnest, and
the Evil one seems to have helped her. Never in my experience have I
seen a fraud so thoroughly hedged in. The mother is her tower of
strength. But they will quarrel. Wait awhile and they will be sure to
quarrel. The elder woman has some conscience; as for the other—well,
it’s hard to think a creature so rarely beautiful has no soul, but, upon
my word, all this seems like it! How cool she was—how thoroughly
self-possessed—and yet there is fire and all sorts of passion in her
eyes.”
“Will my young lady be safe under the same roof with her?” questioned
Ellen.
“Safe?—Yes, I hardly think the creature would commit murder, at any rate
as yet. Young lady, I repeat my advice—return to your father’s house and
rest there for a few weeks, or months if it seems best; at least till I
can thoroughly look into this case. No harm can reach you there. Accept
the position she forces upon you—be vigilant, and let this young person
keep her wit sharpened—we have a difficult game to play and must use all
our resources.”
Virginia gathered the dark drapery of her shawl around her, and prepared
to go. The interview had depressed her greatly, and everything seemed
surrounding her with gloom.
“I wanted rest so much—so much,” she said, mournfully.
“That will come—only be hopeful and patient,” said the lawyer, kindly.
“Meantime you have a good friend in this girl, and in me.”
“I trust you, sir; you were his friend—I trust, and will obey you as if
it were himself.”
“That is well—that is well. Now hasten back, and let no one learn that
you have been here.”
Virginia clasped the hand held out to her and went away very sorrowful.
Everything confirmed her deepest cause of grief, the utter unworthiness
of the cousin she had trusted as a friend and loved as a sister.
The two girls reached the railroad depot and took seats in the returning
train, depressed and so weary that neither of them spoke until they came
within view of that white marble building which was Virginia’s home. How
strangely it had altered since she had looked upon its Grecian pillars
and sculptured façade the day before. It was no longer her home—no
longer a place of hoped-for rest, but its white walls loomed before her
like those of a prison. The hot atmosphere of strife had poisoned all
its flowers and darkened the very sunlight which fell around it.
Virginia and Ellen wandered awhile among the shrubbery before they
entered the house. Virginia was depressed and so heavy-hearted that even
the beautiful world of blossoms that surrounded her failed to brighten
her face or win an admiring glance. For the time her soul fell into a
depression so mournful that she longed to sink down among the flowers
and die there. The two beings she most loved on earth were dead. One had
gone into eternity through those terrible gates of fire which seemed
forever burning before her. The other—ah! more painful still—had sunk
into those black depths of sin, shame and dishonor into which her pure
soul could not look without shuddering.
The grave consecrates its dead—but sin embalms the soul in eternal
poison.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WAYSIDE TAVERN.
The railroad depot, which we have had occasion to mention more than
once, stood a little in advance of a small cluster of houses which
occupied a space of flat ground lying between it and the river. Among
these houses was a small hotel, or tavern, at which travellers going
back into the country sometimes stopped, and which frequently held
guests from the city weeks together for as a transient boarding house,
it was well kept and pleasantly situated. This hotel and the surrounding
houses were completely shut out from the white mansion by the fine old
grove we have described, which swept up to the last slope of the
terraces and ended there in a beautiful wilderness, through whose cleft
heart came a bright gush of running waters.
Of all the lovely nooks which made that domain almost a paradise, this
piece of wildwoods was the most beautiful. But it lay some distance from
the house, while some of the great trees that grew upon its outskirts
almost sheltered the little hotel, and the inland stream rushing by one
end, gave it a rural aspect which can seldom be attained even from a
union of trees and running water.
To this hotel, a few days after the Miss Landers returned home, came
young Seymour, quite alone and with only a small valise by way of
baggage. A handsomely-mounted fowling piece, some fishing tackle and a
basket, that seemed never to have been used, were left at the depot, for
which the landlord sent his boy at once, for the young man, after an
examination of his room and some general inquiries, expressed himself
delighted with the accommodations, and determined to stay some days,
weeks perhaps, and see what sport could be found in the neighborhood.
The landlord was delighted; never had his door been darkened by a
presence so imposing. The extreme beauty of this man’s face, his
manners, at once dignified and cordial, charmed every one with whom he
came in contact. He was delighted with the room assigned to him,
remarked pleasantly on its white bed and the muslin curtains which let
in such lovely glimpses of green shadows and sparkling water, and
expressed general satisfaction. It was a lower room, and a quaint
affair, half door half window, opened from it to a little verandah.
Below this balcony the brook went eddying and laughing till lost in the
darkness cast by a plank bridge which crossed the highway and hushed it
into stillness for the space of thirty feet or more, when it broke forth
in a riot of sweet sounds and went dancing and sparkling off to its
death in the vast sweep of the Hudson.
After giving orders about his gun and fishing tackle, Seymour looked at
his watch and inquired what he could have for dinner.
“A broiled chicken, would that do—with splendid potatoes fresh from the
garden, custard and apple pie?”
“Add materials for a salad and exchange the pie for a ripe peach, and
nothing could be better,” Seymour answered.
The landlord went out delighted. He had a private understanding with
Mrs. Lander’s gardener, and made himself sure of such peaches as the
young gentleman had seldom eaten before.
“There,” muttered Seymour, as the man went out, “this broiled chicken
will help me through an hour, then give ten minutes to the fruit, and a
cigar or two will bring me close upon sunset. I wonder which way the
house lies from here.”
He took a note written on paper of a faint violet color from his bosom
and murmured softly to himself as he read it:
“There is a room on the ground floor which you must secure if possible.
It opens on an old-fashioned verandah, but little used, from which steps
run down to a footpath which leads along the margin of the brook, till
it ends in the strange summer-house I have described. There, my beloved,
I shall be waiting for you with an impatience which swells my heart and
burns upon my face even as I write, hours and hours from the time when I
can hope to see you. Do not fail, the disappointment would kill me if I
should go to that place and find it empty. I will not go till the very
hour—to wait would be an agony of suspense. I must find you watching,
impatient—counting each moment which keeps me from you as an enemy to be
wrestled with and hated. But I might keep on forever and say nothing
that will satisfy the heart which struggles and swells in my bosom in a
wild effort to reach yours. At sunset, remember—at sunset.”
The young man kissed this impassioned note more than once before he
placed it near his heart again, for with all his wayward soul he loved
the young creature who wrote it.
“Remember the sunset—as if I could forget! Oh! she is a glorious
creature, full of genius, ardent, earnest—a woman to live for and die
for! How her thoughts leap to mine! I could be the hound, the slave of a
woman like that and feel it no degradation, for she loves me—she loves
me, and I adore her!”
Seymour walked the room to and fro with restless impatience. The note
had broken up all the listless placidity of his manner. He longed to
tread the hours under his feet which lay between him and his love. To
most men the unwomanly warmth of that note would have brought something
like repulsion; but Seymour only loved her the better for this abandon.
Fresh from Southern Europe, he brought with him its fire and its
intensity of feeling.
The dinner was brought in at last and placed upon a round table, covered
with a cloth white and glossy as crusted snow.
With all his sentiment, Seymour was hungry but fastidious as an epicure.
He sent the broiled chicken back to be kept warm while he used up a
little time in mixing a salad to his taste. That was so much gained. He
was fifteen minutes nearer the sunset and had produced a delicious salad
before the covered dishes were brought in again. Everything was well
cooked and delightfully fresh. Simple as the meal was, he ate it with
exquisite relish, finding this a pleasant way of passing the time. The
landlord came in at last and inquired if his guest was satisfied with
his dinner.
Seymour had just taken a peach in his hand and fastened his white teeth
in its crimson side. He took the peach from his lips with a sigh of
sensuous enjoyment, and answered in a single word, “Delicious!”
“This is indeed a glorious fruit,” he said, eyeing the juicy pulp and
crimson coat of the peach he had half eaten with intense admiration;
“and seems fresh from the tree. Not of your own growing, surely?”
“No,” answered the landlord, with a bland smile, “they were a present
from Mrs. Lander’s gardener. Wall peaches sir, and picked ones at that.”
“And who is Mrs. Lander?” asked Seymour with apparent unconcern. “Some
Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood?”
“She is—or was the lady of the white marble house which you passed a
quarter of a mile back—but I really do not know who it belongs to now.
Mr. Lander’s daughter has come back and everything is claimed by her, I
am told.”
“And is it a large property?”
“Immense, and falls, every dollar of it, to that young girl.”
“Indeed!” said Seymour, pushing the plate of fruit from him. “And the
other—I beg pardon, but did not you say that there was a relative?”
“No, sir, I don’t remember mentioning it. But there is a cousin, brought
up in the house, the very image and picture of the young lady, but poor
as a church mouse—hasn’t a dollar that I know of independent of her rich
cousin. Besides she’s said to be—I don’t answer for it remember—but
she’s said to be a little wild, wrong about the head, you know. The
fright of that awful shipwreck unsettled her; but it’s to be hoped that
it will go off. Quiet and her native air will do wonders the doctors
say.”
Seymour was puzzled and a good deal mystified, but he did not venture on
questioning the landlord too closely. “There must be some mistake,” he
thought; “both the young ladies were bright as larks ten days ago. This
must be village gossip, but at nightfall I shall learn everything.”
The landlord, finding the conversation droop, went out, and a servant
came in to remove the table and set the room to rights. Seymour stood by
the window while this was going on, and smiled as he noticed how the
shadows had lengthened, and that faint gleams of violet and rose-color
were giving an opaline tint to the west.
When the servant disappeared with the last vestige of the meal he had
enjoyed so much, he had still half an hour to dispose of, and spite of
his impatience, was not altogether inconsolable that it was so. Under
all circumstances, Seymour was a man to make the best of his
surroundings, and never failed to snatch the blossoms from each hour as
it passed him. The room was scantily furnished, and he looked around for
a couch to rest upon. No such luxurious convenience presenting itself he
drew a heavy chair, large enough for a modern pulpit and draped with
white dimity, up to the window, stretched himself almost at full length
in it, and selected a cigar from a case richly mounted and exquisitely
embroidered, probably by some lady. This he laid daintily on the arm of
his chair, and searching in another pocket, drew forth a small box of
enamelled gold, from which a waxen match soon flashed fire in answer to
a quick motion of his hand. Then igniting his cigar, with an indolent
motion of his red lips, he fell into a reverie, looking out upon the sky
with his half-shut eyes and sending up dainty curls of blue smoke at
intervals of indolent animation.
Thus he watched the sky till its delicate opal tints turned into
seething scarlet, broken up with great ridges of gold, which sunk, and
changed, and floated in a deep sea of purple lanced with flame and
fringed with living fire. The last sunbeams broke against the window
where the young man sat, like a handful of golden arrows. Then he
started up from his reverie with a thrill of life that completely
transfigured him, flung the end of his cigar out of the window, and
opening the lower half, which was of wood, stepped out upon the
verandah. The trees above him, were all ablaze with dying sunbeams, but
soft purple shadows were gathering in the ravine, and the brook laughed
out fitfully through the beautiful gloom which fell upon it.
A footpath ran along the margin of this brook, to which the wood moss
crept, tufting its edges with velvet. Spotted ferns and delicate
sarsaparilla brushed against his boots as he passed into the woods,
walking rapidly and smiling as he went.
All at once a bend of the path brought him upon a tiny log cabin, which
stood upon an embankment of the brook just below a rustic bridge, half
stone, half logs, which spanned one of its deepest parts. It was a
lovely spot, sheltered by tall chestnuts and a single hemlock, which let
in a glow of the red sunset through the dusky green of their branches.
In the door of that miniature cabin stood a female, leaning out, with a
hand shading her eyes and searching the footpath with eager glances. She
had come first, notwithstanding her promise to the contrary, and, while
her whole soul went out in longing for his presence, was angry that he
should have made her wait.
He saw her from the margin of the brook, cleared its highest embankment
with a bound or two, and stood beside her beaming with happiness. Her
anger fled at the first touch of his hand; not a gleam of it was left in
those deep blue eyes; a tremor ran through her frame, but it was not one
of rage or resentment even. She loved the man—yes, at the time she loved
him honestly, devotedly, with a wild vehemence that might have made her
his slave; and he loved her ardently, madly, with a better love than she
could ever give in return. He was not a good man, as our readers will
know, but the depth and earnestness of his affection for this girl gave
a grandeur even to his most wayward nature.
CHAPTER XXIV.
LOVE IN A LOG CABIN.
The door in which the lovers stood was darkened by the hemlock; so
Seymour drew the young girl into the cabin close to a little window that
looked out upon the rustic bridge. It was a lovely object to gaze upon,
splendid ferns fringed all the margin of the brook and rooted themselves
in the stone-work of the bridge, pluming its mosses with tufts of green;
ladies’ ear-jewels, wild asters and scarlet cardinal flowers tangled
themselves in garlands of gold, blue and red over the water and round
the ends of the bridge, massing their rich foliage up the embankment
till some of the ear-jewels trembled, like bells of gold, under the
cabin window.
“Ah, how beautiful the earth is!” said Seymour, bending to look into her
eyes. “Great Heavens! it almost frightens one to feel so happy. Is it so
with you, darling?”
“I am very, very happy,” she answered, with a sigh that seemed to bring
up fragrance from the depths of her heart. “It rejoices me to know that
you think this so beautiful—for it is mine, all mine!”
The young man did not take in her meaning, but drew her close to his
bosom and answered, with passionate tenderness:
“And you, Cora, when shall I say that you are mine—all mine?”
His tenderness, the impatient trembling of his voice, made her bold, and
she answered him with kisses, for his lips had sought them even as his
words claimed her.
“I love you—oh! how dearly I love you!” she murmured, forgetting for
that one moment her wealth—her crime—everything but the passionate
tenderness which swayed her whole being.
“Then why should we wait? Come with me, darling—who on earth can love
you as I will? I possess money now, we need have no fear of poverty—full
twenty thousand dollars—”
She interrupted him with a ringing laugh, and throwing her head back,
looked triumphantly in his face.
“And I, Seymour, I have fifty times as much—more than that—more than you
and I can spend, let us be ever so extravagant. Throw your paltry gold
into the river, or give it to your servant; with me you shall have
everything, for I am rich—you can hardly imagine how rich.”
The young man dropped his arm from her waist and looked wildly into her
flashing eyes. He was deadly white, even to the lips. Her news seemed to
have frightened him.
A shade of terror came into her face, and she seized him by the arm.
“What is the matter?—how pale you are! Why, Seymour, you are trembling
from head to foot!”
He broke away from her, folded his arms against the logs of the
window-frame, and bowing his face upon them, burst into tears.
“Oh! my God, my God!” he broke forth, “if I had but known this before—if
I had but known it!”
The girl was astonished. She had thought to complete the triumph of his
happiness with her news, and there he stood trembling like a
culprit—weeping like a child.
“Seymour! Seymour, tell me the reason of this! I thought my news would
make you so happy,” she cried, partaking of his terror, for a painful
suspicion had seized upon her.
“Did he know? Did he suspect?”
Her hands shook like wounded birds as she lifted his head from the logs,
and the face she bent upon him was ashen with dread.
“Are you an angry? Does it make you so wretched because I am rich?” she
said, shrinking from the mournful eyes he turned upon her. “Speak to me,
Seymour! What have I done to wound you so?”
“Nothing,” he said, wearily; “nothing—you are everything that is
beautiful, good and generous, while I—oh, Cora! Cora! I am not worthy of
you! A beggar, and worse than a beggar, how dare I mate with a creature
so beautiful, so bright?”
She drew close to him, for the moment generous and womanly.
“If I owned the whole world, Seymour, and had the beauty of an angel,
all should be yours; I only ask that you love me.”
“Love you, girl! This is the very madness of love. If you only knew to
what it has driven me!”
“If you love me so, it is enough. There, now the color is coming back to
your lips. I felt mine growing cold, as if your kisses had frozen there.
Come, come, smile again. You frightened me terribly.”
“Did I?” he answered, with a forced smile. “I did not intend it—but you
took me by surprise.”
“Is it such a terrible calamity to be worth oceans of money?” she
answered, a little proudly. “Does this wealth make you love me less?
This poor little twenty thousand dollars you would have divided with me,
whom you thought penniless.”
“This poor little twenty thousand dollars!” he repeated, bitterly.
“Girl! girl! do you know what it cost me?”
Again she was terrified by his pallor and his vehemence, and answered,
trembling:
“No matter what it cost you, I will repay it. There is nothing that love
and power like mine shall not redeem.”
“Ah! if it could—if it could!” he answered, sorrowfully. “Why did you
tell me that falsehood? Was it to test me? Did you doubt that I loved
you? Why not say then, I am rich and will divide these riches with you?”
“Because my father was living and the wealth was his, not mine,” she
answered promptly. “That was worse than poverty, for I knew he never
would consent to our union.”
“But why not say that you were his daughter and heiress? Why pass
yourself off on the man who loved you as a dependent niece?”
“Forgive me! forgive me! I was wrong not to know you better; but the
deception sprang from a wish to be loved for myself alone.”
“Ah, Cora, had you but told me then!” he said, with a piteous smile.
“But let it pass. What a brute I am to frighten the color from your face
in this way. Come closer to me, love. Do not look so terrified—nothing
is wrong between us in reality. There! there! don’t tremble so, I am not
angry with any one but myself. We were talking about—about the time when
we need never separate again—oh! that blessed time for which any
sacrifice is not too great. When shall it be, love? In a week?
to-morrow?”
“So soon—oh, no! how impetuous you are! Days—weeks—why it must be months
before I can even lighten my mourning.”
“Your mourning! What is there in a few yards of black crape more or less
that should separate us? Must you necessarily mourn the dead less
because we love each other?”
“No, no; but there exist reasons which force me to be careful of
appearances. My cousin, the girl I represented myself to be when you
first knew me, threatens to contest my right to the property.”
“But how can she?”
“How can crazy people do any wild thing? The poor creature is insane,
but only on this one point. She is so rational and even cunning, in
other matters that astute lawyers may be won to take up her cause.”
“But why should this affect our marriage, Cora?”
“You are a foreigner and cannot understand the senseless etiquette which
makes deep mourning and solitude imperative in this country after the
loss of a relative. Were I to abandon this mourning for a wedding-dress,
the world would hold it as strong evidence in favor of my cousin. No
daughter could so forget the respect due a deceased parent, it would
insist.”
“And you would have me wait the tedious result of a law-suit—cast me
back from my happiness because people might cavil about time and place.
Cora Lander, this delay will prove an eternal separation!”
“No, no it cannot—it shall not! Only wait patiently a few months!” cried
the girl, with a burst of alarm. “My heart has nothing to say in this,
it pleads for you—for myself—that alone knows how I love you.”
“Yet, for the sake of this money, you kill me with delay.”
“But I wound myself in doing it. Be patient, do be patient!”
“Patient, girl! when any hour may take you from me,” cried the young
man, with a despairing gesture.
“No power on earth can do that, Seymour. I would perish rather than give
you up. Trust me! trust me!”
“But can I trust Fate? You have no pity, Cora Lander!”
“You are excited—wild. There is no such serious matter in a little
delay,” she answered, soothingly.
“There is! there is! You cannot understand. How should you?”
“What is there, Seymour, that I do not understand? Have you secrets?”
Cora turned white as marble, and the glitter of steel came into her eyes
as they searched the pale face turned away from her.
“Has some other woman claims upon you?” she added, in a low, husky
voice, that made the white lips quiver as it passed through.
“No, on my honor, on my soul, no!”
This exclamation was full of passionate truth. The young man turned his
face full upon her now. Slowly the color came back to her cheek and
lips, and her heart flung off the pain that had seized upon it with a
throb of relief such as she had never felt before. It seemed as if she
had wrenched herself free from the grasp of a demon, that pang of
jealousy had been so sharp and bitter.
“Cora,” said the young man, with emotion, “since the day I saw you, the
image of no other woman has entered my heart—scarcely reached my
thoughts. I have loved you devotedly, entirely—do not trifle with me
now!”
“I do not trifle with you.”
“But you prefer the opinion of a crowd of men and women, whom you do not
even know, to my wishes or my happiness.”
“But I must live among these people, Seymour. They compose the world in
which men and women must work out their ambition.”
“My only ambition is your love, Cora,” said Seymour, with great
tenderness.
“And mine is for you,” she answered, kindling with enthusiasm. “When we
are married, Seymour, I would have the whole world look on and know that
it is my hand that endows you with wealth—my love which chooses you from
among all other men. There can be nothing costly or rare with which we
will not surround ourselves. Love, to be complete, should envelop itself
in purple, bathe itself in the perfume of flowers and be lulled to sleep
by sweet music.”
The young man smiled to see her eyes kindle and her cheeks burn. This
material picture fired his imagination, but failed to satisfy that
deeper feeling which in reality lifted him above the woman he so
worshipped.
“Love like mine craves none of these things,” he said, almost
reproachfully. “With you, Cora, I could be happy in a log cabin less
pretentious than this little rustic nest—away from the world, away—”
Cora interrupted him, a little scornfully, with a laugh that thrilled
him half with pain, half with pleasure.
“And I would lavish everything beautiful and precious in the world on
you,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder.
“But you will not give up any of these things for me.”
“I would give up everything for you, if that were needful.”
“Then brave the opinion of these people you call the world.”
“Had we not better evade it?” said Cora, drawing her face nearer to his
and almost whispering in his ear.
“Evade it; how?”
“Why need any one know till all these vexatious questions about the
property are settled?”
A sudden joy flashed into the young man’s face.
“And would you, would you?” he questioned, girding her waist
unconsciously with his arm.
“Will you wait patiently for the time of disclosure to come? Will you
keep it secret?”
“I will be anything you wish.”
“And not urge me to declare our marriage till it is perfectly safe?”
“Why should I—you will be mine?”
“Then be it next week—nay, to-morrow, if you like.”
Her cheeks were one flush of roses, her eyes became flooded with misty
softness, over which the white lids drooped, for she was ashamed of her
own eagerness. Though perverted and wicked, she was yet a woman, and
trembled a little at the great venture she was making. Seymour did not
speak at first and his arms released its fond hold on her waist. She
looked suddenly in his face and blushed red when she saw a sort of
wonder in his eyes rather than the great joy she had expected. Quick as
thought she understood this delicate revulsion.
“Then next week, to-morrow, if you like, we will talk the matter over
more dispassionately,” she said, drawing gently away from him. “We have
many things to reflect on. Even now it would be better to wait.”
A flash of eager fire in the young man’s face proved the sudden reaction
caused by her words. The pride of his manhood, faulty as it was,
recoiled from an offer even of the happiness he craved when it came so
readily from those crimson lips. But her retreat, which seemed to spring
from delicacy, was made with such dexterous craft that it swept this
feeling away, and he became an eager suppliant again.
“Not a week—not a day—not an hour—if I can help it, shall this great
happiness escape me,” he exclaimed, with passionate warmth. “I feel as
if each moment might snatch you from me, and tremble as it passes. Let
us go at once; there must be a clergyman somewhere in the neighborhood.”
Cora gave one of her clear, ringing laughs, and patted her hand with a
light caress upon the curls on one side of his head.
“What an impetuous, rash creature it is who has made me love him so,”
she said. “Why we might as well summon a regiment to see us married. No,
that country clergyman will never do. Let us think—let us consult. This
thing must be secret as the grave.”
“The grave, Cora? That is an ugly word to couple with our love.”
“Well, then, secret as the fruit that lies hidden in the heart of a
blossom. Will that do?”
“Anything that is sweet and lovely will do. Well, we are to be secret. I
consent to that, if it brings no delay.”
“We must go to the city. My un—, my father had a house there, which he
occupied in the winter of late years; a gem of a residence, I am told.
That shall be our home.”
“Admirable! But soon—let it be soon.”
“To-morrow I will go to the city alone and make all necessary
preparation. Next week—”
“Well, what shall come next week!”
“The clergyman, as you are determined to have it so.”
Her eyelids drooped as she spoke, and fringes, of a rich golden brown,
curled over the passion of love that slept in her eyes. This was not all
unreal; she was womanly for the moment. He thought her the very
incarnation of pure loveliness, and trembled with a joy that was almost
pain as he gazed upon her.
“Then I am determined to have it so. In one week I will bring the
clergyman who is to make you my wife to the place you speak of. But your
aunt?”
“She must know nothing. Her heart would be with us, but she is weak and
irresolute. The shock of her daughter’s insanity has unnerved her. In
all things I am independent.”
“But you will let me go with you to the city?”
“No. You can follow me and I will manage to see you at the hotel just
once during the week.”
“This week—this one week, and then you are my wife. Oh, Cora! this
happiness seems too great. I am not worthy of it; yet if deep, pure,
overpowering love could make a man worthy, I might claim something from
that.”
The young man—earnest and true, most surely, for the moment—held her by
the waist as he spoke and looked tenderly into her free. She met his
gaze smiling, and with a warm red, which was not blushes, on her cheek.
“My wife,” he whispered; “my wife! That is a dear word. Great Heavens,
how dear it must be to a good man!”
A sensitive woman would have been troubled by these regretful
exclamations, and felt in her heart that there was something wrong under
them. But with so many passionate and ardent feelings mingled with the
selfishness of her nature, Cora was neither a sensitive nor really
refined woman. She scarcely heeded the expressions of self-reproach that
escaped him from time to time, and if she did, imputed them to the
humility of a man whom she was lifting from poverty to an equality with
herself one of the most beautiful and wealthy women of the land.
“Now, good-bye, it is growing dark inside the cabin, and they will miss
me at home.”
“Not yet, darling; not yet. The stars are trembling down through the
leaves with a tender light. See how the purple shadows are deepening
along the hollows of the brook. Directly the moon must begin to shine,
and that will give a holier beauty to your face. Does not this remind
you of that sunset among the hills when I first saw you wandering along,
left behind by your friends, and searching for the path which you never
would have found. With what a gentle radiance the moon arose that night!
Ah, I was free and happy then!”
“And now your voice is sad, tears tremble in your voice. Why is this,
Seymour?”
He bent his face to hers in the purple dusk of the twilight.
“Have you never heard of happiness so great that it trenches on pain?”
he said, evasively. “But, look, the moon is rising; you can see its
dancing silver on the water. Ah, my beloved, now your face returns to me
as it did then, dear and delicate, like a soul imprisoned in marble. I
remember well a sadness fell upon me when I left you, so deep and
strange that it seemed like the shadow of some dark fate. It is creeping
over me now.”
Cora broke impatiently from his arm; she had no sympathy with the
sadness of his thoughts, and strove to win him from them by trivial
questions.
“I remember,” she said. “There was a gentleman with you then, and you
would not tell me his name; it is very cruel, for, from the distance, he
seemed both elegant and handsome. Who was it, tell me now?”
Even in the moonlight, Cora was surprised to see how white and stonelike
Seymour turned. He was silent half a minute, then roused himself
abruptly and answered her in a voice that seemed sharp with pain:
“I will answer that question, but on condition that you ask no more
regarding that man now or ever. He was my friend and he is dead.”
The moment he had spoken, Seymour bent down, pressed a cold kiss upon
her lips that clung there like ice, and left the cabin. Cora found him
outside the door, leaning heavily against the logs.
“Come,” he said, in a troubled voice, “we are getting sad, and that will
never do. Which way is your house, along this path?”
“But it is dangerous—you may be seen. I must return home alone,” Cora
protested.
“I will retreat when we get to the edge of the wood, from thence I can
watch you,” he answered, supporting her along the path.
Cora allowed the escort in silence. She was depressed by his
unaccountable sadness and disappointment in the termination of an
interview from which she had promised herself unmixed joy.
They reached the edge of the woods, and then he took her in his arms
again.
“And will you always love me?” he said, with pathetic earnestness. “Can
nothing turn your heart from me?”
“I will always love you, Seymour. Nothing on this earth can ever turn my
heart from you,” she answered, almost in tears.
“In sorrow—sickness—poverty?”
“These things are nothing that I should shrink from them,” was her
reply.
“In disgrace?”
He asked that question in a whisper that crept through her with a chill.
“That can never reach you while I am your wife,” she said, proudly.
“But if it should?”
“Then I, your wife, would sweep it away from you, or—”
“Or what?”
“Share it with you. But why ask such questions? Is it to try me? That is
ungenerous. Have I not promised to many you unquestioned, scarcely
knowing or caring if you had prince or peasant for a father?”
“What if he were low-born?”
“Low-born—that is, a man who worked for his living? Well, what do I care
for that? In this country work is the foundation of greatness, statesmen
tell us. If you have nothing more serious than low birth and poverty to
frighten me with, pray compose yourself.”
“But if it were crime?”
She started, for that word lay buried deep in her own heart, and the
husky slowness with which it was uttered seemed searching it out.
“Sometimes a great motive, an overpowering ambition, almost ennobles
crime itself,” she said. “If the object were sufficient, even that could
not conquer such love as ours.”
He snatched her suddenly to his heart, kissed her two or three times
upon the eyelids and lips and let her go. Cora found herself out in the
moonlight and alone before she recovered from the surprise left upon her
by this action.
Seymour drew back into the shadows, from which he watched her as she
crossed a meadow separated by an invisible fence from the lawn. When she
disappeared among the shrubbery, he turned, walked hastily back along
the narrow footpath, and entering the log cabin, threw himself prostrate
on the floor, with his face buried in his folded arms. There he burst
into a passion of tears that filled the little building with such sounds
of grief as had never visited it before. At last the violence of his
emotion exhausted itself. Then the sweet hum and flow of the brook stole
in through the open door and swept away his sobs into their own music,
soothing him, unconsciously, till the wet lashes closed over his eyes
and the moonlight streamed in upon his sleeping face, giving it the rare
beauty of some sculptured ideal. Had you looked upon him then you could
have thought nothing that was not bright and good of the young man;
grief and that gentle sleep had purified his nature for the time, and no
dark passion left its shadow upon that face.
Hour after hour the young man slept with the scent of ferns and ripening
leaves sweeping over him hushed into sweet rest by the chime of waters,
the rustle of forest boughs and the far-off flow of the Hudson, which
came up from the distance like a voice from eternity sweeping through
the night. All at once the cry of a whip-poor-will from the hemlock,
whose branches swept the cabin roof, aroused him. He started up, felt
the sublime stillness of the night like one in a dream, and at last
began to realize where he was and what had happened.
Fortunately the young man had but to follow the footpath which brought
him to the tavern stoop into which his own room opened. He had purposely
left the inner door locked, and that which he had unfastened remained
partly open. So he made his way to bed in the dark, satisfied that his
absence had been undiscovered.
CHAPTER XXV.
CORA LANDER AND EUNICE HURD IN COLLISION.
In the morning Cora Lander went to Mrs. Lander’s room, which that lady
seldom left now, and told her abruptly of her intended trip to New York.
“I am weary of this great gloomy place,” she said; “the presence of your
insane daughter oppresses me; I wish to be alone.”
“Oh! if I could be alone!” said the poor woman, smoothing the crape of
her sleeve with a nervous hand. “If I could ever be alone!”
“Why if this eternal room, with its stifling perfumes and endless clouds
of lace, isn’t being alone, I should like to know what is,” said the
girl, with careless disdain. “I should die shut up so; but every one to
her taste.”
“I had no fancy for being shut up, Cora, till you came with that cruel
temptation. Now it seems every minute as if that poor girl would break
in and reproach me. I do not hear a step on the stairs that it does not
bring the heart into my mouth, or see her shadow in the garden that it
does not make me long to throw myself out of the window. But what are
you going to the city for?”
“I must find another lawyer, and be near him for consultation. Stone is
not more than half in our interest; I see that plainly enough, and if
this troublesome creature should go to law with us—”
“Oh Heaven, forbid!” moaned the widow. “If they take me into court I
shall die!”
“Nonsense, aunt, don’t talk in that way; it makes me angry! You were a
woman of resolution and power once—what has become of your courage?”
“It went out when she entered this house. I shall never be myself
again.”
“Come, come, this is puerile, I am weary of it! Say, will you go with me
to consult these new lawyers? We can stay in the town house when we
desire it, and they can come to us.”
“What, the lawyers? No, no, I will not see any of them again, if I can
help it. Better stay here a thousand times, even with her and that
little hunchback prowling about. I would like to get away somewhere but
not among the lawyers.”
This was said in a pleading, piteous tone, which almost made Cora smile,
for she had no wish to take the widow with her and only proposed it in
the deep craft which marked all her actions.
“Well, aunt, if it troubles you so, I will not press your going, though
it is important. But you must not be surprised if I should fail to come
back for some days.”
“If you could only take _them_ with you,” she said, brightening
perceptibly. “It was so pleasant before they came. The mourning did not
seem so very bad; what with buying dresses and planning out bugle
trimmings, one found enough to occupy the time. But now nothing but this
room seems to belong to me. The servants don’t mind my orders.”
“There cannot be two mistresses in a house, aunt.”
“There it is, ‘Aunt! aunt!’ I’m not your aunt, and I won’t be called so
when we are alone, understand that; and I tell you another thing, Cora
Lander; the time will come when I shall tell the whole world of it, if
you don’t treat me more as a daughter should. After I have made so many
sacrifices, too, given up everything.”
“Mother!” said Cora, in a low, threatening voice, that made the poor
woman shrink back in her chair. “If you ever threaten this again, I will
put you into an insane asylum. It will be the only way of saving you
from State’s prison.”
“State’s prison! Cora Lander, how dare you use that word to me!”
The widow started up from her chair with all her old haughty grace, and
stood tall and erect before her child, stung into active resentment
dangerously menacing.
“I do not use it unkindly, mother, but in necessary warning. You cannot
turn back or unsay that which makes me heiress of this property. To
admit your part in this would inevitably lead to a prison, and to
prevent that, I solemnly assure you, I would find means of putting you
in some asylum.”
“Yes, that is where you wanted to put _her_, but I would not permit
it—we have done her wrong enough. I sometimes lie awake all night
thinking of it.”
“But you did not lie awake when you held possession under that will,”
said the daughter, with deliberate cruelty.
“No; why should I? No one was wronged then. Those distant relatives
never expected a dollar of his money. Besides he intended it to be so, I
am certain he did. Then I was my own mistress, and should have sent
those fourth cousins money from time to time, when I haven’t a cent now,
only what you choose to give me.”
“But you shall have plenty so soon as things are settled. Do be patient
and a little reasonable. Now tell me about the house—is it furnished and
in order?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Are any servants in charge?”
“Yes, one; an Irish woman I placed her in the house.”
“Still,” said Cora, with sudden caution, “I had better go to a hotel.
That house would be so lonely without you, and I shall probably want to
stay in town sometimes for days together, the house will be out of
order, I’m sure of it. You are certain that it would be unpleasant to go
with me?”
“I should like the change, Cora, but those lawyers would be my death in
a week.”
“Well, then I will try and do without you; take good care of yourself.
Now kiss me, mother, and good-bye.”
Mrs. Lander received Cora’s embrace, but she returned it with little
warmth; the harsh words she had used still ranked in the mother’s heart,
and, as usual, mutual crime was fast corroding mutual love both in the
parent and the child.
As Cora was going out, Eunice Hurd came into the room, carrying a china
plate with some fruit on it. She swept by Cora with a sniff and a toss
of the head indicative of unmitigated hostility, and went up to her
mistress with something like tenderness in her manner.
“Here now, poor soul, do try and eat one of these peaches, they’re
mellow as sunshine can make ’em, and red as a baby’s cheek. Then here’s
a bunch of grapes with the juice just ready to bust the skins, took
right from the vines, and a pear that’ll melt in your mouth; just let me
cut one in two.”
“Thank you, Eunice, but I do not want them just now; perhaps Miss Lander
would take one.”
Eunice made no answer to this suggestion except to turn her back square
upon the young lady.
“It ain’t of no sort of use,” she said, almost with tears in her sharp
voice. “You don’t eat enough to keep body and soul together, but you
shall or I’ll know the reason why. You’re pining to death—eat jest the
wing of a chicken this morning, and didn’t half pick that. Strong
coffee, morning, noon and night, and nothing can be wuss for you. Shake
your narves all to pieces. Come, now do take one of the peaches, it’s
ripe enough to melt in your mouth.”
Mrs. Lander reached forth her hand languidly and took the peach Eunice
held toward her.
“There, that seems something like,” cried Eunice, in triumph, as the
widow began to eat the fruit with forced relish. “If they’d leave you to
me, I’d bring you round in short order, but where weeds are rank flowers
won’t grow.” Eunice gave a vicious look over her shoulder at Cora as she
spoke, which terrified Mrs. Lander and brought that angry steel gleam
into the young lady’s eyes.
“Aunt,” she said, with haughty emphasis, “I am very reluctant to
interfere in any way with the servants you choose to keep about you; but
this person I really must dismiss. Her ill-breeding and studied rudeness
is unpardonable.”
Mrs. Lander started half up from her chair, agitated and frightened, as
nervous persons will be at any sudden proposition.
“Oh, Cora—Miss Lander, don’t—don’t, I beg of you, attack Eunice. She is
strange—she is odd—but she is my—my—”
“I’m her old, faithful servant and friend, Miss Cora Virginia Lander,”
said Eunice, snatching some word from her mistress before it passed her
lips, and turning boldly upon the young lady, “and it’ll take more than
you, or fifty just like you, to send me away from her. Try it, and see.”
“I repeat it,” said Cora, passing by this covert threat with the disdain
of a strong character, “that you must leave this house.”
“Cora! Cora Lander!” exclaimed the widow, with passionate protest, “she
has lived here ever since you were a little girl. Mr. Lander always was
kind to her.”
“For my father’s sake, I would do anything but keep an insolent servant
in my employ.”
“Father’s sake!” burst forth Eunice between a snort and a sneer, which
left Cora pale as death and sent Mrs. Lander off into a fit of hysterics
that really threatened her life.
“Just clear the room and leave me to take care of her,” commanded
Eunice, with a sweeping wave of her hand. “The sight of you’ll only make
her worse, and I can’t stand it; pison’s nothing to it.”
Cora still white with wrathful fear, obeyed the woman, only pausing to
say, “I am going to the city for a few days; when I come back I shall
expect that my aunt will have discharged you. Under this roof you cannot
stay!”
I think the girl would have said this if her own life had depended on
silence. Yet it was done with a secret trembling of the heart, which
imperceptibly stole into her voice. Eunice, who had a sharp ear,
understood it, and, uttering a contemptuous “Oh, now don’t,” raised Mrs.
Lander up with both her powerful arms and helped her to the bed.
“There, now lie down, that’s a good soul, and don’t fret; so long as
Eunice Hurd is under the same roof with you nobody shall tread on you,
niece or child, I don’t care which. What’s this stuff in the cut-glass
bottle? There’s opium in it, and you oughtn’t to take it. Nothing is the
matter with you but worry. Never was a woman that eat and drank with
better relish till these girls came to turn us all out of doors. I’d
like to see ’em try it! Well, just take a few drops. Has she gone out?
Yes, and joy go with her. Shut the door? Of course I will. Now we are
alone—I have turned the key. Yes, lay your head on my bosom, poor dear;
there isn’t one that loves you better in these United States. Don’t take
on—don’t cry so, now don’t. That’s right now, put your arms around my
neck and hug me close if you want to; I’m crooked as a sassafras root
with you sometimes, I know; but, mercy on us, I love you all the time,
and would lay down my life for you. What was you saying? Wal, if you are
sot on it, I’d try and mollify the stuck-up critter, but it goes agin
the grain. Still I’d do anything on arth for you, and allays would, you
know that.”
By this time Eunice had her weeping mistress gathered up in her arms,
and was rocking her head and shoulders back and forth on the bed.
“Couldn’t you just taste some of the grapes now, that’s a dear soul? You
can see right through the white ones.”
“Eunice,” said Mrs. Lander, when the roughly kind woman had laid her
back on the pillow. “Promise me one thing.”
“Of course I will. What is it?”
“No matter what any one says to us, do not leave me.”
“Leave you, Eliza Lander! They shall tear me limb from limb first! As
for that girl, she’s brought a curse and a mildew into this house; but
God is just, and she will suffer for it.”
“Oh no! no, Eunice! Do not say that! It kills me to hear you say that!”
“Well then, I won’t say it. Only remember this, while I live, neither
she nor any one else shall put upon you. There she goes traipsing off
toward the depot, and there go the men lugging down her trunk. One would
think she was going to stay a year; I wish to gracious she was!”
“Does she look back? Is her face sad? I was very ill, you know, when she
left the room.”
“Sad; no, she steps along like a young colt. Now she’s stopping to pick
her hands full of them everblooming roses that you think so much of.
Wal, never mind, more will blow out by to-morrow, and she won’t he here
to grab them.”
“She knows how I love them, and picks them for my sake,” said Mrs.
Lander. “Oh, Eunice! isn’t she graceful? Isn’t she very, very handsome?”
“Yes, I reckon most people would think so. But I like the poor critter
up stairs best, that no one ever seems to have any motherly feeling for.
You couldn’t tell ’em apart, sure enough, but there’s something in her
eyes that this one will never have. You can’t tell what it is any more’n
you could make out where the smell of a rose comes from; but it’s there,
and that is what I call being handsome.”
“Have you seen Vir—have you seen my daughter lately?”
“I see that poor motherless child every day, and that crooked-backed
angel that is with her—but it is enough to break one’s heart.”
“Is she so very unhappy then?”
“Unhappy! I should think she would be. But I have no patience to talk
about it. It riles me up awfully, till I am amost sot agin you!”
“Against me I what, you also, Eunice? Don’t say that! I am unhappy
enough already.”
“Well, then, lie down and go to sleep; I won’t say another word to worry
you.”
Mrs. Lander closed her eyes wearily, then opened them again and looked
with frightened earnestness into the grim face bending over her.
Something in those eyes answered the question she dared not ask, and
with a faint moan she turned her face to the wall.
That moment a light knock came to the door, and Eunice, thinking it a
housemaid called out sharply, “Come in.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE FIEND AND THE ANGEL.
The door opened and Virginia Lander passed through. Her face was sad and
pale, violet shadow lay faintly under her eyes, and the long, sweeping
folds of her black dress trailed upon the carpet. How like she was to
the haughty girl who had so lately left that room. The face, the hair,
the carriage the very bearing of the head seemed hers. In everything but
the soul which gives vitality and expression the two girls were
identical. In certain moods, Cora was like her cousin, for at times she
could be sad, regretful, and given up to tender thoughts. Then again, on
rare occasions, Virginia could be indignant, proud, almost imperious;
but that was always under a keen sense of wrong. Then it was that you
could not have told the two girls apart. True, Cora had her own harsh
individuality. The sneer that sometimes curved her red lips downward was
never seen on the sweet mouth of Virginia, and her eyes never knew the
steel-like glitter which sometimes shot through the sleeping venom of
her cousin’s deadly glances. But these startling expressions came but
seldom even on Cora’s face, and it required a sharp observer to mark the
difference. Eunice Hurd _was_ a sharp observer.
“I heard that you were ill, Aunt Lander, and came to help you, if I can
be of use.”
Her voice was low and calm, but no trumpet ever thrilled human nerves as
it disturbed those of Mrs. Lander. A sudden trembling seized upon her
which shook the whole bed. But she made an effort to meet this kindness
with answering affection, and struggling up from her pillows, held out
one shaking hand.
“Thank you—thank you, my—my—”
She could not utter the lying word. Her teeth began to chatter, her lips
turned white.
“You are ill—you suffer—let me bathe your forehead.”
“No, no; do not touch me. It is very kind of you to come, but I am well,
I need no help. Eunice, tell her that I—I—”
Here the wretched woman fell upon her pillows and burst into tears.
“You only make her worse,” said Eunice, with strange gentleness. “It’s
her nerves, they’re all shook to pieces. Jest go out, that’s a good
soul.”
“Let me say one word to her,” persisted Virginia, with sweet firmness.
“Aunt Eliza, do try and compose yourself, I will never harm you; I will
try not to blame you very much. Do not let my presence disturb you so—I
shall never forget how good you were to me once. Look up and see how
much happier I am than—than—”
She was about to say, “than you are,” but checked herself and changed it
into “than you might suppose.”
“Oh, God help us! Can any one be happy in this house?” exclaimed Mrs.
Lander, in an outburst of bitter grief. “I cannot! I cannot! everything
is dust and ashes!”
“Ah! I fear we shall none of us be happy again,” said Virginia, filled
with commiseration by the evident distress of a woman she had once loved
tenderly. “But God is just, and we can trust in him.”
Mrs. Lander started up in her bed. “Do not say that! You intend it as a
reproach, and reproaches are cruel.”
“No, no; I did not mean to reproach any one; only to comfort you a
little if I could. I saw _her_ go down to the depot, and thought that
you might be alone and suffering. But I have only disturbed you.”
“Disturbed her! I should think you had!” answered Eunice, sharply.
“Everything disturbs her, poor cretur. Jest go out, that’s a good soul;
she ain’t herself nohow.”
Virginia went softly out of the room, sad and heavy-hearted. What but
misery came out of the vast property that her father had left? Those who
held it seemed scarcely less unhappy than herself. Through that spacious
mansion, bedded in flowers and swept by perfumed winds, the different
members of the family wandered like unquiet spirits. No one was really
at rest; no two of the Lander blood thoroughly loved each other.
Distrust, and that hatred which springs from suspicion, poisoned the
life that might have been so sweet and luxurious there.
Ellen Nolan met Virginia as she came from Mrs. Lander’s chamber.
“You look ill, dear lady,” she said, lifting her fine eyes to the
disturbed face of her mistress. “Why is it that this sin, in which you
have not participated, should trouble you so?”
“Come with me, Ellen—come with me. The very atmosphere of these rooms
oppresses me. The woods out yonder look so cool and green: there is a
log cabin within them, that I once used to play in. Cora and I have
spent many a happy day there keeping house with our dolls. It is a
quiet, pretty place, and my father loved it. Let us go down there.”
Ellen was ready to go anywhere with her mistress, and glad to feel the
entire freedom promised by those distant woods. So the two girls, in
reality companions rather than lady and servant, went together across
the lawn and into the woods, where the brook made its sweet music under
the rustic bridge and the sunlight came in a maze of golden green
through the hemlock boughs. Virginia entered the log hut and looked
around with a sad, wistful expression of the face.
“How many times _he_ has been with me in this little cabin. It was here
he first taught me to read.”
“Let us sit down and think how he would have wished you to act in this
hard strait,” said Ellen, drawing a splint-bottomed chair to the window
and unfolding a camp-stool for herself. “Surely, if the spirits of the
dead even can visit us, his will be near to guide his child when so
terribly beset!”
“I think he has guided me, Ellen. All the time something whispers me to
wait and let God himself unravel the iniquity which surrounds me. I have
seen Lawyer Stone a second time, and even his sharp intellect fails to
discover any means of redress so long as my aunt persists in the
statement she has made. It seems like madness when I contradict this
statement without a single witness to sustain me.”
“Your aunt is not bad enough to persist in this forever. In her sense of
justice there may yet be hope. She looks miserably, and the servants
tell me is in no respect the woman that she was,” said Ellen.
“Necessity, in this case, may prove the best wisdom. You can do nothing
but wait.”
“Oh! Ellen, my life in this house is one torment. But I cannot leave
it.”
“But where can you go, if it becomes unbearable?”
“Anywhere, so that you and I are alone.”
“But we have no money!”
“Yes, in the drawer of that desk was a box with some gold in it; not
much, but enough to keep us a year or two, with economy, I should think.
Then the pearls and other bits of jewelry are worth something. My poor,
dear father gave me the gold, piece by piece, all through my childhood,
and the box we called my bank. He little thought how precious it might
become to me. But in what way to use it—where to go—Ellen, you are wise,
and have learned something of the world—what could you and I do? We will
live very humbly, work hard, if that is needful. I can do embroidery and
fine needlework.”
Ellen shook her head and sat in restless thought awhile then she looked
up brightly.
“That will never do; thousands of women are dependent on needlework and
starve on it. But, lady, I can work.”
“You, Ellen!”
“Yes, lady, I am weak and crooked, and seem very helpless, but God, in
compensation, my father used to say, has given me a strength here and
here, out of which you and I shall win bread and that independence you
long for.” Ellen touched her heart and her forehead lightly as she
spoke.
“What do you mean, Ellen?”
“I can think—feel—dream—write such things as men and women will take joy
in reading.”
“This you can do, Ellen; I see it in your face, I read it in your words;
sometimes they thrill me with all the sweetness of poetry. Yes, Ellen,
you can write a book—but what can I do?”
“Sing like an angel, dear lady. In all my life I never heard a voice
like yours.”
“But to make that available I must be seen and take rank with opera
singers. There would be no privacy for me.”
“True, true; and that would be terrible. Well, you were not born to
work. Your gold shall keep us a little while independent if you are
compelled to use it. When that is gone, I will do the rest. God will
help us, for he always aids those who try for themselves. While I write
you will sing, thus making a noble voice richer and sweeter. Then, if my
poor effort fails, you will be prepared to make sacrifices. Besides, God
will not drive you to the last resource unless it is good for you.”
“How wisely—how like a woman you talk, Ellen. If we could only go at
once.”
“What prevents us, lady?”
“This, Ellen; Lawyer Stone does not sanction our leaving the house.
While we stay here, he says, the right to possession is a disputed
question. If we go away, it is to surrender all.”
“And we must live here.”
“It is my duty, Ellen. The rights which my father gave me must not be
abandoned weakly. As I would be in duty bound to protect another, I must
protect myself. The property which my father left is a sacred trust to
be used for the good of mankind, as he used it. In her hands it will be
perverted; humanity will gain nothing by it. Even now it gives neither
comfort nor content to any one. Wealth is a wonderful power, Ellen,
either for good or evil. I have thought a great deal of this in our
lonely sea voyage after the ship rescued us. It was a weight upon me,
Ellen, and I prayed for strength to bear this noble responsibility as he
had done. But it is wrested from me.”
“Not altogether, sweet lady. God is just.”
“But for that belief, we should be helpless indeed,” said Virginia,
smiling kindly upon her humble friend. “Ellen, yours is wise counsel; we
must not waste our lives in vain regrets or idle dreaming. That which is
in your brain and my voice shall be worked out faithfully. In this large
house we can live almost solitary lives—you and I. That strange woman,
Eunice, will, I think, help us in this. We will study, practice and
wait.”
“I have often heard my father say that the great secret of success lay
in knowing how to wait and when to act.”
“Your father was a wise, good man, Ellen.”
Ellen Nolan’s eyes filled with tears, and in her sweet humility she took
Virginia’s hand and kissed it.
“Hark, I hear some one coming,” said the young lady. “Look out, Ellen,
and see who it is.”
Ellen looked out of the little window and saw a man coming up the path
by the brook. He stood in the shadow of the bridge a moment, cast one
glance at the cabin, and retreated hastily. Ellen did not see his face
clearly, but the figure was that of a young person, tall and elegant.
“It is some traveller from the tavern below here, I fancy,” said
Virginia when Ellen told her what she saw. “We must go away; this place
was solitary enough while _he_ lived, but everything is changed now.”
Ellen looked a little anxiously after the man. His air and figure seemed
familiar to her and brought the brother she loved so much to her mind,
by some unconscious train of association.
“Yes,” she said at last, with more cheerfulness than was usual to her,
“let us go now. But what a lovely place this would be to write in, so
cool and shadowy, it seems almost like the green light of a wilderness.”
Virginia smiled and shared the poetic love of nature which beamed in
those honest eyes with that kindred sympathy which makes letters and
music twin arts.
“How I wish we could gather up the murmurs which come up from the brook
and the mysterious shivering of the leaves in one melody,” she said. “I
have tried more than once and failed.”
“Try again,” answered the hunchback, hopefully, “over and over again;
that is the way in which genius accomplishes itself, my father often
said. If you have an idea, work it out. When God gives a thought, he
gives the capacity for developing it. Gold never comes from the mine
without hard labor. Toil and thought go hand in hand.”
“Your father must have been a strangely thoughtful man,” said Virginia,
looking with tender affection on the hunchback.
“He was—he was!” answered Ellen. “I love to think his sayings over in
the night; I love to feel them starting up like blossoms in my own
heart. He was a good man, was my father. I know how he lived—you saw how
he could die.”
“The inheritance he has left you, Ellen, is better far than gold.”
“Yes, because it is a part of himself.”
“Still he was, from your account, a practical man.”
“I think that genius which is not practical may be called by some other
name—insanity perhaps. He used to say so, and I believe it. The great
geniuses of the age, those who will live and breathe through all time,
are, at least in this age, eminently practical men. It is small minds
that affect eccentricity.”
It was a study to watch those young lips uttering thoughts and sayings
that seemed so much beyond her years; but Virginia was right, Ellen had
received an inheritance of thought from her father with a memory which
treasured every saying of his as a miser hoards his gold. What seemed to
be precocity in her sprang out of the intense love she had borne for
him. When she spoke of him or his thoughts the light would deepen and
kindle in her eyes; her white forehead expanded and the expression of
her mouth grew beautiful to look upon.
“How deeply you have thought of these things,” said Virginia, stealing
an arm fondly over Ellen’s shoulder. “Sometimes it seems to me as if
nothing could make you unhappy.”
“Is any one in this world altogether unhappy, I wonder? When God has
made the earth so beautiful and filled it with so many sources of
comfort, no human soul should be really miserable. Then the thoughts of
that other world, to which your father and mine have gone, fills the
future with noble sources of aspiration. While love exists in this world
and travels on through eternity, linking humanity with the divine, what
present trouble should rob a firm heart of its energies and its hopes?”
“I love to hear the father’s thoughts on the child’s young lips, but it
makes me almost afraid of you, Ellen,” exclaimed Virginia, smoothing the
bright hair of her protégé with a kindly touch of the hand.
“Not of me, lady; you cannot be afraid of me while I love you so
dearly.”
Speaking thus lovingly to each other the young girls left the cabin and
walked slowly towards the house.
“It is strange, but this seems really like my home, now that she is
away,” said Virginia, looking towards the house, whose pillars rose
white and symmetrical from the green of the lawn and shrubbery. “I
breathe more freely.”
“Carry out your idea of living by ourselves, and this nervous feeling,
which holds the very breath in one’s bosom, will pass away. This life of
ours gives too much time for thought.”
“Yes, yes, we will go to work,” answered Virginia, made cheerful by the
idea. “There is music in my throat, and thought in this brain of yours.”
“These are our mines, and we must work them,” said Ellen. “Perhaps it
was for this God allowed that wicked girl to steal your inheritance. Who
knows?”
By this time the two girls had reached the house and disappeared behind
the white pillars with their arms around each other, happier than they
had been for months.
CHAPTER XXVII.
PREPARING FOR HAPPINESS.
The town house which had once been the property of Amos Lander was a
small building, old in itself, but to which modern improvements had
given an air of elegance more than in keeping with the times. It was in
the heart of the city, and surrounded by a small garden overrun with a
luxurious variety of roses, so rare and well cultivated that they
sometimes outbloomed the summer. The house stood back from the street,
directly in this nest of flowers, which climbed up its walls, hung a
living drapery around the windows, and made the verandah in front a
perfect mass of rich leafiness. Since Mr. Lander’s death these roses had
been permitted to run riot in their rich blossoming. Great branches of
the running species broke loose and shook themselves free of restraint,
dashing showers of leaves and petals about whenever a high wind swept
over them. The verandah, which was a delicate network if iron, had a
straggling, neglected appearance, and many a flower-loving child peeped
with longing eyes through the iron fence at the beds of heliotrope and
verbena that were half-choking up the little yard in front.
This semi-desolation prevailed when Cora Lander unlocked the gate and
passed through, holding up her black dress from the tangle of scarlet
verbenas that had crept over the pathway.
Cora cast a disapproving glance at all this neglect and rang the bell,
which required some effort, for the wire was getting rusty. After awhile
the door was opened and an Irish woman, evidently just from an ill-kept
kitchen, asked abruptly what the lady wanted.
“I am Miss Lander,” said Cora, sweeping past the woman and entering the
house with a haughty feeling of proprietorship. “My aunt told me that
some one was left in charge here. Are you the person?”
“I suppose so, marm,” answered the woman, distrustfully.
“Where is the key to this room?” inquired Cora, shaking one of the
parlor doors, which was too closely fitted for any effort of hers to
open it.
“The door is locked—where is the key, I say?”
“In my pocket, marm,” said the woman, thrusting one hand into the pocket
of her dress and doggedly holding it there. “How am I to know who you
are? Miss Lander was drounded with her father, how can you be her then?”
“I tell you I am Miss Lander, the owner and mistress of this house. Open
the door, I say?”
Still the woman hesitated; imperious as the command was, it failed to
intimidate her.
“I have seen Miss Lander,” she said, “but it was nigh upon eight years
ago. How can I tell, especially as she was drounded with her father, to
say nothing of being burned up?”
“If you have seen Miss Lander,” said Cora, who was anxious to take
possession without disturbance, “you will remember something about her.
Was she at all like this?”
Cora took off her bonnet, pushed the masses of ruddy hair back from her
temples and turned her face on the woman.
“I—I—yes—yes, she did look like that as much as green apple can look
like a ripe one; but it isn’t a handsome face that I would give up my
keys to. But that ring on your finger, I’ve seen that many and many a
time on the old gentleman’s hand. He left it with the madam, I know, and
if she could give it to you, I can open the door, and will, right or
wrong.”
The woman unlocked the door and flung it open with a bang.
“Go in,” she said, following Cora into the darkened room. “Go in, and
I’ll open the shutters.”
Directly a flood of light was let into the room, subdued a little by the
thick leafiness of the verandah, but quite sufficient to reveal a dusty
parlor, well furnished, but with a good deal that was old-fashioned and
faded about it.
“That will do,” said Cora, casting a half-scornful glance around her.
“Unlock the other rooms, I must see them all.”
The woman obeyed, for, with her bonnet off, Cora had enough of the
Lander in her face to satisfy a more careful person of her identity.
“They’ve been shut up a good while, and ain’t in over good order, I’ll
own up to that,” she said, as Cora took up her lace parasol from the
piano, where she had laid it, and brushed the dust away. “But madam
hasn’t been here since the old man died, and it’s of no use fixing up
for people if they won’t come. This room is the back parlor, half full
of books, for Mr. Lander dearly loved reading. That’s his picter over
the fire-place.”
Cora started as a stream of light poured through the window close by her
and fell on the portrait of Amos Lander, whose eyes seemed bent
mournfully upon her. Something like a pang of remorse seized upon the
girl for a moment, and putting one hand to her side, she uttered a faint
cry of absolute pain. Those mild eyes seemed to follow her with
reproaches which she could not bear.
“Close the shutters,” she cried out, sharply, “you throw in light enough
to blind one.”
The woman fumbled awkwardly at the blinds, and secured them at last,
slowly gathering a sinister light over the picture, which took a stern,
threatening aspect from the change. Cora Lander felt a cold chill
creeping over her, and the sensation made her angry.
“Will you never have done?” she said, leaning over the woman and
sweeping the dusty slats up with her hand. “I have seen enough to know
that everything shall be changed here. Now lead the way up stairs.”
“There is a dining-room, and—”
“I know, I know, but the air is oppressive. Up stairs it may be more
cheerful.”
Cora shivered as she thus abruptly broke in upon the woman, and when she
went into the hall her very lips were cold and pale. That picture had
reached even her heart.
The chambers, like the lower part of the house, were furnished after the
fashion of years ago. She remembered each object, and to her own
surprise felt a sort of terror at approaching them. They had been so
closely associated with the man whose only child she was wronging that
each article seemed an embodiment of her crime. After passing through
the upper stories in quick haste, she came down again, and pausing in
the hall, addressed the woman.
“Have a room made ready; I shall sleep here to-night. Get a cup of tea,
and anything else you like, ready for me a little after seven. If there
is anything in the house that you fancy, set it aside and have it for
your own. But make your selection at once, for to-morrow I shall order
all this old-fashioned furniture moved out and new put in. Don’t be
modest and open those eyes so. Take what you want and as much as you
care for. Have your wages been paid?”
“Yes marm, up to this week.”
“Do you live here alone?”
“My husband comes home at nights.”
“That will do. Tell him to look out a residence of some kind for you.
The furniture is already provided. I will pay a year’s rent in advance
and give you a month’s wages. Stay to see all this trumpery removed;
then go to your new home. I shall not want you an hour after that.”
“But, Miss, consider. Who will take care of the house?”
“No matter about that. I may sell it—rent it, or shut it up entirely. At
all events no one will be wanted to keep watch and ward.”
“Dear me, what a change!” exclaimed the woman, lost in astonishment.
“This comes of the old going out and the young coming in their
footsteps—I’m much obliged for the furniture—much obliged—but it does
seem strange!”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that. As I estimate it, you have no reason
to complain. Take what you want for this new home of yours—call in a
second-hand furniture dealer to buy the rest—he can give the money to
you for anything I care—But have the house empty by to-morrow at noon.”
“Everything—must I take everything, Miss?”
“Yes, everything.”
“What, Mr. Lander’s picture—must I sell that?”
Cora hesitated, turned pale, and then, with an air of desperation,
answered:
“Yes, that above all things.”
“What, sell your own father’s picture, Miss!” said the woman, looking at
Cora with new distrust.
Cora shrunk back as if the woman had given her a blow. She had not been
sufficiently on her guard with this low-bred woman, who could feel what
she had forgotten. A cloud of scarlet swept over her face at the
thought. Then her quick wit asserted itself.
“It is not a good likeness; I do not prize a portrait which distorts its
object. That is why I wish it taken down.”
“Oh!” said the woman. “His daughter is the best judge, but it seemed to
me natural as life.”
Cora swept the subject away with a motion of her hand.
“I saw a little room over the hall,” she said, “with things in it that
seemed newer than the rest: at any rate there is nothing that I
remember; have that ready for me to sleep in. Tell your husband to find
out some good gardener and have all these straggling vines and bushes
tied up, properly cut and roll what little grass there is and trim the
flower-beds. There is a marble fountain in the yard, dry as a desert.
Have the water thrown in and order the gardener to bring some aquatic
plants.”
“Some what, marm?”
“Plants that live with their roots in the water—some of those
broad-leaved Ethiopian lilies, and—and—. He will know best what to
bring—I want mosses, too, and plenty of fern roots—but I will speak with
the gardener myself. Let your husband find one to-day, I will give him
my directions in the morning.”
The woman, still half bewildered, promised all that she required, but
she did it like one in a dream. She could hardly believe it a reality
when Cora entered the hired carriage she had left before the gate and
drove away.
It is true money can almost annihilate time itself. By the terms of that
will found in Amos Lander’s room his daughter came into full possession
of her property, with all its uses, at once. The will had been admitted
to probate without question, and a large sum of money was found in one
of the city banks subject to her order. Never in her life before had she
possessed personal control of large sums of money. Like most other young
persons under the protection of their elders, she had found all her
wants supplied without much responsibility. Her dependent position had
made this irksome. From day to day she had longed for the independence
which money gives—thirsted to spend gold without a thought of economy or
fear of questioning. Virginia had never known this feeling, and her
indifference, no doubt, sprang out of a position directly opposite to
that of her cousin. She would have felt no pleasure in the excitement
which burned in scarlet on Cora’s cheek and made her eyes sparkle like
stars.
The first thing that Cora Lander did was to search for a fashionable
intelligence office and inquire for servants of a certain class,
peculiarly difficult to obtain. A woman of education and some
refinement, not very young nor really handsome, but to a certain extent
a gentlewoman, was particularly wanted. Her duties would be manifold,
but then there was no trouble about compensation to a person that
suited. She would be expected to act as housekeeper for a very small
family, as lady’s maid when such services were required, and, indeed,
make herself generally useful, but no really hard labor would be
required of her. Did the gentleman at the desk know such a person?
The man shook his head. He knew plenty of housekeepers, and ladies’
maids without number; but the exact combination of qualities desired by
the young lady was not easily found.
