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.