CORA LANDER AND EUNICE HURD IN COLLISION.
In the morning Cora Lander went to Mrs. Lander’s room, which that lady
seldom left now, and told her abruptly of her intended trip to New York.
“I am weary of this great gloomy place,” she said; “the presence of your
insane daughter oppresses me; I wish to be alone.”
“Oh! if I could be alone!” said the poor woman, smoothing the crape of
her sleeve with a nervous hand. “If I could ever be alone!”
“Why if this eternal room, with its stifling perfumes and endless clouds
of lace, isn’t being alone, I should like to know what is,” said the
girl, with careless disdain. “I should die shut up so; but every one to
her taste.”
“I had no fancy for being shut up, Cora, till you came with that cruel
temptation. Now it seems every minute as if that poor girl would break
in and reproach me. I do not hear a step on the stairs that it does not
bring the heart into my mouth, or see her shadow in the garden that it
does not make me long to throw myself out of the window. But what are
you going to the city for?”
“I must find another lawyer, and be near him for consultation. Stone is
not more than half in our interest; I see that plainly enough, and if
this troublesome creature should go to law with us—”
“Oh Heaven, forbid!” moaned the widow. “If they take me into court I
shall die!”
“Nonsense, aunt, don’t talk in that way; it makes me angry! You were a
woman of resolution and power once—what has become of your courage?”
“It went out when she entered this house. I shall never be myself
again.”
“Come, come, this is puerile, I am weary of it! Say, will you go with me
to consult these new lawyers? We can stay in the town house when we
desire it, and they can come to us.”
“What, the lawyers? No, no, I will not see any of them again, if I can
help it. Better stay here a thousand times, even with her and that
little hunchback prowling about. I would like to get away somewhere but
not among the lawyers.”
This was said in a pleading, piteous tone, which almost made Cora smile,
for she had no wish to take the widow with her and only proposed it in
the deep craft which marked all her actions.
“Well, aunt, if it troubles you so, I will not press your going, though
it is important. But you must not be surprised if I should fail to come
back for some days.”
“If you could only take _them_ with you,” she said, brightening
perceptibly. “It was so pleasant before they came. The mourning did not
seem so very bad; what with buying dresses and planning out bugle
trimmings, one found enough to occupy the time. But now nothing but this
room seems to belong to me. The servants don’t mind my orders.”
“There cannot be two mistresses in a house, aunt.”
“There it is, ‘Aunt! aunt!’ I’m not your aunt, and I won’t be called so
when we are alone, understand that; and I tell you another thing, Cora
Lander; the time will come when I shall tell the whole world of it, if
you don’t treat me more as a daughter should. After I have made so many
sacrifices, too, given up everything.”
“Mother!” said Cora, in a low, threatening voice, that made the poor
woman shrink back in her chair. “If you ever threaten this again, I will
put you into an insane asylum. It will be the only way of saving you
from State’s prison.”
“State’s prison! Cora Lander, how dare you use that word to me!”
The widow started up from her chair with all her old haughty grace, and
stood tall and erect before her child, stung into active resentment
dangerously menacing.
“I do not use it unkindly, mother, but in necessary warning. You cannot
turn back or unsay that which makes me heiress of this property. To
admit your part in this would inevitably lead to a prison, and to
prevent that, I solemnly assure you, I would find means of putting you
in some asylum.”
“Yes, that is where you wanted to put _her_, but I would not permit
it—we have done her wrong enough. I sometimes lie awake all night
thinking of it.”
“But you did not lie awake when you held possession under that will,”
said the daughter, with deliberate cruelty.
“No; why should I? No one was wronged then. Those distant relatives
never expected a dollar of his money. Besides he intended it to be so, I
am certain he did. Then I was my own mistress, and should have sent
those fourth cousins money from time to time, when I haven’t a cent now,
only what you choose to give me.”
“But you shall have plenty so soon as things are settled. Do be patient
and a little reasonable. Now tell me about the house—is it furnished and
in order?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Are any servants in charge?”