“But when I tell you that wages are of no consequence, that I am ready
to give any premium for the woman I am in search of, will not that
secure her?”
The gentleman at the desk removed the pen from behind his ear, ran it
down page after page of a book he opened, paused, looked up, then shook
his head, answering Cora’s eager question if he had found what she
wanted, despondently.
There was a person that might have answered, perhaps, only she was a
foreigner, just come over.
That would answer. Was she lady-like? Did she dress well? Was she a
trifle ugly?
The young lady had almost described the person in his mind. She was
lady-like, about thirty-five, and dressed neatly, as a lady should, but
there was one fatal drawback, she spoke no English.
Spoke no English, there was no objection to that; indeed it was rather a
recommendation—but what language did she speak? German and a little
French. Better and better. Where was the person? She would be wanted
immediately. In the neighborhood—how fortunate! What was her name?
“Alice Ruess.”
“Married or single?”
Indeed the gentleman behind the desk could not tell, but she looked like
a woman who had known trouble, so he took it that she was or had been
married.
“Would he send for this person at once?”
“A boy had already gone—would the young lady sit down and wait?”
Cora sat down within the sacred enclosure which held the desk and its
proprietor, who was averse to losing time, and so turning easily on his
stool, made some professional inquiries regarding the other servants
that had been inquired for.
A good laundry woman and the best cook that could be procured for money.
There might be a little time given for a first-class chambermaid, but
these two were indispensable.
“The man at the desk had his eye on exactly the persons wanted. Would it
be any objection if the laundry woman was black?”
No, that would be an advantage.
Then there would be no trouble about the matter. A cook and laundry
woman would be on hand—but what name? Where should they be sent? Mrs.
Seymour, No— street—all right. Just in time—here comes the German woman,
all in black and neat as a new pin. Cora half rose from her seat and saw
a well-formed, light-haired, and blue-eyed woman, neither handsome nor
ugly, but with a worn and rather sad expression, coming into the office.
“Ah, madam, we are in luck; hadn’t an idea we could get you a situation,
and here it is dropping into your lap, like a ripe peach; just have a
little talk with this lady.”
The man spoke in execrable French, and opening the gate of his
enclosure, let the woman in as an especial recognition of the style and
beauty of the fair lady who sat there scrutinizing the stranger through
her veil. Alice Ruess passed through the gate and Cora addressed her at
once, but, a little to the man’s disappointment, she used neither French
nor English, but spoke to the woman in German.
The conversation was not long, half that Cora wished to say was left for
another time; but she studied that face well, and drawing her own
conclusions therefrom, hired her at once, depending rather on what she
supposed than on anything she knew of her fitness for the place.
When the preliminaries were arranged, Cora gave a satisfactory
examination of the dress worn by her new recruit, and without farther
ceremony requested her to step into her carriage, which stood at the
door. A morning of tiresome shopping was before her, and she wanted a
companion.
Alice Ruess was ready. She was afraid her alpaca dress was not quite
good enough, but if the lady did not object to that, nothing would give
her more pleasure than a ride. So the two went out together, followed by
the proprietor of the office, who opened the carriage door for them,
leaving a twenty dollar bank note, his share of the transaction, on his
desk.
Feeling for the first time all the importance of a large bank account,
Cora drove from warehouse to warehouse, giving prodigal and almost
unlimited orders for the adornment of a house not yet divested of its
costly old-fashioned furniture.
She made all her purchases in the name of Mrs. Alice Ruess, who was a
stranger in the city, she said, and speaking no English, had entreated
her aid in furnishing a house she had taken. Her friend was wealthy—very
wealthy, she asserted, and cared little for prices. She only, stipulated
regarding the time—that was important to her—everything must be done at
once. Three days was the latest moment she could give.
This Cora said as she went from store to store, buying costly hangings,
carpets, china, linen, pictures, statuettes bronzes, and all the
multifarious articles that go to make up a sumptuous establishment.
“Crowd the house with as many workmen as you please,” she said; “my
friend does not care for the confusion, but in a week her house must be
in order. Beyond that time she cannot wait.”
The dealers promised, one and all. A customer who gave such unlimited
orders, and was so indifferent to prices, did not often fall in their
way. Of course everything else must be put aside for her accommodation.
Alice Ruess behaved beautifully, taking just as much interest in these
proceedings as seemed becoming, and giving a quiet attention to what
passed, which convinced the dealers that she was not altogether
indifferent to the value of their goods or an incompetent judge of their
qualities. Indeed, she once or twice prevented Cora buying an inferior
article, for, with all her prodigality, that young lady was rash and
inexperienced, as youth will be, and really required the quiet
counsellor who moved at her elbow. Of course all the conversation which
passed between these two was carried on in French, and, pleading her
friend’s ignorance of our currency, Cora paid the bills in money as she
went, sometimes joking gracefully about the pleasure of handling so much
money, though it did belong to another person.
Thus Cora Lander went on with the sad-faced German woman by her side,
receiving what seemed to others the reflected homage of her friend’s
wealth; but knowing that it was all her own, she enjoyed it to the
utmost. Never in her life had she felt the power of property so
exultantly. Truly, if crime produced such results, she was content to be
criminal.
Among other things, Cora purchased such dresses as could be worn
indoors. She hated the deep mourning, which was in fact a part of her
fraud, and resolved to cast it off in the privacy of her married life.
If she could help it, no one thing should remind her of the days that
were gone, or the man whose wealth she was squandering. Among
dressmakers and milliners, as with the rest, money proved itself
omnipotent. There was no danger that Cora Lander’s nuptials, private as
they must be, would cloud themselves with mourning. It was dark when
Cora returned to the house, which seemed gloomy as a sepulchre to her,
for, with all its memorials of the past, it was in truth a dreary place
for one who knew its history, and sometimes felt the weight of a
perpetuating sin on her conscience. She had left Alice Ruess at her
boarding house and was quite alone.
She found the woman and her husband ready to receive her. “Those
movables” had at last settled themselves upon their conviction. They
only feared that she might change her mind and withdraw her promise,
which would in fact, secure a little fortune to them. Hoping to please
her, they had lighted up the dining-room and spread a somewhat dainty
repast there; but she could remember sitting by that table with her
uncle and mother, when they were all a united family. Then the widow and
her little girl were grateful for the shelter that good uncle had so
kindly given them, and opened their hearts to his daughter with maternal
and sisterly affection. The very last time she had been at that table
Mr. Lander had given her the watch she wore, with words of such gentle
affection that she remembered how gratefully tears had crowded to her
eyes. Now she was in that room again, and how? An imposter, a swindler,
an ingrate. For the moment she became conscious of all this, and saw
herself as she was.
The chandelier burned brightly over her head, revealing familiar
pictures on the wall and pouring a flood of light on the silver, glass
and delicate china, which had been hastily brought forth and polished
for her use. A faint cloud of steam came from the silver tea-pot which
stood upon the tray, hot from the kitchen fire. A nicely cooked and
well-selected repast stood temptingly ready. Near the table waited the
woman who would be enriched on the morrow. She bore the consciousness of
this on her smiling face. Before the waiter a large, cosy chair had been
drawn, tempting a weary guest with its crimson cushions. Cora was tired
and hungry, for she had eaten nothing since morning. She threw her crape
bonnet and black shawl on a sofa, pushed the hair away from her temples
with both hands with a feeling of relief—for she had worn the bonnet
since morning—and sat wearily down in the chair.
The woman came forward and poured some tea into the china cup, with its
exquisite whiteness enriched by a deep border of gold and purple.
“I hope the tea will suit you,” she said, obsequiously, for the promise
of to-morrow was still in her mind. “It is hard to get cream in the
city; but my old man found some. Take a waffle; I wasn’t exactly the
cook, but as a little girl you used to like my waffles.”
Cora helped herself to one of the waffles and began to drink her tea
with a relish. She was far too weary for conversation, and allowed the
woman to talk on, scarcely heeding her.
“I suppose you remember the silver,” said the woman, coming gradually
round to a question she was longing to ask.
“Yes,” answered Cora, glancing wearily at the tea-set, “I remember when
my aunt bought it.”
“Your aunt, Miss!” exclaimed the woman. “Why she never brought the value
of a silver thimble into this house. That tea-set was made especially
for your mother not a year before she died.”
A faint crimson dashed over Cora’s face but she answered, quietly
enough:
“Did I not say my mother? Surely I could have mentioned no one else;
though I am so weary that the words change on my lips.”
“You said aunt, young lady, and seemed to connect her with an idea of
silver plate, a thing I’ll be bound she never saw till she came to this
house. I’m poor enough, goodness knows, but, if folks tell true, that
lady, with all her airs didn’t begin to come up to me in the way of
property, and never would have done if it hadn’t been for your father.
Dear old man he was as good to her as good can be, to say nothing of her
daughter, who was the spitefullest, worst tempered young ’un that I ever
waited on. Has she got over them tantrums of hers, Miss, I’d like to
know.”
“She—my cousin—of whom are you speaking, woman?” cried Cora, flashing an
angry glance over the table.
“Dear me, how much you look like her this minute!” replied the woman,
laughing nervously. “That was where it lay—nothing on earth could be
more lovely than your disposition. I never saw that look on your sweet
face before in my life. It’s got by living with her so long, I suppose.
When she was good-natured, no one could tell you apart hardly; but when
she got the evil one agoing, you were no more alike than chalk’s like
cheese. I could always tell you apart by the temper.”
Before the woman ceased speaking, the angry flash had been forced back
from Cora’s face, and a smile stirred her lips.
“I loved my cousin very much,” she said, sweetly. “She was a little
quick at times.”
“It wasn’t exactly what I should call quick,” said the woman.
“No, no, perhaps not; but I am sorry to tell you she is not altogether
right in her mind.”
“Well now, did you ever—I shouldn’t wonder. She had a sort of
disposition that never suited me, and then her mother made it worse and
worse, indulging her so.”
“It was injudicious, I dare say; but Aunt Lander suffers for it now,”
answered Cora, leaning her head sadly on one hand. “It is a terrible
thing to see a young creature like my cousin out of her mind.”
“Speaking about the silver,” said the woman, coming desperately around
to her personal interests again. “I suppose you would like that to be
kept back—not thrown in with the rest, I mean. Then there is the china,
and glass, and ivory-handled knives. Shall I keep them back too?”
“What are you saying—what is it about, the silver?” inquired Cora,
starting out of her amiability a little too abruptly.
“I was asking if you wished to keep that and the—”
“Keep that, no! Glass, china, knives—have I not told you to sweep
everything out of my sight? They take away my appetite—they torment me!
If I hadn’t been hungry as a wolf, I could not have endured them, even
for one meal.”
She spoke with startling emphasis, and was pale to the very lips with
some suppressed feeling. The woman, though well pleased with her words,
stood gazing upon her in dumb surprise. What could have angered the
young lady so?
Again Cora caught that look and saw danger in it—the great danger of
perfect recognition. With a power of self-control that crime had taught
her, she gradually softened down from the perilous vehemence which she
felt to be so unwise.
“I have a detestation of old things,” she said; “silver among the rest.
Besides, it was my father’s wish that the furniture of this house should
be changed entirely. I but carry out what I know would have been his
wishes when I give them to a faithful servant like yourself.”
The woman’s face brightened and her voice bespoke the contentment that
had come upon her with this understanding of all her anxieties regarding
the smaller valuables of the establishment.
“I’m sure, so long as I and my husband live, we shall be grateful to
you, Miss, and the good gentleman who is gone, for all your kindness.”
Cora laughed, a light, half-mocking laugh, which stung the woman, who
was proud in her way.
“Oh, I did not do it out of kindness, and don’t want to be troubled with
gratitude, if such a thing exists in the world. I have deprived you, or
shall deprive you of a good place, and mean to pay you well for it.”
“But your father, if he wished us to have the things, was kind.”
“My father—I had forgotten.”
“Forgotten your own father, and sitting in the chair he used at this
very table! I placed it for you on purpose.”
Cora dropped her knife so suddenly that it broke a piece from the plate
she was using. She turned in the chair, saw its heavy oak carvings and
its crimson cushions as she had seen them a hundred times when her
uncle’s form rested against them. She turned very faint, and starting
up, pushed the chair away with all her strength. It seemed as if she
were beating her hands against a tombstone.
“What is the matter, Miss? What is it frightens you so?”
Cora forced a smile to her white lips.
“Nothing—nothing—I think your tea was strong enough to make me nervous.
Good-night; if my room is ready, I will go to it at once.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THAT BIJOU OF A HOME.
It was finished. Money, the great magician, had done its work, and a
prettier place than that modernized little house in the heart of a great
city could not well be met with. The grounds were all in order—the
straggling rosebushes were confined to their trellises and supporters
once more—the great mound of heliotrope and verbenas was trimmed at the
edges, and its glowing crimson and purple filled the eye with beauty and
the air with perfume. The fountain was in full play; its bright waters
cooled the air, and its basin was garlanded two feet deep with plants
massed in rich combinations of color. Green mosses drank in the
sparkling waters and covered the pots which contained the plants so
richly that the whole great wreath of blossoms seemed to take life from
its greenness. It was late in the season, but spring time, summer and
autumn seemed to meet in that little nook of a garden, turning it into a
Paradise.
Back of the house was a high iron fence, over which a Virginia creeper
swept in and out, forming draperies inexpressibly graceful, which the
first breath of autumn had turned crimson at the edges, where the leaves
were most exposed. This background of green and crimson foliage framed
in the house like a picture. The burning red more than replaced all the
flowers that had perished.
Indoors the change was even greater. Upholsterers, painters and artists
had done their work well. It seemed impossible that so much could have
been completed in three days. But many hands had been busy on the
ceilings, the walls and the floors—all that money, taste or labor could
do had been forced into that young creature’s service, that her wedding
might combine everything within the reach of a sensuous imagination. It
was finished now—complete in all its appointments. Not a vestige of the
old furniture remained; everything was new, fresh and the most exquisite
of its kind.
That day week two servants came into the house—a man who scorned to
speak any language but the French, and a woman who could converse with
him brokenly, but her native tongue was German. Later in the day another
woman came, broad African in every line of her face and curve of her
body. On this woman the other two looked with supreme contempt.
In the basement these three persons assembled for the first time. They
had been engaged in different points of the city, and no two of them had
ever met before. As for the African, she could not understand a word
that the others said, but she was shrewd enough to understand the sneers
and contempt exhibited in their lifted shoulders and mobile eyebrows.
Her heart resented these gestures, calling her fellow-servants poor
white trash in the depths of her soul, which epithet, in its supreme
contempt, was a full equivalent for their shrugs and sidelong glances.
When these three had looked on each other sufficiently, they felt a
desire to investigate such appointments of the household as belonged to
their individual callings. The man-cook fell to a critical examination
of sauce-pans, kneading-boards, jelly moulds and freezes. Everything was
there, and the most perfect of its kind. The smaller sauce-pans were all
lined with silver; the flour-dredge, the nutmeg grater and spice boxes
were altogether of that precious metal. In the drawers were piles of
kitchen napkins, fine as those in general use at any gentleman’s table.
The cooking apparatus was perfect, and covered with ever-so-many patents
attesting the fact. Limpid water flowed abundantly through silver
faucets, and light came in from the most desirable point.
At first the Frenchman was a little disappointed. He had hoped to find
some deficiency to shrug his shoulders and spread his hands over in
horrified refinement; but the perfect arrangement of everything took him
by surprise. His hands and shoulders were lifted in astonishment. His
admiration was uttered in bursts of French quite unintelligible even to
the German woman.
“Great heavens, what perfection! and here, too! In Paris it would be
nothing, but outside, across the Atlantic it is wonderful! This lady
must be a genius; I am honored in serving her; she will appreciate the
delicate aspirations which I shall give to her palate. There will be
pleasure in exercising my art for her. Heavens! I have dropped into
Paradise!”
The Frenchman sat down, smiling complacently on his little kingdom. He
longed to share his exultation with some one, and looked around for the
German woman, who had, however, left the room. But Hagar, the black
servant, was there, standing in the door of the laundry, where she had
been to inspect the stationary tubs and water-faucets. Their
completeness brought a smile to her broad face and revealed a row of
teeth, white as ivory in themselves, and rendered whiter still from
contrast with her black skin.
The Frenchman was willing to put up with this auditor if no better could
be found. He burst forth in a torrent of French, broken up in
ejaculations, which drove the smile completely from Hagar’s face. She
thought that he was scolding her, and grew frightened. Seeing that this
was the result of his eloquence, he subsided into gesticulations and
grimaces which made the negress laugh till her sides shook. She was a
plump, comely African, and the laugh that heaved her full bust had all
the mellowness of a deep contralto voice just as it bursts into tune.
The Frenchman was in despair. What was the use of being supremely
satisfied if no one would sympathize in that satisfaction with him? That
sort of mellow laughter was not sympathy. He might as well have iron as
silver in his utensils for any heed she took of the subject.
Just then the German woman came back to the kitchen. She had been up
stairs to examine the chambers and the toilet arrangements. They were
superb. Bohemian glass, mounted with pure gold; a dressing-box of
malachite with _such_ appointments! gold, gold, gold—nothing but
gold—all contrasting so richly with the clouded green of the malachite;
she had never seen anything more superb—she, who had possessed the honor
of waiting on many a lady of rank in her time. In this country it was
wonderful—beyond belief! She could not understand it! The lady they were
to serve must be some princess to whom privacy was an object. What would
be her own situation; until positive of that she would be watchful and
silent. So she came down quietly and asked what it was which had excited
the contraband, for with that word even she had become familiar,—who
could help it in those times? At any rate they had all been very
fortunate.
Hagar caught the word contraband, and understood that if nothing else.
“Yes,” she said, coming eagerly forward, “I is contraband, driv clar
away up Noth by de war. Sot free when Mars Sherman march by old Mars’
plantation. Don’t know what yer sayin more en dat, but Ise contraband,
and I glories in dat truf, Hallaluyah—thar!”
Having uttered her manifesto, Hagar retreated into a corner of the
kitchen and sat down triumphant. If those two people didn’t understand
her, she couldn’t help it, “dey was poor white trash anyhow, and de
berry next time dey looked at her so she’d sing ole John Brown right in
dere faces. Bressed be de Lord, she could sing!”
The Frenchman and the German woman looked at each other in amazement,
then, after a volley or two of French exclamations, they began to laugh,
for Hagar’s gesticulation had been more effective than her words. Then
Hagar caught the word, put her threat in force, and broke forth
defiantly into “Old John Brown,” a gentleman with whom her auditors were
entirely unacquainted, both in fact, and in history. But they had heard
good singing enough to understand the superb fullness and depth of that
voice which defied them with all its force, and stood listening,
surprised and charmed.
When Hagar finished with an angry motion of the head, which seemed to
shake the last mellow notes up from her chest, the Frenchman came
forward, bowing and smirking, with his hand extended.
“Madam, or perhaps it is mademoiselle, permit me to offer my homage.
That voice is one grand success. I give you my honor it is one grand
success, madam. I am charmed; mademoiselle, here, is charmed also. The
air is superb, the words must be what we call stirring—they reach one’s
heart—upon my honor, they reach the heart.”
Hagar saw that he was complimenting her, and showed her teeth liberally
through the broad smile that swept her face.
“Dat ar music brought him plump on em knees—taut it would. Dat old John
Brown took him right off en his feet. I ain’t nuffin but a contraband,
sure nuff but Ise done it for _him_.”
With this comfortable self-assurance, Hagar folded her arms over the
broad chest, which still seemed heaving with unexpressed music, and
closing her eyes, pretended to sleep.
The two persons, thus left together, sat down and held a few words of
conversation.
“Mademoiselle—is it Mademoiselle or Madam?”
“Madam,” answered the German woman, giving a guttural sound to the word
which made the Frenchman shiver. “Madam, if you please.”
The French cook seemed disposed to press her confidence further; but
that moment the door bell rang and brought Hagar to her feet.
“It’s the young missus!” she exclaimed, going up stairs in haste and
opening the front door, where she dropped a low courtesy as Cora Lander
walked through, clad in rich mourning, so heavily trimmed with bugles
that it swept the marble pavement like a hail storm, as she moved.
“Have the other people come?” she inquired.
“Yes, missus, dey am here. Shall I call dem up?”
“No, no; I will go down to the basement.”
Cora swept through the hall and down the stairs in haste. She had only
seen her new servants at the intelligence offices, and wished to give
them directions.
The Frenchman and his companion both arose as she entered the kitchen.
Since they had seen the house the new mistress had become an object of
great curiosity to them.
“Your name is Alice Ruess, I think?” she said, addressing the woman.
“Step into the servants’ parlor, I wish to speak with you.”
Alice arose and followed her mistress into the front basement, which was
more expensively furnished than most gentlemen’s drawing-rooms.
“Sit down,” she said, addressing Alice. “Understand, I look upon you as
half mistress of this house; in fact no other mistress must be known, at
least for the present.”
“Madam!” exclaimed Alice, surprised out of all composure, “I do not
understand.”
“But you must understand. I shall live in this house, be its mistress
and your mistress in fact, but it is a fact that must not exist outside
these walls. To the world you are Mrs. Ruess, the lady of the house.
Your name will be upon the door. When the mistress of the house is
inquired for, you must present yourself.”
“But, madam, I have no money—no means.”
“I find the money and pay the bills that are made out in your name.”
“Ah, very well, that makes it easy.”
“But, remember, there must be no company.”
“Not a soul, mademoiselle.”
“After to-morrow you will call me madam.”
“Madam—is my lady married then?”
“She will be after to-morrow.”
“Ah, I begin to comprehend. It is a secret marriage.”
“Alice Ruess, this marriage is to be kept so secret that it will be
almost a fortune to any one who keeps it safely for me—ruin to the
creature who betrays it. To-morrow night I shall be married in this
house—your house, remember.”
“I shall not forget, lady.”
“Your house, not only to the outside world but to the other servants.”
“I understand. Madam or mademoiselle shall be obeyed.”
“It must be understood that we board with you—that is, my husband and
myself.” Cora felt a warm flush spread up to her face as she uttered the
words “my husband,” and a sigh, of such exquisite pleasure that it
seemed almost like pain, broke up softly from her bosom. Alice Ruess
smiled covertly, and felt a sort of envy creeping through her heart, of
the beautiful young creature who was just entering a life in which she
had been shipwrecked. “It must be also understood that we have just come
from abroad, which is the truth—”
“Ah, forgive me, but I thought so!” exclaimed Alice, interrupting her.
“Such taste, such grace, were never born or fostered in this country.”
Cora bent her head in reply to this intended compliment, and went on:
“You—pay strict attention to this—knew us in the old country—came over
in the same steamer—”
“Indeed I did.”
“And for that reason—being too wealthy yourself for the need of such
means—you took us as inmates.”
“Lady, I am listening.”
“To-morrow the bills for all that has been done here will be sent in.
You must pay them—they are made out to Mrs. Alice Ruess—here is money. I
have made a rough computation; there will be plenty left for the
household expenses for weeks to come. Take it, and remember to keep a
strict account. I can be generous, but no one must cheat me.”
“Is mademoiselle afraid to trust her money with me?” said Alice, turning
red with anger. “Does mademoiselle mean that?”
“No, I mean nothing of the kind. Were I afraid, you would have no
opportunity to cheat me. I only wish to draw a line clearly between that
which I will give and that which I place in your hands for specific
purposes. Be faithful, and we shall have no reason to complain of each
other.”
“Lady, I will be faithful.”
“Alice Ruess, I believe you.”
Cora arose as she spoke, all her other directions she gave standing.
“The cook—can you judge, Alice—is he what they recommend him to be?”
“Lady, I think so.”
“The supper to-morrow night must be perfect.”
“Supper for how many, lady?”
“Two.”
“What, no more?”
“Only two—us two, alone,” she muttered in English, while a gleam broke
through her half-closed eyelashes as she looked modestly down.
“A little supper, very perfect, for two. That man will prepare it—I
answer for him.”
“As for the rest, let the lights be shaded, get flowers the choicest and
sweetest—you should have taste, I see it in the kindling of your
eye—yes, I will leave that with you; see that they are not gathered
before sunset, we must have no wasted perfume. If I could rifle
sweetness from the flowers of Paradise for him I would do it—I would
though they never bloomed again.”
Cora spoke these last words in English, but the woman read them in her
face, and hers clouded over. Once she had felt like this herself. How
had it ended?
Cora shook out the folds of her heavy silk dress and prepared to go.
“Be sure and have nothing wanting,” she said; “I depend on you
entirely.”
“Will not mademoiselle stay all night?”
“Not for the world. I might dream, and that would be a terrible
beginning. No, it is almost time for the train, and I have a carriage at
the door.”
“But the name, lady? I have not as yet heard your name.”
“True enough. Well, it is no matter about that just now—to-morrow
evening I shall be Mrs. Seymour. A pretty name, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, lady, a very pretty name; may you be happy in bearing it.”
“Happy!” cried the girl, almost clasping her hands. “Nothing
shall—nothing can prevent that.”
Again Alice looked away, and again her face clouded over; she almost
hated that radiant young creature, because of her faith in the man she
loved and in the destiny which united them.
“It is almost time for the train,” said Cora, taking a watch from her
side, glittering with diamonds that formed a raised monogram on the
back—_his_ initials and hers, for Seymour had given it to her out of the
paltry thousands which she had considered as hardly worth mentioning.
“It is almost time—let me think—I have said everything; you understand
my wishes.”
“Trust to Alice, lady, she will not disappoint you.”
“Well then, good-night; I hope those people in the kitchen will suit;
they are highly recommended.”
“Yes, highly recommended. What, will you go out this way?”
“Certainly; it does not matter,” said Cora, opening the basement door
and drawing the thick crape veil over her face, but she came back again
with some anxiety on her face.
“The dresses, have they come?”
“Yes, lady, you will find a pile of paper boxes in the dressing-room.”
“That is pleasant. How prompt these people have been. I never knew what
a glorious worker money was before.”
The young girl said this half aloud as she mounted the steps and stood
in the flower garden. They had obeyed her well. She felt the freshness
given to the air by the play of the fountain. Some drops fell upon her
veil and trembled there like lost diamonds. The perfume of late roses
swept over her. Again that delicious sigh rose and swelled in her bosom.
“All this—and he loves me. Was the love of Venus herself ever more
richly surrounded? I have beautified this place for him. It is my taste,
my wealth, my great love for him, that has done it all. I give him love,
gold, beauty, and by-and-by position. He should have had all at
once—everything I have on earth—if he would but have waited. Waited, no,
he loved me too well for that; and I loved him a thousand fold better
because he won me from all my strong holds with such impetuous
affection. It is, like being carried off by violence, forced into such
happiness as the soul grows faint in thinking of, and this will endure
for a lifetime. I wonder if it will. Can such love die? How empty and
blank my heart would be without it!”
These were the eager ejaculations and broken questions that chased each
other through Cora Lander’s mind as she drove to the station and took
her seat in the cars. She had seen Seymour in the city, a few moments,
three days before, but fearing that he might prematurely guess at the
exquisite home she was preparing for him, had sent him back to the
country tavern, promising to meet him at the log cabin that night and
arrange for the future. It was scarcely dark when she reached the
station, for a fine round moon was just rising, and by its light she
found her way into the grove and along the footpath which led to the
cabin, certain that she would find him there, waiting for her with all
that ardent longing which filled her own heart.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE WEDDING TOILET.
It was not exactly a dressing-room, nor was it a boudoir, in which Cora
Lander stood robing herself for that secret marriage, but one of those
elegant snuggeries which bespeak unbounded resources and a taste so
luxurious that it almost revolts the imagination.
A toilet table was there, standing against the blue of the wall; its
tall mirror framed in with a sumptuous enwreathment of gilded flowers,
drooping lilies and clustering roses. From the bell of each lily a
slender jet of gas shot forth and lighted up the whole toilet with
quivering fire, indescribably beautiful. Above the mirror, and floating
down each side of the table, was a cloud of filmy lace, grasped in the
hands of a flying Cupid that seemed to float in the air and bathe itself
in starlight, so adroitly were the wires hidden that connected it with
the ceiling.
The table beneath the glass was an elaborate combination of ivory,
satin-wood and gold, which stood upon a low platform of the same
delicate workmanship, curved back at the sides just far enough to
support two figures carved in ivory, with bands of gold about their
heads and touches of gold gleaming along the draperies. These figures
seemed to have just seized upon the floating lace flung to them by the
Cupid, with uplifted hands and with feet advanced, gracefully poising
themselves to dance off with it.
Upon this table the malachite dressing-case lay open, with all its
crystal and golden equipments flashing in the light, and close by was a
jewel-box, with the lid flung back from which came the flash of diamonds
through a rope of pearls that coiled over the edge and trailed half
across the table.
Beyond this superb article of furniture there was little indication that
the room was used for anything but a place of rest. All the more
commonplace appointments of the toilet were contained in the spacious
bath-room, seen through an open door, which had evidently just been
used, for the bath of snow-white marble, lined with some silver-plated
metal, was half full of water that sent a faint perfume of roses into
the dressing-room. The fur of a white bearskin rug, which lay on the
marble floor, had been lately trampled on by wet feet, and on a marble
slab, beneath a mirror let into the wall, lay combs and brushes, with a
crystal array of pomade boxes, perfume bottles, carafes of water, all in
confusion, as Cora Lander had left them ten minutes before, when she
entered the larger dressing-room.
A dress of white silk half covered the blue damask of a couch that stood
in the room, and over a large Turkish chair close by the delicate
frost-work of a Brussels veil was thrown out in exquisite relief by the
richer color of the damask.
Alice Ruess stood near her mistress, who was surveying herself in the
glass, well pleased with the effect of her own work. Never had Cora
Lander appeared more beautiful than she looked that night, even before
the bridal robe had fallen over that cloud of muslin skirts and the
delicate Valenciennes edging that cast its almost imperceptible shadows
on her arms and bosom. The hair was rolled back from her forehead in
rich folds, ending on the left side in a single long heavy curl, which
fell in coils of ruddy gold on her white shoulder.
“It is beautiful,” said Cora, turning toward Alice and taking up the
rope of pearls; “shall we twist these around the back hair?”
“Not for the world, mademoiselle is lovely as it is. The veil will be
enough.”
Cora relinquished the pearls with evident reluctance; but she recognized
a genius in the woman before her, and was wise enough to submit.
“What will you fasten the veil with then?” she inquired.
“These, mademoiselle; they are fresh as May dew and white as snow, just
one little blush of pink at the heart—no more.”
Alice went to an alabaster vase that stood in a corner of the room, and
took from the flowers crowded in it a handful of white roses, warmed, as
she said, with blushes at the heart. These she laid carefully upon the
dressing-table after pulling away all the green leaves.
Then there was a rustling of heavy silk, delicate satin gaiters laced
over symmetrical ankles, and at last what seemed a shower of frost-work
cast over a dress white and shimmering like crusted snow.
No wonder the waiting-woman stepped back and surveyed her mistress with
clasped hands and exultation in every feature. Never had high art a
lovelier object to exhaust itself upon. Some sweet, womanly feelings had
crept into that young heart, spite of its ambition. The long, curling
lashes swept a cheek brighter than any damask rose that ever bloomed; a
smile parted those red lips. When she looked up the love-light in those
soft almond-shaped eyes made the heart yearn toward her; for the time
she was natural, womanly, almost good.
“You have made me beautiful, for that creature in the glass is
beautiful,” she said, flinging some jewels out of the box and searching
for a roll of bank-notes it contained. “Take this—and this. I hope you
are poor, that it is the first money you have possessed for a long time;
I would have it a surprise, for I must make some one happy to-night, or
this feeling here, so sweet, so sacred, so holy, would kill me. Oh! if I
were worthy of it!—Oh! if—. But I will think of nothing but him. Neither
angel nor fiend shall drag my thoughts back to the old subject. In an
hour, _one_ little hour, I shall be his wife. Heavens, how I love him!
And he loves me! I know it! I feel it here, deep, deep as my heart can
feel! Oh! if, like Cleopatra, I could melt all that I have into a single
pearl, he should drink it and I would smile as it touched his lips. If
this wealth has cost me my own soul, so much the better—it is for
him—all for him, and cheaply bought. But why am I thinking of that? He
will never know. Heavens! must this subject forever crowd upon me? What
business has it here? I, who have commanded wealth almost unlimited,
should know how to crowd back my own thoughts. Oh! if I could! if I
could!”
Cora had been speaking all this, wildly, brokenly, in English. Alice
could not understand the language but she saw the color come and go in
that beautiful face till it became pale as death. Then the features
began to quiver, and tears rose slowly to those eyes so full of
sparkling happiness a moment before. Spite of her resolve, the fiend and
the angel of her life were having a sharp struggle that evening. She
fell down into the Turkish chair, and grasping a fold of her veil in
both hands, pressed them to her eyes. When her hands fell away, the lace
was wet and Cora Lander’s lips were quivering. She would have given the
world that moment could she have flung all her hideous wealth away and
gone to her husband with a pure heart.
“Is mademoiselle displeased with her dress? Would she prefer the
pearls?” inquired Alice, troubled by this new display.
“Displeased—no, no—what a child I am! The roses are lovely as innocence
itself. When little girls are confirmed they wear white roses. Who shall
forbid me to loop them in my bridal veil? I will not have the pearls,
Alice.”
“If mademoiselle pleases, I can clasp one string about her neck and
twist the other about her arm. Let me try them.”
“As you please,” answered Cora rising to survey herself once more. She
bent her stately head before the glass and held forth her arm firmly
while the woman wound the string of pearls over it serpentwise, and
clasped another around her neck.
“There, mademoiselle, your toilet is perfect. There is your
handkerchief. Now sit down awhile, it is so fatiguing; you look pale.
Let me open the window, this fresh air, cool with drops from the
fountain, will bring back all the lost roses to this pretty cheek. Ah, I
thought so—they come back all at once. It is a footstep on the gravel.”
Cora started to her feet: a smile just parted her lips; she seemed
inspired.
“Does mademoiselle expect company to the wedding?” inquired Alice.
“Not a soul, Alice. My happiness is so complete, I would not share it
with an angel.”
“I thought, from the grand toilet, the quantity of flowers and the
little supper, that Monsieur would bring some friends, perhaps.”
“No, the clergyman will come, perform his duties and go. We want no
strangers—nor must you ever mention to a human being what you witness
here to-night.”
“Lady I never will.”
“The time may come when I shall call upon you; till then promise that
you will be silent.”
“I promise; on my honor I promise.”
“Truly,” said Cora, smiling at her image in the glass, “we have made a
grand toilet; we have a profusion of flowers, and this new French cook
has promised wonders for the supper. What then? A bride should dress for
her husband, not the crowd that choose to follow her to the altar.
Should I make this evening less splendid because he alone will enjoy it?
No, no; love, to be perfect should be nobly surrounded. It shall be—it
shall be so with us!”
“Mademoiselle, some one rings at the door.”
“It is my husband!” cried Cora, radiant. “Go down, Alice, and—stay,
stay. I will go myself. Hark! there is no footstep but his?”
“None, lady.”
“I knew it. I felt sure that he would come alone. Heavens, how my heart
beats!”
CHAPTER XXX.
AFTER THE WEDDING.
Cora Lander ran down stairs into the parlor, whose frescoed ceiling,
dove-tinted walls and thickly carpeted floors were lighted up for the
first time, and there, standing as it were in the midst of an enchanted
bower, was Seymour, her bridegroom.
“Great Heavens, how beautiful you are!” he exclaimed, coming forward
with both hands extended. “So radiant and so lovely, all for me!”
She placed her two gloved hands in his, and stood before him blushing
and with downcast eyes. Her hands shook and quivered in his like young
birds caught among the roses.
“Oh! Seymour, _do_ you love me? Shall this last through our whole
lives?”
“So long as we live, Cora Lander, I will love you for better for worse,
in good or evil, in holiness or sin. You and I belong to each other.
_Nothing but death shall part us, so help me God._”
Why did her hands cease their happy flutter and grow cold in his clasp?
What was it that sent the blood from her face and neck till they were
white as the pearls on her bosom?
“Why, love, how white you are!”
“Your love is savage, Seymour. It half frightens me.”
“My love frighten you! What have I said, dearest, only that I would love
you forever and ever?”
“But you spoke sternly.”
“Solemnly, sweet one, not sternly.”
“I am very foolish to let the tone of your voice wound me so.”
“Yes, darling; but it is over now. There, there, lean your head on my
shoulder, so; and let me kiss the roses back to these lips.”
They sat down on a sofa near the window. Her lips had got back their
redness; her cheek, warm with a flush of happiness, lay close to his.
She half clouded him with her bridal veil.
“And you, Cora, will it be always thus with you?” he whispered. “Will my
love content you forever?”
“It contents me now, Seymour—I am supremely happy—nothing comes between
my heart and yours. In this place we can be happier than mortals ever
were before.”
“And is this to be our home?” said Seymour, glancing around the
sumptuous room.
“Yes, it is our home; I give it to you. Thank Heaven, my love does not
come empty handed!”
Seymour gently released her from his arm, and moving to a window, looked
out. The little garden in front was flooded with moonlight; drops from
the fountain were shooting through it in bright flashes and raining back
upon the flowers, which repaid them with perfume. It was indeed a little
Paradise that his bride had created for him. There every sense could be
gratified. The most refined idea of beauty must be satiated in a place
like that—a creation of love itself.
Was he satisfied? I think not. This man, with all his faults—and he had
more than the reader yet knows of—was proud in his way, and it is in the
nature of proud men, good or bad, to give benefits to the women they
love; to receive them entirely wounds all sense of manhood. In the first
abandon of her love, Cora had felt great pleasure in the idea of
bestowing benefits on the man who was to be her husband. In her
short-sighted egotism, she expected every new benefit conferred on him
to add another link to the chain of flowers which was to bind their
lives together. She was generous to him, because at that time, she
considered his destiny as her own, and it was simply being generous to
herself. She made no calculation for change, either in herself or him.
The rash, impetuous passion that carried her selfish nature out of
itself she really believed would last forever. It pleased her to be
munificent with him—to make his life one dream of Paradise was her
ambition. But it was to be a Paradise she was to give him and share with
him.
Did she expect gratitude for this or a greater harvest of affection?
Yes, in simple truth, this was what lay in her heart. With all her
ability, her craft and daring, the young girl sitting there in her
bridal dress knew little of human nature, or she would not have
attempted to humiliate the man she loved with obligations with which it
was his place to endow her. From every point of earth she, with her
money, had gathered materials of enjoyment for him, exulting in the
power of thus proving her love. The result was that he stood there by
the window, moody, and with a clouded brow. Was he, too, an appendage?
Did she wish to overshadow him with her wealth—crush him down with her
munificence?
She came to the window where he stood and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“You look sad, darling. Why is it? I expected to see you all joy.”
“And so I am, dearest girl. Why should you think otherwise? No woman
ever gave her pet macaw a more glittering cage.”
He spoke with something of bitterness. She had been too lavish of her
superior gifts, and he felt it.
“You have taken a dislike to my house—our house—and I—I thought it so
beautiful,” she said with tears in her eyes.
She was keenly disappointed. After all, objects of material beauty are
very uncertain things when we depend on them to perfect our happiness.
He looked down upon her and relented. Other and deeper causes of regret
lay in his heart; but he crowded them back and allowed all the warm
tenderness of his love to answer that tearful look.
“It is beautiful,” he said, “but how can I think of that with you by my
side? Come closer to the window, love, and let us watch for the man who
will make you my wife.”
She drew close to his side and allowed him to circle her with his arm as
they stood looking out upon the moonlight.
“How lovely and how still it is,” she said; “we can almost hear the
bell-like tinkle of those water drops as they fall back into the
fountain. Softer and sweeter music never heralded in a wedding. Will you
accept the omen, Seymour?”
“I can accept nothing that does not promise happiness with you so close
to my heart, Cora.”
A sharp click of the iron latch startled them both. The gate fell to
with a clang that struck those two young creatures like a blow. Then,
like a spectre, came the dark form of the clergyman, sweeping the
moonlight from the flowers with its shadow.
“He is coming,” whispered Cora, chilled, she knew not why.
Seymour did not speak, but be strained her to his bosom so violently
that she gasped for breath.
“Have you no fear of me—no questions to ask? It is not too late.”
“Fear of you,” she answered, clinging to him tenderly when his arm would
have released her. “Fear of you—I should as soon fear the flowers around
that fountain. Questions—why should I ask questions just as our two
lives are trembling together? Hark, he is ringing the bell!”
They left the window and sat down upon the couch, waiting for the
clergyman. He came in, after some delay, smiling blandly and rubbing his
white hands over each other, while he paused on the threshold and cast a
wandering glance over the room. Then his observation fell on the young
couple. He moved forward and greeted them cordially.
“Then it is to be a wedding, after all,” he said, glancing at the
costume of the bride. “I was not prepared for that.”
“No,” said Cora, blushing under his gaze. “There will be no one present
but ourselves.”
The minister smiled, glanced at her a second time, with a look that
bespoke as much admiration as clerical eyes are ever permitted to
express, and answered still more blandly:
“And the witnesses, dear lady—we must have witnesses.”
The young people looked at each other in dismay.
“Alice Ruess might do for one,” said Cora, in a low voice. “But the
other?”
“My boy, Brian Nolan; I wish I had brought him; he might be of use, he
is sufficiently intelligent.”
“Is he trustworthy?” asked Cora, in a whisper.
“I would trust him with a secret that held my life, if needful,”
answered Seymour. “But we have no one to send for him.”
“No,” said Cora. “But the Frenchman—he will do.”
A few minutes after, Alice Ruess and Lubin came into the room and stood
near the couple while they were married.
Then the clergyman kissed the bride on her burning cheek, shook hands
with Seymour, pledged them in a glass of amber-hued wine, and went away
for richer than he had expected to become that night, leaving a wedding
certificate behind, and any amount of warm congratulations. The name of
the bride written on that certificate was Virginia Cora Lander, and the
bridegroom’s name was written out in full, Alfred Nolan Seymour.
Cora scarcely stopped to read the document, but put it in her bosom,
afraid to trust it away from her own heart, so precious did it seem to
her.
Seymour did not think of the fact then, but he afterward had cause to
remember it. The clergyman was an utter stranger to him. Alice Ruess had
employed a friend to engage him, and so he came personally unknown to
them all. His name was signed to the certificate, but no one cared to
examine that just as the man was going away.
That little supper had been served in the dining-room, and Lubin, the
French cook, was in an ecstasy of impatience lest his favorite dishes
would be spoiled. The clergyman had been a little late, having met with
some difficulty about finding the house. Then he had lingered awhile
after the ceremony, charmed by the sprightliness and beauty of the
bride, lured, as even clergymen will be sometimes, by the sparkle and
flavor of rare wines, taken in moderation, and therefore slowly.
Thus it happened that Lubin’s supper was put back, and Lubin himself
almost driven to despair. He stood ready to serve out his own rich
viands—for, to secure that pleasure, he was willing to give up any
amount of dignity—waiting for some signal of the clergyman’s departure.
But, as I have said, the good man was in no haste, and Lubin had plenty
of time to survey the round table, rich with gold and silver plate,
glittering with cut crystal and crowned by a swelling mound of flowers
covered by a glass shade, so transparent that it seemed a film of woven
air. Thus the poor fellow stood with a snow-white vest contrasting with
his black clothes, kid gloves, spotless as the vest, half broken-hearted
and ready to cry with vexation. The chandelier over his head was one
blaze of gas; the ceiling to which it hung was aglow with flowers, that
seemed to burst into fresh bloom under that blaze of light and open out
new folds of beauty. A carpet, thick and soft as forest turf spread away
from the table and met the edges of the room in a heavy rope of flowers
that coiled all around it, chaining in a broad medallion in the centre.
All this was new, and thus had a claim on the Frenchman’s imagination;
but he had neither heart nor eye for anything but the dishes left under
black Hagar’s care, which he knew were losing something of their
perfection every instant. At last he heard the front door close, and
Alice came into the dining-room to say that Madame and Monsieur were
ready for supper.
Into this blaze of lights and glory of flowers the young couple came and
seated themselves at their first home repast. In his travels, once,
Seymour had passed through a forest twenty miles deep, haunted with
birds and full of wild deer that had never heard the crack of a hunter’s
gun. In the very heart of this forest, close by the corduroy road, stood
a log cabin, so newly built that tufts of hemlock and pine still clung
to the green bark of the logs. Two or three acres of land were cleared
around this rude dwelling, but a great walnut tree had been left to
shelter it, and morning glories were already creeping toward its tiny
windows. The door of this dwelling was open as he rode by, and at a
small table, covered with a cloth white as snow, he saw a young couple
eating bread and milk. Seymour thought of that picture and sighed as he
sat down to the exquisite little supper with his wife.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE AUDACITY OF CRIME.
It was October now—gorgeous, beautiful October. All the trees on the
Hudson felt the ripeness of the year in their foliage, which had taken
rich gleams of crimson into its greenest masses, and was just beginning
to throw out flashes of gold where the maples grew thickest.
In September Mrs. Lander had consented to accept Cora’s invitation to
stay with her awhile at one of the fashionable hotels in the city. A
splendid outfit of second mourning had been the principal inducement
held out for this temporary change of residence, and this important
business occupied the widow almost exclusively.
As for Cora, she took little interest in all the details of dead silk,
gray silk, bugle trimmings, or black ribbons. Indeed she was seldom at
her rooms twenty-four hours together. The first year of her mourning had
not yet expired; she made this an excuse for avoiding all society and
living a secluded life, which even her reputed aunt could not
understand. There was neither sympathy nor confidence now between these
two women. Cora held her mother at arm’s length and kept out of her
society as much as possible. She gave no explanation of her own mode of
life, but came and went as it pleased her, answering to no person for
her movements. At first there was a glow and enthusiasm about her that
forbade all thoughts of wrong or sorrow in her life. If she was
reticent, it was easy to see that intense happiness was all that she had
to conceal. She absolutely lived away from every friend, in a world of
her own that became more and more secret every day.
At last Mrs. Lander grew weary of shopping, and more weary of the
strange isolation which Cora’s retired life forced upon her. She
demanded more money and a broader range of social life in the hotel,
both of which Cora refused. So, one day when Cora was more insolent than
usual, Mrs. Lander packed up her things and betook herself to the old
home, where she threw herself upon Eunice for sympathy and protection.
When the evil spirit of the family was gone, something like tranquillity
settled upon the household. Eunice, who controlled her mistress with an
iron hand, broke up the old habit of staying in her chamber by main
force. The family meals were served in the dining-room, she said, and
were not to be scattered all over the house in trays, as if they kept a
tavern, as it was when that other highflyer was at home. If she was
expected to superintend things, every soul under that roof would come
down to regular meals in the regular place. She was tired of seeing such
goings on, and meant to take the reins in her own hands, just to see how
it seemed after being put down and rode over, as she had been for ever
so long.
She said this to Mrs. Lander when she came back from the city with her
intense mourning softened by gleams of jet, and her neck surrounded by a
rope of great black beads, to which a good-sized cross was suspended.
Mrs. Lander might not have yielded to this dictation in Eunice, but for
the trouble that had arisen between her and Cora at the hotel, which had
at length aroused all her temper and her old pride. Mrs. Lander never
gave even Eunice the details of the quarrel which had preceded her exit
from the hotel. But it had arisen in this way. After spending large sums
of money on her wardrobe, Mrs. Lander had asked for more, and was put
off grudgingly with a small sum, and in a manner that drove all the
woman’s smothered temper into revolt. “She wanted more,” she said, in
hot anger, “five times as much—ten times—twenty times. The money
belonged to her a great deal more than it ever did to her daughter.”
“Your daughter,” said Cora, rolling up the rejected money and crowding
it coolly back into her purse. “Never call me by that name while you
live, unless you wish to be arrested as a perjurer. You have rejected me
and claimed that other creature over and over again, and I, for one,
believe you. I am no more your daughter than you are mine.”
“Cora Lander, are you crazy or a fiend to say this?” cried the woman,
appalled by an audacity she had never dreamed of before.
“I am simply in earnest, madam.”
“Madam! and we alone!”
“No child can be sure of its parentage. We must take the word of some
one. A mother’s word is held as the most sacred evidence. That you have
given, society has accepted it. The Probate Court has accepted it. I
accept it. The thing is decided.”
“But it was not true—the falsehood was of your own contriving, wicked,
wicked girl!” cried the astonished woman.
“Falsehood! I will not permit you or any one to use such language to me.
I had long been troubled with suspicions, and did what I could to get at
the truth. It came from your false heart with a pang, I dare say; but it
was the truth, nevertheless.”
“Cora Lander, this is too much! Are you my child or a demon?”
“I would certainly rather be a demon than your child, provided demons
could inherit. As it is, I prefer to be as I am, the child and heiress
of Amos Lander.”
That young girl looked in her mother’s face with cold audacity as she
uttered this speech. It was evidently premeditated and the result of
deliberation. Did she wish to drive the poor woman to extremities? One
would think so. Mrs. Lander’s passion was completely subdued by this
unheard-of assurance. She began to doubt her own senses. Was that
creature really her child?
“Do not go too far,” she said, standing up with some of Cora’s own stony
resolution in her face. “If you treat me in this way, so help me Heaven,
I will retract and expose everything!”
“Do,” answered the wicked girl. “Try that, and so surely as we both
live, I will ground a charge of insanity; on that very confession, and
shut you up in a mad-house. Remember, madam, it was your lips that first
proclaimed the fact that insanity was a family inheritance on your side
of the house—that it had already appeared in your daughter, the young
woman who has driven me out of my own house by her crazy vagaries. What
is more natural than that you, my poor aunt, should give way to the
malady that you assert has existed for generations among your
ancestors—such ancestors?”
“Cora Lander!” cried the wretched woman, coming out of her amazement
pale and stern as the bold creature who taunted her, “be careful how you
gibe at me and mine! Whatever I am, you came of the same stock.”
“That is exactly what I deny, and am prepared to deny before the face of
the whole world. My mother was a Ravensworth—a nice old family, that
never had a blemish were the Ravensworths—I will not hear a word against
them.”
Cora smiled as she spoke, the very insolence of her words made her lip
curve. Mrs. Lander saw this, and was seized with a new idea. She came
eagerly forward and threw her arms about the girl.
“Ah! now I understand it all. You are only teasing me—saying all these
horrid things to see if I mind them. Of course I did a little—who could
help it? But it is all over. Give up the money, dear, and we will have
no more of these cruel jokes—they hurt me, indeed they do. There, now
kiss me.”
Cora kissed that poor, quivering face with lips of ice.
“I will give you the money, aunt, of course. I have always wished to be
liberal, both with you and my cousin; but there is no joke in what I
have been saying.”
“Oh, how can you, child! This is too cruel!”
“Cruel! no, it is a fixed truth, Aunt Lander.”
“Aunt Lander! I will _not_ hear that!” cried the woman bursting into a
passion of sobs.
“You will and must,” answered Cora, in a low resolute voice, “for never
on this earth will I recognize you by any other name.”
“But I will compel you,” said the desperate woman, in a hard whisper.
“Hush! this white rage will make you ill. Here is the money, take it and
let us be at peace.”
She took the roll of notes a second time from the reticule purse still
swinging from her wrist, and held it towards Mrs. Lander.
“No!” said the outraged woman, dashing the money from her, “I will
perish first.”
Cora picked up the money with a forced smile, and would have offered it
a second time, but Mrs. Lander had left the room.
Half an hour after this scene, the widow Lander came from her room with
her mourning shawl on and a thick crape veil drawn over her white face.
She shivered as if an ague fit had seized upon her, and went back for
her furs, thinking, poor woman, that they might drive off the cold that
was freezing her heart. But even under that thick cloak of Russian
sables she shook with that inner cold which seizes upon the very life.
Cora stood at the window as her mother went out, and a cloud swept over
her face. With all her iron courage, she did not feel altogether secure.
“Let her go,” she said at last, turning from the window. “This money
will soon draw her back; she cannot live without it. Why on earth did I
refuse all she wanted? Why—because having decided on being mean, I must
have it out. It’s my fate, when a thing is to be done I must rush at it;
there is no patience in my whole nature. It was a dangerous move,
though! How she turned upon me. I had no idea that she had so much iron
in her composition. What if she should really revolt and do what she
threatens? But she will not do it. If she did—well, my threat might soon
be a reality—I would fight it out to the bitter end.”
Cora left the window and sat down near the fire, hardening her heart;
for some natural relenting did force itself upon her. After all, the
woman was her mother, and had been an over kind one all the early years
of her life. But the crime which she had been tempted by her very
affection to commit stood between them, till the girl began almost to
hate the mother who knew how wicked she was. In a little time she
reasoned: “_Our_ life must begin, and I want no incumbrances—Seymour and
I are enough for each other. We must become leaders in the world—I in
society, he in political life. Whatever he wants, that my husband shall
have. With wealth, beauty, talent like mine, it will be easy to give him
any position he may desire—I will obtain it for him—I will subdue men
and women in his behalf—when I am ready to take his name he shall soon
stand highest among great men. Talent; oh, yes, no one can question
that! Thank Heaven, he has the ability to back up all my exertions to
hold place with the strongest and the proudest!”
Foolish, vain woman! did she not understand that a man, to be great must
work out his own greatness? That he despises the ladder erected by other
hands than his own, though he may mount it to the topmost round. She was
thinking of ambition now. Before it had been all love, that wild
impetuous love, which is sure to end in some other selfish passion.
Months had gone by, and her great love had already come to this. She
thirsted now for her days of mourning to be over, that she might come
forth into the world hand in hand with her husband, and astonish it. But
exactly as she had prepared that exquisite home for her married life,
she would burst forth upon the great world and dazzle it. When she
presented herself to society as an heiress, a bride and a beauty at the
same time, it must be surrounded with even greater splendor than she had
already secured in her secret home. Until all this was arranged and her
mourning thrown off, that home must be enough for them both.
Was Cora, in fact, beginning to weary of it? Had the first bloom of her
love gone off? Did she find constant companionship sometimes a little
oppressive? Better women might have done so without blame. Men worth
having do not care to be caged with their mates eternally, like singing
birds.
Cora had not come out of that cruel scene with her mother anywhere near
so calm and unhurt as she seemed. The widow’s resolution had startled
her. There was something in her conscience, too, that disturbed her
temper. She was surprised and fearfully anxious; that sudden departure
annoyed her exceedingly. The presence of her aunt, as she introduced the
woman, was a necessity for her at the hotel. Perhaps she might come back
again—time would show. She would say nothing of their separation, but go
for a time to her own house, leaving every one to suppose that aunt and
niece had gone up the river together, meanwhile.
Cora went to her own house. Seymour had gone out, his servant said, but
would return soon, he was quite sure. Cora was ill at ease; the little
drawing room, with its closed curtains and maize-colored furniture, was
overheated, and oppressed her. A certain feeling of satiety made her
turn palled from the costly things which she had deemed indispensable to
her wedding. “I will have them changed,” she said. “The same thing for
ever and ever—how it tires one!”
Up the stairs she went into her own bed-chamber; there the heart would
be less oppressed. That day the room did not look exactly the same to
her. The lace curtains, falling like sifted snow over the bed, had lost
their first crispness; the silk, of a faint rose-color, with which the
walls were fluted from floor to ceiling, was beginning to fade to a dull
white where the sun had touched it. The alabaster vase which stood close
to her pillow was full of dead flowers. Here, too, a faint betrayal of
disgust came into her face. The dead flowers made her angry—knowing how
keenly she loved flowers, he might at least have kept them fresh even
with his own hands. It was not much to expect in return for all she had
done.
Hah! woman, had it came to that? Are you beginning to count obligations?
Better not let your husband know it.
The trouble was in Cora’s heart, not in the rooms; but she would not
look there, fearing to discover something worse than dead flowers, no
doubt. Sweeping her long, black dress over the carpet, she entered that
little snuggery that I have told you of. The toilet table was littered
with ornaments just as she had left them. A wreath of artificial daisies
hung over one of the gilded lilies, and a lace handkerchief, more than
half soiled, was thrust beneath another.
“It seems like the room of a broken-down actress,” she said, looking
around, bitter at heart. “As I can flee to no other place, this shall at
least be made tidy.”
She rung the bell and Alice appeared, calm and quiet as ever. What did
madam please to want?
Why everything; but first, she would like to see that table cleared off,
the wreath flung into the fire, and the handkerchief—that might as well
be sent to the laundry. It had cost thirty dollars or so, and was worth
keeping.
Madame should be obeyed; if Madame remembered, she had requested that
the things on that table should not be disturbed. What dress would
madame prefer?
Madame was out of temper, and answered sharply that she did not care to
change her dress.
Alice looked at the black bombazine, trimmed knee-deep with crape, and
shook her head. Madame knew best, she said, but it seemed strange to see
her sitting in that chair which had relieved the whiteness of her bridal
dress so beautifully, in such gloomy mourning. But Cora had a little
satisfaction in keeping on her sable dress—had not Seymour neglected to
put fresh flowers in that Hebe vase? So she sat still in her mourning,
angry with herself, angry with him—out of humor with all the world.
An hour went by—another—and still Seymour did not come. This was
strange. The young man had few acquaintances in the city, and nothing
was likely to delay him long. It was dusk before Cora heard his step on
the gravel. She had become nervous with anxiety, and sprang up with a
feeling of relief, followed close by a flash of resentment that he had
caused her so much pain. She stood in her bed-room window and saw him
pass the fountain. He walked hurriedly—wildly—like one in a dream, or
like a ghost just freed from the grave; for his face was deathly white
and his eyes were full of terror. She heard Alice tell him that she was
up stairs, and listened for some exclamation of pleasure, but a single
sentence escaped his lips, which fell upon her ear like living fire;
“Great Heavens, I hope not!”
The blood sprang up from her heart hot as venom. She bit her lips till
they grew white under her teeth. How she was thoroughly angry.
CHAPTER XXXII.
A WEEK OF LOVE LIFE.
Seymour waited awhile in the hall, afraid to present that scared face
before his wife. He turned to Alice, and, lifting the hat from his head,
questioned her.
“Do I look ill? Do I look wild?”
Great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead and upper lip; his
whole face was fearfully pale, his eyes unnaturally bright.
“Yes, monsieur,” answered the woman. “Monsieur is pale and wild. Let me
bring monsieur some wine.”
“Wine!—No, no, bring me brandy. Tell Lubin to send the decanter.”
Seymour went into the parlor and threw himself on a couch, wiping the
moisture from his face as he waited for the brandy. It was the couch on
which he and Cora had seated themselves after the ceremony that had made
them man and wife. This came to his mind, and tears sprang to his eyes.
“Poor girl—poor, unhappy girl—had I known this, I would have died rather
than drag you down with me,” he muttered.
Alice came in with the brandy and a goblet. Seymour seized the decanter
and filled the glass half full, dashing the brandy over his unsteady
hands as he did it. He drank eagerly, set the glass down on a Mosaic
table, leaving a broad stain, and starting up, would have gone in search
of his wife, but she met him at the door with a white heat of anger on
her face and a smile upon her lips.
By this time Seymour’s face was flushed with color, and a gleam of red
stained the pure white of his eyes. She thought that he was intoxicated,
and for the moment loathed him; for Cora was as fastidious as she was
unprincipled. Drinking was sure to imperil the grace that she was so
proud of and stain the noble beauty of his features. This was why she
recoiled from it with such terror.
“What is the matter, have you been ill?” she demanded, in a low,
constrained voice.
“Yes, darling, I have been very ill.”
“In the street?”
“Yes, something seized me in the street—a vertigo.”
“It seems more like a panic,” she said, looking keenly in his face.
“I—yes, I suppose it must be like a panic. Being so ill, I was afraid of
terrifying you—the very thought made me a coward.”
“Was that all? Well, you see that I am not frightened.”
“That is a brave girl. Kiss me, dear, for I am almost heart-broken.”
She kissed him upon the forehead. His lips were moist with brandy; she
could not have forced herself to touch them, with all her self-control.
“What is it about, Seymour? What is it that is breaking your heart?” she
asked, softly, thinking of her own secret with dread.
“Breaking my heart? Did I say that? What nonsense! I was only afraid
that you would think me worse than I really was. See, I am well again;
give me a few moments to dress for dinner, and I shall be gay as a
lark.”
He ran up stairs laughing rather loudly, and, entering his
dressing-room, fell upon his knees by the couch, and struggled with his
grief till the frail structure shook under him.
“What can I do? What shall I do? No deer was ever run to covert so
closely as I am. She will hate me, or it will be her death. Better the
last—better death a thousand times! One look of hate on that face would
be such punishment as no other human being has power to give. Oh! my
God! my God! how I love her! Will she believe it? Can I convince her
that it was this craving affection, this intense love that drove me on?
Oh! if I had told her that day in the little cabin, when the subject
came up so naturally! She would have forgiven me then, I am sure of
it—forgiven me and saved me—but now I dare not tell her. There was
something in her eye and the touch of her lip that froze me. Can she
suspect?”
He started up while these thoughts were flashing through his mind,
bathed his face in cold water over and over again, and began to brush
his hair violently. The exercise did him good; he tore away at his black
curls like a tiger.
“If I could tear them out! If I could only change this mass of black
waves, all might yet be saved. But with her eyes upon me there can be no
change. Oh! if she would but go away for a month or two, or let me.
Perhaps she will. Yet how can I live without her, my wife—my dear, dear
wife!”
He sat down on the couch now, with the hair-brush in his hand, gazing
past it on the floor, in deep thought. All at once he started up and
began to dress himself more rationally. His face cleared, his lips
parted and lost the iron tension of nerves that had strained them
together when he attempted to speak cheerfully. An important idea had
come into his mind—an idea that drove away all the excitement from his
brain and left him with the face of a man who had indeed been ill.
When Seymour went down stairs all the wildness had left his eyes. He was
calm and thoughtful, but apparently suffering from past or present pain.
He went up to Cora and kissed her tenderly upon the forehead; she had
shrunk from meeting his lips with hers once, and he would not offer them
again.
“Did I frighten you, darling?” he said, smoothing the bands of her hair
with one hand. “Forgive it; I was really ill. But for the brandy, I must
have fainted—see how my hand trembles now.”
She looked up at him,—the beautiful dissembler—and touched his trembling
hand with her lips very lightly, but the gesture was playful, and she
smiled one of her sweetest smiles.
“I am so unaccustomed to sickness that it frightens me. Come, now let us
go to dinner—I, for one, am hungry. Aunt Lander has gone up the river,
and I shall be my own mistress till she chooses to come back.”
Seymour tried to express his happiness, but the words stopped in his
throat. She looked at him earnestly.
“My husband does not seem so glad as I had expected,” she said,
laughing.
“Not glad, Cora! If there is a joy on earth for Alfred Seymour, it is
the presence of his wife. Never on this earth was a woman so beloved—so
worshipped.”
“Is this real, my friend? Am I indeed so dear to you yet?”
“Ask your own heart, Cora. It shall answer you.”
It did answer her, and truly. Yet she was not satisfied. What was it
that had begun to alienate her from the man she had loved so
passionately? Who can tell the exact time when the ripe leaves change
and fall? When I say that Cora Lander’s love for her husband, from the
first, had been an unreasoning passion, those of my readers who know
anything of the human heart must have expected the change that was
creeping upon her.
“Shall I drink wine?” said Seymour, laughing pleasantly. “Or will you
shrink from the flavor on my lips, Cora?”
“Wine—oh, I will pledge you in champagne with all my heart,” she
answered; “but brandy, I detest that; you never drank it before.”
“Because I was never so ill before, Cora.”
“And now, dear, you eat nothing.”
“I have no appetite.”
He did indeed seem ill, and it was true that he could not taste the food
she placed before him.
“Do try something; I have a horror of sickness. It puts me in mind of
death,” she said, seriously disturbed. “I would not have you really ill
for the world.”
