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.