CLARENCE BROOKS.
A stranger arrived by the railway and came up from the river hotel to
pay his respects to the family. He had been a travelling companion and
old friend of Amos Lander in Europe, who had so earnestly invited him to
visit the family should he come to America, that he was searching the
neighborhood for that purpose, where he had first heard of Mr. Lander’s
death.
The card which the man sent up to the mistress of the house bore the
name of “Clarence Brooks.”
Cora received the card in her room, and went down to meet her guest
sedate and thoughtful, as became an only child within a year of her
father’s death. She found a tall young man—that is, a man of some two or
three and thirty—standing by one of the reception-room windows, looking
out upon the prospect. The scenery was beautiful from that point, for a
group of the Highland fountains rose above each other along a sharp
curve of the river, which took the appearance of a mountain lake so
completely that it was impossible to believe there was a broad inlet or
outlet in that green entanglement of hills. The railroad, running under
the terrace, was entirely concealed, and, with the exception of a
mansion just visible on the opposite shore, everything beyond the house
seemed wild as it was beautiful.
Cora, whose footsteps were lost in the moss-like thickness of the
carpet, walked quietly up to the window and spoke.
“You will find nothing more beautiful on the Rhine,” she said.
“Nor anywhere else, so far as my experience goes,” answered the
gentleman, turning one of those clearly cut manly faces upon her that
impress you with a sense of greatness at the first sight, and regarding
her with two fine gray eyes, that smilingly searched her through and
through.
“It is a lovely scene.”
She stood by his side and looked out upon the landscape he praised. It
was autumn now, and all those hills broke up in one wild flush of dying
colors, the crimson and golden maples—the deep purplish red of the
oak—the soft, pale maize-color of the ash, and spotted red of the gum
tree mingled and massed their sumptuous foliage together so richly, that
the waters of the river, as it weltered under the shadows at sunset or
in the morning, seemed filtering through broken jewels and sands of
gold. It was near sunset now and the effect was beautiful.
“I have never seen anything so strikingly beautiful,” he said, turning
so slowly from her face to the scene, that she was puzzled to know which
he was really praising.
“There is nothing like our woods in the autumn, when a sharp frost comes
suddenly. We had one last night, and you see the result.”
“It is worth coming across the Atlantic, if only seen for an hour,” he
answered, again falling to the perusal of her face, which wore its most
delicate bloom that day.
“I, for one, am grateful to the frost if it makes you so in love with my
country, Mr. Brooks.”
“And I am a thousand times grateful that it is seen in its richest
beauty by the side of my old friend’s daughter.”
Cora started and her color changed; she never could hear Amos Lander’s
name with composure; it seemed like calling upon her judge to come out
of his watery grave and denounce her.
The stranger saw this sudden change in her face, and remembering how her
father died, fell into deep sympathy with her grief at once.
“I have a letter from your father, Miss Lander, written only two days
before he took passage on that unfortunate vessel. It contained an
invitation to this house. Will you read it?”
Cora was glad to take the letter, and thus get back her self-control.
She reached forth her hand, but drew it back again, shuddering as the
paper touched her fingers.
It seemed as if her crime must be written out in a letter sent so near
upon her uncle’s death.
Mr. Brooks observed this movement, and, mistaking its meaning, unfolded
the letter before he offered it to her again.
“It may give you pain, dear lady, but as you are mentioned in it so
lovingly, the pleasure will overbalance all.”
Cora took the letter, and read it through in the light of the window.
“MY DEAR BROOKS,” it commenced, “we sail for my own blessed land in
three days from this—that is, I, a niece, who has been at school with my
daughter, and the dear child herself. I wish you had seen her, my
friend. Never, I do think, was a father so blessed in his child as I am,
and ever have been. I do not know as you will think her beautiful; to my
eyes she—well, I will not say all that a fond old man may think of his
only child—besides, in this respect, my niece shares admiration with
her. Strangers, I assure you, can hardly tell them apart. But to me the
difference is as great as that which lies between sunshine and
gas-light. Not that my brother’s orphan is an inferior girl—far from
it—but my young wife’s spirit does not look out of her eyes, and the
sweet, gentle, yet exalted nature of my young wife does not dwell in her
heart, at any rate for me.
“Come to us, my friend. I am your senior by many years, it is true, but
we have enjoyed life together before now, and will again, God willing.
That which we were talking of must be kept a secret between us. The dear
child must not be influenced even by a shadow of suspicion that her
father wishes her happiness in that form. But come, and we two will
watch for the first blush that gives us hope. This idea has been the one
dream of my life—in all other things I am a practical and commonplace
moneymaking man. But, where she is concerned, I am romantic as a poet.
Am I praising her too much? Will this enthusiasm of a worn-out old heart
lead your imagination astray? No, it is impossible—never on this earth
was there a better child. Remember, I do not dwell upon her beauty—of
that I am no judge. They tell me she looks like the Landers,—that is,
the women of our family,—and this must be true or people would not so
often mistake her for my brother’s orphan. But, in the soul, the
expression, there is no shadow of resemblance—there, as I have said, my
girl is her mother over again.
“Come to us, my friend, and see what a grand, noble country you were
born in. Make my house your home. I only wish fortune had not dealt so
bountifully with you; for then I might hope that some commercial
advantages that I can control would keep you near me, even though—. But
that subject is too sacred for a letter.
“You are going East, the last letter tells me—up the Nile and over the
Holy Land. I hope your travelling companion will prove all that you
think him, but sudden fancies of that kind sometimes prove dangerous.
“God bless you.
AMOS LANDER.”
The blood had receded from Cora’s face when she first took this letter;
for she would rather have strangled an flip in her hand than touch the
writing of a man whose child she had sacrificed; but it came back hot
and red long before she had concluded the reading. Clarence Brooks saw
this and smiled softly; he thought those bright blushes came from a
consciousness of Amos Lander’s meaning, so vaguely expressed in the
letter.