Seymour leaned back in his chair and covered his face for a moment with
one hand.
“It is this confinement, Cora. What if I take a little trip somewhere?
That will set me up, I dare say.”
She looked at him a moment, and then answered in her usual clear, calm
voice:
“It may come to that, but let us hope not. I cannot spare you yet,
Seymour.”
The words were affectionate enough, but there was something in her
manner which broke the harmony.
“Well,” he said, “we need not talk about that just now. I am already
enough of an invalid to keep me indoors for some days.”
Cora had spoken the truth; she did hate sickness, and had no patience
with it in any one. Her own abounding health was perfect, and she was
always tempted to consider indisposition in others a pretence. That
Seymour could be feverish and complain took away from his perfection
with her. The man she loved should have been lifted far away from
infirmities like that. But she had some sympathy in her nature, and was
just then disposed to take a romantic view of any question that
presented itself.
“That will not be so very unpleasant,” she said; “you shall lie upon the
couch and listen to me while I read.”
“And will you stay with me, Cora?”
His voice trembled with tender thankfulness, which surprised her.
“Why that was exactly what made me rejoice when my aunt took her
departure. It left me at liberty. The people at the hotel think that we
have gone up the river in company.”
“So my bird of Paradise has flown to her cage.”
His words were forced, and she felt it, but answered lightly:
“To find her mate sick on the perch.”
They both laughed at this, and she arose from the table. “Come, Alfred,
if you are going to play invalid, let us begin.”
He followed her up stairs wearily and with an oppressive weight on his
mind.
“Lie down upon the couch, I will search for your dressing-gown and
slippers. Here they are—now see what a capital nurse I shall make.”
He took the dressing-gown and put it on, thrusting his feet at the same
time into a pair of Damascus slippers which she had given him. Cora
brought a pillow from the bed and laid it on the couch.
“There, everything is ready. Lie down and tell me what book I shall
read.”
“Anything you like, Cora.”
He lay down wearily on the couch and curved one arm over his eyes, as if
the light disturbed him. Cora got a book and began to read, but his
immovable position annoyed her.
“Does you head ache badly?” she inquired.
“Yes, it aches; I ache all over;” he replied, turning his face to the
wall; “but go on, I am listening.”
Cora went on with her book, and Seymour lay perfectly still. At last a
slight noise, something like a broken sob, disturbed her. His hand was
over his eyes, but she saw by the crimson strain on his forehead and the
quiver about his mouth that he was crying.
“Why, Seymour, what on earth is the matter with you? This is
intolerable! I hate tears; especially in a man.”
He dashed the drops from his face and turned suddenly.
“You will soon begin to hate me—I feel it—I know it!”
Cora looked at him steadily. It was true she had no sympathy with grief.
What business had he to bring sickness and tears into that chamber?
“Do not let your prophecy work out its own fulfilment,” she said. “The
great charm of our love was that no disagreeable thing ever came near
it.”
He lay quite still, gazing at her from under those long, moist
eyelashes.
“In sorrow or humiliation you would not love me, then?” he said, with a
keen interest in the question that convulsed all his features.
“I don’t know,” she answered thoughtfully, as if the question had
presented itself for the first time to her mind. “To me love is only
perfect with pleasant surroundings. Now, sorrow and tears are not
pleasant, take them from any point of view one will; and sickness—when
real and in earnest, is simply revolting.”
Seymour got up from the couch with a pitiful attempt at playfulness.
“Then I must be making myself very disagreeable,” he said.
“You might be, Seymour, if the fever did not make your cheeks so red,
and if that quick fire had not driven the tears from your eyes. So lie
down again. I rather like you in that dress, it puts me in mind of the
Orient.”
Seymour lay down again with a heavy sigh, and she went on reading. After
awhile her voice became low and drowsy; she read on brokenly, then
making long pauses. At length the book fell into her lap, and, with her
red lips parted as the last word had left them, she fell into a slumber
so profound that she scarcely seemed to breathe.
Then Seymour turned upon his couch and gazed upon her with indescribable
mournfulness, which changed after awhile to an expression of such pain
as seldom visits an innocent man’s face.
“It is enough,” he thought, “she would not overlook it. That which
wounded her delicacy or stung her pride would kill all love. She has no
patience with sickness or sorrow. Well, be it so; I can bury my secret
here like the Spartan boy, till it eats my heart out. Expose it, I never
will.”
Seymour arose carefully from the couch and went into his own room. With
eager and trembling hands he put on his coat and boots, brushed his hair
and went softly into the next room. Cora was sleeping sweetly, and
dreaming of something very pleasant. Her lips parted in a smile, and her
cheeks were two sleeping roses. Seymour loved the woman and could not
keep his lips from her forehead, but they touched it lightly as rose
leaves fall, afraid that a touch would disturb her, and stole out of the
room again, holding his breath as if it had been sacrilegious to kiss
his own wife in her beautiful sleep. It was dark now, he looked out of
the window to make sure of this, and left the house, with the latch-key
in his pocket.
First he went to the hotel, where Brian Nolan still kept his room. Brian
met him with an anxious face, for he saw at once that there was
something wrong. With him sympathy was intuitive; he could not look on
his master’s face without knowing of the pain that was consuming him.
“Brian,” said Seymour, sitting down on the boy’s bed panting for breath.
“Sir, I am here,” answered the boy, lifting his great, loving eyes to
the young man’s face.
Seymour drew Brian close to him and took his head between both his
hands. Thus holding him fast, he looked earnestly into that young face.
“Brian, do you love me?”
“Love you?” answered the boy with a quick heave of the chest. “Yes, I do
love you.”
“But if I were a bad man—if I were wicked, could you love me then?”
“I don’t know, because that would make you another person.”
“But if I had, under great temptation, done a wrong thing, could you
love me then?”
“Yes; it would break my heart, but I should love you all the same.”
Tears stood in the boy’s eyes; he looked wistfully in Seymour’s face.
“You are only saying these things to try me, sir,” he faltered out.
“Yes, I am saying them to try you, Brian. God forbid that I am ever
compelled to put such affection to the test. But it is a great thing to
know that it exists; I shall not feel quite friendless or alone in the
world now.”
“Ah, sir, how can you be alone?”
Seymour smiled but gave no answer. He could not tell that boy of the
speeches his wife had just made, and of the anguish with which they had
filled his heart. He had evidently called on the boy with some definite
purpose, but a change had been wrought by those few words of simple
affection, and requesting Brian to be sure and keep within his room all
the evening, he let the boy go.
“No, no; better run some risk myself than mix him up with the affair.
Danger—I cannot avoid that, but it must be braved rather than imperil
him. What a grand heart the lad has. Let me get through this tight
place, and he shall be lifted out of this menial position. It is a shame
to keep a lad of his parts among such associations, but at present I can
do no better. When our marriage is made known, then indeed—”
Seymour was in the street as these thoughts ran through his mind.
Whatever enterprise had brought him forth, he was evidently resolved on
pursuing it alone. Following a well-formed purpose, he entered a
hair-dresser’s establishment.
Wigs—certainly. Light brown—then the gentleman did not want one for
himself?
No, it was for a friend—an actor going his theatrical rounds in the
west. A moustache too—his friend would want a moustache certainly,
something heavy, to match. Were they certain to compare well by
daylight? No, he would not have time in the morning, they must be ready
for the express.
So the wig was purchased, and on the next block a pair of light steel
glasses, fanciful affairs, such as young men sometimes wear who effect
short-sightedness. With these done up in a parcel and held tightly in
his hand, Seymour walked home in haste, hoping to find his wife still
asleep. Cautiously he turned the latch-key in its lock—more cautiously
still he went up stairs, thankful for the thickness of the carpet, which
rendered his footsteps noiseless. Cora was asleep exactly as he had left
her, except that the heavy hair at the back of her head had partly
broken loose and coiled down to her shoulder. He had walked rapidly,
and, though it seemed an age to him, the real time of his absence had
been brief.
Seymour was scarcely a minute changing his dress and locking up his
purchases. The gas had been lighted early but burned low; he turned it
on more powerfully under its Parian shades, flooding the chamber with
moonlight. Still Cora slept, enjoying her slumber, as she did every
other physical indulgence. In her very dreams she always had a glowing
sense of life, which made her sleep delicious. Sickness really would
have been a terrible calamity to this woman.
Seymour kissed her upon the lips now, and attempted to twist her hair
into place. This awoke her, and she started up, rubbing her eyes open
with both hands, like a sleepy child. Then she opened them wide and
wonderingly on her husband.
“Dear me, I must have fallen away reading; and you, I will wager
anything, dearest, that you set me a naughty example. After all, this
‘Enoch Arden’ does not stand a second reading; the story looms out of
the verse a little too broadly after you have had time to think it over.
What business had this Enoch to let his wife live with another man? It
made him the chief sinner.”
“You would have had him claim his wife, then?” said Seymour.
“Yes; was not his happiness worth as much as that of the other man? She
was his wife.”
“Yes, but she was prosperous and happy with the other man, innocent of
all wrong.”
“What then? He, her husband, was miserable, and had a right to her.”
“You would not have given her up, then?”
“Not if I loved the woman still—that is, supposing myself a man. Could
you have given me up so?”
She asked this, laughing; but he answered in fiery earnest.
“Give you up, Cora? No, no, a thousand times no! The man who takes you
from me must give his life or take mine.”
“But if I loved him?”
“Then I would kill you.”
“Dear me, what a blood-thirsty old darling it is,” cried Cora, who had
just re-arranged the hair in a sumptuous twist behind her head. “But it
is very pleasant to be loved in this brigand fashion, so long as one
loves back, you know.”
“You speak as if change were possible, Cora.”
“Well, all things are possible in this world, I suppose.”
She said this roguishly, looking at him over her shoulder as she thrust
a golden arrow through her hair.
“Cora!”
“Don’t speak so—I am loving you desperately this minute; only don’t talk
of being sick again and spoil it all.”
“But one cannot always be well—”
“What nonsense! of course you can. Come, take your place again, and I
will go over that scene in the woods where the children go a nutting.
That is beautiful!”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE FIRST CLOUD.
Cora arose the next morning with a delicious sense of home-life upon
her. She entered her dressing-room in a pretty morning robe, looking
fresh as a flower, and informed Alice that she wished to have her
breakfast served there, if Mr. Seymour would take it with her.
“Monsieur had eaten his breakfast and gone out,” Alice said. “It was
past ten o’clock, and he had been gone half an hour at least.”
Cora was vexed. Why should he have gone out before she was awake? Then,
eating his breakfast alone, as if he were a business man, and had any
excuse for neglecting his wife. She would take no breakfast; he had
broken up all the happiness of her morning by these strange actions.
Indeed, she would go back to the hotel and stay there till he knew how
to appreciate her company.
These were the first thoughts that flashed into her mind. Her life with
Seymour had been one of perpetual adoration. No man ever loved a woman
more sincerely, but it must be wonderful genius which can perpetuate
through all married life the devotion of the lover or the bridegroom.
Having created her Paradise and chosen her husband, Cora expected the
first passionate homage which he lavished on her to last forever.
Without knowing it, she held him as a sort of splendid vassal conquered
by her charms and bought by her munificence. This act of leaving her
alone was his first offence, and she resented it as a great wrong. A
little persuasion from Alice, however, induced her to taste some
breakfast, which was placed temptingly before her on a sofa-table; but
she was really too much annoyed for any relish of the meal. The
tête-à-tête set of snowy Parian provoked her with its one empty cup.
Lubin had done his best with the little breakfast, looking upon her
visit as a sort of gala season in the house. Everything was perfect; the
biscuit white as snow, the butter absolutely tasted of the sweet grasses
upon which the cows were fed, coffee that filled the little room with
its fragrance. But he was not there, and this very perfection stung her
with fresh anger.
“I have a great fancy to go up the river,” she said, pushing the cup
from her after taking one sip of the coffee.
“It would serve him right; I really seem to be in the way here in my own
house.”
_Her own house!_ She was beginning to remember that everything was hers.
How much love can rest in a woman’s heart when such thoughts become
familiar to it?
“Who is that? Go look, Alice; I heard the gate close.”
Alice went to one of the front windows and saw a tall, fine-looking man,
with light brown hair and a pointed moustache, walking toward the house.
She returned to the boudoir and told her mistress.
“Who can it be, Alice, we have no visitors?” said Cora, a little
disturbed. “Some one to see Lubin, I suppose.”
“No, madame, his air was too gentlemanly for that.”
“It can be no one else, that is certain,” answered Cora. “Besides these
French artists—Lubin is one, I am sure—sometimes look like gentlemen.”
The mistress and servant were so deeply engaged in this discussion that
they did not hear the faint click of a latch-key or the footsteps of a
man as he ascended the stairs and entered Seymour’s dressing-room.
The first thing that the young man did on entering the room was to lock
himself in. Then he took the wig from his head and the moustache from
his lip, and crushed them both into a drawer, which he locked with
force. While doing this he panted for breath, and drops of perspiration
stood thickly on his forehead. But now he took time to bathe his face
and hands, change his coat and brush his hair with scrupulous nicety.
After thus refreshing his toilet, he took a package from an inner pocket
in his vest, opened it and counted fourteen bank-notes of five hundred
dollars each. These notes he secured in a travelling-belt and laid upon
the bureau, while he counted what might have been some thousands of
dollars in gold in a hurried, breathless manner, as if the task was one
which he longed to get over. Both the gold and the notes he crushed into
the writing-desk we have seen him use for the same purpose before, which
he locked with care.
“Now,” he said to himself, wiping the moisture away which would keep
gathering on his forehead; “now I can go to her with a lighter heart.
Great Heavens! that man’s eyes are on me yet! I wish there was brandy or
wine up here. He has driven all my strength away.”
There was no brandy or wine, so he poured out some cologne water from a
bottle on the dressing-table and drank it off eagerly. Even that did not
give him strength to appear at his ease before his wife, but he heard
her voice in the next room and entered.
This is what Seymour had been doing that morning. While his wife was
asleep he had gone into his dressing-room and carefully put on that wig
with its light, curling hair, and the moustache with its curved points
turning upwards after a fashion that changed the entire expression of
his mouth. Then the glasses were put carefully over his eyes, and a coat
of pinkish drab cloth replaced the quiet color that he usually wore.
This disguise he completed with a stove-pipe hat, so new that it shone
like satin, and a little rattan cane.
Thus, entirely changed in his appearance, Seymour went softly down
stairs, a little before ten, and let himself into the street. He hailed
an omnibus at the next corner, and rode down Broadway, with some ten
other persons, all going to the lower part of the city on business. One
of these men was the person of whom he had bought those chestnut
carriage horses. He resolved to court this man’s attention, and thus
test his disguise.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but permit me to open the window, it seems a
little close.”
The man of horses looked at him indifferently, moved, and allowed the
window to be opened. Seymour drew a deep breath as he sat down. The man
had not recognized him in the least.
He entered the bank where some of his money was still on deposit, and
where his bills of exchange had been cashed; after a few moments’ delay
he quietly presented a draft at the desk, and to the very clerk who had
done business with him before, signed by Alfred N. Seymour, with Philip
Ware’s name on the back. The clerk examined the signature, compared it
with one in his books, took a quiet survey of the person who presented
it, and counted out the money. There was still a balance left in the
bank.
“Where is Mr. Seymour just now? I see this is dated at Quebec. On his
way home, perhaps?”
This was exactly what Seymour wanted. He had been all the way
fruitlessly studying how to open a conversation that should lead to the
answer he was ready to give.
“More than probable. He was intending to sail from Halifax the week
after I left Quebec.”
“Well, I suppose we shall hear from him when he wants the rest of his
money,” observed the clerk.
Seymour smiled, lifted his hat and walked out of the bank. On the steps
he almost ran against a man, who came up so suddenly that he sallied
back with a sharp recoil, as if the stranger had struck him.
“I beg pardon,” said the stranger, lifting his hat. “Did I run against
you, sir?”
“It is I who should beg pardon, I fear—pray excuse my awkwardness,”
answered Seymour, in a voice so hoarse and changed that his best friend
would not have recognized it.
The two men bowed politely to each other and Seymour passed on, hurrying
to the nearest omnibus, which he entered, trembling from head to foot
and pale as agitation could make him.
Thus it was that Seymour returned home. No wonder he wanted a few
minutes rest before he entered the presence of his wife.
“Am I late, my angel?” he said, drawing a chair to the little table. “Is
there not at least one cup for me?”
Seymour took up the little silver coffee-pot, and lifting the lid,
looked in.
“Why it is almost full,” he said. “Waiting for me? How good you are. I
had almost given up the pleasure of our breakfast in this pretty nest.”
“But why—why did you go out this morning, of all others?” said Cora,
rather sharply.
“Why because my head ached fearfully, and I hoped to drive it off before
you awoke to be annoyed with it; but, unhappily, I got into the wrong
omnibus, and it took me out of the way.”
Smiles began to hover about Cora’s mouth again; she filled one of the
Parian cups and gave it to him, resuming her own breakfast with fresh
appetite.
“The air does not seem to have given you much color,” she said, looking
at him earnestly.
“No, it must be change of air, I fear, Cora, before I am quite myself
again. It enervates one to be idle so long, even with the sweetest and
dearest woman that ever lived, coming to one like an angel now and then.
You must let me take flight for a week or two, Cora; after that I will
come back to my birdie the happiest fellow alive.”
“You are very anxious to leave me, Alfred.”
“Yes, dearest, since you have told me how unpleasant the presence of a
sick man is to you, I dread being taken down. Really, love, I am no fit
companion for you. An excursion West among the prairies will send me
back to you healthy as a crusader.”
“If I could only go with you, Alfred.”
“But that is impossible. We must not be seen together until all the
world knows of our marriage.”
“I have a great mind to proclaim it to-morrow,” answered Cora. “Only I
do want all my affairs settled first and out of the executor’s hands.
When he once renders up his charge we need not hide away in this stupid
place. I am tired of it already.”
“And I like its solitude. It is a little romance we are living out here,
Cora. The very secrecy is charming.”
“But you will leave it and me.”
“Only because I must, or you will cease to love me.”
“But not yet—a week from now, say.”
“Very well. Only you must nurse me, pet me, read to me, swear to love me
forever and ever, let what will befall us. That will make this one week
a heaven.”
“You are not content with that, but spend the whole morning no one knows
where, and leave me to eat my breakfast alone,” she said, with a look of
pleasant reproach.
“Ah! yes, I must atone for that. Not one step will I walk from this
house till the week is up. Will that satisfy you, Mrs. Seymour?”
“Are you in earnest? Is this a promise?”
“A solemn promise.”
“Then I must forgive you; but it was a little hard.”
Seymour arose from the table laughing.
“Now let us begin our week,” he said. “That at least, we will snatch
from fate itself.”
Cora took no heed of the significance of these words, though they came
from a heart heavy with foreboding.
“Now what shall we begin this glorious week with? Let it be music—how
you did love music in those old days.”
“And now as well as ever—better, if you are the musician. Come, the
piano has not been opened yet—your hands shall consecrate it.”
Cora looked into the glass, pushed the hair back from her temples, shook
out the lilac-tinted folds of her morning dress, and swept on before her
husband into that gem of a drawing room. There stood a grand piano, and
close by a music stand, for nothing had been omitted in that
establishment. Seymour opened the instrument, drew an easy chair so
close to the music stand that the flow of her dress fell over his knees,
and, leaning back, prepared to listen or think such thoughts as make men
grow old in their youth. Heaven help the man! Such was his strait that
he was thankful to be silent and reflect a little—thankful to shield his
agony of apprehension under the sweet storm of music that soon broke
over him.
Thus the young couple spent the week, all alone, surrounded by splendor
in every form, loving each other and putting that love into language
sweeter than poetry, but which did grow just a little tiresome from
eternal repetition. Cora brought forth all her accomplishments to charm
him with. When she sat down to the piano, people in the street stopped
to listen, and wondered who and what the family were that had surrounded
itself so richly, and from which such music came floating like strains
from Paradise.
Sometimes, in her more fanciful moods, Cora would take her guitar from
its case and sing ballad after ballad with a sprightliness which would
have brought any man to her feet. They played chess in her boudoir,
arranged flowers in the vases, watched the fountain throw up its waters
in the moonlight—in fact lived out the picture which Claude Melnotte
placed before Pauline as his bright ideal of a love life. Yet something
was wanting. Those young hearts, so close together, were far, far away
from each other at times, each busy with its own hidden secret, and each
tempted almost beyond endurance to own everything, and thus get rid of
the one hindrance to a happiness which might have been so complete.
At times, during that week, Cora had almost wished for some change. She
was not satisfied that Seymour had kept his promise so faithfully, but
would have given anything to see him go in and out as if occupied like
other men. Sometimes she would shut herself up for hours only that she
might feel the pleasure of welcoming him when her door was opened. After
all, I think this one week of unbroken happiness had more effect on the
after fate of these two persons than any one reading this history will
admit. Satiety is a worse evil to deal with than want itself. Love is
sometimes smothered under too much luxury, as honeysuckles and roses
strangle each other when they grow close together.
Seymour was saved from this by his own troubles. He had an inner life of
apprehension and regrets which lifted him out of the enervating effects
which fell upon his wife so imperceptibly, that she was all unconscious
of the change as the bough from which a ripe pear has fallen. Cora told
the truth, she began to feel a loathing for the home which her taste had
made so beautiful. I think a week, at this time, in the log cabin, which
Seymour could not keep out of his mind, with prairie chickens cooking by
an out-door fire, and fresh water brought from some spring under the
rocks, would have been far better for those two young hearts. Under the
blue sky, with God’s grand old wilderness shading them, they might have
found out the secret of making love immortal. As it was, they were about
to part—he for the woods and the prairies, and the woman for her
ill-gotten home and crime-stricken mother.
They stood together that morning in the little room of which both would
have been weary but for the anticipation of this parting hour—stood
together with arms interlaced, looking into each other’s faces till
tears blinded them.
“We have been so happy here,” she sobbed, looking around with new
interest on everything. “Oh! Seymour, Seymour, will this ever come to us
again!”
The man commenced trembling, and could only answer her with passionate
kisses. With that cloud over his head, how dare he reassure her?
“You will not forget me?” she pleaded, clinging to him. “Nothing shall
drive me one moment from your heart?”
“Nothing but death can drive you from this heart, my wife—nothing but
death.”
“What can I do for you? I would give the world to work for you, suffer
something for you!”
“Rather be happy for me, sweet wife.”
“I cannot be that, and you gone.”
“It will not be for long—I pray to God that it may not be for long,” he
said straining her to his heart. “Do you doubt it; is there a single
fear in your heart that we shall meet again and that speedily?”
“No, darling, no. I talked at random. Now farewell! Kiss me once more,
again—again! God bless you, Cora. Think kindly of me. Love me, let what
will come. Nothing but death can really part us, remember that, for you
are my wife—no human power can change that. Once more, farewell!”
“Seymour! Seymour!”
There was no answer. The door closed and he was gone.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
EUNICE HURD FINDS HER MATCH, AND SO DOES THE HEIRESS.
Cora went up to the house on the river, heavy-hearted, but with a
certain sense of relief which she could not quite understand. The
parting scene with her husband had exhausted the sensibility of her
nature. She really thirsted for change. This working out of a secret
romance was getting a little wearisome. Unless she could exhibit this
handsome husband and glory in him, as her own property, with all the
rest of her possessions in full and imperious ownership, marriage seemed
to her almost a failure. In fact it would be the same to any other woman
if she attempted to shut herself out from the world and live to the
music of sweet lutes and all that sort of thing. One might as well
expect to feed on Hymettus honey and May dew gathered from opening
violets and not be ravenous with keen, wholesome hunger in the process.
Now if Cora’s love for that man had been anything but a willful, selfish
passion from the very first, she would have come out from this
paradisiacal experiment weary of that, certainly, but not of him; she
had not reached this state exactly, but was open to any temptation or
circumstance that might end in utter distaste for the life she had so
rashly entered upon. With all his faults, Seymour possessed the better
nature. He at least loved her honestly, madly—it might prove fatally.
Once at home and in her own dominions, the heiress assumed her old
position with all the insolence of a woman whose authority had slept for
a season, only to assert itself with increased vigor on the awakening.
She was a woman who forgot nothing which affected her own interest or
pleasure, and who never forgave the person who once offended her.
Cora’s first object, on going home, was to dismiss Eunice Hurd from her
household. That woman had tacitly repudiated and defied her; she had
become a partisan of the cousin whose very existence was hateful to
herself—for on this earth there is no antipathy equal to that inspired
by a person whom the hater has wronged.
On the very day she reached home, Cora sent for Eunice, and, in a few
cold, quiet words, gave the woman her discharge.
Eunice stood stiff and upright, with her nose high in the air, and her
greenish eyes regarding the young lady with a sidelong, sneering
expression, which made Cora’s nerves creep in spite of herself.
“Here are your wages for the full year, exactly what my aunt has always
paid you. As I give no warning, and expect you to quit the house at
once, it is but fair that you receive full pay for the year. My aunt
will write you a recommendation.”
“_Your aunt!_” sneered Eunice, with a long-drawn breath. “YOUR AUNT!”
Cora turned cold, but kept her eyes unflinchingly on the woman, knowing
well that a contest almost of life and death was before her.
“Yes, I said my aunt. Always having been known as the head of this
house, her recommendation would be better recognized than mine.”
Cora spoke calmly and without a quiver in her voice to betray the dread
that had seized upon her like a vulture with the first look of those
eyes. She never took her gaze from the woman’s face either. Yet Eunice
saw her advantage and took it, for no self-control could conquer that
shrinking of the person which is the result of sudden fear.
“I shall take no recommendation from her or you,” said Eunice, slanting
her head from the right shoulder to the left.
“And why?”
Never was a question asked with an appearance of more innocent surprise,
and never did forced composure effect less.
“Because I don’t intend to leave this house, Miss Cora Virginia Lander,
till its owner tells me to go, which she isn’t likely to do in a hurry.”
It took strong nerves to suppress the trembling which seized on Cora, or
force a natural voice through that contracted throat, but the young
impostor accomplished it, and answered, with a laugh:
“I have already told you to go—foolish woman, are you waiting for a
second dismissal?”
“No, I’m not waiting for anything from you, or the like of you; but I
can’t but just keep my hands off you. Who was it sent that poor cretur
home, crying like a baby? Who was it that refused to give her money, to
buy dress with and threatened her with an asylum?”
“And my aunt told you that?”
“YOUR MOTHER told me that.”
Cora arose fiercely—her forehead, her lips, her very hands were whiter
than whiteness, but she confronted her enemy bravely.
“Woman, who put you up to this?”
“Who put me up to it? The great God, who will, sooner or later, punish
you for your cruelty to the weak, foolish woman who is crying her life
out up stairs. Don’t speak to me—take your eyes off from my face, they
have got rattlesnakes in ’em!”
“Woman, are you mad?”
“Yes, I am mad as blazes—don’t provoke me! don’t I say, or I’ll tear the
nest you have feathered so cunningly all to flinders!”
“Indeed!—How?”
Cora was cool and resolute now. In this struggle she was careful not to
lose a point from weakness. She was pale yet, and her eyes glittered
like steel; but she had full control of her voice. Eunice had prepared
her for the worst, and knowing the danger she had to meet, the girl grew
brave and cautious as a tiger.
“You want to know, do you? Well, I’ll tell you, up and down is my
fashion. You’re a cheat—a humbug—a mean, cruel cheat, and I can prove
it—yes I can! you needn’t widen your eyes at me, I _can_ prove it, and
if it wasn’t for the poor creature up stairs, I’d do it too once.
Attempt to abuse her again, only just look sideways at her, and I’ll
pull the pillars out from under your temple, as Job did in the Bible.
You had her for awhile, but I’ve got her now. When she haint got no one
else to go to she comes to me—I’ll stand by her, never fear.”
“What has my aunt told you, pray?”
Cora was cautiously drawing out all the power Eunice possessed, but the
woman was not deficient in her own craft.
“I didn’t need her to tell anything; I have got my own eyes and ears; I
can ask questions, if I ain’t over quick to answer ’em. The man who came
up on the same cars with you that night is on hand when I want him—oh
yes, that makes you hop, does it—kinder stirs up the rattlesnake in them
eyes. But that isn’t all. That man was used to climbing ladders, and he
did it.”
“Woman, you lie!”
The words broke from Cora’s lips sharp and venomous; she shook from head
to foot with mingled rage and desperation.
“You wore a blue merino dress and left a piece on it behind you. That
dress you was kind enough to pitch at me one day. It was torn and you
was too much of a lady to mend it. That accounts for my having the
dress, but it don’t account for the piece that you left sticking to the
rose-bush under Mrs. Lander’s bed-room winder, which piece I took oft
that morning, and which piece I matched with the dress after you pitched
it at me over them bannisters; it was an awful scragly tear, and it
fitted to a T. I’ve got the dress and the piece safe and sure.”
“Fool! I have not worn that dress for ages—I am in: mourning.”
“Of course, and for that reason didn’t wear black that night, but put on
the only other dress you had, the one you had jumped overboard in. It
smells of salt water yet. That’s another clincher! Besides there’s a
place in the front breadth which that little humpbacked girl up stairs
darned for you after you got a shipboard again. I know all about it. Old
moles are as cute as young ones any day.”
“This dress is nothing to me; I have not worn it since we went on shore
from the wreck—no creature on earth has ever seen me wear it.”
“Oh, wasn’t there? What was the conductor a doing when you opened that
gray cloak to take out your ticket? What was the man a doing who knows
how to climb ladders when he sees ’em at a lady’s winder? What was the
other conductor a doing who took up a passenger who wore a blue dress
and gray cloak after midnight at the station down here? Wimmen in these
parts don’t start on journeys often after midnight, and when they do the
conductors are apt to eye ’em sharp. That one did eye his passenger with
the blue dress very sharp, for he saw her get into what they call a
hotel coach and that went to the very place you was all putting up at.
Oh! I am nigh upon as wide awake as you are, Miss!”
A gleam of sharp intelligence shot over Cora’s pale face; while the
woman was talking, a smile of assured triumph came to her lips.
“What is all this to me, woman? I know nothing of the matter. If any one
came here that night, it was my cousin. From the first she was resolved
to claim my inheritance. What more probable than that she should have
stolen away and attempted to gain her mother over to the plot. Now that
you tell me these things, I have no doubt of it.”
Eunice stood aghast; her mouth fell, her eyes fairly quivered with
astonishment.
“For her sake we had better say nothing about it,” resumed Cora,
blandly; “it would throw discredit on the family were it known that a
person so young, and always respectable till now, had contemplated so
base a fraud. Of course her mother will keep the secret, and, in pity
for my cousin, you must be silent, Eunice. There is no sacrifice that I
would not make to protect her reputation. The knowledge of this unhappy
attempt to defraud me of my birthright gives you a hold upon the family,
Eunice. Remain with us, if it pleases you, and keep that dress in your
possession; it may be wanted as proof yet. I remember now, it was in my
cousin’s trunk when we came ashore. There does seem to be something
providential in your having found the piece. Take especial care of it,
Eunice.”
Eunice Hurd was not altogether subdued, but she stood her ground like an
Indian woman from whom the enemy has stolen a quiver of arrows. She was
defeated but not convinced. This permission to remain was, after all, a
kind of triumph, and she was preparing to withdraw her forces in
tolerable order, when Cora spoke again.
“You are right, Eunice, I should have been more liberal with my aunt;
the knowledge that her daughter entertained this nefarious design—”
“Ne—ne—what?” interrupted Eunice.
“Nefarious—it means wicked, Eunice.”
“Oh,” ejaculated the old maid, “that’s it, is it?”
“As I was saying, Eunice, you have been a trusty servant in the family
for years, and are no doubt almost indispensable.”
“Inde what?” questioned Eunice again, growing snappish as Cora became
blander and sweeter.
“A person that she cannot do without; that is the spirit of my word,
Eunice, and I dare say you and I will get along very nicely together
after we know each other thoroughly. Now that I have learned the secret
cause of my aunt’s irritability, I would not deprive her of your
services for the world. Are we friends now, Eunice?”
Cora held out her white hand with the most winning grace imaginable, but
Eunice clenched her bony fingers and put the hand behind her, angry at
herself for being so tempted by that smiling manner.
“We are friends, Miss, just so long as you treat that poor lady, for she
is a lady, well and with kindness. She has always been mistress here,
and I won’t obey nobody else. She’s always been used to having plenty of
money, and that she’s a going to have.”
“Why, Eunice, what do you think of me? Am I a tyrant or a miser, that
you insist on these things? Was not my father always generous to her and
my cousin? Was not that ungrateful girl educated at my father’s cost
exactly as I was educated? I know he loved these two helpless women,
and, notwithstanding my cousin’s attempt to wrong me, I am anxious, in
all things, to carry out my father’s wishes. When the estate is settled,
my aunt and cousin shall each have a fixed income. I promise it on the
honor of a Lander.”
“You mustn’t stint her now. She’s got to have all she wants.”
“Of course.”
“Nor the young creature up stairs. It’ll be dangerous, now I tell you—”
“Do you think her so insane as that, Eunice?”
“Insane! stuff! She is no more crazy than you are!”
“I am sorry to hear that, Eunice. It would have been some excuse for her
conduct.”
“Her conduct?”
“Yes. That midnight visit to the house seems very like the freak of a
crazy person. I hope it was! In charity, I hope it was!”
Cora had controlled herself wonderfully through this scene; she carried
everything before her so adroitly that her spirits rose almost to
elation at its close. For this once she had escaped and forced down the
peril that threatened her, but she felt the necessity not only of
conciliating this shrewd woman, but of obtaining in herself a reputation
for great liberality and kindness. The generous nature of Amos Lander’s
child was too well known for an abrupt change of character to be
accepted readily. This sudden fright, brought on by her first effort to
play the despot, had warned her of the peril in time.
Mrs. Lander had returned to her home almost broken-hearted. It was with
great difficulty that she kept back her secret from Eunice, who might
have won it from her had she not already gathered it up by her own
ingenuity. But this interview with Cora had so completely demoralized
her facts that Eunice resolved to win more positive knowledge from the
lady herself. But even here the young woman had been too quick for her.
Scarcely had Eunice made what she considered a victorious retreat, when
Cora went to Mrs. Lander’s room, for the first time since her return
home. She found that lady seated by the bed in her room, looking over a
quantity of mourning dresses, rich in themselves, but from which the
first freshness was gone. The sight of those crape folds, crumpled and
taking a brownish tinge from use, filled her heart more than a thousand
harsh words could have done, with a sense of her daughter’s cruelty.
“Oh! it is dreadful,” she exclaimed, looking at the dresses through her
tears. “They are absolutely growing foxy, and she won’t permit me to get
all the new ones I want nor to freshen them up with jet. I proposed
that, and she said no, as if I had been a child or a servant. _He_ never
did that by me—oh, my good, kind brother! I thought it hard not to
control everything when he was alive, but what was that compared to the
life I lead with I her?—and she my own child, to whom I gave
everything—cursing myself to do it. These old things, she said were
quite good enough to last the year out. She had heaps of new dresses, to
my knowledge, at the dressmaker’s at the very time. An English crape,
worth all these together, covered with such a lovely pattern in
bugles—silks that would stand alone—grenadines, and I don’t know what.
_She_ must brighten up her mourning, indeed, but as for me, old
bombazines and alpacas are good enough!”
Mrs. Lander was giving way to thoughts like these when Cora entered the
room. Mrs. Lander uttered a little scream, and started from her chair,
feeling strangely guilty, as if the thoughts she had just indulged in
had been made known to her daughter.
“Oh! Cora, is it you at last?” she exclaimed, turning away her face to
hide the tears that stained it.
A white arm stole caressingly around her neck; two warm lips were
pressed to her cheek. She turned and threw both arms around her
daughter.
“Oh! Cora, Cora, how could you be so cruel to me?”
“Dear mother, I am _so_ sorry.”
Mrs. Lander burst into tears and fell to raining kisses on that upturned
face, which looked to her so beautiful with that expression of penitence
upon it.
“Darling mamma; so you have been fretting over my crossness—thinking me
stingy, and that hatefullest of all things, a miser—have you? Stingy to
you, above all creatures on earth! How could you believe it? Something
had gone wrong with me; I was vexed, and you, mamma, were just a little
unreasonable. I had been spending so much money—and so had you.”
“Why, not so very much for me. Cora, those crapes and things were very
expensive, I know, richer by half than mine—but the cost was nothing to
you, with so much money in the bank.”
“Oh yes, I know all about that. It wasn’t so much the money, but other
things. Besides, you went off on a tangent and hurt my feelings so. I
waited and waited, thinking that you would come back, but love for the
dear cross mamma was too strong. I had to follow her at last. Now kiss
me and let us be friends.”
The heart of that poor woman rose and swelled with such tenderness as
only a mother can feel. She kissed the fair face lifted to hers over and
over again. She took it between her hands and gazed fondly upon it
through the happy tears that would come rushing to her eyes.
“Oh! Cora, you do love me a little,” she said, in her pathetic longing
for the affection so long withdrawn from her. “We might be so happy if
you only loved me.”
“We are—we will be happy—I have come here determined on it. Come, come,
forget and forgive! How long it seems since I have seen you!”
“Miserably long, my child!”
“Still, it is only a week—such a week! One sometimes crowds so much
happiness into a week that it answers for a lifetime. Don’t you think
so, mamma?”
“Happiness! You mean misery, child. Neither of us can have been very
happy the last week, I am sure.”
“Happiness—did I say that, and you with tears in these dear eyes all the
time? Of course I meant unhappiness, but one does drop syllables so when
the heart is full.”
Mrs. Lander laughed, and smoothed Cora’s hair back from her forehead.
“What are you about here?” inquired the daughter. “What a pile of
dresses!”
“They are my old mourning. I was just ready to send for Eunice and see
if they couldn’t be freshened and pressed out.”
Cora gave the pile of dresses a push with her hand.
“Give them away. Eunice will look lovely in black—give her your whole
wardrobe. To-morrow we will go to the city and get an entire outfit. The
dressmaker is working for you now.”
“Second mourning—shall it be second mourning, Cora?”
“Just as you please. Yes, for my part, I should much prefer that. By the
time the estate is settled entirely, we can come out in white and silver
gray.”
“Lavender for you—it will be lovely with your hair.”
“Do you think so?—Oh, Eunice, is that you? Come in and carry this pile
of dresses away. My aunt will not wear them any more. She has had enough
of bombazines, and is coming out with something brighter. My cousin,
too, we must order new dresses for her—she will never do it for
herself.”
There was a gleam in Cora’s eye and a mocking smile on her lip, which
informed Eunice that she had just came too late if she expected to take
advantage of the quarrel which had sent Mrs. Lander home half
distracted. So, with answering self-composure and craft, she gathered up
the dresses in her arms and carried them away. On her progress down
stairs, she met Ellen Nolan and stopped to speak with her.
“Tell Miss Virginia to come down to her meals as usual—I don’t want no
change,” she said. “Miss Cora promises to behave herself, and I guess
she will.”
“My lady has decided how to act; she will come down. She, at any rate,
has nothing to be ashamed of.”
Thus a sort of hollow truce was arranged, and, by mutual consent, all
subjects calculated to create discord were avoided.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CLARENCE BROOKS.
A stranger arrived by the railway and came up from the river hotel to
pay his respects to the family. He had been a travelling companion and
old friend of Amos Lander in Europe, who had so earnestly invited him to
visit the family should he come to America, that he was searching the
neighborhood for that purpose, where he had first heard of Mr. Lander’s
death.
The card which the man sent up to the mistress of the house bore the
name of “Clarence Brooks.”
Cora received the card in her room, and went down to meet her guest
sedate and thoughtful, as became an only child within a year of her
father’s death. She found a tall young man—that is, a man of some two or
three and thirty—standing by one of the reception-room windows, looking
out upon the prospect. The scenery was beautiful from that point, for a
group of the Highland fountains rose above each other along a sharp
curve of the river, which took the appearance of a mountain lake so
completely that it was impossible to believe there was a broad inlet or
outlet in that green entanglement of hills. The railroad, running under
the terrace, was entirely concealed, and, with the exception of a
mansion just visible on the opposite shore, everything beyond the house
seemed wild as it was beautiful.
Cora, whose footsteps were lost in the moss-like thickness of the
carpet, walked quietly up to the window and spoke.
“You will find nothing more beautiful on the Rhine,” she said.
“Nor anywhere else, so far as my experience goes,” answered the
gentleman, turning one of those clearly cut manly faces upon her that
impress you with a sense of greatness at the first sight, and regarding
her with two fine gray eyes, that smilingly searched her through and
through.
“It is a lovely scene.”
She stood by his side and looked out upon the landscape he praised. It
was autumn now, and all those hills broke up in one wild flush of dying
colors, the crimson and golden maples—the deep purplish red of the
oak—the soft, pale maize-color of the ash, and spotted red of the gum
tree mingled and massed their sumptuous foliage together so richly, that
the waters of the river, as it weltered under the shadows at sunset or
in the morning, seemed filtering through broken jewels and sands of
gold. It was near sunset now and the effect was beautiful.
“I have never seen anything so strikingly beautiful,” he said, turning
so slowly from her face to the scene, that she was puzzled to know which
he was really praising.
“There is nothing like our woods in the autumn, when a sharp frost comes
suddenly. We had one last night, and you see the result.”
“It is worth coming across the Atlantic, if only seen for an hour,” he
answered, again falling to the perusal of her face, which wore its most
delicate bloom that day.
“I, for one, am grateful to the frost if it makes you so in love with my
country, Mr. Brooks.”
“And I am a thousand times grateful that it is seen in its richest
beauty by the side of my old friend’s daughter.”
Cora started and her color changed; she never could hear Amos Lander’s
name with composure; it seemed like calling upon her judge to come out
of his watery grave and denounce her.
The stranger saw this sudden change in her face, and remembering how her
father died, fell into deep sympathy with her grief at once.
“I have a letter from your father, Miss Lander, written only two days
before he took passage on that unfortunate vessel. It contained an
invitation to this house. Will you read it?”
Cora was glad to take the letter, and thus get back her self-control.
She reached forth her hand, but drew it back again, shuddering as the
paper touched her fingers.
It seemed as if her crime must be written out in a letter sent so near
upon her uncle’s death.
Mr. Brooks observed this movement, and, mistaking its meaning, unfolded
the letter before he offered it to her again.
“It may give you pain, dear lady, but as you are mentioned in it so
lovingly, the pleasure will overbalance all.”
Cora took the letter, and read it through in the light of the window.
“MY DEAR BROOKS,” it commenced, “we sail for my own blessed land in
three days from this—that is, I, a niece, who has been at school with my
daughter, and the dear child herself. I wish you had seen her, my
friend. Never, I do think, was a father so blessed in his child as I am,
and ever have been. I do not know as you will think her beautiful; to my
eyes she—well, I will not say all that a fond old man may think of his
only child—besides, in this respect, my niece shares admiration with
her. Strangers, I assure you, can hardly tell them apart. But to me the
difference is as great as that which lies between sunshine and
gas-light. Not that my brother’s orphan is an inferior girl—far from
it—but my young wife’s spirit does not look out of her eyes, and the
sweet, gentle, yet exalted nature of my young wife does not dwell in her
heart, at any rate for me.
“Come to us, my friend. I am your senior by many years, it is true, but
we have enjoyed life together before now, and will again, God willing.
That which we were talking of must be kept a secret between us. The dear
child must not be influenced even by a shadow of suspicion that her
father wishes her happiness in that form. But come, and we two will
watch for the first blush that gives us hope. This idea has been the one
dream of my life—in all other things I am a practical and commonplace
moneymaking man. But, where she is concerned, I am romantic as a poet.
Am I praising her too much? Will this enthusiasm of a worn-out old heart
lead your imagination astray? No, it is impossible—never on this earth
was there a better child. Remember, I do not dwell upon her beauty—of
that I am no judge. They tell me she looks like the Landers,—that is,
the women of our family,—and this must be true or people would not so
often mistake her for my brother’s orphan. But, in the soul, the
expression, there is no shadow of resemblance—there, as I have said, my
girl is her mother over again.
“Come to us, my friend, and see what a grand, noble country you were
born in. Make my house your home. I only wish fortune had not dealt so
bountifully with you; for then I might hope that some commercial
advantages that I can control would keep you near me, even though—. But
that subject is too sacred for a letter.
“You are going East, the last letter tells me—up the Nile and over the
Holy Land. I hope your travelling companion will prove all that you
think him, but sudden fancies of that kind sometimes prove dangerous.
“God bless you.
AMOS LANDER.”
The blood had receded from Cora’s face when she first took this letter;
for she would rather have strangled an flip in her hand than touch the
writing of a man whose child she had sacrificed; but it came back hot
and red long before she had concluded the reading. Clarence Brooks saw
this and smiled softly; he thought those bright blushes came from a
consciousness of Amos Lander’s meaning, so vaguely expressed in the
letter.
“It was the last letter he ever wrote, I feel quite certain,” he said.
Cora could hardly refrain from crushing the paper in her hand.
“He does not speak over kindly of me—my cousin, who was an orphan and at
his mercy,” she said, in a voice that trembled more with anger than
grief.
“Miss Lander!”
The voice in which this name was uttered put her on her guard at once.
“I loved my father dearly—dearly,” she said, with quick moisture in her
eyes. “But this young girl is so helpless, so dependent. His brother’s
daughter, too—with all her faults. But he was wise—he understood her
better than I can. Oh! father, father, forgive me if, for one moment, I
thought you a little unjust and forgot all that has happened since!”
She kissed the letter in what seemed a passion of tender remorse, and
flinging herself in a chair, turned her face to the cushions and sobbed
audibly.
Clarence Brooks walked to a distant window and looked out, a little
disturbed by this scene. He rebuked himself for the tone in which he had
addressed her, and was anxious to make some apology. In a few moments
Cora came toward him, wiping her eyes with a tiny handkerchief bordered
with black an inch deep.
“Forgive me,” she said, “I did not mean to give way but the sight of his
dear handwriting was a terrible shock. Then so many things have
conspired against my cousin, and those who cannot love her as I have
will not take the charitable side of this question. No one but her poor
mother and myself—but I forget, you are a stranger to us all.”
“No, not quite a stranger. One who knew the father so well and loved him
so entirely cannot be considered in that light, surely, where the
daughter is concerned.”
“Indeed, you seem to me like a friend!”
“That I will be, Miss Lander, if you permit it.”
She smiled through the tears that still hung on her lashes.
“If I permit it? He loved you; that letter proves it.”
“Yes, he loved me well enough—”
Brooks paused, colored, and added, “well enough to invite me here.”
“There was something else to which my father seemed to allude, as if
there existed some plan, some hope?”
No lamb that ever followed its mother with his mouth full of white
clover ever looked more innocent than Cora when she asked that question.
Clarence Brooks felt the blood mounting to his face under those wistful
eyes, but answered, evasively:
“Oh, that was nothing—only a little plan we had in common.”
“Commercial?” she inquired.
“Perhaps it might be considered so.”
“Certainly, I remember that last sentence. Poor papa never could quite
give up business.”
“Some time, perhaps, I shall desire to explain his plans more fully,”
said the gentleman; “when you are more composed and I shall have been
fortunate enough to obtain your confidence.”
She smiled sweetly upon him.
“I have no talent for business,” she said; “still his wishes, I think,
would come to me by heart. But I am very thoughtless. My aunt will fancy
that I am assuming her prerogatives; she does not know that you are
here.”
Cora rang the bell, gave directions to the man who presented himself to
inform Mrs. Lander that a gentleman was waiting to see her, and then she
resumed her seat again, breathing a little quickly.
Mrs. Lander came into the room sweeping her black garment slowly down
its whole length, and looking a little terrified, as had become her
habit now when any person called upon her unexpectedly.
“Aunt, dear aunt, this gentleman, Mr. Clarence Brooks, brings a letter
from my father.”
“Your father, Cora?” cried the widow, beginning to tremble. “Why he has
been dead years and—”
“Not quite a year yet, dear aunt,” said Cora, with a quick catch of the
breath. Then turning to Brooks, she added, in a low voice, “The shock
affects her yet; she cannot hear his name mentioned without this
confusion of thought.”
“Was he a friend of Amos Lander’s?” questioned the widow, looking from
the stranger to Cora.
“Yes, aunt, a very dear friend.”
“And he has a letter from him, written by his own hand? How can that he?
The dead do not write.”
“It was his last letter, lady, written just before he sailed.”
“On that fatal ship—for fatal it has been to me—fatal it will prove to
us all, I solemnly believe! Did you also escape?”
“No, Madam, I never was on board. Some months before Lander sailed, I
had turned to the East. His letter followed me into the Holy Land.”
“Where none of us will ever follow him!” muttered the widow, seating
herself drearily.
Brooks did not catch her words, but he was struck by the singular manner
of the woman. There was absolute terror in her eyes as she turned them
upon him.
“It must have been a terrible shock to affect her so,” he thought. “Even
the daughter, who shared his danger, bears it with more fortitude.”
“Do you wish to see my father’s letter?” said Cora, gently.
Mrs. Lander made a sudden gesture of repulsion.
“It will be a pang at first, but—”
“Yes, Cora, I will read it. If he has left a wish that I can fulfill,
weak and hampered as I am, I would give my life to accomplish it. That
would be something to show how sorry I am for—for—”
“Dear aunt, we know how much you regret his death. Take the letter to
your room and read it there—Mr. Brooks will excuse you.”
Mrs. Lander took the letter and went out. Cora excused herself with a
gesture and followed her into the next room.
“Do you wish to ruin me, and yourself also, that you take that paper as
if it were a rattlesnake, and talk like an insane person? I tell you
this gentleman must be received cordially. He knew Amos Lander well, and
is a man of mark, or I know nothing about it. Invite him to remain, and
enforce the invitation by something like cheerfulness. It is my wish!”
“Then, if I must be cheerful, take the letter; I won’t read it!”
answered the harassed woman.
“There, there, take it to your room and do as you like about reading it,
though I think you will find something in his last words to rouse your
pride a little. For my part, I am glad this gentleman brought it. If I
had one scruple, it has vanished now. Read it, read what he says about
us and about her. It will bring the color to your white face, I
warrant.”
“I will read it,” answered Mrs. Lander. “After all, it’s nothing but
writing. That cannot kill one.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.
Mrs. Lander went up to her room and read the letter through. It brought
the blood to her cheek and the old pride into her heart. “Did he think
her everything, and my child the dirt under his feet—and this to a
stranger? Well, we shall see how it works now that my girl stands first
and foremost! As if his child was the only person worth speaking of!
Cora is right. I do feel as if it wasn’t so very wrong—as if she was
born to the place. Isn’t one Lander as good as another? Was Amos one
whit better than his brother because everything turned to gold for him
and iron for my husband? Cora is right; property belongs to those who
have the power to hold it. That was the origin of all property; why
should the rule be changed now? As for Virginia, she never would have
made anything of it all; she has not even the spirit to fight for it.
Cora, now, would have done that, and conquered too. But she must be
very, very good to Amos’ daughter—that I will _insist_ upon.”
In her indignation, Mrs. Lander had flung the letter on a table, and was
walking up and down the room firing her resolution with thoughts like
these, when Eunice opened the door.
“What’s the matter now?” she said, in her curt, dry way. “Some
highflying feller has come, so the men tell me, and acts as if he was
going to stay all his life. Now I want to know the truth on’t.”
“Yes, a gentleman has come, Eunice—a very fine-looking man indeed. He
brought a letter from Amos Lander.”
“Amos Lander! Well now, that heats me! Has Amos Lander come to life as
well as the rest on ’em? I’m glad on it. Now we shall see who’s who!”
“Eunice Hurd, how can you talk so wickedly? Amos wrote the letter before
he sailed on that terrible steamer. Of course he’s fathoms and fathoms
under water.”
“Oh, he is, is he? Well, dead men tell no tales—I wish they did. Anyhow,
who is this feller, and what does he want?”
“He’s a gentleman Amos knew abroad, Eunice. I can’t stay to tell you
more; my niece will expect me back—I only came out to read the letter.
Is my hair all right—does this dress sweep gracefully? Do, for once, be
good-natured and tell me. I declare it seems like old times to have
company in the house!”
Away Mrs. Lander swept with something of her old spirit and grace,
leaving Eunice standing in the middle of the room, struck dumb with
astonishment.
“Well!” she ejaculated, “well, this does take me right off from my feet!
Hoity-toity, how we do spread our feathers! That Eliza Lander is enough
to tire the patience of Job and all the other Bible folks that were sot
up for I patience. Now, this morning she was broken-hearted, ready to go
into a Methodist class-meeting and confess more sins than the
class-leaders could listen to in a week. Now she’s all ago putting on
airs like a girl, and ready to stand by that young serpent to the last.
I can see that in her eyes. I wonder what has done all this.”
The open letter offered a solution of these doubts. Mrs. Lander, in her
haste and excitement, had forgotten it on the table. Eunice seized upon
it and soon mastered its contents, spelling out the words aloud and
making her comments as she went on.
“Oh yes, his daughter is all in all. Well now, she was a purty cretur,
and kind as kind could be. Of course Eliza’s girl was no more to be
compared to her than chalk’s like cheese—a hateful, stuck-up cretur,
that hadn’t heart enough to be grateful, though Amos Lander did treat
her as if she’d been a princess instead of—well now, I mustn’t talk
about that out loud, if I am alone.” Eunice muttered all this over to
herself, then fell to reading the letter with earnestness, and went on
with her comments. “I didn’t think Amos Lander was ’cute enough to find
out the difference between them two girls. He allays treated ’em so much
alike. I saw it clear enough. They didn’t seem scarcely a bit alike to
me. When nobody else could tell ’em apart, I knew which from which by
the look of the eye and the bend of the head. That’s a thing one isn’t
always free to swear to, but it satisfies me. Oh! if Eliza Lander wasn’t
what she is, I’d set things to rights in less ’en twenty-four hours. I
wonder if they’ll let her see this—poor thing. It’s the last line her
father ever wrote, I’ll be bound. She shall have it—they shan’t keep
this from her with the rest.”
Eunice obeyed this impulse, and took the letter up to Virginia, who was
practising her noble voice in the remote room assigned to her.
“Here, take this and just tuck it in your bosom if you want to keep it,”
she said, flinging the letter down upon the piano. “It may be a comfort
to you, and it mayn’t—I don’t know, but if anybody in this house has a
right to read it, you have.”
Virginia took the letter and read it through. Eunice stood by and
watched her with interest. She saw the color retreat from that beautiful
face as the poor girl recognized the handwriting; then it came back,
swelling the delicate blue veins and flushing the whole face with a
pressure of tender weeping.
“Oh! how he loved me—how he did love me!” she cried pressing the paper
to her lips with mournful rapture.
“Eunice, had you given me back every dollar my father was worth, I
should not have been more thankful. Who was the letter written to? How
came it in your hands? Be kind, dear Eunice, and tell me all about it.”
“Now don’t be making an old fool of me—don’t now, I can’t stand it. The
letter was sent to a man that is in the house this minute—a first-rate
looking chap, with an air as if he was President of the United States
and King of the Sandwich Islands thrown in. He was an old friend of
your—of Amos Lander—and I like his looks, what I saw of ’em through the
door.”
Virginia was reading her father’s letter a second time.
“What does he mean? Is it something that relates to me, I wonder?” she
thought. “But all the letter is about me. How the gentleman will be
disappointed. Who ever will regard me with my father’s eyes? Alas! alas!
and he is dead! God help me! if I could have gone down in his arms, what
a mercy it would have been! This great crime would have been spared to
Cora, and I should have been so much happier.”
“Hope the gentleman won’t be disappointed in Mr. Lander’s daughter,”
broke in Eunice. “She’s making herself agreeable now, I tell you.”
Virginia looked up wonderingly. For the moment she had forgotten that
Cora was in the house.
“And will she take my father’s friend from me? The man he seems to have
loved so dearly?”
“I don’t see how you are to help it.”
“I will go down and speak with him.”
“And what will you tell him? That letter musn’t kick up no row. It isn’t
the time, and I won’t have Eliza Lander thrown into hysterics, if I can
help it.”
“I will tell him that I am Miss Lander.”
“But you won’t be particular about the which Miss Lander, will you now,
that’s a good girl?”
“Have no fear about that—I shall provoke no dispute. But the man who was
my father’s friend I must and will welcome under my father’s roof. It
matters very little whether he thinks me the mistress or a guest here.
My father wished me to know him, and I will.”
“Well, I reckon I’d do purty much the same thing; your—that is, Amos
Lander did intend you to know one another, I’m sure of that from the
letter—that is, supposing you are—mercy on me! one does get tangled up
so, it’s dreadful talking at all!”
Ellen Nolan was sitting in another part of the room, writing with such
earnestness that she did not heed what was passing near the piano; but
she heard Eunice now, and looked up.
“Come here,” said Eunice; “tell her not to go down and raise a muss.
That’s a York word I despise, but it will get into one’s mouth unawares.
But don’t let her raise a muss with a stranger in the house. It’s none
of his business which is which.”
“But I don’t intend to make a disturbance, Eunice.”
“Well, then don’t go down. It’ll make me sick as rank pison to see her a
introducing you.”
“You are right, Eunice; I will not take any part in the imposition which
places me in a false light before this man or any other person. At first
I was excited and rash. To present myself in any other character than my
own would be to sanction a fraud.”
“If the gentleman is worth knowing, he will not like you the less
because you can not present yourself as an heiress,” said Ellen, in a
low voice.
“True, Ellen. I will take no part in his reception.”
“That’s a good girl. Give out rope—give out rope—if she’s wrong. I don’t
say she is, though; but supposing she’s wrong, she’ll hang herself at
last. Be sartain of that.”
Eunice went out with these words on her lips, leaving Virginia and her
companion together. Virginia gave her father’s letter to Ellen.
“_He_ so wanted me to know this gentleman,” she said, regretfully. “I
have heard him speak of Mr. Brooks a hundred times on the passage, and
before that.”
“Who is Mr. Brooks, lady?”
“He is an American by birth, the son of a banker who spent his life in
London, having moved there when this young gentleman was a lad. My
father knew his father before he left this country, and has always
considered the younger Brooks almost as a son. I think there was some
unusual friendship between the families while our parents were young men
together. At any rate they were fast friends for life.”
“Have you ever seen this Mr. Brooks?”
“No; my father said that he had written to invite him here, and seemed
to think much of it. He described him to me as good and noble—a man
among men. He appeared to wish that I should consider him as a brother.”
Ellen read the letter seriously.
“He seems to have some unexplained idea here—some hope only hinted at.”
“Oh, they had business together; I think there was some talk about
establishing a banking house in New York to co-operate with that in
London.”
Ellen smiled faintly, but kept her eyes on the letter.
“I think Eunice was right,” she said at last. “Yes, she is right.”
Virginia sighed heavily, the oppressive weariness of that most wretched
life was beginning to tell upon her. It was hard to turn aside from the
closest friend her father had. But that, like the rest, she must give up
or enter upon a contest from which humiliation or sure defeat might
follow. For half an hour she walked up and down her room feverish with
anxiety. No poor fly in the net of a spider ever felt the thrall of its
imprisonment more keenly than she did. She could have given up the
property with but little regret. Never having learned the power or value
of money, it was of minor importance to her. But to remain under that
roof, to live with the woman who had so wronged her, and not exhibit the
slow indignation that crept upon her stronger and stronger every day,
was fast growing into a torture.
“What have I done—how have I deserved this treatment?” she cried out at
last. “Am I or am I not Amos Lander’s child? How can a wise and just
being look on and see such terrible iniquity prosper?”
“Hush, lady! this does not seem like yourself. The Being you speak of
bides his own time. Wait patiently.”
“And see my patrimony taken from me—know that my father’s dearest friend
is to be swept from the lowly path she has doomed me to tread—alone. Oh!
it is beyond belief—beyond bearing! I _must_ do something, or go mad!”
“No, dear lady, you will not go mad; that is exactly what they want.”
Virginia listened angrily. She was indeed out of all patience. The life
that lawyer Stone recommended had become unendurable. Must she wait
forever in that dull agony of living? Shut out from friends—forbidden to
make acquaintances by her false position—a prisoner, chained down by
circumstances more potent than iron shackles? Better break through it
all—give up everything and strike out boldly for a new life.
Ellen looked up as her mistress paced the room to and fro with fire in
her eyes and defiance on her lips. “Now,” she thought, “Not even I could
tell her from her cousin. That very tread is alike; with what imperious
pride she walks. How the color wakes and trembles in her face. Thank
Heaven, it cannot last.”
That moment Virginia sunk to the music stool, dropped her folded arms on
the instrument, and her face fell upon them, half smothering the burst
of tears that shook her from head to foot.
“Oh, it is cruel! it is cruel!” she moaned. “If I only knew how to act!”
Ellen’s arms were around her in an instant, gentle kisses stirred her
hair and fell upon her neck.
“Be patient—oh! be patient,” whispered that sweet voice. “God _is_ just.
Wait and see.”
Virginia lifted her head and swept the hot tears from her eyes.
“Ellen, I—I—really think this is jealousy. How foolish! I never saw this
gentleman in my life; but the thought that she assumes my place with him
hurts me worse than the loss of all this property. There, you see how
weak I am!”
Ellen answered with a kiss so fervent that it was far more eloquent than
words.
A servant knocked at the door. Miss Lander’s compliments—there was a
gentleman below who had known Mr. Lander, and would like to see Miss
Virginia.
“Say that Miss Lander is not well, and desires to be excused,” answered
Virginia. “Heaven knows it is the truth,” she said as the man closed the
door after him. “I have worried myself into a headache, Ellen.”
The poor girl laid herself on a couch and quietly wept herself to sleep.
Never since her father’s death had she been so disturbed.
Ellen went on with her writing, and in a few moments was so lost in her
subject that she did not hear the long-drawn sighs that came now and
then from that dear slumberer on the couch. This power of concentration
it was which constituted the force of Ellen’s genius. She literally
lived and breathed in the ideal life her mind created. This it was which
gave the girl that untiring industry without which the brightest genius
in life must die out in flashes of poetry and broken efforts at prose.
Those who reach the temple of fame, in these latter days, must work
their way to its very portals, and toil harder and harder after they are
reached, for that which is won by toil must be by toil maintained.
Clarence Brooks excused himself from accepting the invitation that Mrs.
Lander pressed upon him, to take up his quarters at the house. He had
left his portmanteau at the little hotel just beyond the station, he
said, and would remain there for the present. He should even then claim
hospitality of Mrs. Lander to an unreasonable extent. If he did not
really sleep in the house, they might expect him there half the time, as
he was sure to get terribly weary of his own society. There seemed to be
pleasant drives in the neighborhood; and shooting—he should think there
must be shooting in the back country. Did Miss Lander ride?
Yes, Cora admitted that she had a tolerable seat on horseback, but since
they had been in mourning she had scarcely cared even to take the air.
“Oh, that must be remedied,” the gentleman said. “He must run down to
the city and look up a good saddle horse. Was the lady provided with
one?”
“Oh yes; two ladies’ horses were in the stable—one black as jet, the
other white as snow, which Mr. Lander had himself selected for herself
and his niece before he went abroad.”
By the way, Mr. Brooks wanted to know if he was not to have the pleasure
of seeing this niece who was in her person so complete a counterpart of
the lady before him. He had heard of such resemblances; but really, in
this case, could hardly think it possible that two persons so entirely
beautiful could exist.
Here it was that Virginia was sent for. There was no possibility of
keeping her in the background after this, and Cora submitted with
charming grace. Her cousin was just a little peculiar sometimes; but,
for all that, one of the most interesting characters in the world. Mr.
Brooks would be charmed with her—everybody was.
