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.”