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.