Here the servant came in and received his orders. Mrs. Lander swept
after him into the hall.
“Tell her she must come, I insist upon it,” she whispered. “This
gentleman must see our family circle complete.”
It was some time since any of the servants had cared much about Mrs.
Lander’s wishes. They were the first to ascertain who was in fact
mistress of the house, and veered round accordingly. Before he had taken
three steps this eagerly-given message was forgotten.
Meantime Clarence Brooks and Cora were talking by the window; for the
gentleman never seemed to weary of looking out upon the soft, smoky air,
and rich coloring of the trees.
“Black or white—which should it be? His saddle horse must match one of
the young ladies’ ponies. Might he choose at a venture with fair hopes
of adopting her color? Then it should be black.”
Cora’s eyes sparkled as she lifted them to his face.
Ah! he had won. Black was her color. Well, his steed should be coal
black and not too large. He did not wish to be overpowering. A ride
under those superb trees would be delightful; he was almost tempted to
run down to the city at once. A day lost that fine weather would be a
misfortune.
Here the servant came in and delivered Virginia’s message. Cora shook
her head, cast a deprecating glance at her guest, and allowed a gentle
sigh to escape her lips.
“It is one of her nervous days,” she said, “I am so sorry.”
“Is your cousin apt to be nervous?” the gentleman inquired.
“She is a little—just a little excitable, as you may guess from my
father’s letter, but a dear, sweet creature. I am so sorry she is ill!”
“Yes, I have great compassion for illness of all kinds. My own
experience in that line has been terrible.”
“Indeed! and you look so thoroughly well!”
“Yes, you will hardly believe it, but not a year ago the best physicians
of the East gave me up for dead. It was when I lay ill of the Syrian
fever, in Damascus. I must have been in some sort of a fit, for the
natives were urgent to have me buried, and even the physicians were
about to give way, when I came to life again. It was the crisis of my
disorder, and I ran a narrow chance of being buried alive. It isn’t a
pleasant thing to remember even now, I assure you.”
“It must have been terrible! I have heard of such things, but always
accepted them with some unbelief,” said Mrs. Lander, joining in the
conversation. “Were you conscious?”
“Yes; that was the most awful part of it. With every nerve stiffened to
iron, and all my senses acutely awake, it was the most exquisite torture
to hear those about my bed discussing my funeral. With closed eyes and
everything but the brain spell-bound, my hearing became unusually keen.
I even heard the rustle of paper two rooms off, when a person I thought
true as steel was searching for the letters of credit I had taken out
for America and carried with me. The sound, to me, was like the shiver
of leaves on a breezy day, yet it must have been faint enough, fer the
man had a light touch.”
“Did he leave you?” asked Cora, suddenly interested.
“Yes; but I do not wish to think of that. There might have been
extenuating circumstances, and I loved the fellow so thoroughly that
even now it is a pain to think ill of him.”
Cora could not press the subject beyond this point; but she was seized
with an eager desire to learn more, and resolved to question her guest
some other time and learn all that there was to know of this singular
event.
Two days from this, Virginia and Ellen went down to the grove. It was a
lovely afternoon, made brighter and more exhilarating by a sharp frost
that had brought whole rainbows of color in the woods the night before.
The roses were all gone now, but many of the bushes were flushed with
berries red as coral, and a rich variety of chrysanthemums still
brightened the lawn and garden.
“After all it _is_ a beautiful world,” said Virginia, pausing in her
walk. “One looks at this scene in amazement after being abroad so long.
I wonder how an American can ever content himself in any other land when
this is his home. Look at the hills, Ellen—have you genius enough to
describe what you see there?”
“Who has?” Ellen replied. “No pen can do it—no pencil can copy it. After
all, God is the great artist.”
“I am glad the frosts have been so sudden and sharp; they have found
enough sap in the leaves to make them vivid. Look here.”
Virginia sprang up, snatching at a twig of maple, broke it off with her
hand and held it towards her companion.
“Here is the most perfect green, fringed so vividly with red that each
leaf might have been traced with vermillion. No painting was ever half
so beautiful. Ah! here comes one quivering down from some tree far off;
deep red, veined all over with maroon color so dark that it looks black
at first sight. Oh! Ellen, no pen of yours or pencil of mine will ever
equal that. Come away, it makes me envious.”
“Thankful, rather, dear lady.”
“Well, thankful. So I am, Ellen. While God surrounds us with so much
beauty, we ought to be full of gratitude, and so happy. Come, come, let
us go down to the grove, the leaves are thick there.”
The girls walked on, chatting cheerfully together; both were young and
full of healthy life. No crime or sense of evil-doing touched the
conscience of either. The very day was enough to make them happy, spite
of their present position—spite of the bereavement which usually
overshadowed them.
“I know of a chestnut tree that must hang full of burs; the frost last
night has let the nuts out—suppose we go look for them. It makes one
feel like a child again to get into the woods. Oh! there is Joshua Hurd,
coming up the carriage road with two splendid horses! The white one is a
beauty! See how she shakes her mane, and dashes the gravel with that
delicate hoof! Oh! Ellen, I should so like to have a gallop!”
“I would have one, if I were you, lady. Ask Joshua to saddle that white
beauty. Why not?”
Virginia shook her head, but that moment Joshua came up, riding the
black horse with a dash and leading the other, who curvetted and danced
over the gravel like some beautiful child tossing her hair to the wind;
the sweeping whiteness of its tail and the mane flowing free, like floss
silk set in motion, gave an air of superb grace to all the creature’s
movements.
Joshua drew up the black horse and challenged the girls’ admiration of
the creature by his really fine horsemanship.
“Isn’t she purty as a blackbird, Miss Ellen; jest let me lay my hand on
your head and she’ll whirl round you like a top; never saw the heat of
these ’ere two animals for ladies’ hosses. Which on ’em do you like
best, Miss?”
“The white one, I think, Joshua.”
Josh began to whistle.
“There’s gumption,” he said, patting the white horse with his great
rough hand. “She would have the black one. Wanted to know which Mr.
Lander bought for his own daughter. I told her black was his choice—no
lie, neither, but then he chose it for t’other one—and black she would
have. Why Snowball cost a hundred dollars the most! I sarched her out
myself, and know all about it. She’s yourn anyway, for the other gal
pounced on the black ’un like a hawk on a spring chicken. When do you
want to ride her, Marm?”
“I’m afraid I shouldn’t he permitted,” said Virginia, speaking to Ellen
in an undertone.
“I’d like to know who’s a going to stop you when Eunice Hurd says it’s
got to be done, or while Josh Hurd takes care of the hosses? Jest give
the order, and I’ll have her saddle on in no time. Now do, I want to see
this animal on the road dreadfully!”
“I will think of it, Joshua; thank you very much—another day will do.
Are you sure, old friend, that my—that Mr. Lander bought that horse for
me?”
“I’m sure he bought it for his own child, and jest as sartin that the
other one never will ride her. I’d drive a nail under her huff if she
was to ask for her.”
“But why, Joshua, if you recognize her as the mistress of this place?”
asked Ellen, very quietly.
“Because I aint a heathen, neither am I a justice of the peace. What
belongs to hosses I know all about, and will stand up to like a sojer;
but property belongs to the courts; I may feel bad to see things going
on so, but it’s none of my business. Besides I couldn’t go agin my—my
old mistress; what she says is right. I’m bound to say is right so long
as Eunice don’t go agin it. But bosses is bosses, and no one touches
this white beauty but you, Miss; you may depend on that as sure as your
life.”
Joshua rode off after this speech, scattering the gravel right and left
as he went.
“That looks well,” said Ellen, turning to her mistress.
“It proves that I have one humble friend that I did not count on,”
answered Virginia. “Now for the woods—I long to be in action. Can you
climb, Ellen?”
“Me!” said the hunchback, looking mournfully down on her person.
“Oh! forgive me, dear; I am in such spirits to-day, that I talk at
random.”
“I can pick up chestnuts as fast as any one,” answered Ellen, laughing.
“I can run too—come along.”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
TELLING WHAT VIRGINIA AND ELLEN FOUND WHILE LOOKING FOR CHESTNUTS.
Virginia and Ellen had reached the edge of the woods, and ran like
children down a footpath which led to the little log cabin. On the other
side of the bridge stood a huge chestnut tree, heavy with brown burs,
opened like stars by the frost. Some of its branches overhung the
bridge, which was now bereft of all its ear-jewels and asters, which had
perished long ago with the first cold turn. But quantities of ferns
clung about its arches yet, shedding that delicate perfume on the air
which is only exhaled after a frost has revelled among their long
feathery leaves.
Virginia and Ellen ran along the bridge, laughing joyously as the
chestnuts rattled over their heads. Virginia gathered up the skirt of
her black dress and began to pick up the nuts, sweeping the beautiful
leaves away with her hand as she searched for them.
“Oh! Ellen, I remember doing this so often, when Cora and I were little
girls. She was wild as a bird then, and I loved her—you have no idea how
I did love her.”
Ellen drew close to her mistress, and, holding out her skirt, exhibited
the nuts she had gathered about the bridge.
“So many!” exclaimed her mistress. “Why, Ellen, you beat me.”
“Come to the bridge, they lie thick among the fern leaves.”
Virginia left her place and ran down to the bridge, over which a great
gnarled branch stretched itself horizontally, bristling all over with
burs.
“If I had a club, or something to beat them down with,” she cried out,
“what quantities we might gather. Stay, I can climb up the sides of the
bridge and shake the bough.”
“Pray, let me do that for you, Miss Lander,” said a voice from the log
cabin. “You would stand a fair chance of being thrown into the brook.”
Virginia started, dropped down from the side of the bridge, up which she
was clambering, and stood looking at the cabin window thoroughly
abashed. Who was there? What man had been listening to them?
“Forgive me, I did not intend to listen,” said Clarence Brooks, coming
through the door, “but really it is dangerous, Miss Lander, and I must
be permitted to help you.”
Virginia guessed who it was, and make an effort to resume her
tranquillity.
“You are not so angry at this intrusion that you will not bid me good
morning, I hope?” he continued, gaily. “If so, I shall regret my good
fortune in seeing you again so soon.”
He paused all at once, and stood on the bridge regarding the young girl
with a puzzled look. Virginia dropped the skirt of her dress and allowed
the chestnuts to rattle over the bridge.
“I think—I fancy perhaps—that you have mistaken me for my cousin,” she
said, advancing toward him with her hand extended. “If it is Mr.
Clarence Brooks, this is the first time that we have met.”
“I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Lander, but the resemblance is so—so
very remarkable—yet when I look on your face there is a difference,
which one feels rather than sees. Now that I have been so careless or so
rude as to force myself upon you, pray let me attack this great bough.
It would have proved too tough for a lady’s management, believe me.”
Brooks sprang upon the parapet of the bridge, and seizing the huge
chestnut branch, shook it with so much vigor that a storm of nuts came
rattling over the bridge and splashed into the brook on either side.
Here the wavelets seized upon them and went dancing on their way,
laughing, chasing, jostling each other and sending out a ripple of music
all the while.
The girls darted back and forth, picking up the nuts in wild glee.
Virginia, all careless of the effect, gathered up her skirt again and
dropped nut after nut into it with joyous rapidity. The frills of her
white underskirt fluttered around her daintily clad feet, relieving the
general gloom of her dress. Her straw hat, with its knots and streamers
of black ribbon, had fallen off, exposing a head of hair that would have
driven Titian wild with a wish to paint it exactly as it was done up in
a sumptuous coil back of the head, and rippling in wavy folds away from
the forehead. There certainly was feminine grace and pure guilelessness
in this girl, which Cora never, in her most amiable moments, could hope
to possess.
“_She_ is what Lander describes. They are alike, yet how unlike,”
thought Clarence Brooks as he grappled the bough, for another hard
shake. “The heiress has dash, brilliancy, self-possession, but this girl
is pure, womanly. How could Lander be so blind? Even a father’s
partiality must have seen the difference.”
As this thought flashed through his mind, Virginia looked up and
laughed; the supply of nuts was nearly exhausted on the bridge, but
overhead yawned hundreds on hundreds of great clustering burs, to which
the ripe fruit clung in rich abundance.
“Oh, Mr. Brooks, they are getting scarce down here.”
The voice was cut short by a tornado rushing over the great chestnut
bough, and such a storm of nuts came pattering around her that she cried
out for mercy, as well as she could for laughter.
Down he sprang from the side of the bridge and began scattering the
gorgeous drifts of ripe leaves about with his hands, shaking out the
nuts and filling Virginia’s skirt with such perseverance that she soon
began to feel oppressed by the weight.
“Come this way and empty your nuts on the cabin floor; we must not leave
these for the squirrels,” said Brooks. “Take my arm and I will help you
up this rough slope. Here we are, with room enough for a dozen bushels.
There, now you are free to begin again.”
Virginia laughed and dusted her hands, knocking the rosy palms together
in childish glee.
“What a quantity! and we so little time about it! Why the old monster
must have bushels and bushels on its upper branches. Would you believe
it, Mr. Brooks, we used to climb ever so high in that chestnut tree when
we were girls. It was great fun, I can tell you!”
“Suppose I climb it now?”
“Well, if you like it; I’m sure there is no danger. But where is
Ellen?—we have run away from her.”
Brooks leaned out of the window.
“No,” he said, “she is down among the fern leaves. What a strange little
creature it is.”
“Sir,” answered Virginia, “she is an angel.”
“I shouldn’t exactly look for an angel in that form.”
“But you would. Her face is splendid when she thinks brightly or feels
deeply. To me, that girl is beautiful.”
“Love makes all things beautiful. It even made your uncle think his
daughter more lovely than his niece.”
The light went out of Virginia’s face instantaneously, and her eyes
filled with a rush of tears, so sudden and impetuous that they startled
even his composed nature.
“No, no, he never did. I beg pardon, Mr. Brooks, but upon this subject I
am a little sensitive.”
He saw that she was trembling all over in the sharp struggle she was
making against her tears. Just then Ellen came up to the cabin with her
contribution of nuts. She saw that Virginia had been crying, and guessed
the cause.
“Please not to speak with her about—about Mr. Lander; it breaks her
heart to hear him mentioned,” she said, in a low voice, that sounded
severe to the man, who was feeling like a culprit. But instantly her
voice changed—she poured her nuts into the general pile and called out
cheerfully:
“There’s plenty more, Miss Lander; the fern leaves under the bridge are
thick with them.”
Virginia leaned out of the window to hide her tears.
“I will gather no more,” she said; “the childish spirit has left me.”
“Have I driven it away?” said Brooks, leaning against the window-frame,
really troubled. “If so, sweet lady, one sob from those lips has been
punishment enough.”
She drew her head in from the window and met his look with a smile which
made the tears flash as if they had leaped up from her heart perfect
diamonds.
“I am very foolish, and should ask your forgiveness. Now, if you have
the nerve for a climb, which is an undertaking, I can tell you from
experience, Ellen and I will do the work below—won’t we, Ellen?”
“Indeed we will,” answered the hunchback.
Brooks caught a glimpse of her face as she spoke, and admitted in his
mind that it was one not easily forgotten, for never in this world did
spirit master the material more thoroughly.
“Come then,” he said, throwing himself down the acclivity which lifted
the cabin from the bridge. “Now give one leap, and I will help you
down.”
Ellen came forward first, looked him steadily in the eyes a moment, and
said, gently:
“Yes, I can trust you,” and sprang into his outstretched arms.
Virginia hesitated one instant, but made her leap, and for one instant
the strong man held her in his arms. It was but an instant—still the
blood thrilled in his veins and his heart gave a bound that startled
him.
“Now,” he said, dashing over the bridge, “let us go to work in earnest.
I never went a chestnuting before in my life.”
“Nor I,” said Ellen, kneeling down among the leaves, “but it is
pleasant, _so_ pleasant!”
“Indeed it _is_,” he answered, “I shall never forget this day. It is
like working out a dream.”
“Or a fate,” muttered Ellen.
Virginia leaned against the great, rough trunk of the chestnut, and
watched Brooks as he swung himself upward from one huge limb to another.
Her father had done the same thing for her hundreds of times in his
younger days, but she had never looked upon the process with anything
like terror till then. Was it that she had grown older and understood
the peril as she had never done before? Before he reached the topmost
boughs she was pale as death, and stood trembling at the root of the
tree like a frightened child.
“Oh, come down, come down, there is peril in it!” she cried out when a
limb swayed and cracked under his feet. But he had swung himself out of
danger and sent back a laugh from among the leaves.
“Keep from under,” he called out, “for now comes the deluge.”
Virginia and Ellen ran down under the bridge and waited among the ferns.
Directly it seemed as if a hailstorm were rattling over them heads; now
and then a nut dropped down to their hiding-place and rolled into the
brook.
“Once—twice—three times, and I am coming down to help pick them up,”
called out a voice high in the chestnut.
“Dear me, how high he is!” exclaimed Ellen, shading her eyes with one
hand. “The limb he stands on bends like a whip-stick. I wish he would
come down!”
“Ask him! oh, ask him!”
Virginia’s hand trembled as she seized Ellen by the arm. Her voice was
low and hoarse. How could she have tempted a fellow creature into such
peril?
“Call to him, Ellen! Why don’t you call, when I ask you?”
“He is coming down, dear lady. There is no danger now. This is the
fourth volley of nuts. How fast he comes—don’t you hear the leaves
rustle? There, he has swung himself on to the side of the bridge and is
looking down at us.”
“Are you sure—are you quite sure?”
“Look up and see.”
Virginia lifted her eyes and saw the head of Clarence Brooks, splendid
with excitement, bending over the arch.
“Come and see how thickly the earth is covered with them—or shall I jump
down there and rest awhile?”
He swung himself over an end of the bridge, and with a leap landed in
the bed of ferns.
“Ah, how pleasant it is,” he said, lifting the light hat from his head
and allowing the wind to sweep over it. “The air is more bland than
spring time. If this is what you Americans call chestnuting, I would not
mind gathering nuts forever. What do you say to that, little lady?”
He spoke to Ellen, who had fixed her large eyes on him in undisguised
admiration. She laughed and said that hour in the woods had been like
Heaven to her. But she crept away as she spoke, and going down to the
brook, walked a little distance up its bank, apparently enticed by its
murmurs. She did not go out of sight, but the young couple were not the
less isolated. Yet they both felt themselves alone, and possibly it was
a consciousness of this fact which kept them so silent. But the silence
itself was full of exquisite pleasure. He sat by her side, pulling up
tufts of the frostbitten ferns and flinging them lazily into the brook,
which laughed, and sparkled and carried them away, as it had before
rippled off with the chestnuts. She was thoughtful and dreamy, but
tranquil as a breath of Heaven. It seemed as if she had known that man
all her life—as if she were stronger, wiser, infinitely better, when he
was by her side. She, too, began to tear the fern leaves up by the root
and cast them after his. Sometimes the leaves united and floated off
together, mingling so closely that all proprietorship was lost. Then
these two people, so lately thrown together, would look at each other
and smile as if some mutual hope had been fulfilled in the companionship
of those dim leaves.
“Why would you not come and see me when I inquired for you?” he asked at
last, struck by a sudden thought.
“Do not ask me.”
Virginia spoke in a low voice, but it was serious as death, and he could
not press a subject that had begun to trouble him.
“But you will not refuse yourself to me again?”
“Yes, up yonder I must.”
“And why? Have I been unfortunate enough to have offended you unseen?
Have I an enemy?”
“No, no, it is not that. On the contrary, I never heard anything that
was not good of you; never had a thought of you that was not pleasant.”
“Then you have thought of me?”
“Oh yes, with _him_, you know, I could not help it.”
“Then I was in good hands. Your uncle thought far better of me than I
deserved, but charity was in his nature.”
Virginia was silent; she could not speak of the dead as her uncle. Then
Brooks spoke again:
“But you have not told me why you will refuse my visits.”
“Will you not accept the fact without explanation?”
She turned her eyes on his face with a look of such entreaty that he had
no heart to press her farther. But she seemed to have formed a sudden
resolution, and spoke again, more frankly:
“My cousin and I are not good friends—I cannot meet any one with her on
equal terms or without pain.”
Clarence Brooks grew thoughtful. He would not ask any explanation of the
estrangement she spoke of; but the fact of its existence struck him
unpleasantly.
“But she spoke so affectionately of you,” he said at last.
Virginia looked up wistfully.
“Did she?” was all her lips uttered, but there was deeper meaning in
those eyes.
“Her father always spoke of his daughter as royal in her generosity.”
“Oh, sir, you do not understand—you never will understand!” the poor
girl cried out in her anguish.
“I can understand, dear young lady, that you at least are blameless, let
the cause of this trouble be what it may.”
“I am blameless, do believe that—neither in thought, word or deed have I
ever wronged my cousin.”
“You tremble. This agitation will hurt you, Miss Lander. As her father’s
friend, I may have some personal influence with your cousin. Be sure it
shall be used in your behalf.”
“No—no, I beseech you, sir, as his friend, I beseech you not to
intercede for me or even speak of me to her. Our difficulty is one which
never can be reconciled by human means, I solemnly think. Let it alone,
sir—let it alone.”
“On one condition, I will. If you ever discover a way in which I can
interfere with any hope of success, call on me. Promise this, and I will
be silent.”
“I do promise it.”
“With all your heart?”
“With all my heart and soul.”
“Then it is a compact.”
“Yes,” she answered, smiling sadly enough, “it is a compact.”
“But I must see you again.”
“I do not know how,” she answered, drearily.
“But I must and will, unless you hate me for this first rude intrusion.”
“Hate you!”
Her eyes opened wide at the idea. She reached out her hand, then drew it
back, blushing red, and strove to conceal the action by tearing up a
little wild vine that grew by the stone on which she sat, fiercely as if
it had done her some harm.
Clarence Brooks smiled. He had gathered up some experience of the better
sort of women in his lifetime, and understood an innocent impulse better
than most men. He took the hand quietly which she had withdrawn, and
pressed his lips upon it.
“Think of me kindly, at least,” he said, with more tenderness in his
voice than he was conscious of. “Heaven knows, I shall think of you
often enough.”
Virginia arose.
“You are weary, you will gather no more nuts to-day?” said Brooks,
reluctant to part with her.
“Not to-day,” she answered. “Some other time, perhaps. They are safe in
the cabin; no one ever comes there in these days.”
“But to-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow we will come,” she answered, with shy frankness. “I
shall be glad to see you again.”
“No one shall gather our harvest of nuts. Meantime I take it on myself
to guard this part of the woods till you come again.”
Ellen saw that they were both standing, and came up from the brook side.
“Are you going, lady?”
“Remember Miss Nolan, you are to help finish our work to-morrow. We have
a large crop to gather in, and must commence early—say just after
dinner.”
“If Miss Lander pleases, I shall like it; one so enjoys running wild in
the woods,” answered Ellen, brightening all over. “See what a color it
has given the lady!”
It is true Virginia’s cheeks wore a rich flush. This idea of another
day’s meeting had set her heart in a pleasant tumult, and every pulse
sent up a glow of wild roses to her face.
“I hope it will be a pleasant morning,” she said. “Now good-bye till we
meet again.”
Brooks walked with them till they reached the edge of the woods. Then,
seeing a look of anxiety on Virginia’s face, he lifted his hat and
returned along the footpath.
When they were alone, Virginia turned and looked earnestly at Ellen.
“Have we done right? Was it well to encourage this gentleman in all his
kind attentions as I have done?”
“Lady, I think it is right. He was your father’s fiend. It was certainly
his wish that you should know each other. Nothing could be more clearly
expressed than that was in the letter.”
“It is strange, I cannot lose my identity for a moment, but he looks
upon me as the niece my father mentions with such wonderful sagacity. I
wonder how he came to understand her so well? How I trusted her then!
how I loved her!”
“She fascinates all who meet her for the first time,” said Ellen, drily.
“Do you think he is pleased with her?” asked Virginia, in a low voice.
“At first—yes. The glowing affection expressed in that letter being
applied, as he thinks, to her, will draw him toward her. She is
beautiful, has many accomplishments, converses well, and, worse than
all, has a triumphant sense of success. This may please him for a time,
but he is no common man, lady.”
“Indeed I think so, Ellen.”
“His keen penetration will not long be at fault; the true nature of your
cousin will sooner or latter appear.”
“Sooner or later—sooner or later. Oh! there lies the danger. What if he
too were shipwrecked? He speaks of having influence with her already.”
“Dear lady, can you trust nothing to this gentleman’s penetration? Can
you trust nothing to our God?”
“But we do fall victims to craft and wickedness.”
“For a time.”
“Oh, Ellen, I never felt my helplessness or the wrong that has been done
me as I do now. This man was my father’s friend.”
“And will be yours. The high nature must assert itself.”
“At any rate, I am powerless as a child. Were I to tell him the truth he
would not believe me against a mother’s assertion. Then the very
distrust that my father expressed of her, will, in this gentleman’s
mind, apply to me. Oh! Ellen, is it not terrible that, in defrauding me,
that wretched girl should find the power to make me responsible for all
the wrong acts of her own life. It is I who abandoned my benefactor and
left him to perish, while saving myself! It is I who attempted to claim
the patrimony of his child! These thoughts are driving me mad. In
wresting away my fortune, she has left me a burden of reproach. This is
how I am placed. Never was a poor girl so fearfully beset. If I dared to
take fate in my own hands, to change my name and escape from all this,
life might become endurable again.”
“Not yet, lady. Do not abandon the home which is by right yours, while
it can be held with self-respect. My father used to say that
difficulties change or disappear when firmly met. We have but to watch
and be ready when God opens the path for us. When everything seems dark
and you are afraid to move in the gloom, rest quietly and be hopeful.
There will be a break in the clouds somewhere, and light must shine
through. This was my father’s method of reasoning.”
“True, Ellen, but he went down with that burning wreck.”
“I know it. There was a glorious opening in the clouds that beset his
path. He lacks no enlightenment now. He believed then that God’s justice
was eternal; he knows it now.”
The two girls had been walking slowly with downcast eyes, not heeding
the surrounding objects, but they both started when a horse came
sweeping down the carriage road, and the skirt of a long riding-habit
flaunted by.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
BREAKING IN THE BLACK HORSE.
Cora Lander curbed in her black horse and called out, with radiant good
humor:
“What, out walking? What a glorious day it is! But what has become of
you, cousin? I missed you at dinner yesterday and at breakfast this
morning. Do be a little more sociable—I so long to hear you sing again.
So, so, Blackbird!”
The horse was purposely rendered restive by a tight curb, and was
tossing his lovely head impatiently, while the gravel flew from under
his hoofs.
“Which way have you been?” she inquired, slackening the curb.
“Into the woods,” answered Virginia, gravely.
“Into the woods—why that is a long walk.”
“We did not think it so when we were children together.”
Cora curbed her horse sharply again. He reared to his hind feet, shaking
his head and arching his neck till the jet black mane streamed on the
wind; then, seizing the bit in his teeth, he dashed away, plunging
forward like a prairie horse in the lasso.
“There, he will hurl her from the saddle! Great Heavens, how he
plunges!” exclaimed Virginia.
“No, he won’t—she wasn’t born to be killed by a critter like that, I
answer for it,” broke in Joshua Hurd, coming upon them from behind a
thicket of almost leafless rose bushes. “Never you fear about her; she’s
got grit enough for that animal. Look at her now. Golly, ain’t she a
clipper?”
Cora had turned her horse off the road and was riding him furiously over
the lawn, lashing out with her whip and beating his side with her heel
till the foam flew over his chest like massed snow flakes.
“She’s a darned sight more likely to kill the hoss than he is to throw
her. Consarn the critter! don’t she know the natur of a dumb beast
better than that! Why, you should see this identical animal in the
stable, he’s playful as a kitten. Snowball herself ain’t playfuller.”
That instant Cora flashed by them like a comet; her hat had been blown
from her head; her face flushed with wild excitement. She took a swift
circuit on the lawn and reined up the quivering beast upon the carriage
road again, drooping and panic-stricken.
“Joshua Hurd, come take this brute,” she cried, leaping from the saddle.
“I think by this time he begins to know who his mistress is—I’ll teach
him!”
“He’s teached a ready, marm,” answered Joshua, catching the bridle she
flung to him. “But we hain’t got a feller in the stables as could find
it in his heart to treat a critter so, if he was ever so contrary.”
“You are not pleased, Joshua Hurd?” she cried, turning sharply upon him.
“No, I ain’t!”
“Then you can call up at the house and get your wages; I keep neither
refractory men nor beasts in my employ.”
“Yes you do. ’Cause I’m ’fractory as all possessed. Ask Eunice, if you
don’t believe it.”
She flashed a fierce, baffled look upon the man, and biting her lips
till they turned white under her teeth, she struck the skirt of her
riding-habit five or six times fiercely with her whip, as if that
allayed her fiery resentment.
“Go back to your lair in the stables, I will attend to you,” she said,
trembling with passion or dread, for it galled her that Virginia should
hear this. “While I am mistress of this establishment, those who receive
my money must be obedient and respectful.”
Joshua drew close to her, grasping his oilskin cap in one hand fiercely
as she held the whip. He trod upon her skirt, thus holding her prisoner
with his feet, and placed his mouth close to her ear. What he said no
one but herself could tell, but she turned ghostly white and attempted
to step back, but his heavy shoes were planted so firmly on her skirt
that she was held face to face with him till the twinkle in his small
eyes drove her frantic.
“Stand off my dress, sir, and begone, or I shall forget myself.”
The whip quivered in her hand, specks of foam flew from, her white lips.
She seemed absolutely about to strike him.
Joshua kept his position just long enough to provoke her beyond bearing,
then moved away, muttering as he went, and leading the horse loosely by
its bridle. Cora watched him with flashing eyes until he disappeared
behind the stables—then she turned upon Virginia.
“I suppose you envy me this pleasant position,” she said, with a sneer
in her voice. “Give me joy of the happiness; it brings! There is not a
servant about the house your mother has not spoiled.”
The quiet contempt with which Virginia heard this was just visible in
her face; but she said nothing, merely passing her cousin in silence.
Cora followed her, still fiercely grasping the whip and dragging her
long skirt over the crisp grass, stirring up a little winrow of red
leaves as she moved.
“You have put him up to this,” she said; “your underhand cunning is
demoralizing my servants.”
“Have the goodness to take your hand from my shoulder,” answered
Virginia, in her clear, low voice. “If you will usurp a lady’s place, at
least attempt something of her good manners.”
Cora’s hand dropped as if an arrow had pierced it. The calm dignity of
this rebuke struck her dumb. Long before her usual audacity came back,
Virginia and Ellen had entered the house.
Cora was standing mute and angry as her cousin had left her, when a
servant, coming up from the post-office, gave her a letter. It was from
Seymour; she knew the writing at once, but held it in her hand a full
minute unopened. In the days of her eager courtship, she would have torn
the envelope into shreds in order to seize upon the precious words it
covered. But now she pulled it open at the ends bit by bit, hesitating
as if the act were a task she had rather not perform.
One of the gardeners came loitering that way as she was slowly opening
her letter. So she thrust it into the corsage of her habit, and
gathering up the heavy folds of cloth falling about her feet, hurried to
the house and into her own room. Here she cast off her riding-dress,
flung it in a heap on the carpet, and locked the door with great
caution. Even then she did not read her letter, but pushed back her hair
before the glass and put on a fanciful loose-dress of white alpaca,
brightened with bows of lilac ribbon—for Mrs. Lander was right, she had
begun to soften the rigor of her first mourning to a considerable
extent.
“It is a lovely tint,” she decided as the ribbons fluttered around her;
“I will venture on it to-morrow!”
At last she sat down on a lounge, drew her feet up under the snowy
dress, arranged a cushion back of her head and took the letter from her
bosom, where it had been lying close to her heart without stirring a
pulse there. This was the letter she read:
“MY DARLING:—Oh, that some dearer and sweeter word might be found which
could leap from my heart to yours, carrying with it some faint idea of
the love that fills my being. I long for a new language of the heart
which can at once thank you for the happiness I have known and the hopes
which live in my heart continually as fire once kindled on a vestal
altar never goes out. Do believe it, my wife, you are the first woman I
ever loved, the only woman on this earth that I ever can love. The
happiness you have given me makes me so restless in my absence that I
sometimes grow desperate and resolve to come back at once. But I cannot,
I cannot. It is necessary that my original idea should be carried out.
My health is a little better, and the invigorating air of these vast
prairies brings spirit and life back to my frame. Unless you send for me
and command me to come back—unless you say that this separation makes
you wretched as I am, my reluctant face will be turned westward till I
reach the Rocky Mountains.
“Do I wish this, or do I dread it? Both, my beloved. The message which
says that my love is necessary to your happy existence would bring me to
your side though death itself lay in wait for me there. But it is
better—far better that I should go forward; therefore I dread the sweet
temptation which would lie in your recall. Do not be unhappy, love—yet I
would not like to think of you as content, or really capable of
enjoyment, now that I am away from you. This is egotism, and I know it;
but such egotism springs out of a soul that would sacrifice itself a
thousand times over rather than give you an hour’s pain.
“Do you love me after this fashion, my wife? Sometimes I ask this
question aloud in the depths of the night, with nothing but a thin
canvas between me and the arch of Heaven; for then a yearning desire
seizes me to read your soul and know, of a certainty, that it answers
mine in all the sweetness and depths of its requirements. But nothing
answers me, not even my own intelligence. I would give the world, if it
were mine, to have this question put at rest in my heart. Cora, I would
live for you in any stage of poverty and never feel it a sacrifice to be
poor or lowly for your sake. I would die for you, my wife, if that were
needful to your comfort or your happiness. To die _with_ you, my
beloved, would make death sweet to me. Can anything ever part us, my
wife? My wife! that is the holiest and sweetest word that I know of in
any language. I think this over sometimes and wonder that I am so
blessed, that you could have chosen me, given yourself to me with such
generous inconsideration. I was not worthy of you; I had neither
position, wealth nor any of the great advantages which make you the
ornament and glory of social life. But if love is a merit—if capacities
of affection can make a man worthy, then am I fairly matched, even with
my peerless wife. No other man living—or that will ever live—could have
loved her more devotedly. Believe that, oh! do believe it; let what will
come in the hereafter, there is not a pulse of my heart that is not
yours. What I am, good or bad, this great love has made me. Have I no
other object in life? you will ask. I answer, none. From the first hour
that I saw you in that beautiful Italian sunset, like a lost angel
searching for its fellows, my life had no hope or thought stronger than
that one keen wish to see you again. I left study and ambition to those
unhappy men who had not seen a woman like you capable of absorbing a
whole life and making these things as nothing. I took you into my
thoughts and brightened them with your goodness, your genius and your
beauty—for you are beautiful, my wife, so beautiful that I close any
eyes at night, and, folding your image in my heart, wonder if the angels
are more lovely.
“Yesterday I took the tress of hair that you gave me from my bosom for
the first time. I had not the courage to look at it before. Did you know
that it was tangled in with a ring of gold, a plain hoop like the
marriage ring I gave you, with the date of our wedding day? Was it
really that ring? or another, by which you thought to remind me of an
event I could no more forget than a happy spirit can forget when the
gates of Paradise opened for him?
“But the ring troubled me a little. It had become so tangled in the hair
that I was compelled to use some force before it was extricated. It was
a singular idea, wasn’t it, darling? but it seemed to me as if even that
light force was hurting you. I had not injured the tress, which now lies
in a coil of dusky gold in the palm of my hand, bright and silky as when
it was shorn from your head—that head which rested on my bosom with all
its wealth of hair thrown abroad that I might cut the richest tress. Oh!
my beloved! my beloved! shall we ever meet again? Can any calamity tear
you from me? What if you were to die? What folly! Hebe herself never had
fresher roses or more perfect health. What if the very intensity of my
love should weary you?
“This is how I torture myself with questions. I know they are absurd,
that devotion like yours should meet with perfect trust. But there is
something in my bosom that will torment me forever and ever, I fear—a
sense of unworthiness—a dread that some time you will discover to how
many faults a most generous love has blinded you. I wish you had not
left that ring so knotted up with the lock of hair. If it was our
wedding ring, you should have kept it sacredly on the finger where I
placed it, swearing to be faithful, solemnly promising my God to strive
hard and lift my imperfect nature up to yours. It was in this way I
circled your finger with that gold, my beloved. Is it possible that you
have cast it back upon me?
“I met a company on the Plains, going forward to the new Territory of
Montana. They are full of hope and eager for enterprise. The mines there
are said to be wonderfully rich. How I wish the great wealth you possess
had fallen to your cousin, and that you were penniless as I first
thought you. Then we would go together into this new country and I would
work for you, think for you, gather up wealth which should be doubly
ours, because the energies of affection had won it from the earth.
“What scope and purpose there would be for our energies in this new
world. How completely we should live out our youth to ourselves and by
ourselves. Say, Cora, is not this possible? Sometimes I have thought
that the possession of so much property has cast shadows of care over
you which seem unnatural. Is it so, my angel? I would to Heaven you
could say yes, and cast the burden of all this money aside. It oppresses
me and shames my manhood to feel the overpowering weight of another
man’s money choking up all aspirations for well-earned success. Cora,
Cora, if we had never given undue value to riches how happy we might
have been—you and I in the mountains of Montana! I have been looking my
past life in the face, dearest, and wonder that the possession of money
should ever have been important to me. I think of our life in that
exquisite little house which your taste made so beautiful, and ask
myself if a log cabin in some western nook, with morning glories running
up to the eaves and wild roses in front, would not have witnessed a
happiness as sweet and pure as that we knew there. Love like ours needs
no luxurious accessories to make it perfect.
“My wife, if I possessed the whole world, and you wished me to give it
up that your happiness might be more complete, I would do it. Will you
give up this property, which somehow seems at times to weigh you down,
and go with me into a new existence beyond the mountains? I ask it in
all seriousness. What has this wealth done for us? Shadowed our first
union with secrecy—a delicious secrecy, it is true, which had something
of Heaven in it, but which is sure to detract from the dignity of a pure
love. Sooner or later, we shall wish that our marriage had been open as
the day.
“Why will my pen refuse to quit the paper? Because it is writing to you,
my wife, and finds the thoughts that turn to you inexhaustible. But you
will weary of me, and I force myself to say good-night.
“Are you thinking of me now, as I think of you, with a yearning
tenderness that fills the eyes with tears? Good-night, my
bride—good-night, my dear, dear wife!
“ALFRED N. SEYMOUR.”
She read this letter stretched luxuriously on that couch, with the lilac
ribbons fluttering around her, and her foot dropping in and out of the
kid slipper into which she had thrust it after taking off her
riding-boots. She was not much affected by the reading. The impassioned
language sometimes brought a gleam of gratification to her face, and she
more than once muttered, “Poor fellow—poor fellow! how he does love me!”
But when she reached the latter part of the epistle, her face utterly
changed—a cloud came upon her forehead which deepened and deepened as
she went on, till she laughed out in her scorn.
“That’s splendid! So he really tired of my pretty box, as I did. That
_is_ delicious! He would have preferred a log cabin with morning
glories. Well, I’m not sure about it. A grand passion might last three
or four weeks longer perhaps, in a breezy new country, with plenty of
wild game, and so on. I did rather overdo the thing, but no one can say
that it was not regally done. I wish somebody would buy up the whole
affair at half-price, I really am afraid it was a failure.”
She read on after this, and came to the proposal about Montana, which
brought a storm of scornful wrath to her face.
“What, I! I, Cora Lander, with money enough to purchase all Montana—with
this form and face, bury myself in the gold mountains, fling away what I
have and trust to chance and his energies for getting more! Why, the
idiot! He really has not the capacity I gave him credit for; I should
make a pretty figure in the gold regions. So that is the length and
breath of his ambition. I am glad he enlightened me in time. Secrecy,
indeed! That becomes more and more important to me every day. What fools
women do make of themselves while the first grand passion lasts! I
wonder if I ever shall be really in love.”
The woman started as this question sprang to her lips. It had been
coiling in her heart like a viper for many a day, but she was shocked at
herself when it crept forth and shaped itself so repulsively.
“Well, I must answer this letter,” she said, turning the key of her desk
upon it. “That will be a safe way of keeping his face westward. I wish
he would go on to that gold country; it would be spring before he could
come back. Yet after all, I should rather like to see him. It is
something in a woman’s life to be so completely adored. That Montana
business has put me out of sorts, I suppose, or I should not feel so
indifferent. Of course I am fond of him. There never was a creature so
blindly in love as I was. But one cannot hold to the exaltation of any
feeling forever; I suppose that accounts for it all.”
Having pacified an easy conscience in this way, Cora turned her thoughts
on the scene which she had just gone through in the grounds. She
remembered the unseemly passion into which the horse had thrown her,
with bitter humiliation.
“I am mad,” she thought, “to give way in that fashion. This temper of
mine will certainly betray me, while she is cool and crafty enough to
take advantage of it. But it really is hard to keep up such a reputation
as the creature, somehow or other, managed to get for munificence,
amiability and so on. Then they all were really kind to me, and I cannot
order her out of the house without betraying the contrast. She never
would have whipped that horse so. It was well they were my only
audience. Then that brute of a man—it is clear that both he and that
red-haired virago know more than I dreamed of. Can any intelligence they
have shake my mother’s evidence? There again what a fool I was to refuse
money for her eternal shopping! After all, conciliation is the only safe
course. But so many secrets irritate the best of tempers, and I am
afraid mine isn’t quite that. I will have a little talk with this
Eunice; as I cannot get rid of her, she must be appeased.”
Here Cora rang the bell and gave orders that Miss Hurd, the housekeeper,
should come to her.
Eunice was informed of the exact words in which this message was given,
and gave her head a proportionate lift in the air as she marched up to
obey the summons.
“What do you want of me, I’d like to know?” was her first curt
salutation.
“Nothing very particular, Miss Hurd; but you know I have been spending a
little money down in the city. You have been in the family a long time?”
“Ever since you was a year old, Miss.”
This was a point that Cora was anxious to avoid, so she said, hurriedly:
“Never mind about the exact time; you have been a faithful housekeeper,
and, under a false impression, I was about to act unjustly by you. In
proof that you have forgiven me, pray, accept this.”
Here Cora took a piece of heavy moire antique from a drawer and placed
it in the housekeeper’s hands.
Eunice turned the rich material over and let it fall in glossy folds
from her arm.
“Now if this isn’t worth while. I never had a right down new moire
antike afore in my life. Well, I don’t know how to thank you, never was
good at thanking people all my life.”
“Never mind that, Miss Hurd, I am glad it pleases you. Some time next
week I will pay your expenses down to the city, and a person that
occasionally makes up things for me shall fit it for you.”
“I hope she’ll make it long enough to sweep like anything. It does one
good to hear sich silk a rustling and sweeping along the floor. How many
yards may there be?”
“Oh, you will find plenty for a long skirt, and to spare. The dressmaker
may trim it prettily, as you like it best; I wish it to be complete.”
Eunice stood with her head on one side, feasting her eyes on the silk.
“Mercy on me! how do they contrive to catch the lightning so nateral? It
seems to be blazing away all along the breadths. Well, Miss, I’m much
obliged. Gracious! don’t it glisten!”
“That will secure her brother’s silence,” said Cora, as Eunice closed
the door, but the words were scarcely out of her mouth when the
housekeeper returned and flung the silk in her lap.
“Put it up; I’m not going to take it,” she said, bluntly. “If either I
or Josh hold our tongues, it’s for Eliza Lander’s sake. It’ll take a
stupendouser silk than that to buy us up, if it is skiltered over with
chain lightning. Treat her well and don’t bear too hard on Amos Lander’s
daughter, and I’ll stand by and grit my teeth while this inikety goes
on, but no silk can buy me up.” While Cora sat dumb with astonishment,
Eunice left the room.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE FISHING PARTY.
Cora’s motive for trying that black pony on the lawn was explained the
next morning, when Clarence Brooks came riding up the carriage road on a
horse that might have matched that spirited animal in everything but
size. Before he reached the house, Cora came forth, equipped for the
road and looking bright as the morning. She stood leaning against one of
the marble pillars when Brooks came up,—the long skirt sweeping far back
on the white pavement and her lithe figure defined by a closely-fitting
habit, to which a profusion of gold buttons gave dash and character. The
tiny cravat about her throat, and piquant hat curled up at the sides,
gave graceful dignity to what might otherwise have been masculine in
this costume. But now, from the gauntlet gloves on her hands to the
riding whip, mounted with a thick branch of blood-red coral, her
appearance was exquisitely complete.
Brooks must have been less than a man—or more—had he not checked his
horse a little, that he might leisurely admire that beautiful woman,
posed so gracefully against the marble column. It was a sight which
brought the breath quickly to his lips. She saw it all, the sudden
check, the look of intense admiration, that touch of the spur which
brought the horse so near that she could almost lay her hand on his
neck.
“So I find you ready and waiting, five minutes before the time,” said
Brooks, dismounting and looking at his watch. “What a glorious morning!”
“Too bright for me to remain indoors one moment after my habit was on,”
she answered. “Oh, here comes my demon of the stables with Blackbird. I
gave him—the horse, I mean—a trial yesterday on the lawn, and he nearly
mastered me.”
“I hope he is not vicious,” said Brooks, casting a sharp look at the
horse.
“No, I think not. After our little encounter, I fancy he will be gentle
enough. Hold him firmly, Mr. Hurd. He seems in capital condition this
morning—does you credit.”
She came down to the side of her horse, and lifting one hand to the
saddle, placed her foot in the hand which Brooks presented to her. In
one instant she was seated and arranging the folds of her skirt.
“Now,” she said, drawing the curb, for she had no objection to a second
exhibition of the animal’s spirit, so that it was not too violent.
“Now.”
The horse shook his head, gave a leap, and came into subjection
gracefully after the first minute.
“Isn’t he a beauty?” she cried. “But I need not ask; I see by your eyes
how much you admire him.”
“If my eyes express so much, I must be careful in your presence, Miss
Lander, or they will tell secrets I would rather keep to myself.”
She laughed, blushed a little, and busied herself with the button of her
gauntlet, while her horse struck into an easy canter.
It was indeed a glorious day, the softest and brightest of a long Indian
Summer; the scent of ripe leaves and such flowers as give their best
perfume to the frost floated on the air; great forest trees, blazoned
like war banners, waved above them, and their horses sometimes waded
fetlock deep in the floating leaves, dyed richly as the garments of an
Eastern Satrap. Through these gorgeous woods, up the sloping hills and
along the river, they rode at random. Wherever a picturesque curve or
tempting by-path presented itself they explored it, conversing seriously
or laughing off the rare exuberance of spirits that a ride so pleasant
and a morning so lovely were sure to produce in two healthy young people
disposed to be pleased with each other. Still any one who had observed
Brooks closely under the chestnut tree and on horseback would have seen
a difference, too subtle perhaps for words, but marked and easy of
detection for all that. With the girl riding so masterfully on her black
horse, this man of the world exerted all that was brilliant and
superficial in his character; compliments such as only very clever men
can utter fell easily from his lips. With Cora he was gay, careless,
full of graceful badinage. He saw that she wished to be admired, and
fulfilled all her desires in that respect to the utmost, no difficult
matter where the woman was so handsome and matched him so nearly in the
character of her wit. With Virginia he had been no less cheerful, no
less gallant—but underlying all was that impulsive respect and tender
sympathy which draw noble hearts close together. He was playful with
her, but never extravagant; if he felt the general effect of her great
beauty, the feeling was not once expressed in words. In fact it would
have been difficult to define what it was that distinguished the
loveliness of these two girls. Certainly form or color had but little
share in the difference.
Well, that ride through the autumnal beauty of the woods was a success
to be remembered for many a day after. But Cora was dissatisfied when
she laid her hand on Clarence Brooks’ shoulder, and leaped from her
horse on the marble pavement where she had waited for him that morning.
Again she posed herself against the pillar and watched that noble figure
as horse and man swept out of sight.
“Will the man never act earnestly? Does he think I am worth nothing
better than the froth and foam of his mind? Who is he saving the wine
for, I wonder? He trifles with me. Does he think I have no ideas, no
feeling? Seymour at least let me look into his soul. But this man—why
his very carelessness defies me. Such a morning—such opportunities, and
not a word spoken beneath the breath or with real seriousness. Yet these
careless outflashes of a superior intellect sicken me with all other
homage. The man shall love me, though it breaks his heart. He shall love
me!” The woman checked herself an instant and sneered inly at her own
wickedness. “Me, another man’s wife!”
She went in then, and, as a panacea for such thoughts, read over her
husband’s letter with the image of a tall, gray-eyed man on horseback
between her and the writer, shutting out all that wonderful beauty of
person which had enthralled her so only a few months before.
Why did Brooks keep his interview with Virginia a secret? He told
himself that she had requested it, but it is very doubtful if he would
have said a word about it even if no hint had been given him on the
subject. This encounter in the woods was to him a bit of romance which
would lose its charm if talked over in commonplace words with any one.
He had found the cabin by accident, having discovered the footpath which
Seymour had trodden along the brook while smoking a cigar on the back
porch, to which his room opened by the door, half sash, half panelling,
which had proved so convenient in another romance that we know of, but
which was so carefully kept out of sight at this period. Springing over
the low railing of the porch, Brooks had sauntered up the path, smoking
as he went; now and then he stooped to watch the eddies of the brook and
wondered if any of its sparkling pools covered trout worth the trouble
of catching; then he looked upward into the gorgeous roofing of the
trees which let glimpses of the blue sky in here and there, with stray
gleams of sunshine searching for the rainbows that seemed to have got
entangled in the leaves.
Of course all this threw the man into a certain train of thought which
had both sadness and poetry in it. He muttered to himself: “The
melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year.” Then walked on
again, thinking of his friend, whose terrible fate haunted him at such
times, and wondering if he ever should love the young woman he had seen
well enough to make her his wife, for this had been the romantic wish of
the man whom he had regarded almost as a father. A heavy sigh answered
this question, or rather left it unanswered, for the heart that sent it
forth was disturbed by many doubts in which the lady was concerned.
For a long time the young man sat down on a curve of the bank, opposite
an elm tree, over which a frost grape-vine had wound and crept, and
thrown itself in such leafiness that it flung a broken arch across the
ravine; along the drooping boughs long slender clusters hung profusely,
with the frost, that alone ripens them, covering their purple with its
own shimmering bloom.
Brooks flung away his cigar and began to sketch this pretty object on
the back of an envelope.
“Now, if I were an artist, like that young Howe, whose sketches of bits
like this have made the English fellows look about them in astonishment,
this tree with its trailing fruit and leaves, would make my reputation.
It really is exquisite!”
After working away with his pencil awhile, he became dissatisfied with
his effort, flung the envelope into the brook and sauntered up the path
till the cabin and bridge came in full view, with the huge old chestnut
tree spreading its boughs over one, and that group of hemlocks
embowering the other.
“Upon my word, here is something like rustic taste!” he exclaimed, in a
burst of surprise. “Why the bridge is a gem; as for the cabin I must
explore that; what a fanciful mockery it is!”
The bank was steep and the path rough, but Brooks was no holiday man to
dread a little exertion. So he caught hold of a branch, lifted himself
upward, and reached the cabin with his breath coming a little quicker
from the exertion. Not three minutes after, Virginia Lander and Ellen
came down the bank and showed themselves under the chestnut tree.
This was the morning that Brooks was contrasting with his ride that day,
as he walked his horse toward the little hotel.
“I wonder if they will really care enough about the chestnuts to think
of gathering them,” he thought, when an early dinner had been disposed
of. “At any rate I may as well take a walk up the ravine. It is a shame
to waste one moment of all this delicious weather indoors.”
There was no loitering along the path that afternoon. Even the frost
grape-vine, bending the stout tree under its tendrils, as love bows a
strong man, failed to win more than a passing glance from him. The most
beautiful thing, to him, in the woods was a huge old chestnut tree,
bristling all over with open burs, its enormous limbs stretching far and
wide, and the ground under it thick with long yellow leaves.
He came in sight of this tree, uttered a quick exclamation, and hurried
on. A basket stood on the stone-work of the bridge, and two girls were
busy among the leaves picking up chestnuts.
I cannot permit any one to say or think one word against Virginia or
Ellen for thus deliberately meeting this gentleman that afternoon. It
was not the careless act of two thoughtless girls, ready to amuse
themselves at any cost, but a thing they had both considered over and
resolved on. To Virginia, her father’s letter was almost a command. He
expected her to see and like this man, who was his bosom friend, and
this out-door acquaintance was all she could offer him without openly
accepting the false position given her in that house. That she could not
and would not do. But chance had thrown this man, whom her father loved,
into her companionship. Without formal introduction, they had met,
conversed, and fallen into cordial relations. Why should she refuse to
see him again? Why deprive herself of the only happiness that had
crossed her dreary path since that terrible shipwreck? To her there
seemed to be something providential in the accident that had thrown them
together. She felt it a sacred duly to know and like the man who seemed
to come to her with a message from the dead. Of course Virginia did not
understand the full meaning of that letter as Brooks understood it. To
her those hints and broken sentences, which he connected with previous
conversations, were vague and might have applied to fifty things of
which she was ignorant. They really made no impression on her mind more
than the rest of the letter. Cora had understood everything at the first
glance, but the purer and better girl never dreamed that her father had
for years selected Clarence Brooks as her husband.
So there really was nothing unmaidenly in the fact that she went,
deliberately and with throbs of pleasant expectation, down to the woods
that afternoon. She had seen Brooks riding off with Cora in the morning
from her chamber window, and a strange feeling of sadness came over her
at the sight. It was hard to know that another person was usurping her
place—harder than she had ever felt it before. Cora’s clear, ringing
laugh came back to where she stood as she rode gaily down the drive.
They were splendidly mated, she could not deny that, and a finer couple
could not have been found within a hundred miles. But her heart sank and
a sense of the wrong done her grew bitter as death in her bosom. She was
restless all that morning, and when she spoke the tears rushed so close
to her eyes that Ellen grew sad at heart every time she looked up from
her writing.
So the two girls kept their promise and went down to the stone bridge,
innocent as birds, and came back almost as happy. Such a day for nutting
did not often present itself, yet so little had been done in reality.
There had been another long conversation among the ferns and a visit to
the frost grape-vine, which Virginia sketched on a bit of Bristol board
taken from her memorandum book, with a touch and finish that made Brooks
doubly ashamed of the scrap he had thrown away.
Would she give it to him? Why, of course, that was what she had taken it
for. Not worth offering, but if he liked it, she would bring down
materials to-morrow and sketch the bridge and cabin, with that dear old
chestnut tree, just as it was. Some time, perhaps, it would serve to
remind him of her and Ellen.
So, in this innocent fashion, a meeting was arranged for the next day.
It took a long time, I must confess, to gather up all the chestnuts,
though the pile in the log cabin grew larger and larger every day for a
full week. Then work grew rather dull in the woods. The frost grapes
were a resource, but grapes would not last forever, deliciously ripe as
the clusters were, and when they gave out, what was to be done? Brooks
bethought himself of a pic-nic for three, all the preparations to be
left for his superintendence, and some fishing in the brook the day
after, for he solemnly believed that trout were to be found higher up
the ravine. At any rate, it was worth trying. On second thought, they
would have the fishing first, and after that the pic-nic; the trout
would be so nice cooked by a fire in the woods, that was, if they caught
any. Virginia scarcely believed that there was trout in the brook. But
then, to be sure, she had been away for so many years that some change
was to be expected.
Well, the next afternoon was devoted to exploring the brook; poles had
been provided, and a case of flies quite enchanted the girls as a matter
of high art. So away the trio went up the banks of the brook, casting
out their lines and dancing the flies about after a fashion that would
have fascinated the most wary trout to his undoing, if any fish of the
kind had taken shelter in those bright waters. But coquettes without
beaus, and artistic flies in a stream which produces nothing but shiners
and pin-fishes, must necessarily be at a discount. Still it is hard to
discourage a man who in his heart expects nothing.
Clarence Brooks expressed himself as hopeful that plenty of trout could
be found higher up the stream, and the girls, having great faith in his
judgment, acquiesced. If they caught nothing at last, it was no fault of
his. Besides, a fine, breezy walk, with bright, ripe leaves showering
over them at every step, was compensation enough for any fatigue they
might have felt. So, after all, the fishing excursion was not exactly a
failure. Indeed, but for the shame of it, Virginia would have pronounced
the whole affair a brilliant success.
As for Brooks, he went home that night and instead of going up to the
house, where Cora sat ready to charm him with unlimited music, such
music too! he spent the whole evening alone on that back stoop, so lost
in thought that the cigar went out between his lips, and it was midnight
before he became aware of it.
CHAPTER XL.
CLARENCE BROOKS TALKS CONFIDENTIALLY TO CORA LANDER.
Cora Seymour—we cannot honestly call her Lander, though others did—had
her fit of abstraction also. She had been in the drawing room all the
evening, anxious, feverish, indignant. In all those days she had made no
head way with this strange man, Clarence Brooks. Their morning rides had
been bright, cheerful, exhilarating as ever. He had spent almost every
evening in her company, when she had charmed him with the brilliancy of
her music and fascinated him by her conversation. Still the man’s heart
seemed no nearer to her than ever. She did not want his admiration, that
was not enough, but his whole being—that intellect which so overmastered
her own, compelling such homage as she had never given to human being
before—the heart, proud, tender, honest. She wanted absolute power over
this man, to enslave him with her love, tie him down with ten thousand
meshes woven by her crafty mind and burning heart. She cried out to
herself as Cleopatra questioned her handmaid:
“Did I ever love Seymour like this?”
Her imperious nature answered exultantly:
“Never, never; that was not love. The mad passion of a mad heart lifted
him to my level for a brief time, but had no power to hold him there. He
is coming, I hear his step on the gravel. No, no, it is the heavy
animal, Joshua Hurd. How I loathe that man! He will not come to-night.
But to-morrow we ride again. How his absence stings me! I asked him to
come—implored him! He only smiled, but promised nothing!”
She walked that spacious room hurriedly up and down, round and round,
like a wild leopardess in its den. Fight against it as she would, the
knowledge that she was a married woman tortured her. A hoop of diamonds
concealed her wedding ring; even in her waning love some romantic fancy
had induced her to put it’s duplicate with the lock of hair which she
had given her husband when he set forth on this journey westward—a
journey for which she could find no reason. He was not well, certainly,
but that offered no excuse for this prolonged delay. A sort of vague
respect for the sanctity of her marriage vow had kept the ring on her
finger, but this evening she took it off, guard and all, and, darting
through the French window on to the colonnade, hurled them both into the
night with a gesture of absolute loathing.
It was ten o’clock now, and there was no hope that Brooks would come, so
her heart leaped forth to the morning, when she was sure to see him.
Once in her own room, she locked the door with an angry twist of the
key, and sat down by her desk with hot red upon her cheeks and hot fire
in her eyes.
She wrote a letter to Seymour—a harsh, cruel, bitter epistle—reproaching
him for the advantage he had taken of her youth and inexperience. She
told him, in sharp words, that she did not love him, never had loved
him, and from the depths of her heart hated the idea of ever seeing him
again. “Go,” it said, “go to Montana, to Oregon, to the Indies, any
place where the English language is not spoken or civilized rites
recognized. I will send you money for this purpose to an unlimited
extent, make you rich enough to satisfy the ambition of any man, but
never on this earth let me hear your voice again, never take the name of
wife, as regards me, between your lips, for I will perish rather than
recognize myself as your wife.”
The letter was entirely in this strain. All the disappointment and venom
of a bad heart she threw upon the paper, blindfold as to its
consequences. For the time, the cunning and craft of her nature were
swept away. This man was an impediment; he had snared her in the first
wild impulses of her youth, and she found a keen pleasure in hurling
defiance at him.
The letter once written she treated it like an enemy, struck its folds
down to the table with her clenched hands, then dropped burning wax upon
it, which she stamped fiercely under a seal ring which he had given her.
When all this was done, the cold craft which underlaid the rash passion
asserted itself.
“Not yet,” she muttered, “but it shall be, though it were like tearing
shackles from my wrists with red-hot pincers. It shall be done, but
warily, warily. With gold and courage I shall find my way out.”
She closed her desk and locked it, first securing the compartment in
which the letter was placed with a tiny key, which formed an ornament to
her chatelaine.
After this the woman went to bed, and lay awake all night planning such
plans and thinking such thoughts as take all the youth out of a human
life.
Clarence Brooks came at his usual hour in the morning. He was graver
than usual, and placed the woman, whose eyes were fixed upon him with
such earnest meaning, in her saddle without looking in her face. For a
time they rode on in silence. There might have been some cause for this
depression in the heavy air and clouded sky which overshadowed the
beautiful woods and crisp fields with a gloom which took away half their
brilliancy.
“You seem depressed this morning,” said Cora, reining her horse up to
that on which Clarence Brooks sat, upright and thoughtful, looking
straight before him. “Is it this dull sky, or has something happened?”
“It is not exactly the sky, though we have ridden under those that were
brighter—nor is it that anything has happened; but I received a letter
this morning which has set me to thinking of unpleasant subjects.”
“Are they such as a very sincere friend may not share?” she asked,
sweetly. “I am low-spirited enough myself to sympathize with anything
sad.”
“I think it is the saddest thing in the world to meet with ingratitude
where one has loved, and treachery in reward for honest confidence.”
“And is this your case?”
“I will tell you, Miss Lander, for it is a thing that has troubled me
not a little, and I am in doubt how to act. You remember something that
I told you about my illness in the East?”
“Yes, I remember every word you ever said to me.”
She spoke impressively and with a slight tremor in her voice. He turned
on his saddle and looked at her earnestly a moment. She felt the blood
rising to her cheeks, and, with a sudden impulse of that modesty which
springs from genuine feeling, made her horse wheel half round, thus
taking her face out of view.
“I remember about the illness, certainly. It was strange enough to
fasten all its details on the mind.”
“You will then recollect that I spoke of hearing the rustle of papers.”
“Yes. It was very singular.”
“Those papers were bills of exchange on America to the amount of twenty
thousand dollars.”
“Twenty thousand dollars, just that sum?”
“This was how they happened to be with me in the East. I had intended to
go directly to America, but learning that your father had come to
Europe, changed my plans and set forward to the Holy Land, without
disturbing the bills of exchange, which I determined to use at a later
period. These bills were taken from my desk when I was supposed to be
dead, by a young man whom I had loved and trusted as a brother.”
“Your servant?” questioned Cora, in a low voice.
“No; I had never in my life considered him in any light but that of a
friend and travelling companion. He was introduced and recommended to me
by a person in whom I had perfect trust. Handsome, accomplished, genial
in his character, I had no reason to doubt him, though, from his own
confession, he had been a little wild in early youth, which he seemed to
regret sincerely. He was, in fact, a petted favorite, and we travelled
together as friends; but, in spite of all that, he abandoned me on what
he believed to be my death-bed, plundering my desk of these bills before
he went.”
“It was an ungrateful act,” said Cora; “an unaccountable act in the man
you describe.”
“The more so,” answered Brooks, “because he always had charge of all the
money intended for our travelling expenses, and was never questioned
regarding it. That money was left. Yet there was enough to have tempted
his cupidity.”
“Can you account for this?”
“In no way but one. From the time we left Italy the aim and hope of his
life seemed to be a voyage to America. He spoke of it incessantly, and
made various efforts to break up our trip to the East, that we might go
earlier than I proposed.”
“You spoke of being in Italy with this ungrateful man. In what part?”
“We were staying at Sarento; I was not well, and liked the place. He was
much at Naples, and spent some time in the neighborhood of Gaeta, where
he met a party of interesting strangers, some of them American ladies, I
fancy, for after that he became wild to visit that country.”
“At what period was this?”
“I remember the date well, for I started with him and went up to Rome in
advance. He did not join me till six weeks after. It was on the first of
June, 18—.”
