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diff --git a/77750-0.txt b/77750-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a8ef5b1 --- /dev/null +++ b/77750-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20191 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77750 *** + + + + + 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_. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77750 *** |