“Yes, one; an Irish woman I placed her in the house.”
“Still,” said Cora, with sudden caution, “I had better go to a hotel.
That house would be so lonely without you, and I shall probably want to
stay in town sometimes for days together, the house will be out of
order, I’m sure of it. You are certain that it would be unpleasant to go
with me?”
“I should like the change, Cora, but those lawyers would be my death in
a week.”
“Well, then I will try and do without you; take good care of yourself.
Now kiss me, mother, and good-bye.”
Mrs. Lander received Cora’s embrace, but she returned it with little
warmth; the harsh words she had used still ranked in the mother’s heart,
and, as usual, mutual crime was fast corroding mutual love both in the
parent and the child.
As Cora was going out, Eunice Hurd came into the room, carrying a china
plate with some fruit on it. She swept by Cora with a sniff and a toss
of the head indicative of unmitigated hostility, and went up to her
mistress with something like tenderness in her manner.
“Here now, poor soul, do try and eat one of these peaches, they’re
mellow as sunshine can make ’em, and red as a baby’s cheek. Then here’s
a bunch of grapes with the juice just ready to bust the skins, took
right from the vines, and a pear that’ll melt in your mouth; just let me
cut one in two.”
“Thank you, Eunice, but I do not want them just now; perhaps Miss Lander
would take one.”
Eunice made no answer to this suggestion except to turn her back square
upon the young lady.
“It ain’t of no sort of use,” she said, almost with tears in her sharp
voice. “You don’t eat enough to keep body and soul together, but you
shall or I’ll know the reason why. You’re pining to death—eat jest the
wing of a chicken this morning, and didn’t half pick that. Strong
coffee, morning, noon and night, and nothing can be wuss for you. Shake
your narves all to pieces. Come, now do take one of the peaches, it’s
ripe enough to melt in your mouth.”
Mrs. Lander reached forth her hand languidly and took the peach Eunice
held toward her.
“There, that seems something like,” cried Eunice, in triumph, as the
widow began to eat the fruit with forced relish. “If they’d leave you to
me, I’d bring you round in short order, but where weeds are rank flowers
won’t grow.” Eunice gave a vicious look over her shoulder at Cora as she
spoke, which terrified Mrs. Lander and brought that angry steel gleam
into the young lady’s eyes.
“Aunt,” she said, with haughty emphasis, “I am very reluctant to
interfere in any way with the servants you choose to keep about you; but
this person I really must dismiss. Her ill-breeding and studied rudeness
is unpardonable.”
Mrs. Lander started half up from her chair, agitated and frightened, as
nervous persons will be at any sudden proposition.
“Oh, Cora—Miss Lander, don’t—don’t, I beg of you, attack Eunice. She is
strange—she is odd—but she is my—my—”
“I’m her old, faithful servant and friend, Miss Cora Virginia Lander,”
said Eunice, snatching some word from her mistress before it passed her
lips, and turning boldly upon the young lady, “and it’ll take more than
you, or fifty just like you, to send me away from her. Try it, and see.”
“I repeat it,” said Cora, passing by this covert threat with the disdain
of a strong character, “that you must leave this house.”
“Cora! Cora Lander!” exclaimed the widow, with passionate protest, “she
has lived here ever since you were a little girl. Mr. Lander always was
kind to her.”
“For my father’s sake, I would do anything but keep an insolent servant
in my employ.”
“Father’s sake!” burst forth Eunice between a snort and a sneer, which
left Cora pale as death and sent Mrs. Lander off into a fit of hysterics
that really threatened her life.
“Just clear the room and leave me to take care of her,” commanded
Eunice, with a sweeping wave of her hand. “The sight of you’ll only make
her worse, and I can’t stand it; pison’s nothing to it.”
Cora still white with wrathful fear, obeyed the woman, only pausing to
say, “I am going to the city for a few days; when I come back I shall
expect that my aunt will have discharged you. Under this roof you cannot
stay!”