Cora’s horse swerved from the road. She struck him violently; so
violently that he reared and came down with a force which would have
thrown a less firm horsewoman over his head. Brooks dashed up, and,
seizing her bridle at the curb, brought the horse’s head down upon his
chest.
“Are you hurt? What started him? Don’t be frightened, he seems quiet
enough now.”
She was white as marble, and her eyes were turned away from him.
“I am neither hurt nor frightened, thank you,” she answered, in a voice
so deep and husky that he could not believe her words.
“I am afraid—I am sure you deceive yourself, Miss Lander. Why there is
not a gleam of color in your face!”
“That is nothing. He startled me a little, I confess. It was the
suddenness. One is not prepared for everything, you know.”
She laughed a sharp, ringing laugh, that cut to his ear like an arrow,
and turned her white face full upon him, as if to brave the severest
scrutiny.
He shook his head and looked more and more anxious.
“This sort of thing makes one a little hysterical, I suppose,” she said,
more quietly, “though I hate to own it. Come, let us ride on; we are
losing the best part of the morning.”
Brooks loosened his hold on the bridle, and patted the pony’s neck as he
arched it again.
“He does not seem in the least vicious. What could have frightened him
so?”
“No matter,” she answered, moving on; “I am not to be surprised again.”
They rode on in silence some ten minutes, then she was the first to
speak.
“You did not tell me all. Have you ever seen or heard of this man who
robbed you since?”
“Yes, I have seen him twice, and heard news of him only this morning.”
“Oh, that seems interesting. When was it that you saw him?”
“Some weeks ago. He was in the Central Park, driving as handsome a pair
of chestnut horses as I ever set eyes on.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, he was quite alone, and driving himself.”
“And the next time? You see I am getting quite curious about this
handsome culprit. I think you said he was handsome?”
“Very. I think, in my whole life, I never saw a more perfect specimen of
physical beauty. He was clever, too, in a certain way—had a great deal
of fanciful taste, and all the telling accomplishments which take so
with ladies. But, to do him justice, he seemed to regard these things
very little, and rather avoided the popularity they gave him with the
sex.”
“He must have been a singularly interesting person.”
“He was; I loved him almost as if he had been my brother. Even now I
find myself making excuses for him. Some powerful temptation must have
possessed him—of that I am certain.”
“I think you said that you had seen him twice?”
“Yes, but it was under very doubtful circumstances. A person who had
loved and observed him less might have been deceived. I was not, though
he was carefully disguised. The next morning after seeing him in the
Park, I almost ran against him while entering the bank on which my
letters of credit were drawn.”
“Indeed! when was that?”
“Just six weeks ago to-morrow.”
“In the morning, did you say?”
“Yes, not half an hour after the bank opened. He had just presented a
draft and drawn out most of the funds that he had left on deposit. The
date and signature of the draft and its regular endorsement would have
convinced ordinary observers that he was far away from New York, but I
was sure of my man.”
“Did you follow him?”
“Yes; the carriage which brought me was at the door; I got into it at
once and kept my friend in sight. He entered an omnibus, left it and
took another, got out and walked, then suddenly entered a singular house
in —— street, using a latch-key. It must have been his home.”
“Then you had him in your power.”
“I knew where he was, certainly, for I took the number.”
“And made no use of the knowledge.”
“How could I? the man had been my friend, I had aided him, liked him. He
had some fine qualities. Was I to degrade him forever for a few thousand
dollars?”
“You are a generous man!” exclaimed Cora with quick admiration. “It is
the grand character, after all, which wakes up all the homage of one’s
nature.”
After her first exclamation, she had spoken like one in a deep reverie.
“There was no great generosity in leaving this man to his fate. I had no
purpose of revenge to gratify.”
“Then you have no thought of arresting him?”
“If I had, the thing would be easy enough, for I know where he is at
this moment.”
“Indeed!”
“A party of my friends are going out to the great prairies, buffalo
hunting. This man joined them at St. Joseph, in Missouri. They mention
him in their letters as the pleasantest fellow in the world.”
“Are you certain it is the same man?”
“Quite certain; he wears a seal ring that I gave him, an antique that I
got at Thebes, which one of my friends, who has a fancy for such
matters, describes to me minutely. There is not another ring like it in
America. Besides, there is no mistaking the account he gives of the
person. Then, again, I have reason to believe he went West. When I was
in town searching for a good saddle horse, I came across the pair of
chestnuts that I had admired so much in the Park. It was these horses
which first drew my attention to the man. They were at a livery stable;
the keeper of the stable said that he had just received a letter from
their owner, who wrote from the West, ordering them to be sold and the
money transmitted to St. Joseph.”
They had been walking their horses while this conversation was going on,
but all at once Cora drew her bridle.
“Thank you for the story,” she said. “Notwithstanding your rare
magnanimity, the fellow seems but a very commonplace plunderer after
all. Now, I would have gone to you at once, thrown myself on your mercy
and given up all. But such courage as that belongs to great manliness,
and that the creature never had.”
“No, Miss Lander, he never would have had courage enough for that,
though I cannot exactly see how you should understand him so well.”
“Why all that you have said proves it, Mr. Brooks. But we are allowing
this very worthless person to abridge our ride. See, the sun is breaking
out. Let us try this stretch of level road and have a race for it. A
pair of gloves that Blackbird wins!”
Away she went, challenging him with a clear, silvery laugh, that seemed
never to have known what a spasm of the throat meant; but there was what
seemed to her an absolute girdle of iron around her chest when that
laugh broke from it, and nothing but fierce motion kept her from crying
out that this pain was killing her.
“There,” she said, five minutes after, drawing Blackbird up so suddenly
that he staggered backward on his haunches with his chest flecked with
foam and drops of blood about the bit, “I have won the gloves. Now let
us ride along like Christians.”
She reeled upon her saddle as the last words died on her lips, and would
have fallen, but Brooks pressed his horse close to hers and supported
her with his arm.
“I—I am faint—it was imprudent—let us go home,” she faltered, leaning
her head against him.
“Rest a moment as you are,” he answered, gently. “I feared this spirited
creature would tire you out.”
She closed her eyes, and up through all the anguish in her bosom a soft
smile came trembling to those pale lips.
“Are you better, Miss Lander?”
She neither answered nor moved her head, but the smile died out. His
position was an irksome one, and there had been a shade of impatience in
his voice, which she felt keenly.
“Yes, thank you, I _am_ better,” she said, after a moment. “The air is
very close—this swift motion has made me giddy. How far are we from
home? I have not noticed much.”
“Four or five miles, perhaps. Have you strength to return? I will ride
close to your horse and keep him steady.”
“Thank you—oh, yes, I shall be able to manage the distance. If I only
had a glass of water now.”
“We passed a house a quarter of a mile back; I will get you a glass of
water there. Come, Blackbird.”
Cora slowly wheeled her horse around, and in a few minutes reached a
little one-story house close by the road. Here a glass of water was
obtained, and after that they returned home almost in silence. Brooks
asked if she felt better, now and then, with that tender sympathy of
manner which made a strong contrast with his sterner qualities, and she
answered him gratefully, as proud women sometimes will when doubtful of
their power.
When they reached home, Brooks lifted Cora from the pony, and, throwing
an arm around her, almost carried her into the drawing room. There he
placed her in a curve of one of the broad couches and arranged the
cushions for her to lean against.
She accepted these attentions with a wan smile, and taking his hand as
it was withdrawn from the cushions, held it close between both hers,
looking at him with a mute appeal as if claiming some deeper sympathy
than he had yet given her.
“Shall I ring for wine, or anything?” he said. “Perhaps your aunt had
better be called?”
“By no means; I am well enough,” she answered, rising slowly from among
the cushions. “You are in haste to be gone, I see.”
“Not if I can serve you in anything.”
“But you cannot; I have only to rid myself of this heavy dress and lie
down awhile. Good morning, and many thanks. Shall I see you this
evening?”
“I shall certainly come to inquire after your health.”
He was gone. Cora ran up stairs, fell upon the bed and lay there
motionless.
CHAPTER XLI.
WOMANLY FASCINATIONS.
Cora Lander lay still a full half hour. No sob stirred her bosom, not a
tear reached the feverish hotness of her eyes. Her very hands thrown
upward above the pillows were white and still. But for this death in
life—this stupor following suppressed excitement, the woman must have
gone mad or died.
At last she started from the bed, threw up the window and let the cold
air blow over her neck and bosom, tearing her habit open with both hands
to give it free course. There was hail in the air, which fell cold and
hard as shot on her delicate skin. But she received it with a sob of
satisfaction. It cooled the fever of her blood. How she had struggled
against herself—how she had endured—it made her faint to think of it.
But she had performed that awful task bravely. He guessed nothing,
dreamed of nothing that was going on in her heart while they were
talking so quietly. Still he seemed to pity her, thinking that she
suffered only from paltry fright brought on by a restive horse. What
would he have thought or felt had he known the miserable truth?
“But he never shall! he never shall!” she exclaimed, holding fast to the
window-sill and leaning out into the storm. “I will keep the disgrace
close as death, secret as the grave; no human being shall ever know what
a fool I have been. I will break this thing off, crush it under my feet,
tear it out of my life! The villain, the double-dyed villain! The weak,
miserable cheat! Great Heavens! and I am that man’s wife! His legally
wedded wife!”
She drew her head in from the window. Beads of hail lay thickly in her
hair and melted on her neck. She shook with cold now, and threw off her
wet habit. Wrapping herself in a zephyr shawl of soft white wool, she
crouched, like a wild animal, in a corner of a tête-à-tête, and strove
to gather up her thoughts.
“Shall I let him know? Shall I load him with the scorn and hatred which
makes me despise myself? Shall I forbid him ever to look upon me again?
He loves me madly, more madly than I ever thought possible. It might
drive him to suicide—I think it would. But the letter found upon him
would betray all. I am hampered on every side. What can I do? How free
myself? If I could see him once, and kill him with words I dare not
write. Yes, that is it—I will do nothing. When he waits day after day,
and receives no letter, this mad love will bring him back, spite of
everything. Then I will see him—oh! yes, I will see him!”
The cruel scorn that stirred within her broke forth in words here and
lifted that beautiful upper lip from the white teeth as a wild animal
shows its instinct of hate. She arose from the tête-à-tête, unlocked the
desk and took out the cruel epistle written, to her shame, before the
knowledge of that day came to her; lighting a small lamp that stood upon
her desk, she held this letter over its flame till it shrivelled up and
fell in a shower of black flakes from her hand.
“It was a relief to write it,” she muttered. “Oh! how I wish it were not
madness to send it! Sitting still and doing nothing is the hardest of
all.”
After this, Cora became more calm, and, huddled in the soft network of
her shawl, held counsel with herself. On reviewing her position, she
found less cause for regret in it than a first passionate view had
revealed. So long as Clarence Brooks was in the neighborhood of New
York, Seymour would never return unless some overpowering inducement
drew him into a place full of danger. But, with no letters from her, he
might return any day. How was she to act then? Break him down with the
weight of her own indignation—overwhelm him with scorn—convince him so
thoroughly of her loathing, that he would have no heart or power ever to
seek her again. She remembered then that the marriage certificate was in
her own possession, and, better still, the name and residence of the
clergyman only known to herself and Alice Ruess, to whom was consigned
the duty of finding him. The cook, Lubin, was not informed in this
matter. Seymour, she remembered now, had never looked at the
certificate.
Cora thought over all these points with deliberate coolness, and asked
herself how it had happened that all the proofs of her marriage lay so
completely under her own control. Had some latent caution been at work
all the time under the overweening passion that had expired so soon and
so entirely? Had she ever thought of repudiating him in those days?
No, there had been no absolute design in the girl’s mind; she was too
madly infatuated for that. But, crafty by nature, she had acted with
unconscious craft even then, and fairly hugged herself when the memory
of all the precautions she had taken presented itself. There was one
person who must be got out of the way—two, in fact—Alice Ruess and
Lubin. She would attend to that; no time should be lost.
After pondering these things over in her mind hour after hour, Cora
prepared to dress for the evening, when Clarence Brooks had promised to
come. The dinner hour had long since passed, and it was getting dusk.
Hail was rattling against the window, and a mournful sound of dead
leaves came up from the grounds, carried off by the wind, which seemed
to moan over them. All this made her shudder. She rang the bell and
ordered a strong cup of tea. That would give her strength and
brilliancy. Brilliancy! She felt a thousand years old! Would a feeling
of true youthfulness ever come back to her? A mirror stood opposite her
seat, swinging between two gilded figures that seemed to hold it in
place with their hands. Did the thoughts which shook her so belong to
that beautiful girl, with all her rich hair loosened into sumptuous
disorder, and the weary young face resting on that small hand, which the
waves of hair half concealed? How delicate and pale and wild-eyed the
girl in the glass looked. There was something weird about her which a
man like Brooks would shrink from. Yes, a cup of strong tea would change
all that; if not, there was plenty of champagne in the cellar, and that
always invigorated her.
A dress of purple silk hung in a wardrobe in the next room, she would
wear that—nothing should induce her to put on black for that one
evening. Everything, out doors and in, was gloomy enough without that.
This purple dress had the bloom of a ripe plum rippling over it in
waves. She would wear some delicate lace about her neck and run a white
ribbon through the folds of her hair, with a blush rose in the knot. He
might think strange of it, but she was weary of presenting herself
before him in eternal black.
It is wonderful how soon the thoughts of a young person can be diverted
from all sources of annoyance by pretty trifles of the toilet. Even a
woman like this gives way to such weaknesses quite as readily as the
innocent of heart.
“I will think of him no more,” she said, pushing back her hair with both
hands; “‘sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.’ When the time comes
for action I will act; I shall find myself sufficient for the occasion
when it arrives. After making myself mistress here, unquestioned almost,
there is little that I need despair of doing.”
With these thoughts floating in her mind, she folded her arms in the
shawl, fell back against the cushions of her seat and was soon in a
profound slumber.
A servant came up with some tea, but, seeing her position, went away
again, walking on tiptoe.
Clarence Brooks came later in the evening, and found Cora radiant. The
purple dress seemed rippling with chain lightning as she passed under
the chandeliers; the sparkle of champagne was in her eyes; the glow of
almond flowers suffused her cheeks. Brooks had never seen her in colors
before, at least by gas-light. She was indeed a creation of rare beauty.
“I need not ask if you are suffering—never did I see an appearance of
health more perfect,” he said, taking the hand she held out.
She drew him toward the couch, where the cushions he had brought for her
still lay in confusion.
“Sit down,” she said, seating herself in an easy chair close by the
couch. “It is chilly this evening; you will not find a hickory-wood fire
oppressive. No, indeed, I will arrange the cushions for you now. Do I
look like a patient?”
“Like an houri, rather. What a strange girl you are! Why, this morning,
I really thought you would be ill.”
“No,” she said, leaning her arm on the head of his couch and dropping
her hand carelessly downward till the fingers touched his hair, “my
sympathies are troublesome enough, but in your case they shall not make
me ill.”
“You felt for me, then, in my bitter disappointment regarding this man?”
“Felt for you! Did I seem to feel? But we must not talk of it. I am
resolved that nothing sad or grievous shall come between us to-night.
Every thought given to this miserable person is a jewel thrown away.”
He felt her hand upon his hair; he felt her breath floating over his
face. This man was not very much better or worse than other men of honor
and culture; all this had its effect upon him. The night was stormy and
disagreeable outside; hail was beating upon the marble of the colonnade,
and gushes of rain swept across the windows. The contrast with all that
warmth and silken elegance, full of comfort as it was, made itself felt
luxuriously.
That white hand dropped lightly as a snow-flake from his hair and fell
down to a level with his mouth. He turned his head suddenly and kissed
it. I think almost any other man would have done the same thing, tempted
so; but instantly a rush of color came to his face, he started up from
his lounging position and begged her pardon with great earnestness.
She smiled sweetly, looked down upon the flush of red his lips had left
on the whiteness of her hand, and pressed her own lips upon it.
“This is how I forgive you,” she said.
He looked at her a moment and sat down suddenly as if he had been shot.
“Have I shocked you with the punishment?” she questioned, shrinking back
timidly. “Do you think the worse of me for that?”
“Think the worse of you—Heavens, no! Why ask the question?”
“You looked so serious.”
“Would you have me look triumphant?”
“I—I have been very much to blame.”
Tears stood upon her eyelashes. She was really distressed. He saw this,
and strove, with delicate chivalry, to reassure her.
“Does the daughter of Amos Lander regret that she has been kind to his
friend? Does she fear that he will presume upon it?”
“She fears nothing on this earth so much as losing his good opinion,”
she said, in a soft, low voice.
“That she never can. It is too firmly rooted. Why, you are trembling,
dear child!”
“Am I?—not much—it is very foolish. Will you have some music—some
battle-piece to harmonize with the storm?”
“No; let the tumult without take its own way. We will have nothing that
is not sweet and pathetic. Shall I open the piano?”
“No; I will bring my guitar.”
She went out of the room, ran up stairs, and came down again with a
guitar in her hand.
“I must have a low seat,” she said, drawing an ottoman close to the head
of his couch and resting herself upon it like a Bird of Paradise. Her
purple draperies swept far out on the carpet; the rose in her hair sent
its perfume across her auditor’s lips. There was no use in resisting the
charm of her presence; he gave way to it, especially as she did nothing
to challenge admiration, but sat with downcast eyes and a sweet
seriousness of demeanor, tuning her guitar.
She played a slow, tender little air at first, and after awhile joined
in with her voice, which was sweet and sympathetic without being
powerful. There was no attempt at anything superior. She played and sung
naturally, but with such feeling that Brooks felt tears stealing into
his eyes.
“That is too sad; the guitar is best for lively airs,” she said, lifting
her humid eyes to his, questioning him with them rather than with her
voice.
“Not yet; do not make the transition too abrupt; the charm would be
broken. What a sweet, plaintive voice you have.”
She answered him with a grateful look. The desire to please was so
intense that it absolutely made the haughty creature humble as a little
child. Had this feminine spirit been upon her from the first, the
struggle that had been going on in the heart of Clarence Brooks would
probably never have existed. Be that as it will, for the time he yielded
unresisting to the sympathetic feeling which her gentleness and grace
excited, and listened to her music with half-closed eyes, doubting if he
really knew his own heart, and had not done grave injustice to the
lovely creature at his feet.
Cora was not unobservant. From under those fringed eyelids she cast many
a look at the noble face, which the fire-light shone upon so fitfully,
and felt that her hour of triumph was fast approaching. What would she
do with it? Of what avail the conquest she was almost sure of? Was she
not that other man’s wife? “No, no, no, a thousand times no!” she said
in her heart. He had committed a gross fraud in marrying her, had made
himself amenable to the law, degraded himself forever. She had been
infatuated, insane, but not in love with him. All that was a delusion.
How could it have been love when she hated him so now? When this new
feeling was so different?
This new feeling! Alas, alas, had it come to that? Yes, the haughty
creature had found her master passion when it was all too late. She
would not believe it, but hoped yet to wrest happiness out of the
future, reasoning, as wicked women will, that the one great fault in her
husband absolved her from all the obligations of her marriage
vow—obligations that the world should never know. This woman, in the
grander and nobler passion, as she deemed it, which possessed her now,
found excuses for treachery, injustice, and even crime. Had he not
deserved all this? Was Alfred Seymour worthy of a moment’s
consideration? How had he dealt with her?
Exactly as she had dealt with him in her rash, passionate selfishness—if
she could only have seen it. But vanity and arrogance would not permit
her to look clearly on her own conduct.
It was singular that, in the intense scorn that she really felt for her
husband’s crime, her own more deadly offence never once presented itself
as far outmatching his. She was a usurper in that house; an impostor; a
woman who made her beauty the accessory of a fraud whose least crime had
been greater than his, because unrepented of, yet she dared to arraign
and despise him. The creature was sincere in all this; her crime seemed
only the action of great ability—the proof of an intellect born to
control circumstances. The woman almost turned her fraud into poetry and
gloried in the genius that carried it out. She was thinking these things
over as that soft music flowed from her lips.
CHAPTER XLII.
A AUTUMN PIC-NIC IN THE WOODS.
On the next day, that pic-nic in the woods came off, and a pleasant
affair it was. The brook that filled the ravine with its music found its
source in a spring that came from a ledge of rocks, high up on a slope
of the hills, back of the Lander grounds. This ledge was one broad table
of granite, sloping inward some ten feet, where a shelf of stone shot
out, cleft by a fissure from the upper rock, and from that long break in
the stone the spring leaped forth and poured itself over the granite
shelf in one transparent sheet of crystal. These bright waters were
gathered below the ledge into one of the loveliest little rocky pools
you ever set eyes on. Soft sand with pebbles, white as snow, gleamed up
from the bottom, and jagged points of rock held it in, covered with that
delicate moss which finds its highest green in the crystal of
ever-falling water drops. Here the sheltering banks and overhanging
trees had kept away the frost, and all the pool was bordered with tall
ferns, spear-like rushes and broad-leaved water plants, turning red
about the edges. Some lily pads, too, floated like sheeted emeralds on
the water, and the ledge above the little cataract was fringed with
maiden-hair, sarsaparilla and other rock-clinging plants, which sent
their trailing vines now and then to the very outgush of the waters,
rippling them into ridges of silver as they prepared for a plunge into
the pool.
A perfect bower of hemlocks, pines, and feathery larches bent over and
twined themselves about this ledge, so completely closing it on all
sides except the one which opened to the ravine, that twenty people
could have taken shelter there undiscovered.
Into this delicious retreat Clarence Brooks came with the two girls who
had so often been his companions of late, after a long ramble through
the woods. There really was no tiring youth out in a day like this, for
the sky overhead was blue as blue could be, and the clear, silvery
sunshine gave it a luminous softness never witnessed in the hot summer
time, when out-door excursions are most in vogue.
They came up to the ledge, these three persons, and sat down on its
brink, very cheerful and happy, but rather more silent than usual. The
truth was, Clarence Brooks had lost a good deal of his playful
self-possession since that first day under the chestnut tree. Many
things troubled him, and for some days a struggle had gone on in his
life which no one dreamed of but himself. It was over now and his
resolution taken. But he was anxious, and so grave that Ellen, who had
won a high place in the general companionship, asked him more than once
what it was which made him so serious. He answered with some light
evasion, but soon fell into his quiet mood again.
He was thinking of a downcast face drooping with such feminine modesty
over a guitar, which uttered its sweet complainings under a hand that
had half challenged half repelled his kiss. He was thinking, more
seriously yet, of the dear old friend whose most sacred wishes he was
about to sacrifice. Was it right? Was it generous? Did the girl really
love him, as every look and word that evening seemed to imply?
He remembered the look, so full of gentle love-light, which she had
lifted to his face at parting—the pressure of her hand, which had
nestled itself like a bird into his. He remembered, too, how wistfully
she had gazed after him when he went out into the storm. He could see
her yet, standing in the French window, purpling the golden light behind
her like a cloud, the masses of ruddy hair sweeping back from her head,
bent slightly forward as it peered into the darkness. Why would this
picture haunt him so? On that day, too, when he had determined on a step
which should drive all such thoughts from his mind.
These reflections had possessed him as he waited for the girls under the
chestnut tree and amused himself with flinging clusters of the open burs
into the brook, which bore them onward as if the rough things were a
burden. He could not shake them off after those young creatures came,
looking bright as flowers and happy as birds. The spirit of Amos Lander
seemed to reproach him for the purpose that lay in his heart.
This was the reason of the seriousness for which Ellen half rebuked him.
He threw it off with the vigor of a strong mind giving itself to an
honest idea and was himself again as they came out upon the ledge. Here
some moss-cushioned stones had been rolled into place, forming seats
around a broad, flat stone, which had fallen from the embankment above,
and answered capitally for a table.
“Under that broad hemlock branch which sweeps so close to the ground you
will find a basket, with lots of things which belong to the
housekeeping,” said Brooks, looking around well pleased. “My duties lie
somewhere back of this pile of rocks.”
The girls laughed, and began to loop their dresses high up on their
snowy skirts and roll the sleeves back from their white arms ready for
work.
That broad hemlock branch, which spread itself along the earth like a
banner, concealed a world of choice articles. First came a basket, which
gave out a warning rattle of china striking against silver or steel, all
buried under a table-cloth and a pile of napkins. This was soon disposed
of, and directly that great flat stone loomed up from the centre of the
ledge, like a snow-drift, and the girls were busy as bees laying plates,
arranging knives and forks, opening little jars of jelly and pickles,
unrolling biscuits and discovering little pats of butter stamped with
tiny birds, and all sorts of dainties that were constantly taking them
by surprise and bringing forth exclamations of delight.
When all was arranged, the girls began to wonder what had become of Mr.
Brooks. They had heard the crash of a breaking stick now and then,
denoting his presence somewhere in the neighborhood, and now a curl of
blue smoke, floating in and out of the hemlock branches, excited their
curiosity. They stole to the verge of the table rock and looked over.
Nothing but a silvery flash of water met the view in that direction, but
to the right, standing before the hollow of an old oak, whose half dead
branches stretched far and wide, bristling through the pines and
hemlocks like broken spears, they saw Mr. Brooks. He was hard at work
before a fire made of chips and dry branches, turning half-a-dozen
lengths of twine attached to a horizontal branch overhead, on which as
many woodcocks were spinning round and round, raining drops of gravy on
the yellow leaves underneath at every turn. He looked up and saw the
girls watching him from the ledge.
“Don’t be impatient,” he called out; “they are almost done.”
Then he gave a twirl to the threads of twine all round, and fell to his
task again. The girls enjoyed the sight amazingly.
“Wouldn’t it be delicious to spend one’s life so,” said Virginia,
pressing her hands softly together. “I wonder if we shall ever be so
happy again?”
“Who knows?” Ellen answered, smiling in her usual quiet way, which was
at all times a little sad. “But why not? Nature is the only thing in
creation that eternally renews itself. So long as the world lasts she
will prove the same.”
“Why, how gravely you talk, Ellen! It is not Nature which makes us
so—makes everything so pleasant. These woods are gloomy enough with the
rich leaves all turning brown as dust, if a weary heart goes with them.
You remember the first day we came here, how grandly all the foliage was
colored, how warm and bright the sunshine was. Yet we were very sad.”
Ellen looked up with a bright smile in her eyes.
“What is it then that makes the change?” she asked.
A vivid blush rose to Virginia’s face; she looked away, far down a vista
of the wood, and answered softly that she was sure she did not know.
Then Ellen dropped her eyes and sighed very faintly. This love was a
mournful study for her, poor thing. She might witness it, feel it, dream
of it, but who was ever known to love a girl deformed as she was? Who
could understand the true, warm heart and great brain fettered to a form
like that?
No wonder Ellen sighed and longed to go away into the woods and sit
alone when the happy face of her mistress brought reflections like these
into her mind. But why did the heart in her bosom grow heavier and
heavier day by day? God help the girl! Did she too love the man who had
come so strangely into their lives? or was it only the yearning of her
woman’s nature for a little of the affection which she saw lavished upon
others?
“Will some one bring me a plate?—I cannot leave the birds,” called out a
voice from the fire.
Ellen started to her feet, and, snatching a plate from the table, ran
down to the oak and received the woodcocks upon it as they were cut
loose from the twine that held them.
“Splendidly done—now carry them up, while I go after the fruit and
wine,” cried Brooks, gaily.
Ellen went up to the rock, carrying the plate of birds steadily between
her hands. Brooks went down to the little cataract, and, from under the
broad leaves of some water plant that grew among the ferns, brought
forth a basket of grapes and delicate lady-apples, with a long-necked
bottle, capped with tin-foil. The spring water had acted like ice upon
them, and the first rare bloom lay on the grapes like a frost.
Cora had sent a quantity of cut flowers from the greenhouse to the
little hotel that morning, and Brooks had garlanded the basket with
them, after his own taste, mingling the scent of roses with the rich
odor of the grapes. Perhaps Cora might not have liked this, had she
known it, but the party on the ledge considered that basket a crowning
glory of the feast.
That was a delicious meal—sharp appetites, the clear autumnal sunshine
and soft air of a genial Indian Summer made it perfect. Three children
at play in the woods could not have enjoyed themselves more naturally.
Even Ellen Nolan came out in force and astonished them with her rare
flashes of wit. Brooks was getting to think the world and all of Ellen
Nolan—there was something so fresh and sincere about her. Then the
bright things that fell from her lips were coupled with words of
absolute wisdom, such as only come from keen observation and deep
thinking. Sometimes the little creature positively startled him with her
sayings.
After the feast was over, and all its fragments packed away except the
basket of fruit, which they carried off into the deeper shadows of the
rock, Ellen stole off alone, and, letting herself down to the edge of
the pool, on which the sunshine shimmered bright as quicksilver, fell to
throwing leaves and fragments of wood into the water, giving herself up
to gentle thoughtfulness. She had got into her ideal world, and was
fashioning a romance out in her mind, smiling or frowning to herself as
the scenes she imagined pained or pleased her.
The other two had found a seat far back on the ledge, sheltered by the
boughs of a hemlock, that curved over them like a tent. Some
conversation had already passed between them, for Brooks was speaking
earnestly.
“If you can love me, Virginia, as I love you with all my heart and soul
and strength, say it to me in words. I must feel the assurance
thoroughly before the exactions of this heart will be satisfied. These
blushes are sweet, dear child, and I love to feel your form trembling
against my arm. But my love craves something more. Tell it me in words,
darling. Can you love me?”
“I do! I do!”
She clasped the hands in her lap and lifted them up as a child does in
prayer. Her eyes sought his and fell again, but half veiling the light
that filled them; then her face fell forward, and she burst into a sweet
passion of tears.
He drew her close to his bosom and kissed her for the first time in his
life, gently as a mother kisses her first infant, almost doubting if it
yet belongs to her.
Then they sat together in silence, or only uttered such broken words as
great joy uses in expressing itself. After a time she drew herself
softly from his arms and said, with a little anxiety:
“I have no property; you will marry a penniless girl.”
“So much the better. I would far rather have it so than join poor
Lander’s vast wealth to my own. We shall not need it, dear child; I have
enough.”
“And you have chosen me, knowing how worse than penniless I am.”
“I have chosen you with all my heart and soul, thinking and caring
nothing for the rest. It was your uncle’s wish that I should marry his
child.”
“His wish! Indeed—indeed!”
Virginia was greatly excited. It seemed as if, that moment, her father
was close to them.
“And he wished it—he wished it! His blessing reaches me in spite of
all.”
Brooks remembered the vague distrust in Lander’s letter, and applied
this speech to that.
“If the departed really do know what passes here, my child, Lander has
read your heart with a juster knowledge than he had on earth. Do not let
it grieve you that great affection for his daughter blinded him a
little.”
“No, no, he never was unjust. He was good, wise, generous—the best man,
I do think, that ever lived. You did not half know him, Mr. Brooks.”
“He certainly did not know you.”
“Indeed—indeed he loved me dearly—I cannot talk of it now, the subject
is too sad; but some time, when I can have the power—when we are away
from this place—I will tell you everything—you will believe me—I know
that you will.”
“Believe you! yes, against the angels themselves.”
Then he drew her close to his heart again and soothed the agitation that
seemed to have frightened all the joy from her heart.
It was a full hour before Ellen came up to the ledge again, but the
lovers felt her presence as an intrusion, and would not believe it when
she told them that the sun was almost setting. They went down the ravine
almost in silence, and parted under the old chestnut. A few whispered
words passed between the two, and he kissed the little hand she gave him
while Ellen was looking over the side of the bridge to see if the ferns
were all quite dead. When the two girls reached Virginia’s room, Ellen
found herself all at once held in a close embrace.
“My friend, my friend, thank God with me! It is for myself—my own, own
self—that he loves me! Had I possessed my father’s wealth there might
have been a doubt. Now there is none. Oh! Ellen, how can I make you as
happy as the last hour has made me? Child, child, tell me it is all
real! Does it take you by surprise? Did you think for a moment that he
loved me like that when we saw them riding out so gaily, morning after
morning? Tell me the truth, Ellen, did you not think it was her he
loved?”
“No, dear lady, I felt from the beginning that it was you.”
“But I never would have met him so—why did you not tell me? It was like
putting myself in his way.”
“As he did not seem to feel that an impropriety, we need not grieve over
it.”
“Grieve! Why, Ellen, it seems to me as if there was no such thing as
grief in the world. She has got my father’s wealth, child, but, oh! how
much richer I am than that can make her!”
“Did you tell him the truth, lady?”
“What, about the property? No; it will be time enough by-and-by, when we
have nothing pleasanter to talk about. But you look grave—troubled. What
is the matter, Ellen?”
“Nothing, lady; I am a little thoughtful, that is all.”
“No, Ellen, there is something more than that.”
“Does Mr. Brooks intend to tell your cousin of this?”
“Perhaps it was mentioned. But why should he wish to conceal it?”
“Lady, I think Cora Lander loves Mr. Brooks herself.”
“Ellen!”
“It is the common talk of the house. But that is nothing; I have watched
her closely, and have watched him too.”
“Well, Ellen?”
“She is a girl of subtle power.”
“I know that well, but what then?”
“She loves this man, and love with her will be stronger than ambition.
If she knows of this engagement, evil will come of it.”
Virginia turned deadly white.
“What could she do?”
“How can an honorable person tell what an unscrupulous one will do to
accomplish a purpose?”
“Ellen! Ellen! you have hurt me! My heart was so light, and now it feels
like marble. How can I protect myself from this girl?”
“Keep your engagement a profound secret.”
“But how can I?”
“Easily enough. There is the old way of meeting every morning, if you
like. For some cause, she never goes in that direction now. That cause
will probably still keep her away.”
“But he will see her in the morning; for some reason, he seems anxious
to inform her and have everything settled. They are to ride out again
to-morrow, and he will tell her then.”
“Write him a note—ask him to delay it.”
“No, Ellen, I cannot do that without giving a reason. Besides, what have
I to fear? He will protect me. His love is enough for me to shelter
under. Let us think no more of it; your great affection for me makes you
over cautious, my friend.”
“It may be so,” Ellen said; “at any rate we must not keep ourselves
miserable with doubts. I have made you look serious.”
“Yes, a little; I cannot help it. Yesterday I had nothing more to lose;
now I have nothing to gain. In his love God has given me back
everything.”
“And if she deprived you of that?”
“Don’t, Ellen; I cannot think of it. That would be death.”
“Do you love him so entirely?”
“Yes, Ellen. I would not have told you so yesterday, because I did not
know. I thought perhaps that it was her, and was ashamed of the feeling
that is my glory and blessing now. Like the poor Spartan boy, I should
have let my heart be torn in silence, and even you would never have
guessed. But now I need not blush, though blushes will come in spite of
one out of such feelings, just as perfume steals from a lily. But I need
not blush with shame, at any rate, when you ask me this question. Yes,
Ellen, I love him better than anything in the world; to me there is but
one man on earth. But I am extravagant—words sound coarsely here. Yes,
Ellen, I love him: our language can express no more.”
“Then, God make you happy,” said Ellen, solemnly. “Guarded by His love
and this other love, all must be well.”
Virginia and Ellen usually took tea in their own room when Cora was at
home. Indeed, at such times, they seldom appeared in the lower part of
the house at all. Eunice had fallen into this arrangement, and, as
neither Mrs. Lander nor Cora made objections, their isolation from the
family had become almost complete. That evening they ate very little;
Virginia, spite of the doubts that had been forced upon her, was far too
happy for any thought of refreshment, and Ellen had evidently something
on her mind which made her very serious. She went out with Eunice when
she carried off the tray, whispering good-night to the happy young
creature, whose greatest wish was to be alone with her memory and her
dreams.
CHAPTER XLIII.
ELLEN NOLAN VISITS CLARENCE BROOKS.
Ellen Nolan was prompt, both in action and thought. Virginia, in the
full security of a first passion, believed herself safe in the shelter
of her lover’s strength, but with a presage of evil which sprang out of
her own quick intelligence, and would not be shaken off, her friend
resolved to meet the question herself. Putting on her black bonnet and
shawl, she left the house, and, following the railway soon reached the
little hotel where Clarence Brooks found a temporary home. Some men
belonging to the station sat in front of the house. To avoid these
persons, Ellen passed down on the opposite side, keeping in the shadow,
crossed the road at the bridge, and came in sight of the little porch to
which the sitting-room Clarence Brooks occupied opened. She drew nearer,
saw him walking to and fro in the parlor, and, running lightly up the
steps, knocked with her finger against the sash-door.
Brooks saw her through the glass, and opened the door at once, wondering
what could have brought her there.
“I have come,” said Ellen, breathing hard, for she had walked rapidly;
“I have come to ask a favor of you, Mr. Brooks.”
“There is nothing on earth that I will not grant you, Miss Ellen,” he
said, cordially; “but first sit down and let me offer you a glass of
wine.”
Ellen took the wine and drank it. She was a brave little creature, ready
to go any lengths for the right; but Nature had left her feeble, and, at
times, she felt this a great drawback on her exertions.
“Mr. Brooks, my young mistress has told me of—of—”
“She has told you that I love her, and hope to make her my wife. I
suppose there is no secret in that; so you need not hesitate.”
“That is what I come to ask, Mr. Brooks. Will you let it be a secret?”
“Did you come from her? Does the lady wish it?” he questioned, in some
surprise.
“No; I asked her permission; rather, I urged her to make the request,
but she declined.”
“Then why do you ask it?”
“I cannot explain, Mr. Brooks, and you would not understand me if I did;
but I ask this favor of you nevertheless, believing that your happiness
and the welfare of Miss Lander depend on it.”
“Miss Ellen, you surprise me a little I have never known any good come
from a secret yet.”
“Indeed,” answered Ellen. “What has this whole attachment sprung from
but a succession of secret meetings?”
Brooks laughed. He rather enjoyed the sharp wit of Virginia’s friend,
and trusted her integrity entirely.
“But there was a reason for that.”
“What was it pray, only that it was impossible to receive you at the
house, without giving offence to her cousin?”
“Well, that was reason enough; but I do not fear to give offence when my
honor requires it.”
“But Miss Cora Lander has no right to your confidence. She is not her
cousin’s guardian.”
“True; but Miss Virginia has a mother.”
“Oh! Mr. Brooks, I implore you, let this thing rest a secret, as it has
done. Mrs. Lander is a weak, selfish woman, in every way under the
control of Cora. She would only do mischief. Believe me, when I solemnly
tell you that the secrecy I ask is both honorable and wise.”
“But it must be made known. I really would be glad to oblige you, Miss
Ellen; but there are reasons why Miss Cora Lander should be informed of
my engagement with her cousin at the earliest moment.”
“I understand the reasons, Mr. Brooks.”
“You!”
“Yes; and that is one motive for my coming here to-night. This much I
may speak, Miss Virginia has been cruelly treated by her cousin.”
“About property?”
“In every way. She dislikes her—hates her is nearer the truth. When she
learns that her own hopes or fancies—call them as you like—have been
thwarted—in secrecy too—by the person she has so wronged, her resentment
will be terrible.”
“We shall not fear it,” said Brooks.
“But you will feel it.”
“Miss Ellen, I think you are a little hard on Miss Cora Lander. She
never has spoken a word to me about your lady that has not been more
than kind.”
“Oh, sir, do not believe in this; it is a part of her character.”
“Hush! hush! Remember this lady is the daughter of my old friend. There
has been some trouble, I know, between the cousins. Those things are
common enough when great estates are settled, but they all come right in
the end; at any rate, in this case, they are of no importance. I never
wanted a dollar of Amos Lander’s property, and, thank Heaven, do not
want it now.”
Ellen arose to go, sorrowful and disheartened.
“I thought it best to come,” she said. “Knowing the truth myself, I
hoped you would believe it: but I have only done mischief—God forgive
me!”
“Don’t look so sorrowful, child. At the worst you have done no harm. How
earnest you are about this strange request.”
“But you will not grant it?” she said, looking wistfully into his face.
“I would, child, but that I think it wrong to pass, in the household of
my old friend, as a free man, when I am absolutely engaged to a lady
under a roof that was once his. It seems like social treachery.”
“Mr. Brooks, believe me, I entreat, when I say, that neither in honor or
courtesy are you bound to reveal your real position to either of these
ladies. Had Miss Virginia thought so, she would never have accepted you
unconditionally, as she has done. Do you hold her sense of honor as less
delicate than your own?”
There was something peremptory, and yet so respectful, in this speech,
that Brooks, spite of himself was impressed by it.
“Well, well, I will think the matter over, and speak with your lady
about it. We shall meet to-morrow. Be sure and take your usual walk.”
Ellen took his hand, tears arose to her eyes, and brightened them into
absolute beauty. He wondered that her face had never impressed him so
before.
“Oh, if you would only believe in me!” she said.
“I do, child. It is impossible to help it.”
“You will not speak of this to-morrow, when you ride out with Miss Cora
Lander?”
“No. I have promised that.”
“Thank you. My young lady is very happy now, and happiness drives all
sense of wrong out of the heart. She may not look on this matter as I
do, who have plenty of time for cool thought. That is what brought me
here to-night; forgive it, if I have done wrong. Good evening.”
Brooks seized his hat and overtook her on the stoop.
“I will see you safely home,” he said; “rough men occasionally hang
about the depot.”
“I would rather go alone,” she said gently; “not by the railway, that
does frighten me a little. But I know the footpath by the brook and will
take that; enough moonlight will come through the branches, now so many
leaves are gone, to show the path. I don’t want any one to know that I
have been here, so shall be safest alone.”
Brooks saw that she was in earnest and let her go, but he stood on the
stoop and watched her little figure till it was lost in the duskiness of
the woods.
Ellen walked up the path rapidly, holding her breath with a vague sense
of awe, for the noise of the brook and the shivering of dead leaves
filled the night with that weird music which makes the silence beyond it
so impressive. The moon gave down a fitful light, exaggerating the
shadows and throwing fantastic gleams through the half stripped
branches. All at once she stopped and gave out a sharp cry. The figure
of a man stood before her in the path, just below the rise of ground on
which the log cabin stood. At first she thought it one of those heavy
shadows thrown by the body of a tree; but the figure stooped and rose
again—a spark of fire seemed to float upward with the motion. Then the
blue light of a match revealed, for one instant, the handsome face of
her brother Brian’s benefactor. All was dark again in an instant, save
the glow of a cigar which the man had evidently just kindled.
Ellen hastened forward, sweeping back a branch that had fallen across
her path, so eagerly that it swayed into place again with a loud
rustling noise, enough to startle any one desirous of concealment. The
branch had brushed her face, blinding her for the moment. When she
looked for the man he was gone.
She stood a full minute, searching around in blank amazement, then
hurried away, fairly panting for breath, and so frightened that she ran
at full speed across the lawn, and sheltered herself in the house.
What was that man doing in a place held so sacred to the Lander family?
Was he staying at the hotel? Did he know any one in the neighborhood, or
was it a myth that had startled her into such abject cowardice? No, she
had seen the face plainly, for that single instant it was illuminated in
all its features; but why had it gleamed upon her so strangely in that
place?
The next morning Cora carried out a plan that had been arranging itself
in her mind, and went down to the city. She had engaged to ride with
Brooks that day, and the sacrifice which she made in giving up this
pleasure was a great one; but a feeling of insecurity troubled her, and
she resolved to make her future secure at once. She arose early, took
her breakfast alone, and went away by the first morning train, leaving a
note of apology for Brooks behind her, which she ordered Joshua to
deliver before ten o’clock.
It was wonderful the restraint which that girl’s absence took off the
whole household. No sooner did Mrs. Lander learn that she was gone, to
be absent some days, perhaps, than her spirits rose far above their
usual languid pitch. She refused to have breakfast sent to her room, and
took something of the old liberty on herself, in assuming the head of
the family table. Eunice, in high good humor, went up to summon
Virginia, carrying Mrs. Lander’s compliments with her, in place of the
usual great silver tray, with its elegant equipments.
Both Virginia and Ellen were glad to accept any change. Indeed, the
former, in her great happiness, could have refused Eunice nothing, for
the woman, in her brusque way, had been very kind to her. So they went
down to the breakfast-room smiling, and so cheerful, that Mrs. Lander
became unusually social. Eunice herself waited on the table that
morning, and a sense of domestic comfort prevailed in that
well-appointed breakfast-room, to which it had been a stranger for
months.
“Now, I tell you what it is, girls, jest take the bits atween your
teeth, while _she’s_ gone, and have a good time of it. Miss Virgie, I
want to see you a riding on that white pony, that’s been a spiling in
the stable, till our Josh is getting savage about it. So jest put on
your habit after breakfast, and let us see if you can’t set a
side-saddle as well as other folks. It’s a burning shame that you hain’t
been out afore.”
Eunice shook her head, like a vicious horse, and crashed a plate of
toast down upon the table, with a force that cracked the delicate china.
She was always violent, even in her fits of good nature, and spoke now,
in a state of apparent indignation, about somebody, looking fiercely at
Mrs. Lander all the time.
“Dear me, Eunice,” said the lady, coloring crimson under the greenish
deepening of those eyes; “it isn’t my fault that Virginia hasn’t ridden
every day of her life. Is it, my dear?”
“It is no one’s fault, I fancy,” answered Virginia, smiling—(the happy
girl could not speak without smiles that morning)—“only I, I don’t care
much about riding.”
“It’s no such thing. You know better. But that white animal has got to
be brought out this very morning, or I’ll know the reason why.”
“But, Eunice, I have no habit.”
“There goes another. Wasn’t you measured, with t’other one in Paris, and
wasn’t the habits and whips, and them side-saddles, all sent over
together, long afore you started? Trust Amos Lander for that.”
“Eunice! Eunice! how can you?” cried out Mrs. Lander, white with the
sudden shock which that name was sure to produce. “Have you no feeling?”
“I’ve got a good deal of feeling for _her_,” answered Eunice, who was
ready to show fight on any subject just then. “She’s been hived up here
long enough, and you’ve stood by and seen it done without a whimper.
Some folks are afeared to say their souls are their own; but I ain’t one
of that sort. Come now, Miss Virgie, jest to please me, let Josh bring
out that white critter. _He_ bought it for you.”
Virginia’s eyes filled with tears. Eunice saw it, and drew the back of
her bony hand across her own eyes, sniffing violently.
“That’s right! that’s right! I thought his name would do it!” she
exclaimed. “The habit is all laid out on your bed, gold buttons and all.
There’s a soft hat, too, with a feather as long as the foot-post. He
ordered ’em jest alike, all but the hat and feather. He never made no
difference between girl and girl, only as one looked better in a thing
than t’other.”
A still more vicious look at Mrs. Lander destroyed all that lady’s
appetite, and, with genuine tears in her eyes, she besought Virginia to
oblige her and take a ride. The happy girl would have done anything that
morning, to please even her worst enemy, so she made the promise, at
which Mrs. Lander arose from the table and kissed her.
Eunice stood by, smiling grimly at all this, with the feeling that she
was fast getting up a happy family, which would some time be sheltered
under her own wings.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE WHITE HORSE DISTANCES THE BLACK ONE.
In the exuberance of her spirits, Virginia was delighted with this idea
of a ride, the first that she had thought of taking since her return to
America. So, later in the day, she put on her habit with its garniture
of gold buttons, and the hat with its trailing feather, which made her
resemblance to Cora absolutely startling.
Joshua Hurd brought out the horse, washed white as snow, with his mane
shining like floss silk and his eyes full of genial fire. Proud as a
lord, he lifted Virginia to her saddle, and stood, with his stout arms
folded complacently, and a broad grin on his face, watching her as she
rode off. Every time that beautiful animal tossed his head, or began to
curvette the gravelled road, Josh would give out a mellow chuckle of
delight, and move his great feet on the ground, in an ecstasy of
admiration.
Virginia had refused the escort of a groom. She longed to enjoy her
freedom without even that restraint. As for fear, the girl had scarcely
a remembrance of the time when she had not ridden on horseback. Besides,
who could be afraid of that beautiful animal, whose wildest movements
were full of playful grace without a touch of viciousness in them. So
away she rode, coming out of the grounds at the broad iron gate, just
above the hotel, after which she took the road at a gallop.
Clarence Brooks had received his note just before the hour appointed for
his morning ride with Cora. Joshua had been busy preparing his favorite
for the road and sent the note by another servant, who loitered on the
way, so that Brooks got it just as he was prepared to mount. He went
back into the house and seated himself in the stoop, half resolved to
give up his ride when Virginia went by on her white horse, casting one
shy glance toward the hotel as she went.
Up Clarence Brooks started, knocking over his chair, seized the riding
whip and gloves he had flung aside, and, leaping to his saddle, put his
impatient horse to the top of his speed at once.
Virginia heard the clattering hoofs behind her and spoke softly to her
horse.
“Steady, steady, Snowball; not so fast, not so fast.”
Snowball arched her neck and began to amble, as if she understood the
beating of that young heart and was resolved to humor it, irksome as the
restraint was.
“So I have overtaken you at last,” cried out a happy voice, just behind
her. The next instant that black steed came neck and neck with her white
one, contrasting finely, like the two riders. “Oh, Virginia, this is too
great a happiness! What a glorious day we will make of it!”
“I thought you would see us pass; Snowball, here, almost wanted to stop.
I think the creature knows more than she ought—indeed I do.”
How well she rode; not with the dash and conscious power of Cora. But
with so firm a seat, and that gentle touch of the bridle, there was
little danger that any horse would rear and plunge with her in the
saddle. Away they went, riding off the first glow of animal spirits with
a dash. When the horses took their own course, Brooks rode so close to
Virginia’s bridle rein at times that his hand touched hers, while their
horses walked lazily forward or absolutely stopped under some cool
shade, seeming to know how pleasant the whole affair was to their
riders.
In the fullness of their contentment these two people talked of a
thousand things which drew them closer and closer into sweet sympathy
every moment. He told how his heart had gone out to her on that first
day when they met under the chestnut, how he had struggled against the
feeling, which grew stronger and stronger every hour, because it seemed
like treason against the wishes of his friend, whose great object had
been for a union between himself and the daughter he so devotedly loved.
She was beautiful, he said, and accomplished beyond most women. At first
he had liked her, notwithstanding a shade of disappointment, for Lander
had prepared him for something more feminine—at any rate less
pronounced. Perhaps, had things gone on as they commenced—had he never
found that log cabin in the woods and looked from its little window—Amos
Lander’s last wish might have been carried out. But that day of
chestnuting had played the mischief with all such ideas. He had found
the niece all that the daughter had been described to him—all that he
had loved before seeing either. Still the contest had been a hard one.
Death had sanctified his friend’s wish, and the feelings that were so
surely arising to oppose it seemed to him almost as a crime. He resisted
them bravely for a while, gave himself up to the society of Lander’s
heiress, strove to force his heart into loving her—had admired her
greatly, and did then. But the heart in his bosom was not to be
controlled. Cora Lander was beautiful, brilliant, talented, noble; but
he did not love her, for heart and soul, body and strength, he loved her
cousin.
All this was heavenly language to the fair girl who listened. She
longed, in the fullness of her confidence, to tell him everything, but
the truth was so painful that she put it off. Why dash their happiness
with a subject like that? He loved her, and that was enough. Poor,
wicked Cora, she was welcome to the wealth—welcome, to all the happiness
that could be wrested out of a fraud. Why should she feel a pleasure in
destroying the respect he felt for her? It might be necessary for her to
tell all the truth some time—would be, no doubt—but why trail the
serpent over their flowers just then?
So they talked of nothing that was not pleasant and hopeful. Brooks told
her of Ellen’s visit the night before, and of her strange request, which
he could not yet understand. Virginia listened, smiling—what had she to
fear with this lordly man by her side? Still she had compassion on
Ellen’s terror, groundless as it seemed, and said: “Perhaps it would be
as well to gratify her. Dear girl, all this fear grows out of her great
care; besides, their secret way of love had been so bright, she, for
one, would rather keep in it a while longer.”
“But your mother, dear girl, we must ask her sanction of our love.”
Virginia started at this, and a revulsion swept over her fair face.
“No,” she said, “not yet; I cannot consent to that. Do not ask me why,
but it is impossible.”
Brooks was disturbed by her perturbation, and wondered at it. He saw the
color come and go in her face, leaving it unusually white and serious.
This look of distress, devoid as it was of all temper, touched him with
compassion.
“Why, how have I managed to drive the color from your face like that?”
he said, with a broad smile, which was like sunshine to her. “We need
ask no one’s consent to our love because that cannot be helped, try as
we will. As for your mother—”
“Don’t, don’t, I cannot bear to hear you speak of her in that way!”
“Why, you sensitive darling, what have I said disrespectful?”
“Nothing, nothing; this shade chills one. Shall we ride on?”
For half a mile they went forward at a gallop. When this hot speed was
checked, Brooks turned toward her and said, very gently:
“So, I am not to tell!”
“Give me a little time to think what is right and best,” she answered,
in a low voice.
“I will—I will, an eternity, if you ask it. Now smile upon me once more.
I feel like some poor fellow in a storm while you continue to look so
troubled.”
She looked up and smiled upon him with such sweet trust, that his heart
yearned toward her with a tenderness almost paternal.
“Now,” he said, “we have a fine piece of woods to ride through—on the
other side is the neatest little country tavern you ever saw. There we
will dine.”
Virginia brightened instantly.
“You and I alone,” she said, radiant with the thought. “Oh! that will be
happiness.”
They made a short passage of the woods, sending back storms of dead
leaves along the road, and at length came in sight of a long stone
house, nearly overrun by a Virginia creeper, blood-red, and half bereft
of its foliage, which make the grass around one brilliant carpet of
crimson and green.
This creeper curtained the windows of a little sitting-room, with a
home-made carpet on the floor, a wooden settee with a green cushion,
along one side some upright cane-bottomed chairs standing like sentinels
against the wall, and a round table with a faded cloth in the centre. I
do not think those young people gave much heed of the hardness of that
settee, or were very impatient because that choice little dinner took
some time in the preparation. They took pleasantly to the steel forks
and coarse napkins, for both were exquisitely clean. As for the broiled
chicken, mealy potatoes and home-made bread, I had rather say nothing
about them, because the fragments taken out were by no means so many as
very sensitive people might expect from two persons so thoroughly in
love with each other. A long ride on that glorious October morning had
really deranged the usual course of things, and the romance of eating
their first meal together was scarcely equal to the reality.
They left that shaded room reluctantly after all, and Virginia cast a
wistful look behind her as she passed its threshold. What a happy hour
it had been! Even the rag carpet and that stiff settee looked beautiful
to her.
The ride home was quieter but not less delightful than the morning had
proved. The deep contentment which settled upon them was the delicious
repose which follows joyous excitement. These young persons loved each
other, and every phase of their growing passion was a delight.
Virginia would ride home alone. She was not prepared to brave the
questions and criticism which would follow a bold dash up to the house
with Clarence Brooks by her side. He protested and threatened to rebel,
but she was firm as a little tyrant, and rode away from him before the
argument was half closed. As for the people at the hotel and along the
road, the affair made no comment, for Virginia, in the same style of
dress, was so like her cousin that people only observed, in a careless
fashion, that Miss Lander had changed her horse that day, and, with a
feather in her hat, looked more beautiful than ever. Somehow the black
horse had given her a dashing and fierce air, which did not appear at
all on that snow-white beauty. No wonder Mr. Brooks was in love with the
lady. What a match it would be; both so rich and good-looking—in fact,
they were the finest couple that was ever seen in those parts, and worth
millions between them.
Joshua Hurd was waiting for his favorite when she came up, in a high
state of enjoyment. The white horse had, for once, been fairly placed
upon the road, and the neighbors had been given a chance to see what
sort of animals were kept in the Lander stables; people did not know it,
but Snowball was a full-blooded Arabian, and had been purchased in Egypt
for Mr. Lander’s daughter. Cora had made the wrong choice that time, and
Joshua Hurd chuckled over it. What did she know of a horse?
CHAPTER XLV.
GETTING RID OF WITNESSES.
Cora went directly to her house the moment she reached the city. She
hated the place now, and nothing but an important purpose would have
induced her to enter it. The servants were in possession, all except
Lubin, who, loving his art better than money, had left a place where his
talent had so little chance of appreciation. The week before, he had
discharged himself and sailed for New Orleans. This was good news for
Cora; it relieved her visit of half its difficulty. This man had been
present at her marriage; he knew of her domestic life, and was therefore
dangerous. But he was removed from her path now, and the only person
left whose evidence would be fatal was the woman, Alice Ruess; she it
was who had gone after the clergyman; she had witnessed the marriage
ceremony and held the whole secret in her possession. This woman must be
disposed of—but how? Could persuasion or money do it? That was what had
brought Cora to the city. Mrs. Lander believed that the trip was taken
in order to superintend the new dresses which had been purchased with
such liberality for her own wardrobe. But dressmakers were very little
in Cora’s mind just then, and while her mother thought her busy with
lavender and purple silk, she sat quietly in that little room,
conversing with Alice Ruess in the most kindly and social manner. Cora
had long noticed that there was something on her humble friend’s
mind—not that she called her humble—Cora had too much tact for that,
under the circumstances. Indeed, did Alice suppose her so entirely taken
up by her own affairs that she had no sympathy for others? On the
contrary, she had come now to learn if there was nothing that she could
do which might alleviate the sadness that really was mournful. What was
it that preyed upon Alice Ruess with such depressed effect?
Alice Ruess had her troubles, poor thing—and very serious ones they
were. After a good deal of persuasion, and more caresses than Cora
usually bestowed on any one from whom she wanted nothing, the unhappy
woman was prevailed upon to admit that she was a married woman and had a
husband in California, whom she had not seen in three years. He had left
Germany, promising to send for her the moment he was settled in the gold
region; but year after year had gone by without bringing the promised
summons. So she had saved a little money by hard work and paid her
passage to New York, where she was compelled to remain for want of means
to go farther. But she was hoarding her wages, every cent of them, and
in the course of another year hoped to have enough to pay her passage to
San Francisco. It was a long time to wait, but necessity knew no laws;
she had been compelled to patience before, and must endure it again.
Then it was that Cora came out in a new and beautiful character. Why had
she never been applied to before? It was cruel, it was unjust. Did Alice
consider her the most hard-hearted creature in the world? Of course she
should go at once to California. In the very next steamer if money could
do it. What, separate a husband from his wife for the want of a little
money, the thing was barbarous! Alice was in an ecstasy of gratitude.
She loved her husband, and was dying to proceed at once on her
pilgrimage in search of him. This munificence in her employer brought
genuine tears into her eyes. She fell upon her knees, buried her face in
Cora’s lap, and called down blessings upon her, such blessings as a good
woman would have felt to the core of her heart. Even this calculating
creature; took a sort of glory to herself when the grateful voice,
broken with sobs, told how happy this goodness had made her. She had so
long pined in silence for the means generously offered now, that it was
a benefit beyond her realization.
Cora was glad to know that the means she was using for her own safety
had given so much happiness. She liked Alice, and was grateful to her
for asking so few questions and receiving all her sympathy with such
genuine good faith.
Cora slept at the Fifth Avenue Hotel that night; she still retained
rooms there, expecting to return in the winter. As for sleeping in that
house, her very soul recoiled from it. She shuddered when Alice proposed
it, and put the woman away from her with both hands.
“Not for the world!” she said, breaking into a passion.
She checked herself instantly; it was no part of her purpose to inform
Alice of her discontent. Her tools must be used blindly. No old diplomat
was ever more reticent in his craft than this young woman, to whom
duplicity came by heart. She could not always restrain those outbreaks
of feeling which belonged to her double character. But her mind, ever on
the alert, had explanations and excuses ready for adroit use on such
occasions, and her resources were always sufficient for the occasion.
“You forget,” she added, with a saddened face, “he is not here, and
without him I think my heart would break, surrounded by these precious
associations. Alice, you know what it is?”
Alice began to cry from tender sympathy.
“But Monsieur will return, he has not gone for long,” she said, with a
kind effort at consolation. “The great God is good, he will not allow
Madame, who is so generous, so munificent, to suffer a long separation,
such as has taken away all my youth.”
Cora was a splendid actress. When she entered into a part like this, it
was with all her soul. She put a handkerchief, made of filmy linen and
lace, to her eyes, and shook her head mournfully.
“It is a long time even now, Alice.”
“But Monsieur will return. He will shoot many birds, grow tired, and
come home. Oh, Madame Seymour, I will pray very much for that!”
Cora started as this name was uttered. A gleam of pleasure came to her
face, which Alice thought had sprung out of the comfort given by her
assurances. But Cora remembered that his name of Seymour was the only
one that even Alice ever had known her by. Here she was doubly guarded.
“I see Madame will take hope,” said Alice, cheered by her fancied
success.
“But I am so young—so foolish, Alice! To me weeks seem like years when
he is away.”
“Ah yes, I understand. My years have been so long—so long!”
“But there shall be only weeks now between you and your husband. By the
very next steamer you shall go.”
“Ah, Madame, you are so good!”
“I will send down, get your ticket and arrange about the state-room this
afternoon. Now I think of it, get into the carriage and we will drive to
the office at once.”
The grateful woman put on her bonnet with trembling hands, and throwing
a mantilla over her shoulders, stood in readiness to go, more glad at
heart, than she had been for years.
They got into a carriage, which stood at the door, and drove down to the
Bowling Green almost in silence. Both were cheerful—Alice, because she
was going to her husband; Cora from a consciousness that, one by one,
the shackles of her married life were giving way. When they reached the
office, Cora gave Alice her purse.
“Get the ticket, arrange everything, and keep the rest, you will want
it.”
“Oh, Madame!”
“There, there; go at once or the choice of berths will be less,” said
Cora, waving aside the poor woman’s gratitude, which, being thoroughly
genuine, began to rebuke her a little.
Alice went into the office, and came out with her ticket, smiling
gratefully.
“When does the steamer sail, Alice?”
“In three days, Madam.”
“Well, I will drive you home; you must begin to pack up at once, three
days are soon here and gone.”
“In a month—in one little month, I shall see him!”
“And this makes you so happy.”
“So happy—oh, _mon Dieu_, so happy!”
“Well, here we are. Be ready in time.”
“But the house, Madame—what shall I do about that?”
“Leave it with that stout black woman—I forget her name—but she seems
honest.”
“As madame pleases—Hagar is very good negar.”
Alice got out of the carriage and Cora drove away, well pleased with her
morning’s work. She did not inform Alice Ruess where she was going, but
promised to call again or send for her; so the woman was well content.
After driving a block or two, Cora pulled the check-string and ordered
the coachmen to return. Alice saw the carriage and came out.
“Come here, close to the door,” she said.
Alice obeyed, and Cora whispered to her:
“If my husband should return, tell him I have gone up the river, and do
not speak of my coming down again, that might keep him here and I should
lose so much time, you know.”
“But I shall see you again, Madame?”
“Yes; oh yes, I shall see you off, never fear. But remember what I have
just told you.”
“Certainly, Madame.”
After this, Cora drove away for good, and actually did go to Mrs.
Lander’s dressmaker and torment the poor woman terribly with a confused
discussion about trimmings—white, lavender, purple and gray—with which
the second mourning was to be illuminated into a phase at once sorrowful
and desponding. The happy medium in such cases is difficult to reach.
Three days from that, Cora drove to the door of her own residence and
took Alice into the carriage. The luggage was already on board, and
Alice Ruess had no friends to weep over or bid farewell. When once
seated in the carriage, she said:
“Oh, Madame, Monsieur came last night.”
“What, my husband?” Spite of herself Cora’s voice was sharp and
startled.
“Yes, Madame, Monsieur Seymour. He was grieved—very sad indeed, when I
told him Madame was up the river.”
“And I have missed him—of course he took the train at once.”
“Perhaps. He went away but said nothing.”
Cora looked at her watch.
“The steamer sails at twelve, I have plenty of time. It is only a few
hours delay.”