“It was the last letter he ever wrote, I feel quite certain,” he said.
Cora could hardly refrain from crushing the paper in her hand.
“He does not speak over kindly of me—my cousin, who was an orphan and at
his mercy,” she said, in a voice that trembled more with anger than
grief.
“Miss Lander!”
The voice in which this name was uttered put her on her guard at once.
“I loved my father dearly—dearly,” she said, with quick moisture in her
eyes. “But this young girl is so helpless, so dependent. His brother’s
daughter, too—with all her faults. But he was wise—he understood her
better than I can. Oh! father, father, forgive me if, for one moment, I
thought you a little unjust and forgot all that has happened since!”
She kissed the letter in what seemed a passion of tender remorse, and
flinging herself in a chair, turned her face to the cushions and sobbed
audibly.
Clarence Brooks walked to a distant window and looked out, a little
disturbed by this scene. He rebuked himself for the tone in which he had
addressed her, and was anxious to make some apology. In a few moments
Cora came toward him, wiping her eyes with a tiny handkerchief bordered
with black an inch deep.
“Forgive me,” she said, “I did not mean to give way but the sight of his
dear handwriting was a terrible shock. Then so many things have
conspired against my cousin, and those who cannot love her as I have
will not take the charitable side of this question. No one but her poor
mother and myself—but I forget, you are a stranger to us all.”
“No, not quite a stranger. One who knew the father so well and loved him
so entirely cannot be considered in that light, surely, where the
daughter is concerned.”
“Indeed, you seem to me like a friend!”
“That I will be, Miss Lander, if you permit it.”
She smiled through the tears that still hung on her lashes.
“If I permit it? He loved you; that letter proves it.”
“Yes, he loved me well enough—”
Brooks paused, colored, and added, “well enough to invite me here.”
“There was something else to which my father seemed to allude, as if
there existed some plan, some hope?”
No lamb that ever followed its mother with his mouth full of white
clover ever looked more innocent than Cora when she asked that question.
Clarence Brooks felt the blood mounting to his face under those wistful
eyes, but answered, evasively:
“Oh, that was nothing—only a little plan we had in common.”
“Commercial?” she inquired.
“Perhaps it might be considered so.”
“Certainly, I remember that last sentence. Poor papa never could quite
give up business.”
“Some time, perhaps, I shall desire to explain his plans more fully,”
said the gentleman; “when you are more composed and I shall have been
fortunate enough to obtain your confidence.”
She smiled sweetly upon him.
“I have no talent for business,” she said; “still his wishes, I think,
would come to me by heart. But I am very thoughtless. My aunt will fancy
that I am assuming her prerogatives; she does not know that you are
here.”
Cora rang the bell, gave directions to the man who presented himself to
inform Mrs. Lander that a gentleman was waiting to see her, and then she
resumed her seat again, breathing a little quickly.
Mrs. Lander came into the room sweeping her black garment slowly down
its whole length, and looking a little terrified, as had become her
habit now when any person called upon her unexpectedly.
“Aunt, dear aunt, this gentleman, Mr. Clarence Brooks, brings a letter
from my father.”
“Your father, Cora?” cried the widow, beginning to tremble. “Why he has
been dead years and—”
“Not quite a year yet, dear aunt,” said Cora, with a quick catch of the
breath. Then turning to Brooks, she added, in a low voice, “The shock
affects her yet; she cannot hear his name mentioned without this
confusion of thought.”
“Was he a friend of Amos Lander’s?” questioned the widow, looking from
the stranger to Cora.
“Yes, aunt, a very dear friend.”
“And he has a letter from him, written by his own hand? How can that he?
The dead do not write.”
“It was his last letter, lady, written just before he sailed.”
“On that fatal ship—for fatal it has been to me—fatal it will prove to
us all, I solemnly believe! Did you also escape?”
“No, Madam, I never was on board. Some months before Lander sailed, I
had turned to the East. His letter followed me into the Holy Land.”
“Where none of us will ever follow him!” muttered the widow, seating
herself drearily.
Brooks did not catch her words, but he was struck by the singular manner
of the woman. There was absolute terror in her eyes as she turned them
upon him.
“It must have been a terrible shock to affect her so,” he thought. “Even
the daughter, who shared his danger, bears it with more fortitude.”
“Do you wish to see my father’s letter?” said Cora, gently.
Mrs. Lander made a sudden gesture of repulsion.
“It will be a pang at first, but—”
“Yes, Cora, I will read it. If he has left a wish that I can fulfill,
weak and hampered as I am, I would give my life to accomplish it. That
would be something to show how sorry I am for—for—”
“Dear aunt, we know how much you regret his death. Take the letter to
your room and read it there—Mr. Brooks will excuse you.”
Mrs. Lander took the letter and went out. Cora excused herself with a
gesture and followed her into the next room.
“Do you wish to ruin me, and yourself also, that you take that paper as
if it were a rattlesnake, and talk like an insane person? I tell you
this gentleman must be received cordially. He knew Amos Lander well, and
is a man of mark, or I know nothing about it. Invite him to remain, and
enforce the invitation by something like cheerfulness. It is my wish!”
“Then, if I must be cheerful, take the letter; I won’t read it!”
answered the harassed woman.
“There, there, take it to your room and do as you like about reading it,
though I think you will find something in his last words to rouse your
pride a little. For my part, I am glad this gentleman brought it. If I
had one scruple, it has vanished now. Read it, read what he says about
us and about her. It will bring the color to your white face, I
warrant.”
“I will read it,” answered Mrs. Lander. “After all, it’s nothing but
writing. That cannot kill one.”