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.