She spoke carelessly, but her face was like ashes in its paleness. They
drove down to the wharf, crowded with drays, carriages, wheelbarrows,
and swarms of people of all grades and character, from the rich
aristocrat to the humblest orange woman. Men and women crowded the deck
and swarmed up the gangway, jostling each other, some carrying carpet
bags, some holding great bouquets, and others, who came late, dragging
valises and trunks desperately upward by one handle.
It was a scene of wild confusion. Women leaned down from the deck,
searching for those they loved and were leaving among the crowd; some
with a last gift of flowers in their hands, others flinging kisses from
lips quivering with grief, others again weeping piteously.
Through this crowd Alice Ruess made her way with a little satchel in her
hand and a look of touching joy on her face. She had nothing to leave,
but all the world to follow. In a few weeks she would see her husband.
This was the happy thought that went singing through her mind as she was
hustled up to the deck and stood there, eager for the bell to ring, for
she considered every minute lost which was not bearing her onward.
Cora leaned out of the carriage, interested in the woman she had helped.
Indeed she felt almost the sensation which springs from a generous
action. The poor creature’s intense gratitude seemed to make a virtue of
her selfishness.
Finally the bell rang, the great cable was uncoiled and followed the
heaving vessel like a huge snake till rough hands drew it up, wet and
dripping. The ponderous wheels began to buffet the waters; the great
vessel swept out into the river and the boom of a gun sent back her last
farewell. Cora saw the slender figure of Alice, waving a handkerchief,
through the smoke, and drew back into the carriage with tears in her
eyes. Whatever her motive was, she had done good to that helpless little
woman, and loved her a little as we all love those we have benefitted.
But the words she said five minutes after had little of goodness in
them.
“Thank Heaven, that possible danger is escaped. This change of name will
be like a tombstone on the woman should he ever attempt to search her
out.”
In going down to the office that day, Cora had suggested that Alice
should take out her ticket under a changed name. “It will give your
husband a pleasant surprise,” she said.
“You will have the happiness of seeing his heart leap into his eyes. But
the commonplace warning of a passenger list would spoil everything.”
Alice acquiesced. She would have done almost anything at the bare
suggestion of a lady who had so generously befriended her.
This was the reason that Cora congratulated herself with such
earnestness. All traces of Alice Ruess were lost when that California
steamer left the harbor of New York.
From the wharf, Cora drove to a law office in Nassau street. The man she
went to consult was a perfect stranger to her, and she seemed resolved
to keep him so, for, on entering his office, she carefully drew the
thick crape veil over her face, and her figure had been as much as
possible enveloped in a large mourning shawl. She had only a few words
to ask of the gentleman: “Would he give her his attention just for one
moment? A friend of hers had been unfortunate in marrying a man
afterwards condemned to a term of service in the State’s prison, would
that fact relieve her from all marriage obligations?”
Cora had been a little unfortunate in her lawyer, who happened to be a
clerk in the office. Seeing a stylish-looking lady come in, who
evidently mistook him for the superior, he assumed the position and gave
his opinion with confidence.
“No doubt of it—no doubt of it. My dear Madam, the lady is free as air.
No marriage ceremony can bind any woman to a convict.”
“You are quite sure of this?”
The impromptu lawyer smiled in a superior way, and gently waved his
hand.
“Those who know me, dear lady, would not find it necessary to ask that
question.”
“Excuse me,” answered Cora from behind her veil, “but my friend is
naturally anxious to be certain. Her position is a very delicate one.”
“No doubt of it; but the question is a very simple one and easily
answered. Why, common sense teaches one that it must be an unjust law
which ties an innocent woman to her guilty husband when crime itself
separates them. What if a man is condemned for life?”
The petty impostor seemed disposed to enter into an argument on the
subject, being rather anxious in his own mind; but Cora was only too
glad that his convictions were so positive, and, taking out her
porte-monnaie, she handed him a bank bill of considerable value,
scarcely heeding the amount.
The man took it, cast a sharp glance at the face, which only gave an
imperfect outline beneath that provoking veil, hesitated and said,
“Madam,” as if she had spoken.
She turned away, impatient of his scrutiny.
“Hem, hem, Madam, perhaps you will expect some change?” he said, folding
the bill and leisurely placing it in his pocket-book.
“It is no matter,” she answered, moving away.
“But, Madam, Madam, I insist.”
The fellow was closing his pocket-book all the time. She saw the action,
and turned away, despising him in her heart. There is, after all, an
aristocracy of crime in this world. This woman, whose life was one great
fraud, dared to look with contempt upon the man who could commit a petty
offence against herself. She did not regret the money he had pocketed so
adroitly, for the information he had given her was worth ten times that
amount, but her lip curled with contempt of the man.
“To the Hudson River Depot.”
Cora was eager to reach home now—eager to commence the contest which lay
before her. No, she thought better of it. Seymour would never venture to
come into the neighborhood of her residence while Clarence Brooks was
there. She would drive to the house in town and make sure of an
interview with her husband, should he have returned to it. Her haughty
spirit was now prepared for the issue—prepared to repudiate and defy
him, if that course seemed best to her. She drove up to the house and
entered it, almost expecting to meet the man who had been all the world
to her only a few months before in deadly enmity. Whether the contest
would be one of force or craft she had not determined, but she was
resolved that it should be final and decisive.
He was not there.
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE BROTHER’S CONFESSION.
That night, a little after dark, Alfred Seymour came to that almost
deserted house, and, letting himself in with a latch-key, walked
directly up stairs, not with his usual elastic tread, but heavily, like
a man borne down with age or fatigue. He entered Cora’s chamber and
looked around, his eyes heavy with such bitter wretchedness that his
most fiendish enemy would have pitied him.
“Oh! God help me! God help and forgive me!” he cried, in a dry, feverish
voice. “I cannot find her. She avoids me, and I love her so!”
The unhappy man threw himself on that sumptuous bed, soiling its
whiteness with his dusty clothes, and crushing one of the laced pillows
against his face, kissed it with a wild passion, that seemed almost like
insanity.
“Her head had touched it—her warm cheek lay here, and here the breath
from her sweet lips floated over this lace. If she shed tears during my
absence, they fell upon this linen. Oh! if I knew—if I only knew!”
The terrible sway of his grief shook the bed till all its frost-like
draperies trembled above his prostrate form.
“She loved me once. She did love me—but now, when I come home famishing
for a sight of her, she is not to be found! Does she know that I am
here? I told that woman to tell her, but find the house dark and empty
as a grave. I have been to that house. In my disguise I ventured into
the very stables. The stupid man I found there told me that she had not
yet returned from the city. I saw _him_ too, looking calm and noble, as
he always did, riding as I have seen him a hundred times in the desert
and on the plains. At first I thought she was with him. The very fear
made me faint. Thank God, it was not her, but so like, so like! Can two
women on this earth be so beautiful? I would have sworn not till
yesterday. Another man might have been deceived; but I was her husband,
and after that one look felt the difference. What an angel that girl on
the white horse looked. He will marry her; I saw it in his face, in the
movement of his stately head as he bent toward her. God bless him! God
bless the woman who makes him happy!”
These were the thoughts which tortured that wretched man as he lay there
bewailing the past, half frantic with fever, the most pitiable object
that the darkness of that night closed in upon.
Later in the evening a slender figure came through the gate and went
down to the basement, where a few words were exchanged with the colored
woman. Then Brian Nolan sprang up the stairs, mounted both flights like
a deer and knocked at the door, from which low sounds of grief reached
him.
Seymour got up and opened the door. Brian almost threw himself at the
young man’s feet in an ecstasy of joy.
“Oh! Mr. Seymour, you have come back at last! I have waited, and
waited—longed for you till the loneliness made me ill.”
“Thank God, there is one human being that loves me!” cried Seymour,
straining the lad to his heart with an embrace that would have pained
him at another time. “You are glad to find me, Brian?”
“Glad—only feel how my heart beats!”
“It is a good, faithful heart, and beats honestly, I know,” said
Seymour, kissing the boy’s upturned forehead. “Ah! if you were a little
older, Brian.”
“I am old enough to love you dearly and do anything on earth for you
that a strong man is capable of. God will give me strength, and love
will make me wise when strength and wisdom are needed to prove how
grateful I am.”
Seymour looked wistfully into that eager face. He felt so friendless
that the boy’s ardor comforted him.
“I know you love me, Brian.”
“Indeed I do; try me!”
“I shall, perhaps, Brian, and that before long. Look me in the eyes,
boy.”
“See, I do.”
“It is an honest look.”
“I am honest, Mr. Seymour.”
“And for that reason would have no charity for dishonesty in others.”
Brian bent his head a moment in thoughtful silence; at last he looked up
brightly.
“My father used to say that good people were always the most
charitable.”
“Your father was a good man, Brian.”
The words were spoken so impressively that Brian felt his heart swell
with a strange, new feeling.
“Did you ever know my father, sir?”
“Yes, boy, I knew him well.”
“What, my own, own father, who is now a grand spirit among the angels?”
“Brian, sit down here—not here, I forget. Come into the next room, it is
my own.”
With his arm about the lad, Seymour went into another room and closed
the door, shutting out the light of a small lamp filled with perfumed
oil, which was always kindled at sundown in the chamber they had left.
They were altogether in the dark now, save the moonbeams, which flung a
belt of silver half across the carpet.
Seymour sat down on a sofa and drew the boy to his side. Throwing one
arm over his shoulder, he sat for some time in silence, sighing heavily.
“Brian,” he said at last, in a voice so changed that it made the boy
start, “Brian, I am going to tell you a great secret, and trust you as
grown men seldom dare to trust each other.”
“You may—I will keep your secret; trust me, I shall be proud of that.”
Seymour tightened his arm around the lad, and Brian felt that it was
trembling violently.
“Brian, I was not good, naturally, as you are.”
Brian interrupted him.
“Oh, I’m not so very good after all. Ellen could tell you that.”
“But I was not good at all in comparison. My boyhood was full of
faults—I did my father great wrong—injured his children—almost broke his
heart—”
“Poor man,” said Brian, tenderly. “And he must have loved you so!”
“He did love me—never on this earth shall I be so loved again.”
“I will love you dearly, Mr. Seymour.”
“But I did worse than this in the end; I almost ruined my father and his
whole family.”
“That was very sad; but I suppose he forgave you?”
“Yes, thank God, he did!”
Seymour’s voice was choked with emotion, for some moments he had no
power of speech.
“At last I went into the world alone. I meant to act rightly; I had a
great many accomplishments, and made friends wherever I went. There was
a man among them who took to me, whom I loved devotedly—as you love me,
Brian.”
Brian’s eyes shone like stars in the moonlight, and he drew close to
Seymour, murmuring:
“Almost, perhaps.”
“I was poor and he was rich. He wanted a travelling companion, for he
was going across the desert to Jerusalem and up the Nile—farther than
travellers usually explore—and wanted companionship in his adventures.
First we went into Switzerland and Italy.”
Here Seymour stopped, and his heart swelled against Brian’s side with
painful throes.
“In Italy I met and loved a lady you have seen once at the hotel.”
“Yes, I saw that you loved her.”
“That is our secret, Brian—keep it sacredly. I have married that lady.”
“I will keep the secret.”
“I thought that she was poor—that poverty would keep us apart forever.
It was this thought which ruined me. You are young and cannot know what
power love holds over a heart which gives itself for the first and only
time to a woman like her.”
“I—I can imagine it,” said Brian, softly.
“We parted. She went one way and I another, following my friend and
benefacter—for he was that to me—into the far East. This man was rich
and had no relatives that he cared for. Once he said to me, ‘If I should
take the fever or be flung from a precipice, it will be a shame that I
did not make you my heir, Alfred, when we had lawyers in plenty around
us.’ I laughed at this as a joke at the time, but it afterwards
suggested a great temptation to me.”
Again Seymour paused. His voice was becoming more and more husky.
“My friend was taken ill. This was on our return from the Holy Land. He
had what is call the Syrian fever, and I nursed him faithfully. God is
my judge, I loved that man as if he had been my own brother. Night after
night I watched by his bedside, trying to pray for him, when I had
almost forgotten to pray for myself. One night the coldness of death
came upon him—the stillness of Death in all its ghastliness. The people
took charge of him then. I will not speak of my grief—that would seem
like a mockery after what I must tell you. Brian, when I thought that he
was dead, lost to me forever, those words about the heirship of his
property came into my head, haunting me with temptations. I knew that he
had bills of exchange to a large amount in his travelling-desk. Those
bills were enough to make me comparatively a rich man. His relatives
would have the great bulk of his wealth, while I, his best friend,
beloved more than them all, was left penniless.
“Brian, I took these bills from his desk, leaving all the money there,
which was no inconsiderable sum, that nothing might be wanting, and came
away.”
Brian had been gradually shrinking from the arm that held him, but he
gave no other sign of the shock that seemed to freeze the heart in his
bosom.
“I came to this country and found the lady for whom I had done all this,
so wealthy that all the gold for which I had cursed myself was nothing
to her. She never knew how it had been obtained—I pray God that she
never will. But I know it, Brian, and this knowledge makes a coward of
me.”
Brian sat perfectly still, with his eyes and his hands hanging
listlessly downward. The boy had not expected this. He was prepared for
trouble, humiliation, anything but crime. Seymour sat speechless for a
moment, waiting for some sign of the feeling his story had excited.
“I am so sorry—so sorry,” said the boy, drawing a deep breath.
“And hereafter you will hate me,” answered the young man, in a voice so
mournful that it brought tears into the lad’s eyes.
“No, no; it makes me sad. I love you better than ever, but with a
trouble in it.”
“Dear, dear boy! But I have not told you all.”
Brian shuddered. He thought some deeper crime would be in the next
words.
“Do not shake so, boy; I cannot bear to make you suffer. What I have
more to say is this. The man I supposed dead is alive and in this
country.”
Brian started, and grasping Seymour’s arm, looked wildly in his face.
“Then you are in danger, sir?”
“Yes, great danger; that is why our happy home was broken up. I dared
not face the man I had so wronged; for _her_ sake, I fled like a coward;
for her sake, I have come back again. Her letters have not reached me. I
find this house desolate; for we lived here, Brian, so happy—so happy!
That man is in the very neighborhood with her. What if she knows the
truth?”
“If she loves you there will be pity and forgiveness.”
“But a consciousness of shame and disgrace. My proud, beautiful angel, I
would rather die than see scorn on her lips.”
“But this gentleman is brave, you say—generous, kind. Go to him.”
“Heavens! I cannot do that! One glance of his eye would kill me!”
“I would do it,” said Brian, gently. “Indeed I would.”
“If I had used none of the money—if I could replace it—that would be
possible. Indeed I have thought of it, but I have already spent three
thousand dollars.”
Brian was thoughtful a moment. Then he started to his feet.
“But the lady—she is rich. Ask her for these three thousand dollars.”
“She would give it to me if I dared but ask. Still, what reason can I
urge for wanting it? She knows that I have this money.”
“Tell her the truth!”
“Boy, boy, I would die first!”
“Oh! if I only had so much money!”
“You would give it to me, I know; but for a friendless unknown man to
raise even three thousand dollars is impossible. In a wild hope that it
might be done, I sold my horses and all the valuables in my possession.
Everything has been turned into money, but that is all I can do.”
Brian sat down again and laid both hands on Seymour’s arm.
“Let me try and help you?”
“You, Brian?”
The young man looked into the boy’s face, which was singularly pale and
earnest in the moonlight. Then, in a voice that trembled with tender
gratitude, he said:
“If you only could! If you only could!”
“Even a boy like me can try.”
“How much this is like your father, Brian.”
“Yes, yes, I remember. The other terrible thing drove it out of my mind,
but you have seen my father.”
“Brian, he was my father, as well as yours. I was his eldest son.”
With a wail of such exquisite pain and pleasure as goes well nigh to
break a young heart, Brian threw both arms around his brother’s neck,
sobbed out some inarticulate words, and lay still as death upon his
bosom. The boy had fainted.
CHAPTER XLVII.
LISTENING AND PLOTTING.
The moment Cora returned home, she sent a note to Clarence Brooks,
challenging him to ride that afternoon as some compensation for the one
she had so unexpectedly deprived him of. With all her anxiety this
strange being had been restless with a feverish desire to see Brooks and
hear more distinctly than he had yet spoken the wishes that she believed
burning in his heart. Throwing off her travelling dress, she put on her
habit, and, ordering Blackbird to be saddled, was ready to start long
before the man returned with her note unopened.
“Mr. Brooks had gone out to ride early in the afternoon,” the people at
the hotel told him.
“What road?” she asked.
The man believed it was the river road. At first they were not quite
certain that he had not taken his usual walk up the ravine.
“Up the ravine. What ravine?”
“That in which the pretty log cabin stood. Mr. Brooks spent a great deal
of time up there, chestnuting and making pictures on scraps of paper.
But he wasn’t doing anything of the kind this afternoon, for one of the
boys had seen him riding across the little plank bridge below the
railway.”
A wild, fierce pang shot into that woman’s bad heart. She knew that
Virginia made frequent visits to the ravine, and her suspicions took
fire at once. She turned her stormy face on the man and pointed sternly
with her whip toward the stables.
“Go tell Joshua Hurd to bring my horse out at once.”
The man obeyed, and five minutes after his mistress was galloping up the
river road with fire in her heart and a hot red on her cheeks. She had
ridden perhaps three miles in this way, when a rise in the ground gave
her command of a cross road which led through a maple grove on the
right. With a sudden jerk of the bridle, she checked her horse, and a
spasm of pain closed the teeth upon her lips, which grew white under the
pressure.
This was what she saw—a black and a white horse drawn close together
under a huge maple tree, which was raining its golden leaves all around
them—a gentleman stooping toward a tall, slender girl, who wore a
riding-dress almost exactly like her own. These two persons seemed to be
talking earnestly, but after a few moments they prepared to move on.
There was something wrong about the lady’s bridle, evidently, for the
gentleman dismounted to arrange it, and snatching the hand which was
extended to receive the reins from his, pressed it to his lips more than
once. Cora not only saw this, but she observed that there was no glove
upon that hand, for the lady drew on her gauntlet as she rode along.
Fierce as war, and hard as iron, that woman wheeled her horse slowly
around and rode home. She made no remark, and avoided all questions, but
seated herself by a window—massing the curtains into a safe
concealment—and waited till her cousin should appear.
Virginia came at last, walking her horse up the carriage drive; she
stooped forward more than once and patted the pretty animal’s neck, as
if, in the supreme contentment of her heart, she must caress something.
Cora remarked the bloom of happiness in her face and the cheerful leap
with which she sprang from her horse. The sight was poison to her.
Ellen met Virginia at the door of their parlor, looking anxious and
disturbed.
“She has come—Miss Cora is in the house,” she said, as if announcing
some great calamity.
Virginia laughed. What had the beloved of Clarence Brooks to hope or
fear from Cora Lander? Let her come and go as she pleased; a little time
would separate them forever. But there was one thing she was anxious
about. Could Eunice be persuaded to let them have the tray sent up a
little earlier? The ride had given her an appetite, and then she had
promised to bring Ellen to this little cataract—it was a shame to call
it a cascade—to watch the sun set. There was a pile of clouds in the
west, which would fire up beautifully.
Ellen undertook to propitiate Eunice, with whom she had become a great
favorite, and Virginia, after taking off her habit, nestled herself into
an easy chair and fell to dreaming, as innocent girls will when love
throws a rosy bloom into the atmosphere around them.
The promise held out by that embankment of clouds was brilliantly kept;
floods of rosy light floated through them, touched at the edges with
fringes of living flames; opaline seas and lakes of amber hue broke out
from their depths, surrounded by embankments of living gold, flashes of
green and purple shot in here and there, as if the angels had got tired
of weaving rainbows and flung their overplus of colors into one gorgeous
sunset. As usual, Ellen wandered off by herself and drank in the glory
of the scene with thrills of such delight as genius alone can feel. Even
those two lovers, happy and refined as they were, failed to reach the
exquisite pleasure that stirred her heart.
When did sunset or landscape ever draw two lovers out of their own lives
for any length of time? Before those noble colors had begun to melt into
that soft purple which precedes the night, the young couple had become,
as usual, absorbed in each other. They spoke of their loves—of the
bright future which lay before them—of the long, long life in which they
were never to be parted.
“It seems too blessed; sometimes I am frightened lest all this should
fade away,” murmured Virginia as she saw that vivid tumult of colors
melt tint by tint into a soft purplish blackness. “What if it should all
break up like that?”
“The heavens themselves shall pass away first,” said Brooks, with
solemnity. “The man or woman does not live that could separate us.”
A rustling of dead leaves, as if a sudden wind were whirling them up
from some hollow, followed these words and out from behind the rock
against which they sat started a tall figure, wrapped in a large blanket
shawl.
Brooks heard this sound of whirling leaves and wrapped Virginia’s cloak
more closely around her.
“The wind seems to be rising,” he said. “I must not keep you out in the
cold.”
She thanked him with a smile, and, all unmindful of the evil thing that
had crept so near them, they went down the ravine together for the last
time.
The next day it rained heavily, and with the rain came a high wind,
which swept the woods of all their foliage and filled the air with
whirling leaves. It was a sad, gloomy day, such as only the late autumn
can bring, and no human being, save those compelled to brave the storm,
thought of venturing out of doors. This gloomy weather answered to the
dark thoughts in Cora’s mind, as nature sometimes will aid evil
passions. The woman had not closed her eyes all night—had not even
undressed herself or gone to bed. Wrapped in the dull red of that great
shawl, which had so well covered her movements among the perishing
leaves, she huddled herself in a corner of her silken couch, and sat
there like some wild animal waiting for its prey—fierce, watchful,
poisoned with bitter thought—till the dawn looked in upon her. Then she
arose and stood before the mirror, breathing heavily, as if, soul and
body, she had been laboring in some oppressive atmosphere.
“It is well this rain has given me a few hours to myself,” she said,
looking at the haggard face that seemed to threaten her from the glass.
“I must have time to get smiles and color back to that miserable face.
So beautiful as it was, and yet fail to keep that one man. What was
nature doing, to match her features with mine? To make her slender,
lithe, graceful as I am? It is like rivalling one’s self if it were not
for this and this.”
Cora touched her heart and her forehead, while a look of triumph swept
over the pallor of her face, changing it so that its resemblance to
Virginia’s almost entirely disappeared. She had so many secrets, preying
upon her like vampyres, that it was a relief to lock herself in that
room and talk to her own image in the glass, or answer to the thoughts
that haunted her through the darkness when she could not sleep. This
expression of feelings which she dared not expose to any human being was
like letting in fresh air on a poisonous atmosphere. It became a relief
and habit to her at last.
“This quick intellect, this fiery heart—that tact which some people
might spend a life time and never learn—she will no more acquire than
she will get back the property I am enjoying. After all, compared to
these advantages, beauty is a small thing, well enough in its way, but
one could afford to dispense with it. Still, in a contest like this,
everything counts.”
Thus this young woman gave forth her wicked thoughts, that were echoed
back by her own heart only as rocky solitudes receive sound. She had
formed her plans during the night, and began to work them out at once.
Opening her door softly, she stole down a long passage leading to that
end of the house where Virginia’s apartments lay. These were composed of
two sleeping rooms and a small parlor, which Eunice had insisted on
arranging for her occupation. Since her plain talk with Cora, this
hard-faced woman had exercised her own will in the house with more
despotism than she had ever used when Mrs. Lander was mistress. She
seemed to take a pleasure in defying the person who had once attempted
to drive her from the house. This defiance was most generally exhibited
in some act of devotion to Virginia or Ellen, whose noble character had
made itself felt even by her rough nature. She saw that it offended Cora
to have this unfortunate girl recognized by the servants as their
superior, and exalted her accordingly. The other retainers followed the
housekeeper’s example, and no person in that mansion was treated kinder
or respected more than Ellen Nolan.
Towards the rooms thus independently appropriated by her cousin, Cora
made her stealthy way. She remembered that a narrow passage connected
one of these rooms with the chamber that Amos Lander had formerly
occupied, and which had been shut up since his death. Did this passage
lead to Virginia’s sitting-room or had her sleeping chamber been
arranged next that of her father? This was a question she had stolen
forth in the early morning to satisfy herself upon. Treading softly, and
holding her breath, she paused by a door, which might lead into
Virginia’s sitting-room, or, quite as likely, into the chamber where she
lay sleeping. With a silken touch, she turned the silver knob and
cautiously opened the door just far enough to look in. With a sense of
relief, she saw that it was unoccupied and evidently used as a parlor. A
piano stood opposite the door, which she knew to have been removed from
the drawing room to give space for the grand instrument Mrs. Lander had
ordered during her brief season of extravagance. Books lay upon the
tables, flowers drooped in the vases. Standing against the door, which
Cora surveyed with eager scrutiny, was a desk, littered with
manuscripts, some of which had fallen to the floor.
Cora advanced on tiptoe and took up one of those loose sheets. They were
not in Virginia’s handwriting—nothing of her graceful elegance was
there. The manuscript was hasty, erased, interlined and blotted as if a
hand, stirred by strong feelings, had seized upon the pen in a passion
of thought, and left almost illegible traces on the foolscap.
“Why, has that crooked thing turned author?” she thought. “I should not
wonder, there was always something of that kind in her eyes.”
She let the paper flutter down from her hand, observed that the door
against which the desk stood opened inward, and was thus blocked up. She
was going out with another sweeping survey of the room, when her eyes
fell on an object which made her heart stand still. It was the portrait
of Amos Lander, hanging above the piano—a picture which, up to that
season, had always hung in his office or private study. Struck with awe,
breathless with vague terror, the woman could not turn her eyes from
that face, which seemed to look down upon her in calm confidence that
justice would reach all those evil deeds at last. She strove to wrest
her eyes from the glance that held them, but could not, and walked
backward, holding her breath, till she reached the door. She closed this
and fled along the passage, seeking shelter from that face in her own
room.
Some weeks before this, duplicate keys of all the rooms in the house had
been brought to her, for she had begun with an elaborate display of
housekeeping, which was an unforgivable cause of offence with Eunice
Hurd. These keys she now searched over, and taking out the one which
unlocked Mrs. Lander’s chamber, put it in her pocket.
By this time the household was astir, and she commenced her morning
toilet, touching her cheeks with rouge for the first time in her life,
for that picture had driven the last vestige of color away from them,
and no effort of hers could bring it back again.
“They shall not see how haggard I am,” she muttered, sweeping the rich
hair back from her temples and coiling it on the back of her head. “If I
could get ten minutes’ sleep now. But that is hopeless. I can understand
how Lady Macbeth felt when she prayed for sleep and only found dreams.
But dreams that come when you are wide awake, as I was last night, are
the worst of all when you are forced to work them out. Right or
wrong—right or wrong I will accomplish mine.”
Cora met Mrs. Lander at breakfast, as had become her habit of late, with
those hollow expressions of affection which appease rather than satisfy
a loving heart. She went into an elaborate detail of the dresses which
she had seen in progress; suggested more expensive trimmings for some,
and took an interest in the whole affair that charmed her mother into a
season of absolute forgetfulness of the sin she had committed. While
they still lingered at the breakfast table, a servant came in with
information that a boy had come up from the city on the early train,
with a letter to Miss Lander, which he was directed to give to her in
person.
“It is something from the dressmaker, I fancy,” said Cora, rising with
every appearance of tranquillity from the table. “I told her to leave
the silver gray satin till we sent farther directions. I thought lace
would be lovely for the body and sleeves, but she objected on account of
the mourning.”
“I’m afraid, dear,” said Mrs. Lander, “that the dressmaker was right.
Even satin may be considered an innovation. Dead silk is really the
thing. I am _so_ sorry, but we must give up the lace. People are so
censorious you know. Plain, with pipings of black, was what I had
settled on. But I will see Fanchon’s messenger.”
“That will do no good; just write your directions and send the note down
to me. I will add all that is necessary. She has my general orders to
make everything as beautiful as possible and spare no expense.”
“What a dear, kind, liberal creature you are—no mother ever had a more
generous child.”
“Dear aunt, have you not always been treated exactly as if I were your
own child? I’m sure it was my father’s wish.”
Cora looked steadily into her mother’s eyes as she said this, and walked
quietly out of the room. There was no danger that the widow would follow
her after this covert rebuke.
Cora found, as she expected, Brian Nolan waiting in a small reception
room which opened from the library. She had never seen this lad but
once, and that was at the hotel the day after her arrival in New York.
She took the letter that he gave her and looked at the address, which
was a simple name, with some evidence of surprise.
“This is for my cousin,” she said, “I will take it to her. Wait for the
answer here.”
“If you please, there is a young person living here that I should like
to speak with,” said Brian, glad to have accomplished his task so
easily. “Her name is Ellen—Ellen Nolan.”
“She shall be sent for at once.”
Cora rang the bell and told a servant to inform Ellen Nolan that a
person from the city wished to speak with her. Then she left the room
with a quiet, leisurely air, as if the paper in her hand could be of no
possible consequence, though it was making her tremble from head to
foot.
“I wonder if his wife is so very handsome,” thought Brian, watching her
as she moved through the library. “This is the lady Ellen loves so much.
She speaks softly and does not look unkind, but I should hate to ask her
myself. What a slow, proud walk she has.”
Ellen Nolan came like a bird into the room where her brother sat. She
knew that it must be him, for, in all that strange land, there was no
one else who had the slightest interest in her outside of that house.
“O, Brian, Brian, how glad I am!” she cried, throwing her arms around
him, and kissing his hair and mouth and eyes with indiscriminate
affection. “I have so longed for you—so pined and prayed for a sight of
you. Don’t think it strange, dear, if I do act like a crazy thing; in
the wide, wide world you are all I have, except my lady. God forgive me
if, in my joy, I forget her for one moment. O, Brian, she is an angel!”
“I am glad of that,” answered Brian, returning his sister’s embrace with
ardor, and giving back glad tears in exchange for her kisses, “for I
have a great favor to ask of her. Something that will frighten you at
first.”
“A favor to ask of my lady, Brian?”
“Ellen, I have come to you for help. The best friend I ever knew is in
trouble.”
“What, the good gentleman?”
“Yes, dear. Bend your head; we are alone, but I dare not speak out
loud.”
Ellen bent her head, but, in an instant, started back with a cry of such
wild surprise, that it was clearly heard in the library, where Cora was
reading that letter. She lifted her face and listened.
“What _can_ it be about?” she thought. “Surely he has not entrusted that
boy with our secret.”
She arose white with dread, and, stepping through one of the library
windows, regardless of the drifting rain, which wetted her slippers
through in an instant, softly opened the blinds of another window, over
which she remembered the silken drapery of a curtain was falling loose.
The reception room had been occupied late the evening before, and the
curtain let down, to shut out all sounds of the storm, which was beating
against that side of the house with violence, from which another window,
opening to the west, was protected. No servant had entered the room that
morning. Thus it remained, with the drapery sweeping over one window and
looped back from the other.
Taking advantage of a gust of wind, that came sweeping around the house
that moment, Cora softly pushed the unfastened sashes back to the places
made to receive them, on each side of the deep recess, and, drawing the
blinds after her, sat down on an ottoman, which always occupied the
space shut in by the curtains. In this position she heard all that Brian
Nolan had to tell his sister, except those words which he could only
force himself to utter in a whisper. This much, however, she did learn.
Seymour was making strenuous efforts to repay the money he had taken,
and Virginia was to be importuned in his behalf. Out of this came
glorious materials for the web her crafty mind was weaving. If she could
only bring Seymour and her cousin once into companionship, the task she
had imposed on herself would be of easy accomplishment.
Brian kept his benefactor’s secret well. Not even to his own sister
would he whisper the secret which had been entrusted to himself alone.
That which related to himself, Seymour had permitted him to tell their
sister Ellen, who sat listening, half in joy, half in bitter grief, but
the words of her father still whispering in her heart. He was her
brother—with all his faults he was her brother! He had been so kind to
Brian, who came to him miserable and utterly unknown. There must be some
nobility of heart in a man who could be so generous to a helpless fellow
creature. She would see him, help him, toil for him, if the way could be
pointed out.
Brian told her of his hopes that her friend and mistress might be
induced to let their brother have the money, which would save him from
eternal degradation.
Ellen shook her head. “Her mistress was not the rich one; she had the
heart of an angel, but—”
Here Ellen paused, sprang up, and clasped her hands with passionate
force.
“Oh! it might be—it might be! God grant it! That would, indeed, prove
the happiest moment of her life. Brian must not ask her what it was yet;
but she had hopes. Only wait a little, and she would soon test her
ability.”
All this was incoherent enough; but there was something so earnest and
hopeful in all the girl said and did that Brian had that faith in her
which singleness of purpose always inspires.
“You will ask this good lady to help us, Ellen,” he said; “we are so
friendless that no chance must be neglected. If you only knew how he
suffers.”
“But he shall not suffer long. This will be working out my father’s
wishes. O, Brian, he loved his prodigal devotedly!”
“I know it, Ellen; but love for a man like that is so natural. It seems
to me that he is younger than I am—as if you and I must be strong for
him.”
“I remember him, Brian. His face was beautiful. His eyes—yes—yes—his
eyes are like our father’s, so deep, so mournfully deep.”
The listener in that window heard nothing of this. Having mastered the
substance of their conversation, and discovered their object, she left
these affectionate nothings to their speakers, and, opening the letter
which Seymour had sent her, began to read it by the bars of light that
fell through the shutters.
“My wife, my own beloved wife,” it began—“I am here in the house, which
was our Paradise, but now seems deserted. Without you, every place is
like a desert to me. With you, I desire no better heaven. Come to me, my
beloved. Do you know that it is weeks and weeks since I bade you
farewell in this room, with your dear head on my bosom, and your
trembling lips pressed to mine? That was a moment of anguish
unutterable; but, compared to this dull waiting, and the baffled
expectation that tortures me, whenever the gate opens, or a carriage
turns the corner, it was happiness, for you were with me. I know it is
very foolish, but sometimes a fear comes upon me that—No! I will not put
into language the apprehensions that harass me. Your presence will drive
them away, as sunshine turns the blackest clouds into embankments of
luminous snow. Did the woman tell you that I had returned? I am sure she
must have forgotten it, or I should not now be sitting among our
‘household gods’ alone. But you will get this. I send it by one who is
trustworthy, and who loves me. Give him a few gentle words for my sake.
Above all, give him an answer to this. Tell me what hour and minute I
may hope for you!
ALFRED.”
Cora read this letter from beginning to end, without a quickened breath
or a flush of the face. She had prepared herself for anything he might
say, and no granite was ever harder than the heart which beat in that
young bosom.
“Let these young fools talk out their dreams. I have the pith of all
they know or intend,” she said, inly. “Innocent as lambs they will be
working for me. I cannot exactly see how as yet; but this brain is ready
to mould events.”
She moved from her place of concealment, closing the blinds carefully
behind her as she went out, leaving wet footsteps on the marble pavement
in her progress.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
HOPES OF REDEMPTION.
When once in her own room, Cora Lander read Seymour’s letter again,
pondered over it darkly for a time, then threw it on her desk with a
burst of sudden animation.
“I have it—I have it,” she said, aloud. “We must have no quarrelling, no
reproaches—that pleasure I must forego. It will rack me, but a love like
his is not to be trifled with. This man, if I turn upon him, may prove
dangerous; despair is always powerful. The strong man who has nothing to
lose becomes a giant.”
She sat down and began to write, taking a letter from her desk and
laying it before her, which she examined carefully from time to time as
she proceeded. This was what the letter said:
“MY OWN:—I am afraid to leave home just yet, for reasons which I will
explain when we meet. About five miles from this, on a cross road
leading from the river, is a long stone building, which you will
recognize by the sign as a country inn. You will know it by a grove of
maples, through which the highway leads a mile or so after you leave the
river. It may be dangerous and difficult, but I will certainly meet you
at this place to-morrow evening.”
Here Cora made an effort to give something of her old passionate
tenderness to the note, but her hand refused the task, and she added:
“I dare not use the language this heart prompts, lest it fall into hands
that might make an evil use of it; but in all things believe me
unchanged and unchangeable as when we met so often at the log cabin. Do
not, I pray you, venture there again, it is dangerous.
V. C. L.”
Cora compared this note carefully with the open letter she had laid on
the desk, and which seemed to have been written long ago, for it bore a
foreign post-mark and was worn about the edges. The handwriting was that
of Virginia Lander, and that of the note was almost a _fac simile_.
This note Cora locked in her desk, hastily writing another in her own
natural chirography, which she placed in an envelope and left without
address.
When all this was done, she put the note in her pocket and opened the
door of her chamber, knowing that Ellen must pass by it on her way to
Virginia’s apartments.
She had not long to wait; Ellen came along the hall, walking quickly,
and apparently much excited. The moment she was gone, Cora went down
stairs and gave her note to Brian, who was looking out of the window in
order to conceal the traces of tears that stained his face.
“My cousin desires me to say that she wishes you to be careful of this.
Upon my word she has forgotten the address, but no matter, you will know
how to deliver it, I suppose.”
Brian took the letter from Cora’s hand. For a moment he stood
irresolute, looking wistfully in her face.
“Ellen is my sister,” he said. “Thank you very much for being so kind to
her.”
Cora smiled blandly.
“Ellen is a good girl; one deserves no credit for being kind to her,”
she said.
“She will ask a great favor of you before long, lady—a very great favor.
Do not refuse her—it will break a kind heart if you should.”
“She need not fear that I shall refuse any reasonable request.”
“But it may seem unreasonable.”
“Well, even then you may be sure that it will be kindly considered.”
Brian looked into her face; brightening with hope, he took her hand and
touched it reverently with his lips.
“Lady, I thank you!”
That moment a railroad whistle seemed shrieking for Brian to be in
haste. He snatched his cap and was gone in an instant.
“If it were another cause and for another person, I would give the money
he asks, if it were only to see his face light up so pleasantly. How
that man makes everybody love him! How I loved him once!—No, no, that
was not love; but such delusions take the bloom off a woman’s life. I
almost wish it could have lasted.”
Cora smiled in calm scorn of her own thoughts as they turned to Clarence
Brooks, with his grand presence and self-centred manliness. She asked
herself if the same woman could have loved two men so opposite—one so
inferior. Yet this one was her husband. All at once she remembered that
Ellen would be opening her heart to Virginia just then, and it was
important that she should know exactly what passed between them. Ten
minutes after, she was in the passage between Virginia’s parlor and the
room that had been Amos Lander’s sleeping chamber.
Ellen Nolan was seated at the desk, which, as I have said, stood across
the door. She was busy gathering together the sheets of manuscript that
lay upon the desk and had fallen over the carpet.
Cora remembered that a pile of books lay on the desk in front of the
keyhole, and fearlessly pushed back the porcelain shield which guarded
it, thus letting in every word that could be uttered in the room. She
could hear Ellen’s quick breath distinctly as it came in eager gasps
from her lips while the manuscript rustled like dead leaves in her hand.
Then she heard Virginia’s voice; she had just entered the room from an
inner chamber, and, seeing her favorite with a red flush about her eyes,
handling her papers with such eager haste, came up to the desk and began
to question her.
“What is the matter, Ellen? What are you doing?”
“Counting the pages, dear lady; thinking how I had best head the
chapters. It is almost done, and I want to sell it at once.”
“But you have no great need of money just yet, Ellen.”
“Oh! yes, I have the greatest possible need. Do you remember, Miss
Lander—”
“Call me Virginia, Ellen.”
“I will! I will! But you remember, I told you of a brother—an elder
brother—whom my father loved so dearly and suffered for.”
“Yes, Ellen, I remember everything about him.”
“Well, Virginia, that brother is in New York; you have seen him.”
“What, I?”
“That splendid man—so handsome, so elegant—Miss Cora spoke to him in the
hall. You remember it?”
“Yes, I remember him; he was very handsome in a certain way.”
Virginia was thinking of Clarence Brooks, and rather resented the idea
of any other man being considered preeminently handsome by a person who
had seen him.
“In every way—at any rate Cora Lander thought so. He was the one who
took compassion on my younger brother. You remember Brian?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Well, this man is my brother; I have a message for him from my father
given to me on the deck of that steamer when the flames were all around
us. That message will be his salvation, I am sure of it. He has fallen
into error and great difficulty again, and is breaking his heart over
it. Oh! Miss Lander—Virginia—I do so want money! They talk about the
misery of slaves, but I would sell myself on a plantation—yes, I
would—to pick cotton for three thousand dollars!”
“Three thousand dollars, Ellen!”
“Yes, that is the exact sum I want. Some writers get thousands on
thousands for a novel. Do you think the men who buy them would give me
three thousand dollars out and out for mine? You shake your head—you
don’t know anything about it. But I read the papers, and they tell of
such prices. After all, Miss Virginia, three thousand dollars isn’t so
very much for one’s soul—for that is really what a book means when it is
worth anything. Dear me, how many tears I have shed, how angry I have
been, how sad and mournful. If people want to buy your thoughts and your
feelings, why—why—oh! Miss Virginia, _do_ you think any one will buy
this book and let me redeem my poor brother? My father loved him so—my
father loved him so!”
Ellen’s head fell forward upon the arms which she threw over the desk,
and her excitement burst into a passion of tears that shook her little
frame like a storm.
“Ellen, dear, dear child!”
Ellen lifted her head and pushed back that splendid hair from her
tearful face.
“You think they will not buy it? Perhaps you think it good for nothing?”
“No, no, Ellen dear, I think nothing of the sort. But the sale of a
book, however good, takes time.”
“I know it, I know it, and he needs the money at once. What can I do?
what can I do?”
“This is what I was thinking of, dear child. I have those pearls and
some diamonds, with the other jewelry that was my mother’s. We will sell
them, raise money on them or something.”
Ellen lifted her head suddenly.
“But those jewels are all you have when we go away from this house.”
“I know it; but we shall not want them. Oh! Ellen, I am provided for so
richly! so richly!”
Virginia’s face was scarlet with innocent shame as the fullness of her
joy broke into words.
“In a few days we shall be married.”
Ellen’s tearful eyes opened wide, and her lips parted with sudden
surprise.
“Are you not glad, Ellen, that it is to be directly?”
One great throe of pain set that generous heart free.
“Glad? yes, I _am_ glad.”
That little frame was shivering all over. The wild eyes filled with a
light so deep and holy that Virginia unconsciously dropped to her knees,
and, drawing down that broad forehead, kissed it almost reverently, she
could not for her life have told why.
“In a few days, you said,” Ellen whispered, holding that fresh young
face between her two shivering hands, looking into it tenderly, and
smiling as noble women alone can smile when their hearts are breaking
up.
“Yes, he will not wait longer. This very day he is coming to tell my
cousin and my aunt. You see how little need I shall have for money.”
“But they were your mother’s jewels.”
“She is an angel now, and knows what I am doing.”
Ellen looked wistfully at her manuscript. She so thirsted to redeem this
fallen brother with her own work! It would be a consecration of the
genius which burned within her.
“You shall do it,” she said, with a heavy sigh.
Virginia understood the feeling of disappointment, which another might
have mistaken for ingratitude.
“It shall be you, after all,” she said. “We will not sell my mother’s
jewels outright, but raise money on them. Such things are done, and we
will find out the way.”
“Then, after my book is published, I can get them back again. Oh! lady,
that mother you love so is not more of an angel than you are!”
The sound of a soft kiss checking the next words was all the answer that
reached the woman listening so intently close by them.
“We will consult him, Ellen.”
“Oh! no—no, that would be to expose my brother!”
“Forgive me, I did not think of that. We must manage this business
alone.”
“Yes, all alone!”
“Still I must see him before we go to the city.”
“And will you go?”
“Certainly. Why not?”
“To him—will you go with me to comfort him?”
“I will go with you anywhere in so holy a cause.”
“I cannot thank you, lady; my heart aches to express its gratitude. But
the words—the words!”
“Hush, dear, it is a great mercy that the means are left to us. But for
you, these jewels would have been swept away with all the rest.”
“That thought was an inspiration from God, I do believe, lady. He knew
that a soul was to be saved, and gave you the means—making three people
happy at once.”
“Oh! if I could make all the world as happy as I am!” said Virginia.
“Shall we go in the morning?” questioned Ellen.
“Yes, in the morning. This terrible storm will not keep him away; I will
send him a note this evening, after he has seen them, saying that I must
go to the city for a day or two. Mr. Stone will help us. I think he is a
good man, Ellen.”
“Oh! lady,” cried Ellen, with a sudden outburst of gratitude “I really
believe the world is made of good people.”
Cora had heard enough and stole back to her chamber, resolved on two
things, not to see Clarence Brooks that day, rain or shine, and to
search Virginia’s rooms thoroughly for the jewels which were to wrest
Seymour from the fatal power she held over him. With the knowledge she
had just gained to work upon, Cora fell to reweaving the crafty details
of a plot which had been forming in her mind, as the web of a spider
grows thread by thread.
Before noon, Clarence Brooks called, and was refused. Mrs. Lander was
ill, the servant said, and Miss Lander was so anxious that she did not
like to leave her aunt’s room.
Brooks was half tempted to ask for Virginia, but remembering her
position in the house, forbore until he should have obtained a right to
see her when and where he pleased. Cora saw him from her window as he
walked down the carriage drive in the rain, with the wind sweeping over
him and almost wrenching the umbrella from his hold.
“Let him struggle!” she said, bitterly. “He will have a harder contest
than that before the week is over.”
That evening Virginia sent her note to Clarence Brooks, informing him of
her intended absence. It was a delicate, modest little note, full of
shyly-worded regrets, and such hints of love were more expressive to a
refined man than any passionate protest could have been.
The difficulty was about obtaining a messenger. In a household of
servants devoted to her cousin, Virginia did not know whom she could
trust. Ellen would have gone, but it was raining harder than ever, and
Virginia would not permit the exposure.
“I will manage it—let me have the note, I will find a safe messenger,”
said Ellen, thinking of Joshua Hurd. She threw a heavy shawl over her
head, slipped her feet into a pair of overshoes, and ran down to the
stables. A light over the carriage-house guided her to Joshua’s room.
She found her way up the narrow staircase and knocked at his door.
CHAPTER XLIX.
JOSHUA HURD PROVES HOSPITABLE AND KIND.
“Come in, if it’s you, Eunice,” said a voice from within, “only don’t go
to pitching in about the whisky; I mean to drink a hot punch every night
of my life—two on ’em—three on ’em—four on ’em, if I’ve a mind to. The
kettle’s on now, I give you fair warning. Come in, if you’ve a mind to,
but none of your tantrums. Josh Hurd is Josh Hurd, and he ain’t to be
trod on.”
“It isn’t Eunice—only me,” said sweet-voiced Ellen, coming into the
room, where Joshua was hard at work, with his coat off, crushing an
unfortunate lemon in a huge wooden squeezer, which he held at arm’s
length, while the juice ran into a tumbler of generous dimensions, in
the bottom of which a liberal supply of sugar was fast melting.
“Wait one minute, till I get the licker mixed and the bilin water turned
in, and then if I don’t show you a punch wuth while for a rainy night,
set me down for a fellow that don’t know what’s what. This ’ere punch
will be a sneezer, now I tell ye, Miss Ellen. But hitch your chair up to
the stove; no need to be afeared of the tea kittle; I’m going to take
that off right away. Golly, don’t it steam up splendid!”
Ellen sat down by the little stove, on which a small iron tea kettle was
puffing steam from its nozzle with great commotion, and watched Joshua
compound his punch with considerable interest. Like the bird that has a
nest to build, a mind like hers is forever gathering up materials, rude
or beautiful, as circumstance or nature presents them. So Ellen warmed
her feet by the stove and looked on, smiling, while Joshua brewed his
punch with as much pride as some artists feel in composing a picture.
When the punch was complete, all but the water, Joshua took the kettle
in one hand, a spoon in the other, and stirred his beverage into
perfection, tasting it from time to time from the spoon, fearful of
getting in too much water. At last he took a spoonful in his mouth, held
it there, deliberated over it, and swallowed it at once with a sigh of
infinite satisfaction; then he exclaimed, exultantly: “That _is_ punch!”
with a nod of the head that seemed to be intended for the tea kettle,
which was fast subsiding from a rampant little humbug of a steam engine
into a harmless shell of iron; for the steam had concentrated itself
into a single drop of water, which trembled meekly on the end of the
nozzle, as if afraid to fall at the moment of Joshua’s triumphant
exclamation.
Then Joshua went to a cupboard, devoted to bridles and small articles of
horse furniture in its lower compartment, and in the upper part to such
odds and ends of crockery as he had been enabled to pick up in the
kitchen. From this miscellaneous assortment, he brought forth a pretty
amber-hued glass, with a frost-like pattern of grape-leaves cut around
it, but broken off at the stem. This he filled with punch from his own
tumbler and presented to Ellen, tasting it with a delicate sip on his
way from the table to the stove.
Ellen took the glass and tasted the hot punch, while Joshua stood
rubbing his huge hands, delighted.
“Isn’t that the clear stuff, now?” he said. “Lifts ye right out of your
bo—yer Ingin rubbers, now don’t it?”
“Isn’t it a little—just a little strong, Mr. Hurd?” Ellen suggested,
strangling in spite of herself.
“Strong!” exclaimed Joshua, in supreme contempt. “Strong! why a nussing
baby could drink that and think it was fennel-seed tea. Strong!”
“Perhaps it was from being so hot,” said Ellen, coughing the next
strangle down resolutely.
“Well, mebby! that tea kettle does spout the hottest I ever saw—blow it
and shake it up a little, and you’ll find it scrumptious enough. There’s
one good thing about boiling water, it will cool off, and then the
whisky comes uppermost.”
Ellen followed his directions, and at last managed to empty the tiny
glass, which, being without bottom, she was unable to set down.
“Have another?” said Joshua, reaching out one hand while he lifted the
tumbler to his lips with the other. “Speak right up, if yer do, for the
supply’ll give out mighty soon.”
“No more, Mr. Hurd. It’s as nice as can be, but my head isn’t used to
it, you know.”
“Nice! why of course it’s nice! Didn’t I wash the spoon and glasses
myself? But if you won’t take any more, here goes.”
Joshua emptied his tumbler and set it down with a deep, deep breath.
Then he drew a chair close to the stove.
“Now what is it yer want of me, Miss Ellen?” he said, confidentially.
“Whatever it is, I’ll do it, for if there’s a gal on arth that I set
store by, it’s you. Next to the hosses, Miss Ellen, I’d do more for you
than anybody, not to say our Eunice. She thinks you’re awful smart, and
I usuerly think as she does. Now what is it yer want?”
“I want you to carry a letter down to Mr. Clarence Brooks and bring an
answer back, if there is one, without saying a word about it.”
“Your letter? ’Cause if it is, I won’t do it, nor tech it. That proud
chap’ed only make fun of you if I did.”
“I know it, Joshua,” answered Ellen, sadly; “I shall never write letters
to gentlemen, like other girls. No one will ever ridicule such things in
me!”
“I should like to see ’em try it!” exclaimed Joshua, clenching his huge
hands. “But if the letter ain’t from you, who’s it from?”
“I will tell you, Joshua; but, remember, it is a secret between us. Miss
Virginia wishes to send this note.”
Joshua unclenched his fist and uttered a low whistle.
“What, both on ’em—both on ’em!” he exclaimed. “But I’ll do that for
her, or anything else. Hand over the letter.”
Ellen placed the note in his hand.
“You’ll want an answer—I’d better not bring it into the house; jest you
stay here till I come back.”
Ellen promised to wait where she was till he returned. Joshua put on his
cap, wrapped an india rubber horse-blanket around him and went down
stairs. Ellen, being left alone in the room, fell into thought which was
only interrupted by the storm, which pelted against the windows and
absolutely raved among the tall elms that overhung the stables. All at
once she started up; a thought had come into her head which threatened
to destroy all her hopes for the morrow. The jewels which were to redeem
her brother had been left in Virginia’s room when Cora Lander took
possession of it. How were they to be obtained? Cora always locked the
door leading to her suite of rooms when she left them, if it was only
for an hour.
This thought, added to the gloom of the place and hour, completed the
feeling of depression that had for some time been creeping over her. She
was sad, too, from other causes. It was hard to feel that she—so full of
thought, young, talented and rich with feelings that few women ever
possessed—should be shut out of all the sweet hopes that were making
Virginia’s life so bright. Joshua’s speech, rude and uncouth as he was,
had wounded her deeply. She could not drive it from her mind.
Ellen arose from her chair and began walking up and down the room.
Sometimes, she paused to look out upon the storm, which beat heavily
against the windows. It seemed to her that Joshua had been gone a long
time; she listened for his footsteps on the stairs, and peered
impatiently from the window. Once she thought that he was stumbling up
stairs, and opened the door to listen. It was the horses stamping in
their stalls, and she went back disappointed.
At length footsteps plainly sounded from the room below—they mounted the
stairs and paused. Ellen flung the door open to give Joshua light, and
found herself face to face with Eunice Hurd, who strode into the room
flushed red with surprise.
“What on arth brought you here?” she demanded.
“I—I came to see Joshua Hurd,” faltered Ellen.
“Came to see our Josh, what for, I want to know?”
“I wanted him to go a little errand for me.”
“For you—a rainy night like this—well, I never did! Where has he gone
to? What has he gone after?”
Here Eunice began to sniff suspiciously. A new idea had come into her
head.
“Isn’t that a smell of licker? If this isn’t a lemon-squeezer, I don’t
know what is. What on arth—”
Here Eunice thrust her long forefinger into the tumbler, and scooping
out some sugar from the bottom, tasted it.
“Licker, and strong as Jehu—if he was strong, which it ain’t no proof of
because he driv hard. This ere tea kettle, too, hooked out of the
kitchen! That feller has hot drinks here every night of his life, I’ll
take my Bible oath. Have you seen him a doin ’on it?”
“I’m afraid I have done worse than that. He gave me a little, and I
drank it.”
“You did!”
“Yes, he was very earnest about it, and—and—”
Eunice had drawn her chair in front of the stove and planted her feet on
the hearth.
“Now tell me, Ellen Nolan—honestly—does that critter know enough to make
a decent punch?”
“Oh, Joshua knows enough for that and a good many other things.”
“Now, do you think so? Josh is a good soul as ever lived.”
“He is indeed; but, Miss Eunice, I want to ask a great favor of you.”
“Well, what is it?” asked Eunice, drawing close to the stove and lifting
the skirt of her dress a little, that the genial heat might fall on her
ankles, a sure sign of good humor with her.
“Miss Eunice, there is something in Miss Cora’s room that I want.”
“Well, what is it?”
“In the recess is an ottoman, something that has strayed into the room,
for it does not match the furniture. May we have it in our parlor? I do
not suppose she will miss it, or care if she does.”
Eunice turned her face square on the hesitating girl, and searched her
through and through with those scintillating eyes.
“Ellen Nolan, you are asking one thing and meaning another.”
“I know it, Eunice; but that is all I want.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“I cannot, Miss Eunice. It is my young lady’s affair.”
Eunice turned round and planted her feet on the floor with emphasis.
“Ellen Nolan, you may believe it or not, but Miss Virginia Lander
hasn’t, on this arth, better friends than I and Josh are to her. If we
could do what we want to, she would be—no matter, I’m ready to help her
do anything that won’t hurt Mrs. Lander.”
“This will hurt no one.”
“Tell me what it is? Trust me—you may. I’m bitter as gall sometimes, but
I’d amost lay down my life for that poor gal.”
Tears actually came into those changeable eyes. The bony hands which
Eunice clasped around her knees shook visibly.
“I _will_ tell,” said Ellen, feeling how sincere the woman was. “When we
were in those rooms, the first day we came here, Miss Virginia hid her
mother’s jewels in that ottoman. It is hollow, and closes with a
spring.”
Eunice burst into a chuckling laugh.
“That’s where they was, is it? _She_ knew about them, and has searched
all the desks and drawers over and over agin. She seemed to hanker arter
them pearls more than anything. So she hid ’em—I wouldn’t a thought so
much cuteness was in the innocent critter. Only this very night ’tother
one was after me to know if I hadn’t seen ’em somewhere about among her
things. She’s jest crazy to get hold on ’em.”
“But you will never permit it, Eunice?”
“Permit it! I’d see her in—in Jehosaphat fust!”
“But how can we get them out of her room?”
“Wait till to-morrow, and I’ll do it. If she keeps keys, well I have to
have ’em too.”
Ellen threw both arms around the old maid’s neck and kissed her on the
lips. A grim smile stole over that hard mouth.
“I ain’t much used ter kissing,” she said, and her harsh voice broke a
little, “but sometimes it is a refreshment, ain’t it?”
The loneliness that spoke out in these words touched Ellen to the heart.
“I am so glad I trusted you,” she said.
“You might a done it always—I meant to have helped that poor gal—for
Josh and I knew how it was—and thought I had it all worked out, but that
young sarpent was too much for me. The time may come yit. It’s only on
account of Mrs. Lander that I have grit my teeth and kept in. She’s jest
as near to me as Miss Virginia is to you, and that critter has almost
killed her. She began to domineer over her as if she’d been a nigger
slave driver, and Mrs. Eliza Lander her personal property. But I told
her a thing or two and scared her out of that. She’s afraid of me now, I
tell you. If it hadn’t been for that, Miss Virginia would a suffered
more en you ever dreamed on; she’d a been in an insane asylum now. It’s
the gospel truth I’m telling you.”
“I believe it. Miss Virginia knows how often you have befriended her.”
“She don’t know, and she can’t know how hard it is for me to do more or
not to do more. If it wasn’t for Eliza Lander—well, well, that young imp
of Satan has got the better of us all—tied us up by the heart. I ain’t a
religious pusson, Ellen Nolan, and I’ve done some things that I’m awful
sorry for, not meaning to do anybody one mite of harm, but I’d no more
change places with that splendid cretur than I would with a rattlesnake
carrying a string of rattles that long. I hate the sight of her, and so
does Joshua.”
Here Joshua came in, dripping wet. He stopped a moment on the threshold,
astonished to find Eunice there and embarrassed about the letter, but
Ellen spoke to him at once.
“Did you find Mr. Brooks?—have you brought any answer?”
Joshua took a note from his vest pocket and gave it to her.
“It is for my young mistress,” she said, addressing Eunice. “We are
going to New York just as soon as you can help us about what we were
talking of, and after that we shall have some good news to tell you.”
“What—she hasn’t found any new evidence? That Brooks ain’t a lawyer nor
nothing, that’s going to take up her case, is he? If that’s so, I must
have her word—no, she must take her affidavit on it—that she’ll be a
better child to Mrs. Lander than that critter has ever been. If she’ll
take her Bible oath to that, I’ll do my best to help her, and so will
Joshua Hurd; I’ll answer for him.”
“And he’ll answer for himself,” said Joshua, seating himself on the
table and pushing the tumbler behind him, fully believing that Eunice
had not seen it.
“You needn’t push it away, brother Joshua, I know what’s been in it.”
Brother Joshua! What was the world coming to? Such words of endearment
had not met the man’s ears for so long a time that he could not remember
back to them.
“Joshua?”
“Well, Eunice?”
“Is there any hot water in the tea kettle?”
“I—I don’t know, Eunice.”
“Is there any licker in that long bottle there?”
“Well, Eunice, I—I—shouldn’t wonder!”
“Lemon and sugar?”
“I sometimes make a glass of hot lemonade before I go to bed on rainy
nights like this, and try to keep them things handy.”
“Joshua, make me a glass of that hot lemonade, exactly as you have made
it once afore to-night; I feel kinder chilly, Joshua.”
“Jest?” asked Joshua, looking wistfully at the table.
“Jest,” answered Eunice.
Joshua made the lemonade, and the brother and sister sat a long time
with their feet on the stove hearth talking in low voices to each other.
Ellen went away just as the kettle was put on the stove again, and
Eunice called after her not to fear about the otterman, she would attend
to that.
When Virginia received her note, she hurried off to her bed-chamber and
read it on her knees by the little shaded lamp, that seemed to fill the
room with moonlight. It was very short, but she read it over and over
again, leaving half-a-dozen kisses on the signature and sleeping with it
in her bosom that night.
CHAPTER L.
THE FALSE STORY AND THE FORGED LETTER.
Early in the morning, Cora sent a note to Clarence Brooks, full of
regrets that she had not been able to receive him the day before. Her
aunt was better, she said, and she wished very much to see Mr. Brooks as
soon as possible. An affair, which she could not speak of except to a
very particular friend, who had been her father’s friend also, was
troubling her greatly; indeed, it had been the cause of her aunt’s
illness. Would Mr. Brooks come prepared to give her his most serious
attention and some little sympathy? She was so young, the trouble that
had come upon her seemed worse than it might appear to his experienced
judgment.
In reply to this letter, Mr. Brooks wrote that he had intended to call
that day, and would be most happy to give her aid or counsel in any
difficulty which beset her. Indeed, as the daughter of his old friend,
he had an especial interest in her tranquillity and welfare which no
time or circumstance could destroy. He only hoped that it would prove
his good fortune to remove any little unpleasantness that had for a
moment distressed her.
Cora read the letter eagerly.
“That is well,” she muttered; “before night he shall share my troubles,
I will pledge myself to that. If my sweet cousin will only oblige me by
going out now, she will serve a double purpose; I must find those
jewels. Where can she keep them? Not a drawer, wardrobe or desk that I
have not searched. If she once gets the money for that wretch I am lost.
Let me think; a sharp intellect and prompt action might turn even that
to account. If one could only be in two places at once now. In her
conversation with that little hunchback she will be sure to betray the
hiding-place of those jewels, but I cannot spend my time there. He might
call at any minute.”
Brooks did not call till afternoon, when Cora went down to receive him
in the little reception room, which looked towards the woods. The
curtains were all drawn back this time, and the blinds open. She was
determined to give no chance for listeners in that interview.
“My aunt is better, thank you, but not quite able to come down,” she
said, answering his polite inquiries and seating herself on the sofa he
occupied. “You must think it strange that I should send that note,
but—but—”
Here Cora’s fine eyes filled with ready tears, and her speech gave way
for a moment. Brooks was surprised and touched. It was not often that
Miss Lander gave way in this fashion. He reached forth his hand, laying
it upon hers, and felt the quiver that ran through her frame stirring
that.
“I trust it is nothing serious; do not agitate yourself so. Tell me what
the trouble is and I may be of use.”
“I tried to keep it from you—I tried to keep it from everybody, but now
it is impossible; I must confide in some one. So young and
inexperienced, how can I help it? It is cruel, so cruel in my cousin to
drive me to this strait.”
“Your cousin, Miss Lander—is all this agitation about your cousin?” said
Brooks, struck with sudden amazement.
“Yes, Mr. Brooks, you never will know all that I am suffering on her
account. It is impossible for any one to understand it who has not loved
her as I did—and do, for, with all her faults, I _cannot_ help loving
her.”
“Pray, explain,” said Brooks, a little coldly, “I do not understand.”
“How can you—oh, Mr. Brooks? But I will tell you from the beginning. You
know that my cousin and I were educated together—that my father made no
difference between us. He was one of the most liberal men you ever
knew—”
“I am aware of that.”
Brooks was arming himself against this girl, and she saw it. A stern,
angry fire came into his eyes—he withdrew his hand from the trembling
fingers that clung to it, and sat more upright, like a judge listening.
He remembered what Virginia had told him regarding the enmity of her
cousin, and took up her cause warmly in his heart. Cora saw this with
one of her side glances, and went on confident of the result.
“We were at school in Paris and in Brussels, and went to Florence
afterward to study Italian there. In this place, attended by a governess
and faithful old courier, we joined a party of Americans and travelled
over Italy some five or six months before my poor father came to bring
us home. Up to this time, Mr. Brooks, Virginia and I had been like twin
sisters. We loved each other dearly, trusted each other in thought and
word—she was everything to me.”