I think the girl would have said this if her own life had depended on
silence. Yet it was done with a secret trembling of the heart, which
imperceptibly stole into her voice. Eunice, who had a sharp ear,
understood it, and, uttering a contemptuous “Oh, now don’t,” raised Mrs.
Lander up with both her powerful arms and helped her to the bed.
“There, now lie down, that’s a good soul, and don’t fret; so long as
Eunice Hurd is under the same roof with you nobody shall tread on you,
niece or child, I don’t care which. What’s this stuff in the cut-glass
bottle? There’s opium in it, and you oughtn’t to take it. Nothing is the
matter with you but worry. Never was a woman that eat and drank with
better relish till these girls came to turn us all out of doors. I’d
like to see ’em try it! Well, just take a few drops. Has she gone out?
Yes, and joy go with her. Shut the door? Of course I will. Now we are
alone—I have turned the key. Yes, lay your head on my bosom, poor dear;
there isn’t one that loves you better in these United States. Don’t take
on—don’t cry so, now don’t. That’s right now, put your arms around my
neck and hug me close if you want to; I’m crooked as a sassafras root
with you sometimes, I know; but, mercy on us, I love you all the time,
and would lay down my life for you. What was you saying? Wal, if you are
sot on it, I’d try and mollify the stuck-up critter, but it goes agin
the grain. Still I’d do anything on arth for you, and allays would, you
know that.”
By this time Eunice had her weeping mistress gathered up in her arms,
and was rocking her head and shoulders back and forth on the bed.
“Couldn’t you just taste some of the grapes now, that’s a dear soul? You
can see right through the white ones.”
“Eunice,” said Mrs. Lander, when the roughly kind woman had laid her
back on the pillow. “Promise me one thing.”
“Of course I will. What is it?”
“No matter what any one says to us, do not leave me.”
“Leave you, Eliza Lander! They shall tear me limb from limb first! As
for that girl, she’s brought a curse and a mildew into this house; but
God is just, and she will suffer for it.”
“Oh no! no, Eunice! Do not say that! It kills me to hear you say that!”
“Well then, I won’t say it. Only remember this, while I live, neither
she nor any one else shall put upon you. There she goes traipsing off
toward the depot, and there go the men lugging down her trunk. One would
think she was going to stay a year; I wish to gracious she was!”
“Does she look back? Is her face sad? I was very ill, you know, when she
left the room.”
“Sad; no, she steps along like a young colt. Now she’s stopping to pick
her hands full of them everblooming roses that you think so much of.
Wal, never mind, more will blow out by to-morrow, and she won’t he here
to grab them.”
“She knows how I love them, and picks them for my sake,” said Mrs.
Lander. “Oh, Eunice! isn’t she graceful? Isn’t she very, very handsome?”
“Yes, I reckon most people would think so. But I like the poor critter
up stairs best, that no one ever seems to have any motherly feeling for.
You couldn’t tell ’em apart, sure enough, but there’s something in her
eyes that this one will never have. You can’t tell what it is any more’n
you could make out where the smell of a rose comes from; but it’s there,
and that is what I call being handsome.”
“Have you seen Vir—have you seen my daughter lately?”
“I see that poor motherless child every day, and that crooked-backed
angel that is with her—but it is enough to break one’s heart.”
“Is she so very unhappy then?”
“Unhappy! I should think she would be. But I have no patience to talk
about it. It riles me up awfully, till I am amost sot agin you!”
“Against me I what, you also, Eunice? Don’t say that! I am unhappy
enough already.”
“Well, then, lie down and go to sleep; I won’t say another word to worry
you.”
Mrs. Lander closed her eyes wearily, then opened them again and looked
with frightened earnestness into the grim face bending over her.
Something in those eyes answered the question she dared not ask, and
with a faint moan she turned her face to the wall.
That moment a light knock came to the door, and Eunice, thinking it a
housemaid called out sharply, “Come in.”