Here Cora broke off with a sob in her throat. That creature would have
made a magnificent actress; she really half believed the story she was
telling, and wept as artists shed real tears in their imaginary
characters.
“But in Italy, Mr. Brooks, all this changed. She kept away from me,
insisted on having a room to herself, went out alone for hours and hours
together, was unsettled in her spirits—in short here she gave the first
wound to a love that had united us from the cradle. Some weeks after,
the old courier explained all this to me. Virginia had made an
acquaintance and formed an attachment, which she kept from me and every
one. Some strange young man, travelling for pleasure or in pursuit of a
calling I did not dream of at the time, had won her heart from us. How
or where she first met him I do not know, but her first letter was
written from Florence.”
“To whom and where was it directed?” asked Brooks, sternly.
“I do not know. The courier spoke no English, and could not pronounce
the name intelligibly. Besides, I was a mere school girl then and shrunk
from prying into my cousin’s secrets. I only know that several letters
passed between these two persons before my father came.”
“Did you tell him of this?”
“It would have seemed like treason to my cousin. Thank Heaven he was
spared the misery of knowing how his generosity had been wasted.”
“Go on, I am listening,” said Brooks, in a cold, hard voice.
Cora looked at him timidly, as if so ashamed of her cousin’s conduct
that it weighed her eyelids down, and went on:
“We sailed in that fatal steamer. The fire broke out when my cousin and
I were in the cabin; we both rushed on deck, I to my father. She plunged
overboard, abandoning us both to perish, and was taken up, swimming for
her life, by one of the boats. I cannot describe the scene to which she
left us—the fire raging under our feet, the passengers driven closer and
closer together like wild animals in the heart of a prairie fire. My
father and I together; he begged me to leap overboard alone and thus
save myself, knowing how well I could swim. But I would not do it.
Clinging to each other, we made the fearful leap together. Others
pressed upon us, tore us apart—I never saw my father again. Around and
around that burning hulk I swam in search of him. At last the hot flames
drove me away. The boat in which Virginia had found shelter was still in
sight, lying motionless: I made for it, fighting the waves with
desperate energy. She saw me—I know that Virginia saw me, but the boat
never stirred. At last the men seemed to rebel against the cruelty of
seeing a poor girl sink before their eyes and came toward me. I was
sinking, senseless, almost dead, when they picked me up. In the boat
with my cousin, was a little hunchbacked creature who had fastened on
her in the water and thus saved herself. This girl, Ellen Nolan, became
warmly attached to her from that time, and has ever since been the
creature of her will. I think, at this moment, she would work, sin or
die for the girl who saved her life. I consented that this girl should
come with us to America when we were at last rescued by a passing
vessel. The secrecy she maintained and her course in the shipwreck had
disturbed my confidence in her, but I loved her in spite of all and
resolved to deal generously by her and her mother, as my father had
done.
“We reached home—my aunt had taken possession of the property under a
will found in my father’s desk: she believed us all lost, and we took
her by surprise. Mr. Brooks, something transpired then which I will not
dwell upon; you would hardly believe me if I did. It has no bearing on
the point I wish to consult you about, and I have little wish to
prejudice you unnecessarily against my cousin. But it created
estrangements between us which have, I fear, destroyed all my influence
over her—a sad, sad conviction when she stands so much in need of a firm
trusted friend.”
“Go on,” said Brooks, still sitting upright, resolute in his trust of
the woman he loved. “Let me hear all—then I _will_ speak.”
“Mr. Brooks, that man, the person she met in Italy, has followed her
here.”
Brooks started; that shot told upon his armor, and Cora knew it. She
went on in a low and seemingly reluctant voice:
“He is in this neighborhood; she goes out to meet him.”
Again Brooks started, a flash of joy swept his face. She had mistaken
him for the Italian lover, who probably never had an existence.
“He must have come about the time that we did, for I know that she has
met him, from time to time, in the house where he lives, or it may he
boards. Yesterday, just before you called, a youth came here from the
city with a letter for Virginia. I was anxious about her, and went down
to question him. I wore a black dress, as she does invariably, and
people say that I and my cousin are so much alike that a stranger might
mistake one for the other. I think the boy did take me for Virginia, for
he gave me a note, directed to her, and went on to state the urgent need
there was for action regarding a sum of money that was wanted and must
be obtained. He spoke of jewels which were to be turned into money, and
said, if everything else failed, the rich cousin was to be applied to as
a last resort. All this was said as I stood with the note in my hand.
The lad was earnest and a good deal excited. I found out afterward that
it was his own brother he was pleading for, and that both were the
brothers of Ellen Nolan.”
Brooks suppressed a start of surprise, and seemed to listen as he had
before; but there was a burning red on his cheeks, and even his forehead
grew dusky. He lifted his eyes, that had a strange glow in them, and was
about to say, “Go on,” firmly, as he had before, when his voice faltered
and his hand fell nervelessly down from the back of the sofa, where it
had been resting. Directly before the window, and half way through the
flower garden, he saw Virginia Lander and Ellen Nolan, conversing
earnestly together and walking towards the woods. There in his bosom was
the note, so modestly tender, which told him that they were both going
to the city early that morning. Cora glanced out of the window, saw what
it was that had disturbed him, and said, very naturally:
“There is my cousin now, and Ellen Nolan with her. You have never seen
either of them, I believe.”
Brooks made no answer to this, but leaned back and prepared to listen;
she observed that his face had taken a dead whiteness, and all around
his mouth seemed chiselled from marble.
“I went away, as he thought, I suppose, to read the note alone—”
“And did you?” asked Brooks, with sudden impetuosity.
She smiled faintly and shook her head.
“I could not have forced myself to obtain information in that way.”
“True—very true.”
“I sent the note to Virginia by a servant, and told him to bring the
answer back to me; but she came down herself and gave her reply to the
lad, with some whispered message, which I did not hear. I have no idea
what his reason was, but this messenger, who seemed as much interested
in the affair as a principal, did not leave the house as another person
would have done, but went across the lawn, through the thick wet grass,
into the woods yonder. It was raining hard, and I stood by the window a
long time, wondering what could take him in that direction, when I saw
him come out from among the trees, accompanied by another person, who
probably had been waiting there.”
“Did you get a full view of this person?” asked Brooks, quickly. “Was he
tall or short, light or dark?”
“He was above the middle height and seemed young, but a large Mackintosh
concealed his figure, and I was not near enough to distinguish his
features. They went down toward the road in company, and that was all I
saw of them.”
“And what conclusion do you draw from all this?” asked Brooks.
“I am unable to draw conclusions, Mr. Brooks, or decide on what ought to
be done; one thing is certain, my cousin is in a dangerous position; she
has been led into some entanglement which will be her ruin. The brother
of Ellen Nolan can be no proper match for Virginia Lander, and if he
were, why this secrecy? She is under no guardianship; my aunt loves her
devotedly, and would interpose no objections to a proper marriage. I
stand ready—and she knows it—to bestow the portion my father intended
for her—more, even. Why does she have concealments, then, from her best
friends? How am I to protect her? What can I do? My aunt has fretted
herself into a pitiable state of nervous weakness since she obtained a
knowledge of this trouble, and looks to me for counsel and help. I have
tried to gain Virginia’s confidence in every way, but she avoids me,
scarcely recognizes her mother, and is only intimate with this strange
hunchback, _his_ sister.”
Brooks shrunk from the recollection this speech brought to his mind. Had
not Virginia repudiated her mother even to him? Had she not refused to
recognize the maternal right of consent to his proposal of marriage? He
arose, and, taking his hat, would have left the house without speaking a
word.
“Have you no counsel to give me? Remember how young I am,” pleaded Cora,
following him. “Have I done wrong in telling you this?”
“Wrong! who says you have done wrong? I have a right to know.”
“Can you give me neither comfort nor advice, Mr. Brooks?”
He laid one hand on her arm and stood smiling on her for at least a
minute, but the smile upon a face so white made her shrink.
“In a few days, Miss Lander, I shall be better prepared to advise you.
It is a delicate matter, and must not be rashly handled. Good
afternoon.”
He seemed firm, but the hat which he had taken shook in his hand.
“This has been a painful conversation, believe me. I tried to avoid it.
If there had been any other person with whom the family honor could be
entrusted, I would not have troubled you.”
“There is no other person—there must be no confidences with strangers on
a subject like this.”
“No, I felt that, oh! how forcibly.”
She clasped her hand on his arm, thus mutely claiming his sympathy.
Tears stood in her eyes; she closed those long silken lashes and crushed
them back as if ashamed of the sweet feminine impulse which had sent
them from a kind heart.
“My father would have been so sorry,” she faltered.
Brooks put her hand gently from his arm and turned away; for the heart
in his bosom began to swell, and he was afraid of the passion that had
well nigh outmastered his manhood.
Cora watched Clarence Brooks as he went down the carriage drive; her
features did not change, she had acted her part so well that it seemed
absolutely real to her.
“What a grand heart is there—how good and kind he is.”
She stood awhile by the window with those false tears on, her eyelashes,
wondering if he would follow Virginia to the woods or go directly to the
hotel. He went down the terrace steps and took the railway track, which
curved in a circuitous bend there, making his walk twice as long as it
would have been by the carriage drive.
“He will go there—it is only because he thinks that some of us may see
him. Ah! there they come; I shall have time.”
Virginia and Ellen came across the lawn, walking slowly and with an air
of depression. Cora watched them impatiently.
“Will they never go in?” she cried, stamping her foot on the carpet.
“Twenty minutes, I only ask twenty minutes.”
She ran up stairs, put on the shawl which was so nearly the color of
dead leaves, and went down the back way. Once out of doors, she took a
path, well sheltered by shrubbery, which led around the stables, and
skirting the grounds, mostly under the protection of a stone wall,
entered the ravine a little below the cataract. Here she took the
footpath, treading it like a panther, and sheltering herself behind a
clump of wild spruce trees, took an observation. No one was in sight.
The ravine was a solitude; by this time the leaves were almost swept
from the trees, giving deeper gloom to the evergreens, which grew
thickly along the brook. After making sure that she was not observed,
Cora darted down below the bridge, dipped a letter, which she took from
her bosom, in the brook, and climbed the bank again. Just where the path
was broken up by the roots and stones which formed an embankment for the
log cabin, Cora threw the wet paper down among the leaves, partly
unfolded as if it had opened in falling. The leaves all around it were
still moist and sodden from the storm; she trailed a torn oak leaf half
across it, and made her way up the ravine, swiftly as she had entered
it, and went home, sheltering herself, as before, back of the stone wall
and in the thick shrubbery.
She was right, ten minutes after Clarence Brooks came, with long,
powerful strides, up the ravine, searching for Virginia Lander. His
strong spirit was determined to throw off the doubts that oppressed it
or learn the worst at once. He had not seen her return from the woods,
and felt an almost savage wish to find her where he could wrest the
secret from her heart and crush her with scorn, or hear the vindication
which he still hoped, and almost believed that she would be enabled to
make.
But the woods was solitary as a grave; the foliage had been so
completely swept from the trees that he could command a full view up the
ravine from the stone bridge to the cataract, that mocked him with a
sharp pang of memory, and he thought of that pic-nic on the ledge with a
sudden rush of feeling which absolutely brought hot tears to his eyes.
Virginia was not anywhere in sight; the whole ravine was a solitude, all
the hollows were full of dank leaves, the forest turf was carpeted with
them, not as they had been, rich and gorgeous only a week before, but
with the colors all washed out, broken and sodden, decaying refuse of
the autumn. The naked boughs rose drearily against a dull sky, sending
forth that low metallic chiming which is the winter music of the woods.
The brook, bereft of half its brightness, crept along, saddened, like a
criminal going to judgment. The chestnut tree was studded with brown
burs, open like stars, from which all the nuts had fallen. A few long,
ragged leaves fluttered on the branches and from the topmost boughs two
crows called to each other gloomily.
“I will go up to the cabin,” that unhappy man muttered to himself.
“Possibly they are among the evergreens and I can see them from the
window.”
As he turned to mount the eminence that paper fell under his
observation. He stooped, picked it up almost mechanically, and was about
to throw it down again, when something in the writing fixed his
attention. The paper was wet but not much blotted; with a little trouble
he read it from beginning to end, and, strange to say, a sensation of
relief succeeded the reading; that dead certainty which follows
suspense, though it amounts to despair, is always a relief, for the
tension of nerves gives way and a species of rest follows.
“It is true! She loves some other man—she never loved me. This beautiful
creature, with her innocent looks and frank speech, is one mass of
deception. Amos Lander’s letter warned me of this clearly as his
generous nature could warn the friend he loved against a creature of his
bounty. But I was wilfully blind, worse than blind, a willing idiot.
Still there was some excuse for me; a lovelier creature than she seemed
never possessed a man’s heart.”
Brooks did not enter the cabin but turned drearily, as men prepare to
leave a grave newly filled, and walked slowly toward the hotel, so
wretched that he scarcely cared to live, for if ever man loved a woman
on this earth he had loved Virginia Lander.
Meantime Virginia and Ellen had returned home from a dreary walk
disappointed; Ellen had been writing hard since the first break of day,
writing as only one whose genius is inspired by a noble purpose can
write. Sheet after sheet of manuscript she had flung from her, eager for
the next, panting to complete the work which would redeem her brother
from the peril that threatened him. But, with the best of us, the spirit
is sometimes willing when the flesh is weak. Virginia saw that Ellen
grew pale as she wrote, that her little hand trembled to and fro on the
paper, leaving blots and erasures behind it. She went up to the desk and
leaned caressingly on the writer’s shoulder.
“Come, Ellen, stop writing a little while.”
Ellen shook the arm from her shoulder and went on with her work.
“No, no; God has given me these hours to finish in. Do let me alone!”
“But I am so anxious to go out. He will be regretting our absence and go
up to the cabin—I feel sure of it!”
“_He!_ oh, he cannot come here till my work has set him above all fear.”
“I was not speaking of your brother, Ellen.”
Ellen took her mind, with a wrench, from its subject, and tried hard to
understand what was wanted of her. She had that essential qualification
for an author, and that rare thing among women, a power of strong
concentration, and it possessed her then entirely.
“What—what is it?” she questioned, while the pen quivered in her hand.
“Afraid this will hurt me?—Not at all. Fresh air?—We can have plenty of
that by-and-by.”
“But it is for myself I am so anxious to go out,” said Virginia, partly
in her own behalf, and partly because the pallor on that thin face
terrified her.
“You, yourself?” Ellen flung down her pen. “Well, what is it you would
like, lady? I—I am ready. A walk? Of course, nothing better, only don’t
let us stay out long. You see, I am close upon the ending, and—and—my
things? Oh yes, I will have them on in a minute.”
In this state of bewilderment, Ellen went out, following Virginia almost
in silence to the woods. She had not entirely gained command of her own
mind, which would keep turning back to the creation it had left with
such reluctance. They found the ravine solitary, and so changed, that
Virginia felt oppressed by everything she saw.
“He is not here. He will not come to-day. Why should he, thinking us in
the city?”
With these words, she wandered on up to the little cataract, which had
lost all its crystal brightness, and was swollen by the rains into a
great outgush of muddy water. Here she lingered about awhile, looking
anxiously down the ravine for the person who was listening with a
burning heart to Cora Lander’s falsehood.
“He is not here! It is of no use waiting; the storm has made everything
so dreary that it chills one. Shall we go back, Ellen?”
“Back?” answered Ellen, eagerly. “Oh, certainly; this air has done me so
much good.”
So the two girls went home again, one sad and out of spirits, the other
eager for work. They saw nothing of Brooks, who had just left the house,
but went at once to the parlor up stairs, where Ellen fell to her
writing again and Virginia sat down by the window, wondering why
Clarence Brooks had not yet come to the house as he proposed.
It was getting dark, when Eunice came into the room, carrying an ottoman
in her arms.
“Here,” she said, setting it on the floor, “take out what there is in it
quick! She’s gone down to tea, and I must have it back again afore she
comes up. The critter has got eyes like a hawk.”
Virginia started from the window, touched a spring in the wood-work and
flung back the top of the ottoman, revealing a miscellaneous heap of
papers, jewel-boxes, pen-holders and loose ornaments.
Eunice snatched Ellen’s shawl which had fallen back from her chair,
spread it on the carpet and emptied all these things into it. Then she
closed the ottoman with a snap, and carried it away, muttering:
“The Lord knows they’re your own property, and you’re welcome to ’em.”
Ellen wrote on, she had neither heard nor seen anything of this. Away in
a world of her own, she was working out a brother’s freedom. Once more
Virginia aroused her.
“Ellen! Ellen! we have got the jewels! See here! these pearls most be of
great value—and these, and these!”
Ellen started and looked up, holding her pen suspended.
“What is it? Pearls, and such pearls!” she cried, as Virginia laid the
necklace of large strung pearls, with seven pear-shaped pendants, on the
paper before her. “And diamonds too! We shall go to the city now. No
more delay. God bless you, dear, dear lady, for this! I am so tired that
thanks struggle in my bosom without utterance; but I feel them. I wonder
why Eunice don’t bring in the tea, my throat is parched and my eyes
burn—why don’t she bring in the tea?”
“She brought it an hour ago, Ellen, and you drank two cups.”
“Did she? I knew nothing about it, a glass of water will do just as
well. These things, how beautiful they are! Your mother’s too! It is
cruel, but you shall have them back again. I feel it in my heart that
these sheets of paper will redeem your mother’s jewels. Strange, isn’t
it, that these blotted pages should have gold in them? I cannot
comprehend it.”
Here this strange girl fell to her work again, while Virginia carried
her treasures into the next room, where she lay down on the bed, sad at
heart and weeping softly because of the loneliness brought on by two
days’ absence from the man she loved so devotedly.
Between eight and nine o’clock that night, Virginia was aroused by the
tread of a horse passing by the house, and going to a window, looked
out. The clouds had all rolled themselves away in billows of fiery gold
at sunset that night, and the broad, silvery radiance of a full moon
fell upon the earth. Virginia saw nothing, but she still heard, the
cautious footfall of a horse falling upon turf near the house.
“It is one of the servants going on some errand,” she thought, and went
back to her half darkened room again. Ellen wrote on, made restless for
an instant by the strange sound, but unconscious of it the next moment.
Joshua Hurd, who had gone to bed very early that night, heard a strange
noise in the stables just as he was falling asleep. He got up, opened
the window and looked out. The front of the stables was flung into deep
shadow by the drooping elm trees, but he distinctly saw a white horse
come out from the open door with a lady on his back.
“What on arth does it mean?” he muttered. “That is Snowball; but which
of the wimmen folks is it, and what is she up to?”
That moment the horse came into the moonlight and he saw the lady’s
face, clearly as any face could be seen, with a soft hat drawn over the
forehead and shaded by a long feather.
“That long feather belongs to her, sure enough; that she sarpent never
wears one. What can she want a horseback this time o’ night? If ’twas
t’other, I shouldn’t wonder, but her! Well, it’s all right, I haint no
doubt. She’s a good gal, if ever one lived, and I ain’t a going to tell
nothing about her even to our Eunice. Least said is soonest mended. But
where on arth can she be a going?”
CHAPTER LI.
THE MIDNIGHT RIDE.
Clarence Brooks sat on the stoop, into which his room opened, that
night, thinking over the last few weeks in his mind. How could he have
been so utterly deceived. Why had this girl, loving another, engaged
herself to him? Was it in human nature to feign that purest and holiest
of all passions so thoroughly? No, he could not believe that. Whatever
had been, Virginia Lander loved him then—to believe otherwise would be
horrible. That she had fallen into a serious, perhaps disgraceful
entanglement with some unprincipled man, it was impossible to doubt, but
she was young, inexperienced—no, no, he could not say that, remembering
all she had said to him—how earnest and true she had seemed. The girl
was artful, unprincipled, worthless. Yet he could not fling her entirely
from his heart. Some designing man, with the aid of that singular little
hunchback, had perverted her into the thing she was. What had they
really intended? If she did not love him, why—
He paused, angry with himself. The girl was not worth thinking about.
Yet if, by a miracle, she should prove innocent—that was, of course, an
impossibility. Cora Lander had no motive for deceiving him. She did not
know of his engagement or dream of the secret meetings which had so
ensnared him. That secrecy, which seemed so pleasant at first, veiling
his love with a sort of romance—why had he never suspected its true
meaning before? She would have married him; her earnestness on this
point was evident enough. But why?—Did she know him to be a wealthy man?
He had never told her so much till the very day of their engagement, and
she had no means of understanding the fact. If money was not her object,
where was the motive for all this deception? That letter, in the very
handwriting which had been worn against his heart, had method, decision
in every word. It was not the language of a young girl wildly in love.
How far had Ellen Nolan influenced the destiny of her benefactress? Was
it this strange girl who had led her into the meshes of a deception so
debasing? He remembered with what noiseless facility she had disappeared
whenever he wished to converse with Virginia. Had this been a practice
with her? Was she indeed the crafty little thing such conduct would
bespeak her?
To these questions of the brain, Clarence Brooks’ heart was constantly
answering, “no!” But for the letter in his pocket he would have cast off
all that burning load of suspicions and trusted to the simple denial of
a young creature, whose very presence was a contradiction of everything
evil. True, she had seemed willing to make an unnecessary secret of her
acquaintance with himself—had met him over and over again in the
solitude of that glen, with no companion but that little hunchbacked
imp, as he called Ellen in his mind, for he remembered with bitter
disgust how she had pleaded with him not to speak of his engagement that
night when she came alone to his hotel.
“I will search this to the bottom,” he promised himself, “and either
rescue her from these people or force the man, whoever he is, to come
out openly and claim her. She is lost to me, I know that,” he added,
with a swelling heart, “but having consecrated her with a love, pure as
man ever felt for woman, I will not abandon her to the fate which may
prove a terrible one.”
Brooks was thinking in this generous way when he heard the sound of a
horse coming along the road, evidently treading upon the turfy border.
His heart stood still; muffled as it was, he knew the fall of those
light hoofs, and listened breathlessly. Directly a white horse, with a
woman upon its back, rode slowly over the little plank bridge. The lady
turned her face toward the hotel, looking partly backward, and he saw
the face plainly as clear moonlight could reveal it. The long feather,
which he had seen Virginia wear so often, fell to the shoulder nearest
him, but that only established her identity in his mind.
Directly after she crossed the bridge, the lady evidently put her horse
to his speed, for the quick clatter of his hoofs sounded distinctly
along the road, beating down that noble heart with every step.
As the noise died away, Brooks arose and staggered back against the
window-frame sick at heart. Up to this moment he had not given up all
hope that, by some miracle, the woman he loved might be cleared from the
suspicion which wounded him so terribly. But now all was over. His own
eyes had witnessed what his heart ached to disbelieve. She was lost to
him forever, but he still hoped not to herself.
He went into his sitting-room and paced it up and down for half an hour,
growing stern and resolute every minute.
“I will wait for her here,” he said; “as she crosses that bridge I will
stand before her horse and demand the truth from her own lips; she shall
not plunge over this precipice without some one to hold her back.”
His voice shook under the blow he had received. As the poor artist picks
up the scattered fragments of a statue which he has just fashioned into
beauty only to see shattered at his feet, he resolved to rescue some
peace of mind out of the chaos of this ruin for the only woman he had
ever loved. With this generous resolve in his heart, he sat down
patiently and waited.
It was between twelve and one o’clock when faint sounds of a coming
horse aroused him from the stupor of grief into which he had fallen. He
listened, stood up and looked out upon the road. Surely there was more
than one horse coming, and at a sharp pace too. His chair stood in a
shadowy end of the porch, and he sat down again so far out of sight that
no one but a keen observer could have discovered his presence there.
That double sound of hoofs came along the road so swiftly that two
horses appeared above the bridge with a suddenness that startled him. It
was the white horse with that lady rider, and a dark bay, ridden by a
man. The two came neck and neck on to the bridge, and drew up there in
the full sheen of the moonlight. The man and the woman seemed to be
conversing together in low voices. As they talked, their horses veered a
little and backed toward the farther side of the bridge, turning those
two human faces directly toward the hotel. Brooks started to his feet
and leaned forward, struck with sudden panic of suspicion, but as yet
uncertain. The man took off his hat, reined his horse close up to the
lady’s, threw an arm around her waist and kissed her, more than once,
with what seemed the passionate earnestness of a farewell.
This was neither resented nor shrunk from by the lady. To the reverse,
when her companion put on his hat and turned his horse, she wheeled
after him, leaned from her saddle and offered her lips to him again.
Then the two parted, one galloping up the road at full speed, the other
moving more cautiously toward the Lander mansion. Clarence Brooks fell
back to his chair, uttering a single sentence: “That man!”
The next morning Virginia and Ellen started for the city by an early
train. At the same hour Clarence Brooks was riding toward the Longstone
tavern where he had eaten that pleasant dinner, it seemed to him ages
ago. The landlord met him at the door, beaming with hospitality.
“Was it the gentleman who came day before yesterday, the same that put
up, for a week or two, in that second-rate affair just above the lower
depot, some time since—no wonder he wanted a change for the better—was
that the man?”
“Yes,” Brooks replied, staggering under the new proof which lay in the
landlord’s speech. “Yes, it is that man I wish to find.”
“Oh, sir, he went away this morning, I took him to the upper depot in my
own buggy.”
“Has he ever been here before? No, not even for a ride. The folks down
yonder say he kept mighty quiet, going a trout-fishing up the brook that
runs through the Lander grounds, but never ketchen none. From something
that happened here last night, I reckon one could make a guess about
that.”
Brooks turned away, heart-sick, but came back directly, and asked if the
landlord knew where his guest of the night before could be found in the
city.
No, the landlord could not exactly tell; but, from something he
overheard the young man saying to a boy that came with him that rainy
day, he thought it was —— street, somewhere near Madison Avenue.
A flush of red came into Brooks’ face. He remembered the locality of a
house in that direction perfectly, a singular house, with a back drapery
of vines, and a fountain raining water drops down among flowers in
front. He thanked the landlord, ordered a glass of wine as an excuse for
leaving a dollar behind him, and rode away.
An hour after, he called on Cora Lander, who came down to meet him with
an anxious face.
“She has gone, and taken the hunchback with her,” she said, in great
seeming agitation. “The jewels, too, I can find them nowhere; they
belonged to my poor mother; but for that I would not care.”
“Belonged to your mother, and gone with her! Why this is—”
“Hush, hush—not that—I did not mean it. She claims that my father gave
them to her—perhaps he did. Aunt Eliza thinks so. I only wish that they
shall not go out of the family. There is a double string of pearls, with
pear-shaped pendants, which has been in the family a long time. If she
will only give me a chance to buy them back, it is all I ask. This
wretched man may have their value and welcome.”
“Miss Lander, do you, know where your cousin will stay while she is in
town?”
“I am not certain; she may go to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, but I rather
fancy she will prefer a house that my father used to occupy winters,
when we were at school. I have not had the heart to visit it since we
came home, but she has been there often, I think.”
“Does any other person live there, Miss Lander?”
“Yes, a servant; some one has always been left in charge. It is a pretty
place, and my father loved it so, I gave my agent orders to keep it in
good condition. Some day I hope to find courage to visit it, but not
yet.”
No violets after a rain ever looked more touchingly beautiful than Cora
Lander’s eyes as she said this.
“What do you fear so much, Miss Lander? Is it that your cousin will
marry this brother of Ellen Nolan?”
“Yes, I fear that; she has not been kind to me, but I could not hear to
see her thrown away upon an adventurer like him; for he must be an
adventurer.”
“She shall never marry him. Leave that to me!”
“How kind you are—how—forgive me, I hardly know what I am saying; this
has made me so nervous; not to tell any one that she was going—I have
not deserved this. Indeed, indeed I have not.”
Cora turned away and wiped her eyes on a handkerchief taken hastily from
her pocket, but they filled again instantly.
“Have you any idea to whom they would go with those jewels?”
“It is impossible to say; perhaps Lawyer Stone would help them. He knows
Virginia, and was my father’s lawyer. In fact he is one of the executors
of his will.”
“What is Mr. Stone’s address?”
Cora gave the address, but added, with great feeling:
“Don’t say a word, I beseech you, that will lead him to think there is
anything wrong. If we save my poor cousin, it must be entirely without
stain or blemish. So far, the secret of her imprudence rests with us. It
shall never go farther if I can help it.”
“Have no fear, Miss Lander; you can trust this whole affair safely with
me. It is a sad, hard task, but I will perform it.”
Brooks was very pale that morning, and there was a strange tone in his
voice; but his eyes bespoke a steady, firm resolution. He was going
away, when Cora followed him.
“When may I see you again?” she questioned. “I shall feel so anxious, so
lonely.”
“When your cousin is safe, not before.”
She lifted her eyes to his; he turned away, their soft expression so
resembled Virginia’s that it made him recoil.
“Farewell, then, till you bring me good news.”
“Farewell,” he answered, and added as he went along, “There will never
be good news for me in this world again. God is my judge, I only do this
to save her.”
A down train came shrieking along as he descended the terrace steps, and
a boy met him at the depot with a small valise. He took the valise,
sprang into the car, and was whirled off on his painful errand.
The first person Brooks went to after reaching the city was Lawyer
Stone. He inquired of that gentleman if Miss Lander had been there that
morning.
Lawyer Stone admitted that Miss Virginia Lander had just left the
office, with a very singular little friend, whom she had saved from
drowning, he believed.
Mr. Brooks then observed, with great quietness:
“Yes, I know, she came on special business, to raise money on some
jewels, I believe.”
“You seem to be entirely in the young lady’s confidence,” said the
lawyer, smiling.
“So far that I know she is in want of money, and am willing to advance
all she may require—that is, in behalf of Miss Cora Lander, who does not
wish her cousin to want for money, or anything else. As her agent, I am
ready to arrange this matter with you.”
“If Miss Lander is so generous,” answered Stone, drily, “I wonder she
did not prevent the necessity of this application on her cousin’s part.”
“She was not informed of any necessity, and only heard of it by
accident. Even now I must stipulate that her name shall not be mentioned
in the transaction.”
“I shall respect the lady’s secret,” said the lawyer, coldly. “When will
it be her pleasure to pay over the money?”
“On the day after to-morrow. Will that be time enough?”
“I am not sure, the young lady seems in great haste. But I doubt very
much if she could get it so soon from any other source, so we must be
satisfied. I am no judge of this kind of security. You may not find
these gimcracks of sufficient value for the money.”
“If it is convenient, let me see them.”
Mr. Stone took an inlaid box from his desk and turned several jewel
cases from it to the table.
“Here is something she thinks very valuable,” he said, opening a morocco
case and revealing a double string of pearls coiled around a red satin
cushion.
“They are of sufficient value, no matter about the rest,” said Brooks,
looking sadly at the pearls, but without touching them. “How much money
does she want?”
“Three thousand dollars.”
“It shall be ready at the time I mentioned. As for these things, keep
them in your own possession. Miss Lander wants neither security nor
repayment from her cousin. But say nothing of this at present. We can
trust you to return them to her at the proper time. When Miss Virginia
comes, simply tell her that the money will be ready at the time
mentioned. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” answered the lawyer, sweeping the jewels back into their
box. “A good-looking fellow, and came just in the right time, for I
haven’t the least idea that anybody else would have advanced half the
amount on these things. What on earth does the girl want with so much
money, I wonder? I would have refused to help her, but I knew well
enough that some one would direct her to a pawnbroker’s, where Mrs.
Lander’s pearls would have cut a pretty figure. Who is this fellow? I
suspect the three thousand dollars will come out of his pocket. That
girl does not pay it, I’ll be sworn.”
Muttering these words, the shrewd lawyer locked the jewels up in his
safe and was soon lost in a pile of papers which lay, with a piece of
red tape loosely twisted about them, on his table, for he had been
disturbed while untying the parcels, first by Miss Virginia Lander and
then by Clarence Brooks, in a fashion which took him so completely out
of his usual routine that he found some difficulty in getting into
groove again.
CHAPTER LII.
ANGELS’ VISITS.
The first step that Virginia Lander took in the business that brought
her to town was, as we have seen, to visit Lawyer Stone, who gave her
some vague encouragement about raising the money. He asked a good many
embarrassing questions, which she was not prepared to answer, and which
excited a little distrust in that acute mind with regard to things that
had gone before. Ellen had answered for her once or twice, and that
rather added to the general bad effect of the visit. In fact, Virginia
left the lawyer’s office a little disheartened. This helping a fellow
creature out of the results of a crime is no easy matter, as she was
doomed to learn.
“Now,” said Ellen, “let us go to him. Oh! lady, my heart aches with
desire; I so long to look on his face again.”
They were near the Park now, and Virginia beckoned a carriage. When she
gave her orders to the driver, Ellen interposed.
“Not to the house, lest we draw attention to it. Let him stop at the
corner.”
Virginia acquiesced, and they were set down in Madison Avenue, where the
man was ordered to wait. There was a shade of mystery in all this which
troubled Virginia.
When they opened the gate, Brian Nolan came to the door and held it
open, gazing at them wistfully as they came up the walk. Ellen answered
his look with a smile which brought glad light into his eyes.
“Go up,” said Brian, “he is in the back room, close by the stairs. If
the lady pleases, she can wait in the drawing room.”
He opened the drawing-room door, and Virginia, amazed by all she saw,
went in. Was this the home of Ellen Nolan’s brother, the man who was in
such abject need of money? For a moment all sympathy for him went out of
her heart. Those sumptuous surroundings revolted her, for with all those
changes the girl did not recognize the house as one that had belonged to
her father.
Ellen went up stairs, trembling in every limb. This brother had been,
since she could remember, the romance of her family, the being for whom
they had all made sacrifices and endured those haunting anxieties which
frequently knit an offender closest to the family heart. To Ellen this
young man had been a sort of hero, splendid even in his faults; she did
not allow even the crime which she knew of to shake her faith in his
fine qualities, utterly. It wounded her to the soul, but she said to
herself, “He must have been fearfully tempted.”
Into the room she went, half afraid and so overcome by a rush of
affection that she could hardly stand. Seymour was lying on the dainty
couch where Cora had so often idled her time away. His face was turned
to the wall, one hand was thrust under the silken pillow and the other
lay clenched upon his bosom.
Ellen stole to the couch, and, kneeling down, took the clenched hand
between both hers.
“My brother!”
Seymour turned instantly, fixed his eyes on that face and cried out:
“Is it Ellen? Is it the poor girl he loved little better than all the
rest?”
“Yes, brother Alfred, it is Ellen. He loved me better than the rest
because of this.”
She touched her shoulder with a simplicity that was more than pathetic.
“He knew that I should have so much need of love,” she added, answering
the mournful glance of his eyes.
“Who could help loving you, child?”
It was natural to call Ellen a child; everybody did it, though in
thought and feeling she was so old.
“Oh! if I could make you love me, brother!”
“I do—I do; between us there is a terrible sympathy which united us
closest in our father’s love.”
“I know what you mean!” said Ellen, with a smile that brought tears into
the young man’s eyes.
“That was nothing to the deformity which lay here,” he said, with bitter
emphasis, striking the clenched hand against his heart. “You awoke all
the tenderness of his soul, I tortured him through his entire life,
robbed his little ones of their natural rights, and lie here accursed in
my own mind—little better than a convict, Ellen Nolan!”
“Hush,” she said, gently, “I will not hear you talk so. This one act,
which preys upon us all, can be retrieved. She is below.”
“She! Who? Not—not—Ellen, dear, tell me who it is.”
“My young mistress!”
“Which? Who are you talking of?”
“Miss Virginia Lander!”
Seymour fell back on the couch, great beads of perspiration started to
his forehead. He absolutely panted for breath.
“I thought it had been—had been—but no matter, it is before the time. I
am mad to dream of it yet. This other lady, what is she doing here?”
“She has come to save you—to save us all. This morning she has been to
raise the money you want.”
Seymour started up wild and pale.
“What!”
“She is my friend—she saved my life. She saw my father when he prepared
us all to die. Now she comes here to save his son from something worse
than death.”
“You know it—she knows it?”
“Yes, she knows it. I could not ask help without giving confidence.”
“She will betray me!”
“She would die first.”
“Are you sure—are you sure, Ellen Nolan?”
“Oh, brother, you do not know her!”
“And she will give me this money? Remember, it is three thousand
dollars.”
“I know; that is what she asked for.”
“And will she get it? Are you sure?”
“I think so; the gentleman the same as promised.”
Seymour threw both arms over his head and burst into a wild passion of
tears.
“Saved! saved! Oh, my God, I am grateful, so grateful!”
His whole frame shook. He clasped both hands over his face and the tears
streamed like rain from beneath them.
“She does not know all the good she is doing; she has lifted a human
soul out of a plight so desperate that he was ready to kill himself.”
“No, no! not that! You could not have thought it!” cried Ellen, clinging
to him.
“She has redeemed me—that which the prayers and entreaties of a good
father failed to do, this young girl has accomplished. From this day,
with God Almighty’s help, I will be a good man.”
He was in earnest. Those clasped hands uplifted to Heaven—those
features, quivering with strong emotion, bespoke the energy of a fixed
resolution.
“Our father knew that this day would come, and believing it, sent you
his last blessing,” said Ellen, almost in a whisper.
Seymour turned his wet face and looked mournfully into her eyes.
“Did he? My poor father! my poor father!”
“They were the last words he ever spoke.”
“And I so unworthy! God forgive me!”
“I knew,” said Ellen, speaking low and with tears in her voice, “I knew,
from that awful hour, how it would end. The duties he laid down were
given to me: I am feeble and hardly worth the life she saved; but God
sometimes gives great purposes into weak hands.”
“You came here with a noble purpose, Ellen.”
“_She_ came with a noble purpose; this three thousand dollars is all she
has got in the world.”
“And is ready to give it to a man she never saw?”
“She offers it of her own free will.”
“Ellen, is this lady a woman or an angel?”
“Both, I think.”
“God bless her! God forever bless her! She has saved me! she has saved
me!”
“God has blessed her, for she is dearly beloved,” said Ellen.
The poor girl spoke very sadly. Seymour leaned forward and kissed her
forehead.
“I will love you dearly, little sister.”
She lifted those wistful eyes to his.
“You and I will be all the world to each other yet,” she said. “I know
it.”
The young man smiled for the first time that day. He was thinking of
another love which would forever stand pre-eminent with him—of the sweet
promises given during that midnight ride. Now that his secret might be
kept from her and the whole world, there was love for him deeper and far
more precious than Ellen ever dreamed of. In a week, a single week, he
would stand without fear before the whole world and openly claim Cora
Lander, the most beautiful woman and richest heiress in New York, as his
wife. The iron chain of his crime was about to fall from him. As these
thoughts passed through his mind, he bent over Ellen with a pity in his
eyes that almost broke her heart.
“Heaven so deal with me as I am kind and generous to you little sister!”
Ellen arose; he also stood up, caressing her with his hand.
“I wish you knew how happy I am! What a dead, heavy weight has been
lifted from my heart!”
“I do know; it brightens all your face. I too am happy. It is the
sweetest thing in life to be grateful. Good-bye, brother; we shall come
again the moment that money is paid. Then you will have cause for joy.”
“Are you going, Ellen?”
“My lady is below, will you go speak with her?”
“Not now, dear; this news has unmanned me; I could not thank her without
making a child of myself. Say this for me, Ellen, and say also that,
while I live, I shall be grateful to her. Some day soon I will prove
it.”
Ellen went down stairs and found Virginia looking through the lace
curtains of the drawing-room window. A close carriage stood on the
opposite side of the street from which a man was stepping to the
pavement.
“Come here, Ellen,” said Virginia, in a low voice. “It is very strange,
but I thought—you know it is impossible—but a face like that of Mr.
Brooks seemed to be taking a survey of this house.”
Ellen caught her breath, but went up to the window and looked out, with
Virginia’s arm over her shoulder. They did not know it, but that moment
Seymour was looking out of the upper window, just above them. He saw
nothing but a close carriage driving up the street. The man who had
stepped from it was walking quietly along the sidewalk, but this
conversation had passed between him and Clarence Brooks, who had just
driven away:
“That is the man, but do not arrest him while ladies are in the house.
When they leave, lose no time.”
“All right. You can depend on it, I’ll make a neat job of the affair. It
isn’t often one has a chance at so handsome and gentlemanly a fellow.”
So the man walked on in a careless, idle way, which disturbed no one,
until Virginia and Ellen left the house. Then he turned and followed
them to the carriage, doing a little amateur business of his own, not
set down in the programme.
“Now that the Canary birds have flown, I may as well go to work in
earnest,” he muttered. “What a jolly nest the fellow has got into! Upon
my word I hate to spring the trap on him, and so did the gentleman, or
I’m no judge of a man’s face. How deadly white he was when that girl
came to the window. His jaw closed like iron—jealous, I wonder? Robbed
him double. I’ll be sworn. I may as well begin.”
With a soft step, the man paused at the gate, stopped at the fountain,
and, picking a sprig of myrtle from one of the plants still left in the
open air, fastened it daintily into his button-hole. Then he sauntered
leisurely up to the door and rang the bell.
Brian Nolan opened the door with a frightened face. It was not often
that strangers called to see any one there, and the least sound agitated
him.
“Was Mr. Seymour in?”
The man did not wait for an answer, but gently pushed by the boy and
entered the hall.
“Tell him that I have a letter, or rather a scrap of writing, from a
lady who could not say all she wished when she saw him. It is only a
line, and in pencil.”
“Give it to me, I—I will deliver it, should he come here.”
“Beg your pardon, promised not to let it go out of my hands. Up
stairs—yes, I am sure she told me I would find him up stairs.”
Again the man pushed by Brian, who attempted to intercept him, and
quietly walked up stairs. Seymour heard the sound of voices and stood on
the threshold of the boudoir listening. The hand with which he held the
half open door grew cold and white, and he was about to retreat into the
room, when some word about a lady’s letter brought the blood again to
his scared face. He took a single eager step into the hall, hesitated,
and was drawing back again, when the strange man came swiftly up the
stairs and laid a hand on his arm.
“Mr. Seymour, excuse the intrusion, but here is a paper for you to
read.”
Seymour reached out his hand slowly for the paper, looked at the man for
a minute, turned deadly white, opened it with terrible quietness and
read a warrant for his arrest.
“I wish you had come two hours earlier, it would not have seemed so
hard. Give me a few moments for preparation,” he said, after a little;
“I will not keep you long.”
“As many as you like,” answered the man, seating himself among the
silken cushions of Cora’s couch. “One might find much more unpleasant
places to wait in.”
The man punched one of the pillows into a compact shape and planted his
elbow on it as he spoke. Seymour saw the action with a dreary look of
despair. At another time he would have flung any man headlong from the
window for daring to seat himself among the cushions her cheek had
touched. But now—now he turned aside with a groan and went into his
chamber. With a slowness that seemed like composure, it was so awful and
still, he took from one of his bureau drawers a revolver and examined
it. The barrels were all loaded, a single movement of the finger and he
would be far beyond the reach of that man. He lifted the weapon to a
level with his forehead, turned it and placed the muzzle between his
knitted brows. A hand struck the weapon upward and wrenched it from his
grasp. Brian Nolan’s face, whiter than whiteness, looked into his.
“Coward!”
Seymour shook from head to foot.
“Brother!”
The boy flung himself upon that wretched man’s bosom and cried out, in
the anguish of his self-reproach:
“Oh, forgive me! forgive me, I did not mean to call you that!”
“Anything unpleasant going on?” questioned a calm voice close by them.
“No, sir; nothing. I am his brother,” said Brian; “pray, leave us
alone.”
“Oh, I understand,” said the man, glancing at the revolver. “Often the
case when one of my customers happens to be a real gentleman. Rather
unfair to me, though; Coroner’s inquest, and all that, hurts a man in
his profession. Didn’t think of that, I dare say!”
Seymour turned his face all white, and withered, upon the man; he was
wondering how careless words could come from human lips when he was in
such mortal distress.
“Do go!” pleaded Brian, “you are killing him.”
“And have that bit of tragedy over again? No, I must not lose sight of
him.”
“I must speak with my brother!” said Seymour, in a husky voice.
“Leave us! leave us, I beg of you!” added Brian. “He shall not harm
himself.”
“Give me that trinket, then,” said the officer, pointing to the pistol.
Brian handed it to him, and once more the brothers were alone.
“What shall I do? What _can_ I do?” said Brian.
“Keep it from her, for God’s sake, keep it from her!”
“And from Ellen?”
“Tell her later, but not yet. Poor girl! poor girl! better for her that
I perish in prison unknown! Thank God, our father’s honorable name has
been spared!”
“Can I make no effort to save you, my brother?”
“None—listen. I _was_ a coward, but it was only for _her_ sake. Save her
from a knowledge that would break her proud heart, and you shall see how
much I can endure. Come to me in the prison, Brian; I shall have plenty
of time for thought there. Oh! my God, my God, help me to endure it!”
“I would suggest,” said the calm voice again, “that this conversation is
too exciting for any good to come from it. Better take a night’s sleep
on the gentleman’s affair. If your brother is at all sensitive about
appearances, I have no objection to a carriage. Covered up my star on
purpose to make the whole thing as genteel as possible. In fact, the
gentleman who thinks himself aggrieved made that a special request. He
even left a sum of money in my hands to buy up the reporters—not that I
think it can be done for money—most of those chaps are kind-hearted
fellows as ever lived, and are ready enough to spare a man. If they all
agree to it, he is safe.”
“Ask them to spare me for the sake of—of my friends,” said Seymour, in a
low voice. “If death could do it, I would die.”
“Never fear, we will arrange that. When all parties agree upon one
point, it is easily settled; never met with a more amicable case in all
my experience. Oh here is the carriage; I will trust to your honor. You
and I will walk out of this house like two friends going for a sociable
drive, say in the Central Park. Lovely spot—think I have seen you
driving there—pair of chestnut horses, superb—always alone,
though—thought that rather singular, upon my honor I did.”
Chatting thus in an airy, pleasant fashion, the officer led the way
through the hall and into the yard, where the fountain was still
throwing up water drops like a child at play.
“Some people looking out of that window opposite; suppose we gather a
bouquet from these plants; looks innocent, and will satisfy any
curiosity that two carriages and my walking up and down has excited
among the crinolines. Charming institution, but curious—very.”
CHAPTER LIII.
THAT CRUEL LETTER.
That great Egyptian monster, crouching like an embodied pestilence in
the heart of New York, concentrating all the horrors of a prison with
the awful solemnity of a tomb, never received a human being into its
portals who gave himself up to despair more thoroughly than Alfred
Seymour. All night long he lay in that narrow cell—hard, cold granite in
the floor, the walls and the ceiling, cold iron shutting him in at the
narrow door, which opened and closed with a clang that made him start
and shudder from head to foot—all night long he lay, thinking such
thoughts as might turn the hair on a young man’s head white as snow and
create little wonder.
A gleam of moonlight pierced through a long, narrow loop-hole that
served as a window, cut so deep in the outer wall that the radiance came
through wedge-shaped, and, to his tortured imagination, seemed solid in
its whiteness. No steel ever went more keenly through a human heart than
that mournful illumination penetrated his. Only the night before, those
self-same moonbeams had fallen like shimmering silver along the highway
when Cora rode by his side, cheerful as a bird, animated as he had
seldom seen her before, talking so hopefully of the early day when their
marriage would be proclaimed and they need not steal forth in secret or
at night to meet each other. She had even proposed to proclaim the
choice she was so proud of and end all secrecy at once. But he dared not
accept this generous proposition, though enforced by eloquence and such
affectionate caresses as nothing but a heart shackled down by crime
could have resisted.
This was only one night ago. It seemed an eternity to him, there in that
prison, with the stillness of death all around him. Thinking of her
thus, generous, loving and so beautiful, the unhappy man came to a
solemn resolution. She should never hear of his fate; they might bury
him in prison walls still more gloomy than those which seemed to enclose
him in like a grave, and he would make no sign. To-morrow, perhaps, they
would bring him into court for examination. He would plead guilty there,
and again when they brought him before a higher tribunal for final
trial. No public journal should make a romance of his crime or his
misery. He would allow the law to do its worst, and disappear.
This man had done wrong, but he was not a hardened sinner; no creature
who was ever wept as he did that night. He had longed to make atonement
for his crime, and struggled hard for the power which was almost within
his grasp when this ruin came upon him. This nearness to escape made his
fate doubly bitter.
“A few hours—only a few hours, and I should have paid all,” he said,
aloud. Then, frightened by the sound of his own voice, which seemed
struggling up from a grave, he drew the coarse, gray blanket over his
head and lay moaning out his grief at intervals, hiding away from the
moonlight which reminded him so keenly of all that was wrested from him.
At last the dawn came struggling through that loop-hole, filling the
cell with gloomy light. Then a crash of locks and the heavy swing of
iron doors struck on his ear ominously. The routine of that mournful
tomb’s life had commenced, and every new sound made him shiver beneath
that gray blanket like some wounded animal that hears the hounds
scenting out its lair.
After awhile the door of his own cell was flung open, a heavy can was
set down on the stone gallery close by, and out of this grim vessel a
tin cup half full of coffee was dipped, this with a piece of bread, was
placed upon his cell floor.
Seymour drew the blanket from his face and turned his bloodshot eyes
upon this coarse breakfast. He was not hungry, and would have rejected
the most dainty food—this he loathed.
Hours went by and Brian Nolan came with his sorrowful heart, and again
craved to know what could be done for his brother.
Nothing. Seymour had fully made up his mind now. The misery that Fate
had in store for him he would accept. Perhaps he would be so happy as to
die. Then that noble young creature who had loved him so dearly would
have freedom. She might—no, no, he could not think of a second marriage.
He was ready to die, and the rest might follow, but it would be a long,
long time—that grand-hearted creature was too thoroughly his for any
meaner result. He said all this to Brian, and charged him, as he hoped
for happiness, never to betray the secret of his marriage to any human
being, not even to Ellen; never hint at his knowledge of it to the woman
who, in a fatal hour, had become his wife; but, in every respect to
guard the confidence placed in him. Not content with a simple promise,
he went farther.
There was a cheap missionary Bible in the cell. This he placed in
Brian’s hands and bade him take an oath never to reveal the secret of
his marriage or hint at it to any living soul.
Brian touched the book with his lips and took the oath.
“It is hard to ask this of me. Your lady has money and power enough to
open these doors.”
“To let the husband she knows to be a criminal out. Brian Nolan, the
first look of her face after that would kill me. I shall plead guilty;
there will be no trial. The officer promises me that there shall be no
publicity. When all is over, I will write two letters, one to her, one
to the man whose vengeance is upon me. There is money belonging to him
which he must have—a favor which he will grant if he is not a demon.”
The mention of money reminded Brian of that which his sister Ellen and
Miss Virginia Lander had promised to bring.
“What shall I say to them when they come with the money?” he asked. “Is
it altogether too late, if I appeal to this cruel man with the money in
my hand?”
“Yes, too late. He has no power to save me if he wished, I know that
much of American law. Beside, you cannot go to him. He, above all men
living, must be kept in ignorance that I ever saw one of the Miss
Landers. There is no appeal, no hope for me. Give up the thought,
Brian.”
Brian did give up the thought and went away broken-hearted. Virginia and
Ellen came to the house the day after, radiant and happy, with the money
which Lawyer Stone had just paid over to them. Brian met them in the
drawing room, thanked Virginia with tears in his eyes, but refused to
take the money. His brother had settled all his difficulties in another
way. It involved a somewhat lengthened absence from the city, he said,
but everything was in a sure course of arrangement. Mr. Seymour had
charged him to give a thousand thanks for her kindness, which he should
feel to his dying day.
“Did he leave no word for me?” inquired Ellen, nervously. “Not even a
farewell?”
“He left you this, and this,” answered Brian, pressing his quivering
lips to her cheek and forehead.
Ellen knew that there was some terrible sorrow under those kisses, but
the delicate intuition that impressed her heart with the truth kept her
silent. Virginia, who had been so ardent in her desire to serve Ellen’s
brother, was a little disappointed by the result, as any generous person
might well have been. Still there was joy in the thought that they were
at liberty to return home—that within a few hours she would meet
Clarence Brooks.
They went up the river by the first train, Virginia grew light of heart
as she approached home. Would he expect her just then? Was he
disappointed because she did not return the night before? Had he told
Cora and Mrs. Lander of their engagement? How would they feel about it,
glad or sorry? She almost wished that it had been done before she left
home. It would be very awkward enduring their sneers or congratulations,
as they might chance to prove, with no one but Ellen to sustain her.
These thoughts brought a troubled joy with them, and when the train
stopped at the depot she had become nervously anxious. Ellen’s grave
face added to this feeling, this return home really was a trying ordeal
to a young, motherless girl, who believed that the most precious secret
of her life had been given to her worst enemies.
Eunice met them at the door; but no one else came with smiles or
welcome. Mrs. Lander was in her room, the servant said, and Miss Lander
had gone out to ride on Blackbird. Ellen saw the question in Virginia’s
eyes, and asked if Miss Lander had gone alone.
“Yes, quite alone; there had been no gentleman in the neighborhood to
ride with her these two days; a groom followed her, that was all.”
Virginia went up stairs somewhat perplexed. Was Cora so annoyed by her
engagement that she would not ride with Mr. Brooks? What could it all
mean?
Just as the girls were taking off their things, a clumsy knock sounded
from the door, and Joshua Hurd looked in. He beckoned Ellen and
retreated into the upper hall. Ellen went out to learn what he wanted,
when he placed a letter mysteriously in her hand.
“You jest give it to her. He made me promise to put it into her own
hands; but it’s the same thing, now ain’t it, when I give it to you?”
The letter, which Ellen took, was directed in a bold, firm hand, to Miss
Virginia Lander.
“Who gave it to you, Mr. Hurd?” she anxiously inquired.
“He, Mr. Brooks; the chap I took your letter to that rainy night. He
came up here yesterday morning, and, arter siting awhile with t’other
gal, came out to the stables—a thing he never done afore—and took a good
deal of interest in the hosses, ’specially Snowball, a critter that I
allays curry down myself. That morning he diskivered that she’d been rid
hard since any one dressed her down, and was curous about the mark of a
saddle that was plain as could be on her back. You don’t know how that
mark came there nor nothing, do you now, Miss Ellen?” he added, eyeing
her keenly with his little, sharp eyes.
“Me?—No, indeed. How should I?” answered Ellen.
“Jes so; thought as much. Nor she, nuther?”
Joshua pointed over his shoulder to the room where they had left
Virginia.
“What, Miss Virginia? She hasn’t seen Snowball these three or four days,
I can answer for that.”
“Jes so.”
“But what does all this mean, Joshua?”
“Nothing, only he said the hoss must a been rid or else I hadn’t took
good care on her, which made me mad. Rid or no rid, curry-combed or not
curry-combed, it was none of his bisness, and I e’enamost told him so.”
“Well, Joshua, I don’t understand about that, but the letter?”
“Well, he gin me that arter I’d sot him down a peg about the hoss, and a
golden half eagle with it—none of yer greenbacks, but gennine gold, woth
amost double if one specerlates on it, which I mean to. ‘Give that into
Miss Virginia’s own hand, don’t let any other person tech it,’ says he.
‘I depend on you, Mr. Hurd.’ Well, he might do that. If I haint gin it
into her own hand, it was because she was doing up her hair afore the
looking-glass, and that made me kinder skeery; but it’s all right now.”
Ellen was turning away, when Joshua began again:
“Miss Ellen, what was the matter with Mr. Brooks? He looked so down in
the mouth that I raly felt sorry for him; kinder locked up about the
mouth and forrid.”
“How can I tell, Joshua?”
“Jes so. But you’ll give that ’ere letter?”
“Certainly I will.”
“Jes so,” muttered Joshua, stumbling down the hall. “Jes so!”
Ellen went into the room where Virginia was standing, and gave her the
letter.
“From him! from him!” cried the delighted girl, snatching it between
both her hands. “I will be back in a minute, Ellen, and tell you all
about it.”
She went into the sanctuary of her own chamber, pressing the paper to
her lips with both hands, as young girls will when the sweet insanity of
a first love is upon them.
Ellen sat down by the window, wondering why her heart felt so heavy; she
had fallen into thought about her brother, whose present position seemed
to be so mysteriously kept from her, when a sharp cry from the inner
room, and directly after a heavy fall, made her spring from the chair in
sudden dismay.
The next instant she was in the bed-chamber striving to lift Virginia
from the floor with her trembling arms and crying out in her alarm:
“My lady! Virginia! Virginia! won’t you speak to me? It is Ellen, your
own poor Ellen, who loves you better than her life! What have they done
to you, darling?”
In her distress, the poor girl broke into the pathetic terms of
endearment which are so touching in her countrywomen. She kissed that
pale face, dropping unconscious tears upon its whiteness. She strove to
warm the cold hand with her own quivering palms. But all was in vain,
Virginia Lander lay motionless; her lips ashen, her eyes closed in deep
shadows. Ellen at last believed her dead, and shrieked aloud:
“Eunice! Eunice! Oh! my God, will nobody come?”
CHAPTER LIV.
IN PRISON.
A person entered the room and stood close to Ellen. It was Cora, just
come in from her ride; she stood motionless, grasping her whip tightly
in one hand; masses of heavy dark cloth fell around her feet, sweeping
far out upon the floor, and the black hat shaded a stormy brow.
“This is hysterics; she had them frequently in Europe. Go and call
Eunice—this shrinking will do no good. Go; I will take care of my
cousin.”
Cora stooped down to take the pale form from Ellen, but the little
creature laid her charge upon the carpet, sprang upon Cora like a tiger
and pushed her half across the room, so tangling her feet in the
riding-skirt that she almost fell. There she left her struggling to
retain her feet, and lifting that pale head, laid a pillow tenderly
under it.
“Do not touch her; do not dare to touch her, unless you wish Almighty
vengeance to fall on you at once! It will come—it will come!”
Pale as death, and shaking her slender forefinger at the half-terrified
woman, Ellen went in search of Eunice.
The moment she was gone, Cora tore the skirt from under her feet, ran to
the door, closed it and shot the bolt. Then she took up the letter,
which had fallen from Virginia’s hold, and tried to hold it firmly
between her two hands, but they shook so violently that she could hardly
see the writing. The struggle of an iron will soon conquered this
tremor, and she eagerly devoured each word as it seemed to flash before
her eyes.
“No explanation—no loop-hole for her to creep through. Quiet, gentle,
positive! My Heavens, what a man this is! How dare she worship him? Why
he is the mate for an empress!”
She heard footsteps in the hall, flung the letter down where she had
found it, shot the bolt and flung the door open before Eunice and Ellen
came in sight.
“She is getting conscious, I think. How she moans. What can be the
meaning of this, Eunice?”
“The meaning—why the poor, sweet creature has fainted away; but what do
you care about that, I want to know?”
“Ellen! Ellen!”
These faint words came from Virginia, for into that loved name the moans
on her lip had shaped themselves.
“It is not Ellen, but your cousin, dear, dear Virginia, what shall I do
for you?”
“Not a thing,” Eunice broke forth, seizing upon Cora and lifting her to
her feet, for she was half kneeling, “not a thing so long as I am here,
and, so help me John Rodgers, I’m not going away. Some one has e’enamost
killed this poor girl; I don’t know who it is, but _you_ shan’t touch
her.”
Here Eunice lifted Virginia from the floor as if she had been an infant,
and laid her tenderly on the bed.
“Now jest lie still and come to naturally, that’s a good girl. No need
of shetting them eyes like a scared baby. She’s going out right away,
knowing she ain’t wanted for nothing. Here, Ellen, jest put your arm
under her head and yer cheek agin hern so—nothing but double-dyed
friends shall get near this bed now, I promise.”
“Ellen,” whispered Virginia.
“What can I do?”
“Where is it?”
“What, the letter?”
“Yes.”
“Here, here, I took it from the carpet. Let me put it in your bosom.”
“No, no, it would kill me!”
She pushed at Ellen with both her quivering hands, stretched herself
suddenly and fell into another deathly swoon. When she awoke from that
it was to the wild unconsciousness which heralds in the first stages of
a brain fever.
The next few weeks were full of terrible apprehension to Ellen Nolan and
Eunice. Joshua, too, hung about the house night and day, anxious and
downhearted, wanting to help, but too awkward for any real usefulness.
Mrs. Lander shut herself up in her own room, and regarded Eunice with a
frightened look whenever she came in from the sick chamber, but asked no
questions. The woman was becoming an abject coward, and had only courage
to shut her eyes at her only evil work.
Even in the insane ravings of that fever, Virginia never mentioned the
name of Clarence Brooks or spoke of Cora. Both Eunice and Joshua
believed that this fever had been brought on by the wrong which Cora had
done in usurping her inheritance, a wrong in which they were compelled
to participate or expose their own benefactress. This thought gave that
rough woman many a sleepless night, and Joshua felt compelled, through
all that long winter, to take a double portion of punch to keep away the
dreams that haunted him. He told Eunice, that nothing but the liquor
kept him from going into a consumption.
Eunice neither scolded nor sneered when he said this: she was too sad
for ill temper now. All her fine dresses were packed away in the garret
as a sort of self-punishment for her own misdoing. She went about the
house like a ghost, and once, when Mrs. Lander questioned her face with
those wild, sunken eyes, as she came from the sick chamber, the woman
absolutely burst into tears.
How did Cora Lander act in this mournful state of things? At first she
was busy all the morning searching the daily papers for a paragraph that
never presented itself. This made her restless and ill at ease. She
wanted some proof that her web, so artfully woven, had entangled its
victim. One day the express brought up a quantity of dresses for Mrs.
Lander, and, in the unpacking, Cora fell upon a small paper which she
had considered too insignificant for her notice, and which had, in fact,
been overlooked by the officer with whom Clarence Brooks had left the
task of silencing the press when Seymour’s trial came on.
There was the paragraph. Her eyes seized upon it with the greed of a
famished hawk.
“A young man, who gave his name as Seymour, was put upon his trial for
embezzlement, and pleaded guilty to the indictment. His appearance and
the frank avowal of his guilt excited general sympathy in the court
room. Even the judge exhibited more than usual commiseration while
sentencing the poor fellow, who was condemned to seven years at
Sing-Sing.”
This was the paragraph which Cora seized upon with such keen interest.
She carried the torn paper to her room and read it over and over again.
“It is done! it is done!” she cried, pacing to and fro in her room like
a panther, hugging the paper to her bosom. “I willed it, and Clarence
Brooks, the most splendid specimen of manhood I ever saw, has been the
instrument of my freedom. I knew it would be so; but this game is but
half played out. The next move shall secure him.”
Even while she was speaking a knock came to the door, and when she
opened it, impatient of the intrusion, a letter was placed in her hand.
“His writing, and to me. How dare the wretch presume so!”
She tore the note open and shook it a moment at arm’s length, as if his
hand must have left poison in its folds.
I cannot give the contents of this letter, it would be too painful; but
she read it, from beginning to end, with dry, hard eyes, that felt no
pity; now and then a gleam of triumph shot through them; otherwise, they
shone with a heavy glitter, like dulled steel.
The letter told her of the anguish her husband felt in leaving her
again, “it might be for years, and it might be forever.” He went into no
details. He was going far away, he said, so far that she might not hear
from him for months together, but he would write whenever fate permitted
him. Something had happened, connected with his life in the Old World,
which compelled him to go—something which even the great love which he
felt for her could neither overpower nor break through. His absence for
a time was imperative as his love for her would be immortal. He besought
her to have patience with him, to pray for him sometimes, as he would
ever pray for her.
More there was of such sad, pitiful pleading for continued love as would
have made any real woman’s heart ache with sympathy. Even Cora Lander
felt a touch of compassion as she read the last lines of her young
husband’s letter, knowing where he was, who had sent him there, and how
he must suffer. She sat for a time with the paper in her hand,
conquering the last remnants of tenderness that evil thoughts and evil
acts had left in her nature. Then she flung the letter into the fire and
held it down with the poker till it was consumed.
I do not know whether compunction or triumph kept the woman in her room
all the day after this letter was placed in her hands, but she refused
to come down and see Brian Nolan, and when he sent to know if he was to
wait for a reply, she sent back a message that she was too ill for
writing just then.
Brian obtained an interview with his sister, who came from Virginia’s
sick room to see him, but it was a sad meeting, for Ellen was borne down
with apprehensions regarding her benefactress, and Brian had a secret
aching in his heart which forbade him to give or claim sympathy. So he
went away heavy-hearted and so lonely that he longed to creep off into
some quiet place and die.
But he had another duty to perform, and that took him to the hotel where
Clarence Brooks was staying; for he never returned to his rooms up the
river, and few persons had seen him abroad in the city.
When Brian entered the room where Brooks was sitting, there was
bitterness in his heart which gave him both strength and courage. He
approached the desk where the young man was writing and laid the letter
he brought upon it without a word.
Brooks started a little, glanced at the boy and took up the letter. He
evidently knew the handwriting, for a stern, hard look came over his
face and he cut the envelope slowly, like a man who has made up his mind
not to be moved from a settled purpose. If he had expected prayers or
entreaties in that letter, the contents undeceived him, that was visible
enough in the change of his countenance, for a slow color came into his
face and all its features softened as he read:
“I have wronged you, have wronged myself more, in an act which makes me
seem ungrateful. I thought you dead—as God is my judge and your
avenger—I thought you dead and mourned for you—I did! I did! You will
not believe it, but I would almost have given my own life if it would
have availed to save yours on the day I robbed your desk. It was your
heirs I wronged, not you, not you. Remember how I watched your sick bed,
how many sleepless nights I spent—how tireless was my love. The
temptation was terrible; I cannot tell you what it was that made me
thirst so for money. I dare not, but it was enough to outmaster stronger
principles than mine. God help me!
“Clarence Brooks, I loved you even when I wronged you—no, not you, but a
memory that should have been sacred. I love you now, though you have
taken such vengeance for my fault as crushes me out of the world. I do
not understand it—you never were hard of heart—never cared so much for
money as to ruin a fellow creature because he deprived you of it.
Something must have hardened you against me before you could bury me
alive in this terrible place.
“I do not complain. Having wrought out this fate for myself, I will
endure it if God gives me strength—perish under it if that is withheld.
Do not think that I write to ask for mercy or excite the sympathy I have
forfeited. It is not that which forces me to brave the pain of writing
this; but I have a favor to ask—only one, so easy for you to grant, yet
so important to me. I have friends, a few both here and in the Old
World; the youth who brings you this is my own brother; I have a sister,
too, young, helpless, sensitive, friendless save in the love of one
person. My fate is a secret to this poor girl, and to all that ever
loved me excepting my brother. He knows where I am and how I suffer;
poor lad, I have been his worst enemy; yet he loves me, oh! how much
better than I deserve! For the sake of this friendless boy—for the sake
of my sister and of others not less dear—I ask you, Clarence Brooks, my
once friend, to be generous, and keep my misery, my crime, and my
disgrace a secret. Do not allow my name to pass your lips to any human
being. This is the only request I shall ever make. Grant it, I implore
you! Unless you would torture me to death in my living tomb, this small
favor will not be denied.
“ALFRED NOLAN,
“For Seymour was an assumed name.”
Brooks read the letter carefully, kindly; he had no real vengeance to
gratify here. What he had done was in behalf of Virginia Lander, who had
not only wronged him, but was about to shipwreck herself forever. The
reader knows well that he never would have arrested this man simply for
his crime regarding the money. But the reasons which had prompted the
act held good yet; nothing but the removal of this man from her path
would keep a girl so infatuated from rushing on to her own destruction.
Brian Nolan stood by the desk looking earnestly into the man’s face as
these thoughts went through his mind. When Brooks lifted his head, those
sorrowful eyes met his; they were full of unspoken reproaches.
“You will grant my brother’s request?” he questioned.
“He need not have made it,” said Brooks, kindly. “What I have done has
been from a stern sense of duty—for the world, I would not take one step
beyond that. Say this to your brother; tell him I have done nothing in
malice—that I have not an unkind feeling toward him.”
Here the young man’s voice faltered a little, and he shaded his eyes
with one hand.
“Then I can carry your solemn promise back to my brother in his prison?”
said Brian, regarding this agitation with something like wonder.
“You may give him my solemn assurance that his wish shall be carried
out. Unless he sends a message to me, I will never mention his name.”
“Thank you,” said Brian Nolan, “thank you for him and myself. There is
another thing; my brother left above sixteen thousand dollars. It is
your money; he charged me to pay it over. Here is a check for what there
is in the bank. The rest I can obtain. Shall I send it here?”
Brooks took the check and tore it in fragments.
“I will not take a farthing of this money. It was not for that I
arrested him—God knows it was not for that! Keep the whole of it for
him; he will need it when he comes out.”
“He will not live to come out,” said Brian. “You have broken his heart.”
The boy passed out of the door as he said this leaving Clarence Brooks
alone.
CHAPTER LV.
THE SECOND CONQUEST.
The winter came, sharp and cold, while Virginia lay ill; for the fever
left her helpless as a child, and the physician said that, without great
care, she must sink into a decline. This he suggested to Cora early in
the season. Her system, he said, had received some great shock and
refused to rally its strength again. Unless something could be done to
interest her, his skill would be of little avail. If Cora was rejoiced
by this intelligence, she took good care to conceal the shameful truth,
for no person ever seemed more anxious than she did for the recovery of
another. Indeed she haunted that sick chamber with the pertinacity of a
professed nurse, though warned by Eunice again and again that her
presence was hurtful to the patient. Fortunately for Virginia, this
affectionate farce only lasted two or three weeks, for after that time
Cora persuaded Mrs. Lander to go with her to the city, and took up her
residence in their old rooms at the hotel. She learned, with infinite
satisfaction, that Clarence Brooks had taken rooms there for the season.
This was true, but Brooks had no idea that Cora had made this house her
stopping-place, and was surprised when they met in the public drawing
room one day, some few weeks after Seymour’s trial. He strove to inquire
after the welfare of her cousin with composure, but his voice shook in
spite of himself, and he again thanked Heaven that Cora was ignorant of
the deep cause of interest he had in that unhappy girl.
She answered him very quietly, and with every appearance of
unconsciousness that Virginia had been quite ill. Some disappointment
seemed to have thrown her into a fever. Probably the person who had
given them all so much uneasiness had abandoned his pursuit of her after
attaining the money he wanted. She could only guess at this. But her
cousin had been taken much worse after the boy who had been there once
before came a second time with a letter, and for a few days was confined
to her room. There was no doubt some tendency to insanity in all this,
for Virginia had taken the most unaccountable dislike both to her and
her mother. As for herself, it was not strange; but a kinder mother
never lived than her aunt Lander. So bitter had this antipathy become at
last, that the physician made it a particular request that they should
both leave the house until some change took place. This was the reason
they had come down to the city. She wished people to understand all
this, because it might seem unfeeling in a mother to leave her child in
her sickness if all the facts were not explained. The whole affair had
been very painful both to herself and her aunt.
Clarence Brooks had no reason to doubt all this; he believed that no
human being but himself knew of the identity of Seymour with the man who
had robbed him. He was also certain that Cora had no knowledge of his
engagement, or even acquaintance with Virginia; the manner and
conversation of Cora Lander convinced him of her ignorance. In this
respect, it was fortunate that Ellen was so completely at variance with
Cora and Mrs. Lander. That romance of the ravine, the sweetest of his
life while it lasted, was sacred to himself, and shared only by those
two lonely girls. Of course Virginia was sad; of course she must feel
the absence or, if she knew it, the incarceration of her lover with such
anguish as might throw her on a sick bed. But this was the natural
result of her own mad infatuation; no human help could protect her from
it. She had been wrested from this bad man by an act of legal power that
made his heart ache when he thought of it; yet, under the same
circumstances, he would have done it again, even though the girl had
never been dear to himself.
Cora was very sweet and gentle when they met; you would have thought
Virginia had appeared over again from her manners, for never on this
earth was there a better actress lost to the stage. At her instigation,
Mrs. Lander invited Brooks to their parlor. There was no visible reason
why he should not accept this invitation to intimacy with Amos Lander’s
daughter. The treachery of his niece could not reach that fair being.
Had not his dead friend warned him against one and invited his love for
the other?
He went to that pleasant parlor again and again. He saw that singularly
gifted being in all the phases of her loveliness. There was no struggle
in his bosom then; never in this world was there a more willing victim.
If uncertain of his own feelings, he soon became vividly conscious of
hers, for, with all her art, the creature could not conceal the
absorbing passion that had entered her heart with such irresistible
power.
Cora Lander was right in one thing; she had found her master passion in
this love for Clarence Brooks. I have no heart to give the details of
that wicked courtship. The old intimacy revived, those two persons spent
half their time together; for Cora still pleaded her mourning as an
excuse for avoidance of general society. She sent for Blackbird, and
almost every afternoon a pair of black horses, with two of the
finest-looking riders ever seen in those broad avenues, were admired and
commented on till it became generally known that Amos Lander’s heiress
was engaged to the distinguished-looking foreigner who was forever by
her side.
As the spring came on, this rumor was confirmed by the dress makers and
furnishing houses where the wedding paraphernalia was being prepared.
All this time Virginia was worse than an invalid; she received no
company, and heard nothing that was going on in the out-door world;
those who saw her believed that a few months would end a life that, from
no given cause, seemed to have become wearisome to that fair young
creature, and a burden that she would not be long troubled with.
One day, early in the last month of spring, Brian Nolan went from New
York to see Ellen, who received him up stairs in Virginia’s parlor; she,
poor girl, was lying feeble and pale on the bed in her own room. But the
door was open, and the great house so still that almost every word could
reach her from the parlor.
Ellen had finished her book during the winter and it lay on her desk,
sealed in a large package, which she was anxious to put in some
publisher’s hands. There was no great vigor of life about Ellen in those
days. Her slight figure had fallen away with constant watching and
severe thought; her eyes were almost wild with anxiety, and she was
constantly giving little nervous starts, as if apprehending some evil
every minute.
“You look ill, Ellen,” said Brian, sitting down by the desk.
“No, no; I am not ill, Brian, only it makes me suffer to see her passing
away so quietly and so surely.”
“Is she no better, then?”
“Worse, if anything, Brian.”
“Do you know, Ellen—can you guess what it is that preys upon her?”
Brian asked this under his breath. Remember, Cora had denied her
identity to him, and had sent down word that she was ill on another
occasion. He had seen Virginia at Seymour’s residence, and fully
believed her to be his wife, pining perhaps to death under the
unaccountable absence of her husband.
“Brian, all that ails her is soon told. Among them, they have broken her
heart.”
“Do you think she is so bad? Will the sweet lady really die?”
“God help us, I dare not ask the question, much less answer it!” said
Ellen, beginning to cry.
Brian could not speak openly, he was held down by that solemn promise to
his brother. He had just been to the prison and came up to get news of
the woman whom that unhappy convict so thoroughly loved.
“This will be sad, sad news for him,” was his silent reflection. “Should
she die, he will feel the shock through his prison walls. O! if I dared
say one consoling word to her!”
These were silent thoughts; he would not have spoken them for the world,
shackled so with that oath of secrecy. But one thing he could do.
Seymour had not altogether forbidden him to make a confidant of Ellen.
He would tell her, not about the marriage, but regarding his brother’s
unhappy condition.
“Ellen,” he said, after a prolonged silence, “will you shut that door, I
want to say something to you alone?”
“She is there, speak low, I think she is sleeping,” said Ellen, closing
the door softly and retreating to the farther side of the room. “Now you
can tell me, Brian. Is it anything about our brother?”
“Yes, Ellen, I just came from him!”
“Came from him? Where is he then?”
“Stoop down your head, sister.”
Ellen bent her head, listened, turned deadly white and stepped back as
if he had struck her.
“In prison—sent there by Clarence Brooks—Brian, why was this kept from
me so long?”
“He forbade me to tell you, or any one. It would have done harm.”
“But I am his sister.”
“And for that reason have enough to bear. Even now I tell you without
authority. But for what I have heard to-day, I would still keep
silence.”
“And this was where he was—this was why he did not need our money.
Brian, Clarence Brooks is a villain, a double-dyed villain! I detest
him!”
“So did I at first, but after seeing him—Ellen, there is something
strange about this. Mr. Brooks does not seem vindictive. He would not
accept any portion of the money, though I urged it upon him. He seemed
distressed, anxious to make Alfred’s life easy where he is. Ellen, at
one time I saw tears in that man’s eyes.”
“Have you seen him more than once?”
“Yes, but not to speak with him. Only last week I saw him riding in the
Park with Mrs. Lander and the young lady.”
“What! Cora Lander?”
“Yes, it is said about the hotels that they are going to be married
soon.”
Ellen flushed red and turned white again; thought after thought flashed
through her mind. Cora Lander had known her brother. She remembered
thinking so at the hotel the first time they all met there. Had she
instigated Brooks to prosecute him as he had done?
There was no chance that an honest mind could follow Cora Lander in her
iniquitous scheming, but Ellen jumped at the one broad conclusion that
she was at the bottom of all her brother’s trouble and of Virginia’s sad
state.
“That cruel wretch shall not break his heart!” she exclaimed.
Brian thought that she alluded to Clarence Brooks, and answered:
“I do not think it was done from cruelty. This man is not hard-hearted.
Something that we do not understand is at the bottom of it all.”
“Brian, tell me more of our brother. How many years is it?”
“Seven!”
“So many! Let me think—let me think! Oh! if she were well now!”
“That is it. You must keep this from her, of all persons in the world.”
“We must keep it from every one, though the secret burns our lives out.”
“If she had not been in the danger you speak of, I would not have told
you.”
“I do not understand. My lady has nothing to do with it; she would be
sorry, of course, but I will not tell her or any one. Our father left
Alfred to us. To save him is the duty of my life.”
“Ellen.”
“Well, Brian?”
“I should like to see your lady.”
“No wonder, Brian; it would be strange if you did not. She has the
loveliest face. I hear her moving. Perhaps she will come out.”
She was right, the door opened and Virginia came into the room, pale as
a lily. Her white merino dress was girded in at the waist by a black
ribbon, and a string of jet beads fell from her neck. She had heard his
voice and put these things on hurriedly, hoping something from his
visit, but without knowing what.
“You have come to see Ellen; I am glad of it,” she said, gently, as
Brian bowed before the frail creature whom he believed to be his
brother’s wife. “Is there any news of her brother yet?”
Brian’s face lighted up. Here was a chance of giving her comfort without
betraying his knowledge of her secret.
“Yes, we have heard from him; he is well, and thinks nothing so
important as his return to us.”
“But when will he return?”
“Not yet; he cannot tell. But this is certain, his heart is with us.”
She smiled faintly at his eagerness, and sat down wearily, supporting
her head with one hand.
“I shall write, lady. May I tell him that you remember him kindly?” said
Brian, so agitated that his voice shook while uttering words that seemed
to him of great hidden importance.
“Yes, say that, for I do remember him very kindly, little as I have seen
of him. Ellen’s brother, you know, is almost my brother.”
“Thank you, he will be pleased! Sister Ellen, good-bye.”
“I will go with you, brother. We must not say good-bye so soon.”
Ellen walked with her brother down to the depot, conversing earnestly
with him all the way, and waited till the train took him up.
About a week after this, Eunice intercepted Ellen as she was coming in
from the garden.
“Come here,” she said, “I’ve got a letter from Mrs. Eliza Lander. Read
it, but don’t say a word to _her_.”
Ellen read the letter. It told Eunice, as a matter to be kept secret in
the household, of Cora’s approaching marriage. “Everything is getting
ready,” it said; “Cora’s first year of mourning will be more than over
in June, when the wedding will take place at the mansion. She wishes you
to have the house put into perfect order. Hire extra help, and tell the
gardener to put on a double force if the grounds require it. The wedding
will be a large one and some of the first people in the land will be
present. There is one thing that troubles my niece, and I share her
anxiety. What can be done with my—with Virginia and her uncouth friend?
If she would only consent to live in the city. Cora has such a lovely
house; it belonged to Mr. Lander: she will give her a deed of it, if
that will suit her for a residence. She can choose her own servants and
have some nice elderly person to live with her. The house has just been
beautifully fitted up Cora tells me, especially for her cousin. I have
been over it, and it is superb. There is a colored woman in charge now,
but Cora will send her off and let her cousin have full sway. I think
this very liberal—don’t you, Eunice? If you like it, would you object to
speaking to her about the arrangement? Now that a strange gentleman is
coming into the family, it does seem best that something should be done.
I wouldn’t speak to her myself about it, nor would Cora, she is so
sensitive; but you will not mind it, I am sure, Eunice. Do try and get
that girl with the back to favor this measure. She can do anything with
Virginia.
“E. LANDER.”
* * * * *
“What do I think of that?” cried Eunice, when Ellen had read the letter
through. “Jehosaphat, Judas Iscarrot and Nebbecudnezzer rolled into one
heap of wickedness. Eliza Lander’s getting to be disgusting! Don’t look
at me, I’m blushing all over for her. It’s scandalous!”
“Still my young lady must go. It would kill her to remain here.”
“But it is turning her out of doors. This city house that the critter
has been a fixing up isn’t her home like this, though it is a purty
place.”
“She will not go there, Eunice, I am sure of that. But she has some
money. We raised it on those jewels—bless you for getting them—and I can
work.”
“Work! You! why you couldn’t iron a pocket hankecher without being tired
out.”
“But I can write.”
“Why that ain’t work.”
“I fancy you would think it was, Eunice, if you had it to do.”
“Why, you cretur you, I thought you was a doing it jest for fun!”
“Fun,” answered Ellen, smiling wearily, for this hard writing had worn
her out, “see how my hand trembles, feel how hot my head is. This a
pretty severe fun, Eunice!”
“And what’s the good of wurrying yourself out so? I hain’t seen nothing
come of it but a heap of paper with writing on it that Jehosaphat
couldn’t read if he was to come right out of the Scripters to do it.”
“You may be right. After all my toil, it may be worth nothing,” answered
Ellen, who had arisen from the pile of manuscript so depressed and
exhausted that even such criticism as Eunice gave discouraged her. “But
I have tried so hard! Besides she would be disappointed!”
“Will she? Well, cherk up, cherk up, if writing ever is worth anything,
yours will come up above the level. I don’t know much about it, but I’ve
seen your face kinder blazing out and withering up over that paper day
after day. There must be something in it to make a young cretur work as
you have. Don’t let anything I’ve said put you down in the mouth, for I
don’t know no more about writing than a swing fence. Gracious knows, I
wish I never had learned, so does Josh, though we ain’t either on us
much to brag of.”
CHAPTER LVI.
A NEW HOME.
Eunice was going into the house after this speech, but Ellen followed
her.
“Eunice, will you give me that letter?” she said.
“Not to show her. I tell you that girl shan’t leave this house without
she wants to of her own self. Nobody on this arth shall drive her away.”
“But she will not remain after this—after her cousin comes back.”
“Ellen Nolan, there’s a thing that sets hard on Josh’s and my mind. You
sent a letter once down to the tavern from her, and that Mr. Brooks sent
one back agin. Besides, Josh says that the men about the tavern say that
you was down there one night to see him. Now was you?”
“Eunice, please don’t question me about that. It is all over now.”
“Ellen, you’re a good girl, and I won’t. But tell me one thing; you may,
for I don’t know anything more about love than I do about writing; but
did he kinder make her like him and then treat her bad, going over to
t’other? He’s a man, and it’s in ’em I know.”
“Eunice, please oblige me. Don’t talk of her, only to decide what is for
the best. She’s very feeble, and the least excitement may throw her upon
a sick bed again. If nothing had happened, we should have gone away.
This life is terrible!”
“Not without she wants to; remember Josh and I are agreed on that.”
“But it is impossible to stay—the—the—confusion would kill her. Think of
some quiet place that she can live in, where no trouble can come.”
“I’ll think it over. But it’s a burning shame.”
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of Newburg or Sing-Sing, if you can think
of a nice family,” said Ellen, faltering in the last part of her
sentence, while the slow color came into her face.
“I know a widow woman about four or five miles on this side of
Sing-Sing, back from the railroad; she’s a New England woman, and just
as kind as kind can be. Sometimes she takes one or two boarders. I’ll
send Josh right down to see about it if you want me to, and she _will_
go.”
“Do, Eunice, let him start at once.”
“It ain’t so far off that I can’t come and see you now and then.”
“I hope not, Eunice, for you have been a good friend to her.”
“No, I haven’t—more shame to me—but I wanted to be. You don’t know how
both Josh and I wanted to be her friend but couldn’t. Are you going? Do
you want the letter?”
“No, I can tell her; it only takes a few words.”
Half an hour after this Joshua was at the depot waiting for a train, and
Ellen sat in Virginia’s bed-room with both her arms around the invalid,
striving to arouse her from the state of dead silence into which she had
fallen.
“Oh! darling lady, make an effort and cry; just a few tears will make
your heart easier. Look up, look up, and say I haven’t killed you with
the news!”
Virginia heard this appeal through all her numbed senses. She lifted her
head and smiled in Ellen’s face—one of the most pitiful smiles that ever
parted human lips.
“Ellen, you told me of this, but I would not be warned.”
“Sweet lady—dear lady, cast him from your mind. He is cruel,
dishonorable, vile! Unworthy of your regret.”
“No, Ellen; in that you wrong Clarence, wrong me, if you think I can
believe such things of him. It is my cousin—I will not curse her, or
blame him. Let us go away, my friend. You are right, let us go away. She
took my inheritance and I was powerless to defend it. She has taken the
heart from my bosom now and crushed out all its life. Still I am
powerless. But some day he will learn the truth, whatever that wicked
truth may be; then she will suffer as I do. I do not ask it—I do not
wish it, but God is above all.”
A fortnight after Virginia Lander heard of the wedding which was to
drive her from under her father’s roof, a little figure, whose deformed
shoulders were but half concealed under a circular mantle of black silk,
entered one of the principal publishing houses in New York, with a paper
parcel in her arms; for it was too heavy for her weak hands. The vast
room which she entered was lined with placards of various
publications—divided into compartments by stands, crowded with specimen
books, and scattered over with desks, each of which represented a
department of that vast establishment. A large portion of the front of
this room was divided off from the stairs and main apartment by a light
wooden railing, which enclosed a well-trodden carpet, with some desks
and office chairs, all appropriated by the heads of this great firm,
which had existed since the eldest partner was a little child. They were
kindly-looking men, who found their greatest happiness in the brotherly
society which was sufficient to themselves; still they were at all times
ready to give a cordial greeting and kindly hearing to any one who came
to them, either in friendship or on business. It so happened that all of
the partners were present at the moment Ellen Nolan entered the room.
Genius may be modest and shrinking, but it is seldom at a loss for the
best means of attaining a proper object. These men were all strangers to
Ellen, but her earnest face and quiet movements won upon them at first
sight. The tallest and eldest of these gentlemen arose to meet her,
glanced at the parcel in her arms and directed her to another
pleasant-faced man, who sat by a desk, leaning back in his office chair
and calmly smoking a cigar, which he flung through the window as she
came up. This man, with a smile that brightened Ellen’s face like a
reflected sunbeam, reached forth his hand for the parcel, simply saying:
“Is it a book?”
Ellen sighed heavily as she gave up her manuscript. It had been so long
a part of her life that she shrunk from the separation when it came, as
an artist hates to sell the picture which is the embodiment of a
beautiful idea.
“Yes, sir, it is a book—a novel.”
He looked at her with kindly interest. Her bright face, and, more than
that, her helplessness awoke his sympathy. The man of business saw
genius in that face—and the man of feeling pitied one whom God had so
endowed and yet left imperfect.
“Your first, of course?”
“Yes, the very first I ever attempted.”
Ellen was trembling all over now. It seemed as if half her strength had
been taken away with the manuscript.
“Leave it, if you like. We will submit it to our reader.”
Ellen, of course, supposed that her book would be given over to the
judgment of some great author, capable of doing at least all that she
could accomplish, and gave it up with a sort of awe, for there is no
reverence in life so fervent as that which genius yields to genius.
I do not know how it was with this firm, but had she guessed that, in a
majority of cases, her manuscript would have been given to some
pretending school girl or favorite friend of the publisher, she might
have had less reverence and more apprehension. As it was, she felt
certain that the ideas which had thrilled her whole being in the
progress of that book would meet with kindred appreciation in some
powerful mind, and was content.
So Ellen left her book and went back to the little stone farm-house in a
hollow of the hills, where Virginia was longing for her presence as only
the suffering and feeble of health can long for companionship. The home
which these girls had chosen presented a great contrast to the noble
mansion they had left; yet it was a pleasant residence; neat,
old-fashioned, and shaded with a huge walnut tree, which was just
putting forth its most delicate green. Quantities of daffodils, jonquils
and snowdrops brightened the front yard and the garden. Peach and cherry
trees were in full blossom, and the great lilac bushes under the parlor
windows were budding with a famous promise of flowers. Humble as all
this was, it seemed to those girls far pleasanter than that marble
house, with all its discord and painful restraints. Virginia had
brightened a little under the comfort and freedom of her new home. The
wholesome scent of those garden flowers and walnut trees awoke
sensations of pleasure unknown to her former luxurious life. She sought
the open air now, and could ramble off at will without fear of meeting
her worst enemies. It was a new life in which she was becoming
interested; the languor and illness which had kept her indoors all
winter became less and less apparent every day.
One morning Joshua came riding toward the house, leading Snowball by the
bridle.
“I brought her down because the doctor ordered something nice to be sent
to you. ‘Sich as hosses?’ says I. ‘A white hoss with a mane and tail
like drifted snow, is that the medicine you was thinking of?’ sez I.”
“‘Jes so,’ says he, ‘that kind of a hoss is jest what she wants.’”
“‘Side-saddle and all?’ says I.”
“‘Yes,’ says he. ‘Side-saddle, riding-dress, hat, feather and whip?’
says I agin. Then he laughed and told me to bring everything, so I did.
Besides, Eunice would put up some jelly and sich like in this basket,
and I put something in for you, Miss Ellen. Remembered how you took to
the punch that rainy evening, and brought down some of the licker—jest
room for it in the basket. Writ out a receipt, too, for the punch with
my own hand. Here it is.”
Ellen took the paper and thanked him cordially. Persons like her are not
apt to ridicule a kindness, however uncouthly expressed. Virginia was
looking out of the window with something like animation. Snowball seemed
an old friend to her, spite of the memories she brought.
“Yes, Joshua, I promise to ride her; the beauty, see how she paws the
turf. Tell Eunice how pleasant everything is here—how much we like Mrs.
Rice. I am getting quite strong, as you see.”
“Well, yes, you do look better, marm. But it’s getting pleasant up our
way too. I was down in the gorge yesterday, setting things to rights
about the little log cabin. That big chestnut tree is putting out the
heaviest grist of leaves I ever saw, and the vines are all green about
the bridge. But what do you think I found in the cabin? Nigh upon half a
bushel of chestnuts heaped up in one corner. Been there all winter and
nobody teched ’em. Curous, wasn’t it?”
Virginia’s animation was all gone; she sat down in a chair by the
window, panting for breath.
“Well,” said Joshua, unconscious of the mischief he had done, “I suppose
I must be a going. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Joshua,” said Ellen, following the kind fellow from the room.
“When is it to be?”
“Next month, arly, I reckon by the orders we get. Eunice told me to tell
you she thought so. A pair of stupendous carriage hosses came up
yesterday, and a new barouche. The stables won’t hold ’em if she keeps
on.”
Ellen went back to the house. She had not yet told Virginia that her
cousin’s marriage was so near at hand. Indeed they seldom talked on that
subject now. It was too seriously painful.
“Ellen,” said Virginia, when her friend came in, “after it is all over,
tell me.”
You would have thought from the quivering pallor of her face that it was
the execution of some friend she was speaking of.
“I will,” said Ellen, in a low voice. “It is not yet.”
Virginia drew a struggling breath, and no more was said. She had seen
Ellen talking with Joshua, and guessed at the subject of their
conversation.
CHAPTER LVII.
PLEADING FOR A PARDON.
The Governor of New York was alone in his private office one day, when
his Secretary came in, followed by a little creature that would have
appeared like a child but for a face, which possessed a wonderful power
of expression, such as only thought and experience could give.
This young creature went up to the Governor where he sat, and, leaning
on the table with one arm, looked earnestly into his face—so earnestly
that the color mounted faintly over it.
“I have a brother,” said Ellen Nolan, “my eldest brother; he has
committed a crime, and they have put him in State’s Prison. If he were
innocent, I would ask your pardon as a right; but knowing him guilty, I
have come up here to beg mercy for him. My father, sir, is dead; he was
lost in a steamer, burned on the ocean more than a year ago. With his
last words he bade me fill his place to this unhappy son, and I
promised. Sir, my brother is ill; I fear his mind is becoming disturbed.
He will die if you leave him there.”
That earnest face, those eyes so full of deep, deep feeling, had more
power upon the Governor than this broken speech which seemed to come in
gasps from her chest.
“Have you a memorial? Does the Judge or District Attorney sign your
petition?”
“I have no petition.”
“No petition—no letters?”
“I am a stranger, sir, and do not know how these things are done.
Yesterday I was in the prison for the first time; for I had been again
and again and they refused to let me in. I found him alone in his cell,
burning with fever, wild with distress. The very sight of me drove him
half crazy. He is an educated man, who has committed one grave fault,
but there is no wickedness in him. If ever a man was sorry for
wrong-doing he is. I know he has done a dishonest thing, but he says it
was under terrible temptation, and I believe him. You would believe him,
sir, if you had held his poor, shaking hands and looked into his eyes as
I did. Oh! sir, I wish you could see him. It would melt your heart. My
father loved him so dearly; knowing all his faults, he could understand
how a man might do wrong and yet not be so very bad. This is all the
plea I have to make. If you keep him there he will die, and my promise,
given to a father who was just entering the gates of Heaven, will go
unredeemed.”
The Governor, who was a kind and most just man, listened to the girl
with more than patience. Her energy, that broken language, which was
half explanation half petition, all unstudied and earnest as a child
pleads, took him by surprise. He asked her to sit down, but she would
not. Supporting herself with one arm, she still kept her eyes on his
face, looking as it were deep into his heart. The magnetism of a brain
and heart like hers, united on one purpose, is more powerful with
sympathetic men than argument or prayers; they troubled that man’s heart
till it stirred mercifully in his bosom. He took Ellen’s hand. She
seemed so small and helpless that it was like encouraging a child. He
asked questions, and listened to the whole story as she had told it to
Virginia months before. When she came to the robbery, her voice broke
and her eyes fell; that painful truth brought the crimson of deep shame
into her white cheeks. He was guilty, she owned, but not so guilty as
might be thought. He positively believed his friend to be dead, and in a
loose way that friend had almost promised the money, and more than that
to him. It was all wrong—terribly wrong—but would the Governor forgive
him for her sake? She was so helpless and an orphan. If he would, they
two, with a younger brother she had, would go out West, far beyond the
Rocky Mountains, and there work out a new life for him, such as her
father could look down from Heaven and ask the angels to witness.
All this was touching and pathetic; but the Governor of a State cannot
always listen to the pleadings of his own heart. He became restive under
those wistful eyes, that shed no tears, but was all the more powerful
for that, and at last broke off the conversation rather coldly. It was
imprudent, he said, to listen to a petition which had really nothing but
sisterly affection to recommend it. It grieved him to say this, but it
seemed to him impossible to act otherwise.
He shook hands with the poor girl kindly, but chilled to the heart by
his words, she went away feeling like death.
Virginia knew nothing of this. She thought Ellen busy negotiating for
her book, and asked her about it when she came home at night, looking so
tired and careworn. This reminded Ellen that the week was almost up. In
her anxiety she had forgotten the precious manuscript.
The next day she went down to the city and came home radiant. Her
manuscript was accepted with warm praise. In a few weeks it would be
published.
“Now,” she said, stealing an arm around Virginia’s neck as she told her
the news, “now we shall be independent.”
“Ah, how happy you look, Ellen! No wonder! You have done so much, while
I have accomplished nothing and have no hope. Oh! Ellen, I tried to sing
while you were away, and could not. My voice is gone.”
“That is because you have been so ill, dear lady. It will come back
sweeter than ever; if not, my book will sell. I can write more, and that
will be enough for us both. This is independence, lady!”
Virginia returned her kisses with warmth. She loved the generous girl
well enough to take even money from her without a sense of obligation
wounding her pride, and that is the greatest test of a magnanimous
nature that a human being is capable of in this degenerate age.
“What is the difference?” said Ellen, brimming over with gratitude that
she could do something for her lady. “Don’t I love to take everything
from you? Oh! I’m so thankful that it is my turn now!”
CHAPTER LVIII.
DEATH IN THE LOG CABIN.
Cora Lander had been a good deal into society during the latter part of
her season in town. With her great beauty and reputation for enormous
wealth, there was no difficulty in taking her position in fashionable
life. It came and lay down at her feet. Hundreds of the highest among
the high followed her and her bridegroom to that mansion on the Hudson,
where the marriage ceremony was to be performed with a splendor that had
never been witnessed in this country before. A glorious moon flooded
that clear summer evening with its light, and flashed, like rippling
quicksilver, along the river as the train tore along its banks. The
sound of laughter and low, sweet voices softened the noises of the
engine and the rattle of wheels to those within the cars, as that
wedding party was whirled onward almost with the speed of lightning.
All at once that white house, with all its stately trees, drooping
shrubbery and clustering vines, illuminated as with ten thousand stars,
burst upon the view. The marble colonnade shone out clear and white, all
its fluted pillars well defined, and the long white leaves of their
Corinthian capitals tangled in, as it seemed, with wreaths of fire. The
roses were in full bloom, loading the air with fragrance; such fruit
trees as grew near were lighted up, and their blossoms fell around the
hanging lamps like garlands of snow.
From the terrace stairs to the front of the building, a broad pathway of
crimson carpeting was laid, bordered on each side with greenhouse
plants, massed till their blossoms seemed one tangle of flowers from the
steps to the colonnade.
Within, everything was in stately keeping with the exterior; all the
rooms, on which Mrs. Lander had lavished so much money, were flung open.
The air penetrated them through clouds of lace. Some were brilliantly
lighted, others left in a soft moonlight obscurity, inviting repose. The
colors in each room contrasted or harmonized with the next so
imperceptibly that they could hardly be separated in the mind, but
composed one grand picture of light, rich coloring and artistic effects.
When the company came pouring into these rooms, chatting, laughing,
brilliant with expectation, it only added a movement of graceful life
without in the least crowding them. The beautiful women moving to and
fro seemed like lost Peris that had found a new way back to Paradise and
were rejoicing over it.
This crowd of gay people had come rather early, scattering themselves
about the rooms and the grounds, as previously arranged. The ceremony
would not come off before eleven o’clock. Then the supper rooms would be
thrown open, and there would be dancing for those who liked it. The
whole affair was, in fact, one grand reception. Mrs. Lander received the
guests in a dress of silver gray satin, clouded with Brussels point,
that swept the carpet in a train absolutely regal. She had cast off her
nervousness and threw life into a scene which was her highest idea of
happiness.
While all this fashion and beauty were passing in and out of the lower
rooms, Cora stood in the chamber of which she had so ruthlessly
defrauded her cousin, ready for her second marriage. Excitement had
rendered her more than beautiful; her cheeks were burning with
rose-tints; the rich tresses, rolled back from her forehead, fairly
flung off the light. The satin robe fell around her as snow settles to
its place, and swept the floor in long, sumptuous folds. She held the
bridal veil in her hand and was directing the attendant how to arrange
it in her hair with perfect art and seeming negligence, when a servant
knocked at the door.
“See what it is,” she said, “surely it cannot be time!”
The woman opened the door and brought back a note, which the servant
said a strange man had delivered, with directions that it should be
given into her own hands at once.
Cora tore the note open impatiently; she was annoyed by the delay it
occasioned. This was what she read:
“I am at the log cabin waiting for you. If you fail to come at once, I
shall stand by your side at eleven o’clock.
“YOUR HUSBAND.”
Cora Lander neither fainted away nor uttered one sound of the terrible
dread that seized upon her. She folded the note and held it firmly in
her hand. Then turning to the woman, she bade her unlace the corsage of
her dress, it was rather tight, and she would let the dressmaker, who
was in attendance from the city, alter it a little, there was plenty of
time. She took up her watch from the dressing-table and made sure of
this. It was about ten o’clock.
The woman obeyed, and in a few moments Cora came out of those voluminous
folds of satin as if she had just escaped from a snow-drift.
“Shall I carry the dress to Mrs. Green?” inquired the maid.
“Yes, tell her to let it out the least in the world. Give me that scarf,
I will attend to something else while she finishes it. These
hair-dressers tire one to death. I will ring when you are wanted again.”
The woman went out, carrying the dress carefully on her arm. The moment
she was gone, Cora stepped into the next room, snatched up the dress she
had flung off before commencing her toilet, and put it on. Across one of
the chairs hung a lace shawl, which she had worn in the grounds that
afternoon. She threw this over her head, gathering it up in black folds
about her bosom, which scarcely seemed to rise or fall with human life.
The last thing she did in that room was to open a drawer of the
dressing-table and take out a small pistol, scarcely more than a toy,
which had been given her at the manufactory in Hartford as a beautiful
specimen of its workmanship, once when Amos Lander had taken her and
Virginia over the works there. It was loaded, for one day she had given
it to Josh Hurd to put in order, and he sent it back ready for use. She
put this in her pocket, and now her voice was heard for the first time
since the maid went out.
“I will kill him! If he attempts it, I will kill him!”
You would not have known that voice—you would hardly have recognized the
woman’s face as she went out of her chamber and made for a flight of
back stairs leading to a passage-way near the kitchen. Once in the open
air, she paused, holding her breath, if indeed she could be said to
breathe at all. How she hated that bright illumination which made the
tiniest flowers in the thickets visible; for it had filled the grounds
with her wedding guests, who were walking, chatting, or gathering roses
in the beautiful light which fell around them; half moonbeams and half
fire.
The woman had no time to wait hesitating there. She gathered the black
lace over her head and took a somewhat shadowy course by the stables.
Then she skirted the stone wall and ran toward the ravine; passing
through the shadows with swift stillness as if she had been a spirit of
the night; fleeing in search of perfect darkness. As she went Cora tore
her husband’s note into fragments and cast it to the winds.
A man was waiting for her in the log cabin; the moonlight lay upon his
face as he looked out of the window, revealing its fixed and terrible
whiteness. Not twenty-four hours before, he had been in one of the
prison cells at Sing-Sing, but the Governor was haunted by the words and
looks of that hunchbacked girl so persistently, that his great, generous
heart spoke out in spite of legal forms, and a pardon set the young man
free.
Seymour went first to his sister, full of eager gratitude; for had she
not given him back to his wife and spared her the misery of knowing how
unworthy he was? Ellen told him of the wedding, bitterly, for she almost
hated Clarence Brooks and the girl he was about to marry. But she did
not dream of the awful blow her words dealt on the unhappy man who had
just come out of his imprisonment; indeed the resentment she felt
towards those two persons must have been overpowering, to break through
the joy that filled her heart when she knew of a certainty that her
brother was free, and through her intercession.
Seymour left her without a word, looking deathly. He had no time to
lose; the sun was already verging toward the west.
While Ellen stood where he had left her, lost in painful wonder, Brian
came up. He had gone to the prison, hoping to see his brother, and there
heard news of his pardon. Knowing well where he would go first, the
happy youth followed him to Ellen’s residence.
“Where is he? Has he gone in there—was she glad? How, now, Ellen, she
will get well again. It was only the pining.”
Brian was so full of joy that he forgot his promise—forgot that Ellen
was still ignorant of their brother’s marriage.
“What do you mean, Brian? What does all this mean? Alfred came to see
me, beaming with happiness, and left me like a ghost when I told him
that this was Clarence Brooks’ and Cora Lander’s wedding day.”
“And he did not see her?”
“He saw no one but me, and scarcely that. What does this mean, Brian? He
seemed turning to stone when I told him of Cora Lander’s wedding.”
“Ellen, tell me one thing—did your lady know our brother in Europe?”
“No.”
“Has she ever been for days together in the city?”
“No; I have been with her every day, almost every hour. No, I say.”
“Ellen, Ellen Nolan, is she—tell me truly—is she breaking her heart for
him?”
“For him? No, no, a thousand times no. She has never seen him alone in
her life.”
Brian looked around, frightened.
“Which way did he go, Ellen?”
“Up the river, toward the depot. But what does this mean? I will know.”
“Hush, Ellen, I hear a train coming—kiss me—pray for us—pray for him
most of all.”
He was gone; she saw him fleeing down the cross road in desperate haste,
never looking to the right or left, but straight forward, as if the race
was for his life. She saw him stop suddenly. The train was sweeping
by—he was too late.
Yes, he was too late. But the boy walked on, and in a minute commenced
running again. Something might delay the train. Three minutes—he only
asked three minutes—no, it swept off like a serpent, coiling slowly
around a curve of the road, and no other train would stop there before
night. He walked on in the desperate hope of being taken up by some
miracle of chance, or of springing on board a train at slow speed, for
the boy was ready to risk his life without question. He did get on that
special train full of wedding guests when it stopped a moment to have
the hot wheels examined.
This delay left Seymour to his own wild self till that note was written,
and Cora Lander came down to the log cabin, where he stood waiting for
her.
She passed in at the door and stood by his side in the moonlight,
throwing the lace shawl back upon her shoulders.
“You have sent for me under a threat. I am here to listen, if you have
anything to say.”
Her voice was hard and sharp as steel; her eyes glittered in the
moonlight.
He looked at her and reached out his arms with such a cry of tender
anguish as thrilled the very air.
“Oh, Cora! Cora! this is not so! Tell me that is not the truth!”
She stood like a statue, neither repelling nor accepting his embrace.
His arms fell heavily downward, a groan broke from his lips.
“Will you not speak to me, Cora?” he cried.
“I have nothing to say, Alfred Nolan.”
“Alfred Nolan! Great Heavens! has it reached her at last.”
“It reached me at first. Before you were put into the prison, where you
should have hid yourself forever had my will availed anything, I knew
all that you had done and felt all the shame of having been your wife
even for an hour.”
The poor man dashed both hands to his face and cried out:
“Oh! my God—my God, have mercy upon me!”
“There shall be no mercy for you,” she answered, hoarsely, “unless you
quit this place at once and forever. I came here to make this proposal:
go to the Indies—go to Australia—I will give you one half of all that I
have on earth; secure it to you with bonds that can neither be violated
nor evaded. Only go—go—go! and never let me hear of you again!”
That wretched man shook from head to foot. She saw the agony in his face
clearly by the moonlight. That look would have stirred even a hard heart
to compassion, but she had none.
“Make up your mind at once. In becoming a convict, you set me at
liberty. The certificate of our marriage is in my hands; the witnesses
are beyond your reach; the grave itself never closed over a dead man
more firmly than that disgraceful secret is locked up from all human
knowledge.”
“Cora! Cora! was this done purposely? Was it in your heart then? Did you
never love me?”
“I don’t know what was in my heart, but supreme folly, of which I
repented. Yes, if you will have it—if it will make you hate me—revolt at
the sight of me—hear the truth. I had ceased to love you before this
infamy gave me a reason for it.”
“Oh! have mercy, have mercy! And I loved you so! I loved you so!”
She took no heed of the anguish which broke out in this cry, but went on
ruthlessly:
“Take my offer—it is a princely fortune, but I am tempted to double it
and make sure that these eyes will never see you again. Not that I fear
you. Refuse it, come up to the house and claim me, as you threatened so
delicately in your note, and I will say, ‘this man is insane, he is just
out of the State’s Prison; I do not know him.’ Where is your means of
proving that we ever met?”
She broke off, for Seymour seized her by both arms, and, forcing her up
to the window, looked wildly into her face.
“Is this my wife? Is this the woman I loved; or some fiend in her shape?
Woman! woman! do not go too far! I reject your money; it was for you—not
that—I became criminal. I will not permit the crime you meditate against
an honorable man. Tell me that it is a slander, a gross falsehood—that
you never thought of marrying Clarence Brooks, or I will claim you
before the crowd you have gathered up yonder. There is evidence, at any
rate, that you lived in the same house with me.”
“And I will tell them as I told him, that it was my cousin Virginia
Lander who was domesticated with you there—she who is so intimate with
your hunchbacked sister. They will believe that, and so will he.”
Seymour still held her arms; his dark eyes looked into hers.
“Is the woman a demon?” he exclaimed, wildly. “Is your love for this
honorable man such as you gave to me? Would you tear up his heart by the
roots as mine is torn?”
“I love Clarence Brooks, the man you robbed, with all my heart and soul.
Oh, that makes you writhe! Let go my arms, you are pinching them black
and blue, and I am to be married to him this night. In defiance of your
ravings I shall. I did mean to shoot you; but, no, I have the courage to
dare the worst.”
“No, madam,” said a deep, grave voice close by her, “neither this night
nor ever will you marry Clarence Brooks. He has heard this
conversation—your wicked confession arrested him on the threshold of
that door. He—”
The woman started upright and turned her haggard face toward him. The
moonbeams lay full upon them both. Her dress swayed and rustled as if
she were grasping its folds with a shaking hand. With a slow, almost
stealthy motion, the hand was lifted. The click of a pistol followed.
Seymour uttered a cry and attempted to wrest the weapon from her, but
too late. The sharp sound of a shot rang up the ravine. She fell forward
into the arms thrown out to save her, and lay on her husband’s breast,
dying.
The sound of that shot reached the pleasure grounds where the guests
were wandering a little impatiently, for it was full eleven o’clock, and
as yet they had seen no signs of the bride and bridegroom. The shot was
followed by a wild shriek, and up from the ravine came a boy, flinging
up his hands and crying aloud for help. There was a simultaneous rush
through the shrubberies. Men, seeing the darkness into which they were
going, snatched lamps from the lower boughs of the trees and lighted
their way down into the ravine. The lad went before them, pointing out
the little log cabin, from which came heavy sobs and moans, such as can
be wrung only from the bosom of a strong man.
It was a strange scene, those men and women with their rich dresses
sparsely lighted by the tiny lamps, crowding up this broken path and
stopping in dumb awe at the cabin door. Brian went in advance. He too
had snatched a lamp from the branches and held it up, revealing a
terrible picture.
Seymour was holding the woman, whom they had all been so impatient to
see in her bridal dress, in his arms. He had been trembling, moaning and
weeping over her in a wild passion of sorrow. In the darkness he had
kissed her lips, her forehead and her half-closed eyes, calling upon her
to answer him, look at him, breathe so that he could hear the life stir
in that bosom. But when that frightened crowd came up he hushed his
grief and looked down upon her, still as death.
Clarence Brooks was on his knees also, pressing a handkerchief to the
wounded temple, which was blackened a little and bled in slow drops,
staining the linen deeper and deeper.
“Here is the physician,” said Brian Nolan, addressing his brother.
Seymour lifted his haggard face, and a gleam of hope came into it. An
eminent physician, who had been invited among the guests, touched Brooks
on the shoulder, who arose and resigned his place. There was no hope—the
lady might live through the night, but that would be more than he could
answer for. How had this terrible thing happened?
The woman stirred, struggled and spoke:
“I did it with my own hand. The pistol is mine, my name is on it.”
Then the clergyman came into the cabin, his long gown sweeping like
night around him, as he had put it on for the bridal ceremony. He too
knelt by her side and took the pale hand in his.
“Was it an accident?” he said.
“Yes, I did it! I was alone—no one else.”
Those white lips only uttered these words. Question that dying woman as
they would, she answered still:
“I did it—I was alone—an accident.”
Neither Seymour nor Clarence Brooks spoke. The crowd held them no more
responsible than the rest. It was natural that the man who had first
lifted that dying woman from the ground should be pale and agitated—more
natural that the bridegroom, who stood before them in his wedding
garments still and stricken, would be almost paralyzed by a calamity so
dreadful. No one dreamed that Seymour was not one of the invited guests;
his air, his face, everything about him carried out the idea. So the
pallor and the silence of these men passed as a natural thing.
Cora’s lips moved, her eyes opened, and she fixed them on Seymour. He
bent down his head, and she whispered:
“Be silent, I—I charge you.”
He whispered back:
“I will, so help me God.”
The clergyman bent over her with sorrow and compassion in his face.
“Poor lady,” he said, “tell us how this dreadful thing happened. It may
save great trouble.”
She made a violent effort and spoke, so loud that they heard her outside
of the door:
“I loved this cabin; we were going away in the morning. I had time, and
came down to take a farewell look. The pistol was in my pocket,
forgotten there; I came to the window, the pistol struck against the
logs; I bent down to search for it, low, for it caught in my dress; I
was drawing it upward with force, when it went off. It was an accident,
I was alone.”
The force of these words exhausted her; for a moment she did not
breathe. The doctor felt her pulse anxiously. All at once she revived.
“Doctor, must I die?”
“Yes, poor lady, I dare not say otherwise.”
She made a painful struggle and turned her head, fixing those eyes,
heavy with coming death, on Brooks. The clergyman and doctor saw that
she wished to speak with her bridegroom, and made way for him, drawing
back to those who stood around the door.
Brooks obeyed the sad appeal of those eyes, knelt down, bending his head
to hers.
“I am not his child, but the niece he warned you of. Virginia is his
daughter. Spare my memory. Tell her it was I, not my poor mother, who
did it. He says I must die; deal gently with me then.”
“May God forgive you and pity you as I do.”
She turned her eyes back to Seymour and faintly pressed the hand which
was shivering under the coldness that was numbing her fingers. Perhaps
some gleam of the old love awoke in that death hour, for he remembered
in after years that it was his bosom she turned to at last.
“Forgive me, Alfred!”
“I do—I do!”
“Do not let them hurl shame on my grave.”
“No, no, I will perish first. Oh! Cora, my wife! my wife! would to God I
had died for you!”
Her hand fell away from his, those beautiful eyes turned to lead, her
limbs stretched out suddenly and the stillness of death fell upon that
log cabin; but outside, the breeze was moaning in the hemlocks; and the
low, sad chime of waters came up from the depths of the ravine,
answering the shiver of the leaves and the rustle of flowers that
trembled beneath their night-tears, and seemed to whisper mournfully
each to the other as the death spirit passed over them.
CHAPTER LIX.
CONCLUSION.
A man lay sick almost unto death in that stone farm-house. Hot fever was
preying upon his brain; an awful sorrow gnawed at his heart. He did not
even know that sweet-voiced, gentle sister, who watched over him so
faithfully, or the wild-eyed boy, who stood hours together at the foot
of his bed, praying for him as only good, true-hearted youth can pray.
Virginia Lander, too, came and went among them with kindly soothing,
though her own heart was filled with gloomy anxieties; for she knew that
an inquest had been held in her father’s house, and that her cousin, the
young girl she had once loved so dearly, lay cold and dead, shrouded in
the marriage garments that had been prepared for her wedding. She knew
that Cora’s own account of the death had been received unquestioned by
the jury. Indeed, what other reason could be given for the violent death
of a young creature, so richly endowed, whose path of life seemed
altogether of roses—a creature who did not seem to have an enemy on
earth.
Neither Clarence Brooks nor Alfred Nolan were questioned, but the
servants confirmed the account that unhappy woman gave of her death.
Having a little time, while the dressmaker was letting out her
wedding-robe, she had put on another and gone out, doubtless, as she
said, to take leave of a place made dear by loving associations. There
she had met her death. It was a strange fancy for a young bride to
indulge in; but the evening was beautiful, and she had loved that place
from childhood, when it had been her play-house. Some said it was in
this little cabin she had first seen Clarence Brooks. So, in place of a
scandal, the crowd of persons who had gone up to a wedding and found a
death-bed, went home weaving out beautiful romances, which no one ever
contradicted. Cora Lander had besought those she had wronged to spare
her memory, and they did spare it, with religious sacredness.
While Seymour lay in his first illness, and Virginia shared Ellen’s
duties in the sick room, Lawyer Stone came down from the marble house
and besought her to go home. The will, he said, left Amos Lander’s
property to his niece, after the daughter’s death, so there was no need
of the question of identity being opened at all. He had brought her a
letter from Clarence Brooks, the gentleman to whom her cousin would have
been married, but for the sad accident which had sent her so suddenly
out of life. Would she read the letter before they started?
Virginia took the letter into her own room, and read it alone, with
tears and prayers and mournful thanksgiving. It told her everything that
the reader knows. It told her more; though there was not one word of
love in all those closely written pages, she knew, as well as if it had
been printed there in letters of gold, that in Clarence Brooks’ heart
there had been no real unfaithfulness. He did not say this in words; but
it pervaded the whole letter as if it had been lying close to his heart
for a year.
So Virginia, feeling this her higher duty, went back to the home which
was now all her own. There Clarence Brooks met her at the door. They
looked into each other’s faces in mournful silence, and, without a word,
he led her up stairs into the room from which Cora had driven her so
rudely, little more than a year ago. There, upon a bed pure and cold as
a snowbank, she found all that was left of this haughty woman. The
mother, ignorant of that other marriage, which made the bridal dress a
mockery, had insisted that the satin robe, in all its rich amplitude,
should go with her down to the grave. She lay there, calm, and still,
like a young bride sleeping. The rich folds of her hair had been drawn
in waves over the wound on her temple, concealing it entirely. The veil
fell over her face, like frost-work on the white rose. All that had been
bright and blooming about her had vanished into dead whiteness.
Up to that time, a bitter sense of wrong still lingered in Virginia’s
heart against Cora Lander. But it melted into tender forgiveness, when
she saw her lying there in the tired repose of death. She lifted the
veil, which cast its faint shadows over her face, and kissed the lips
that had wronged her so. When she turned away, holy tears trembled in
the network of that shrouding lace.
She was about to leave the room, when her progress was stopped by Eunice
Hurd, who came in, supporting Mrs. Lander with one arm, and followed by
Joshua, whose eyes were red with weeping.
“Miss Virginia, we have come here to say how wrong—”
“Hush!” said Virginia, pointing to the bed. “Spare her; we know
everything. Do not be troubled, Eunice; I can never forget how truly you
were my friend when I needed one so much. Aunt Lander, for her sake let
us be friends. But we must not talk here.”
Mrs. Lander looked piteously into that sweet face. She saw nothing but
forgiveness there, and the tears began to tremble from her eyes. She
cast a glance at the bed, and, in a low, broken voice, tried to take
blame on herself.
“It was me. My child! my poor child! It was for my sake she did it.”
“Eliza, don’t say that; don’t say nothing. Let the dead bury the dead.
But there is one thing that she did not know, and couldn’t have told.
Miss Virginia, that poor young cretur, that they seem to have buried in
a snowbank, is my own niece, and Joshua is her uncle. Eliza Lander here,
is our youngest sister, and she wants us to say so. This awful trouble
has took all the pride out of her. She ain’t ashamed to own her poor
relations now. She wanted to live with us and we wanted to live with
her, but she was a lady born, though it was in a house where you could
see daylight through the clapboards, and we wasn’t. But we wasn’t mean
enough nuther to want to mortify her amongst her husband’s connections,
so we jest came here and hired out. All she asked was that we should
take some other name, so that we shouldn’t be found out; and we did it.
“Arter this, it’s sister Eliza Lander’s wish that we should take back
the old name, but I wont. She’s a lady, and I’m proud of it. But I ain’t
nothing of that sort, nor is Joshua. We’ve told you the truth, because
secrets in a family lie awful heavy on the mind; but, as to the rest of
the world, it’s none of their business. So my name is Eunice Hurd and
his name is Joshua Hurd. Hers is Eliza Lander, and we two are her
servants. Where she goes we mean to go, where she lives we shall be
chasing after, and we mean to be buried in the same graveyard with her,
as that young woman in the Bible said to her husband’s marm. If she’s
sent out of this house poor we’ll work for her. She’s the only lady our
family ever had in it, and we’ll work our fingers to the bone, before
she shall want her lace cap and silk gown, jest as she allers had ’em
when Amos Lander was alive, and you two cousins little girls.”
“She shall never want anything that I can give her, not shall you my
faithful friend. Aunt Lander, do be comforted; it breaks my heart to see
you looking so old and worn.”
She wiped away the tears from those heavy eyes, and kissed that poor,
grieving mouth, with more than a daughter’s tenderness. “Take good care
of her, Eunice, and tell her that, while we can help it, she shall have
no more troubles.”
Here Joshua came forward.
“Miss Jinia, I can’t do much for you. It ain’t in me but I’d—I’d die to
please you. Yes, I think it ed come tough; but, if you want me to, I’ll
give up licker—never taste another drop of punch in my born days, if you
say the word.”
“But I wish you to give up nothing, Joshua.”
“Well then, I’ll take sich care of Snowball; litter her down with roses,
if you say so. I’ll take good care of the black horse too, for her sake,
for, arter all, she was my own niece.”
When this conversation commenced, Brooks and Virginia had quietly
withdrawn from the chamber of death and closed the door, but Joshua
spoke low when he alluded to the young creature lying within, and took
off the hat, which had been returned to his head, in that natural
reverence which even ignorant men pay to death.
After this, the group went down stairs, but directly Eunice returned
again.
“About the mourning,” she said. “Eliza Lander is dreadfully anxious, and
wants to know if anything has been done.”
“Tell her to please herself. I have no need of change,” said Virginia,
almost smiling. “Take charge of everything, Eunice, for, when all is
over, I must go back to the farm-house. Ellen has a brother there, very
sick.”
He was indeed very sick, nigh unto death, and so he lay for many a weary
week. Ellen’s book came out, while he was at the worst, and she scarcely
knew of it, though its fame went far and wide, reaching distant lands,
and critics on both sides the Atlantic pronounced it a work of wonderful
promise. She had no thoughts to give from that sick bed, where the son
her father had charged her to save, with his last words, lay suffering.
Clarence Brooks found his way to that farm-house, and strove to comfort
the young man who lay there with more than his old friendliness.
One day when Alfred Nolan was in his right mind and gazing with wistful
observation in Brian’s face, the boy crept close to his bed, and took
the hand his brother held out.
“Brother,” he said; “it was I who brought all this upon you. I followed
you up the railway—saw you go into that cabin—saw her come down the
ravine. This frightened me. I was afraid that some trouble would happen.
I heard the threats in her voice and went after Mr. Brooks. He was in a
chamber of the house, ready and waiting to be called by pleasanter
messengers than I was. But, when I told him that a man was in peril, he
seized his hat and followed me. If his coming caused what happened
afterward, I am to blame. Forgive me, Alfred, I intended no wrong.
Forgive me.”
“My poor boy,” said the invalid, faintly; “there was no fault in what
you did. God was working out our punishment and it came. It was better
to have our lives end so than in deeper sin. I thought these things over
very solemnly in the stone tomb down yonder. I have thought them over
here since our sister gave me, word for word, that last message from our
father. _She_ is dead, but God is merciful, and who shall say that the
last moments of her young life were not spent in asking for that Divine
forgiveness which is not limited by time or space.”
Nolan lay still, and with his eyes closed some minutes after he uttered
these words. When he spoke again it was more calmly.
“Brian.”
“Well, brother.”
“This is no place for us. I could never be at rest here. But far away,
beyond the Rocky Mountains, lie vast countries, rich in minerals,
fertile in soil, and so far from what we call social life, that a man
can live by himself and learn to grow strong. God is giving me back
life, Brian. I am young, and must no longer be an idle and useless man.
Will you go with me to this country, Brian?”
“I will go with you anywhere, brother,” answered Brian.
Ellen came in just then bringing a cup of tea for the invalid.
Brian, with all a boy’s eagerness, asked her if she would go with them.
“Nay,” interposed Alfred; “she is feeble. She must be left behind.”
She looked at her elder brother, and quick tears came into her eyes,
while she repeated, with sweet, impressive earnestness, the words of
Ruth to her mother:
“Ask me not to leave thee, or cease from following after thee. Where
thou goest, I will go. Where thou livest, I will live; thy people shall
be my people; thy God shall be my God; and where thou diest, there will
I be buried.”
No more was said that day, for neither Alfred nor Brian could speak,
their voices were too full of tears. But it was agreed that the brothers
should go first, and prepare a home for Ellen, who would get the money
her book was bringing in for their use, write another, and make
arrangements with the publishers for more, that were yet to come out of
her new life. She thanked Heaven that her work could be done anywhere.
Alfred wondered at the prompt business way in which all this was said;
but he had yet to learn that real, absolute genius is comprehensive as
Nature itself. Those who confine it to simple romance dwarf God’s
greatest gift to man.
When Clarence Brooks heard what Alfred Nolan had decided on, he resolved
to go with him, for Nolan absolutely refused to accept the money which
Brooks had almost forced upon him, and he resolved to invest it there,
hoping that it would at last find acceptance. So, after a few weeks,
these two men, who had travelled over the Old World in company, bridged
the awful chasm that had separated them, and went Westward, taking Brian
with them. Ellen went back to the marble house, and joined Virginia in
the tranquil life she led there.
About a year from this time Brooks came back again, strengthened and
rendered cheerful by the constant change and excitement of a frontier
life. A month after that, there was a quiet little wedding in that
marble mansion, so quiet that the daily journals brought the first news
of it to those who had been invited to that other sumptuous affair which
ended so fatally.
At many a breakfast table that morning the news was read aloud, and more
than once it was followed by this exclamation: “So Clarence Brooks has
married Amos Lander’s heiress, after all. So much alike, they say. The
bridesmaids—why, there was only one, the author of that book everybody
is talking about! Would you believe it? She is a hunchback, but _so_
talented and _petite_. Such lovely eyes and hair too. Mrs. —— had it
from her publishers.”
The next month Ellen Nolan went West with her brother, who had used his
scientific learning to great purpose, and was opening sources of
prosperity in the wilderness, with his knowledge, which many a
hard-working man availed himself of, working the same mines and
gathering the same gold, which was fast lifting him into that
respectability and independence which honorable labor, either of mind or
hands alone can bring.
Ellen keeps his house; she has plenty of mountain flowers all around
that neat log cabin, and so many vines clambering over it, that it looks
more like a mammoth bird’s nest than a human habitation. But, though she
loves flowers, and seeks to cover up coarser things with them, back of
that house you may find a well kept vegetable garden, which Brian takes
care of, and which the colored girl, who went West with her, sometimes
vigorously works in, when there is nothing to be done indoors.
Especially she goes out when her young mistress is writing by that
little window, curtained with morning glories; for then it seems almost
wrong to tread hard upon the floor, and she feels like holding her
breath as she moves about.
Just now Ellen is reading a letter from Mrs. Clarence Brooks, who
proposed, during the summer, to take that Western trip with her husband.
She wrote just then to know if there was an unoccupied room in the cabin
for them.
Ellen has taken up her pen, which shakes and quivers in her hand; but
she makes out to write, that unoccupied rooms are unheard of in that
part of the country, but a new cabin, opening into theirs, will be up
long and long before her friends can get there. In fact, Alfred will
have the log-rolling at once, that she can have flowers growing over it
when they come.
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page Changed from Changed to
57 As a general thing, I don’t As a general thing, I don’t
think peaking and listening think peeking and listening
329 think Amos Lander was cute think Amos Lander was ’cute
enough to find out the enough to find out the
difference difference
355 She’s a darned sight more likely She’s a darned sight more likely
to kid the hoss than to kill the hoss than
446 space shut in by the curtains. space shut in by the curtains.
In this position he heard In this position she heard
446 was making strenuous efforts to was making strenuous efforts to
repay the money she had repay the money he had
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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