A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.
Mrs. Lander went up to her room and read the letter through. It brought
the blood to her cheek and the old pride into her heart. “Did he think
her everything, and my child the dirt under his feet—and this to a
stranger? Well, we shall see how it works now that my girl stands first
and foremost! As if his child was the only person worth speaking of!
Cora is right. I do feel as if it wasn’t so very wrong—as if she was
born to the place. Isn’t one Lander as good as another? Was Amos one
whit better than his brother because everything turned to gold for him
and iron for my husband? Cora is right; property belongs to those who
have the power to hold it. That was the origin of all property; why
should the rule be changed now? As for Virginia, she never would have
made anything of it all; she has not even the spirit to fight for it.
Cora, now, would have done that, and conquered too. But she must be
very, very good to Amos’ daughter—that I will _insist_ upon.”
In her indignation, Mrs. Lander had flung the letter on a table, and was
walking up and down the room firing her resolution with thoughts like
these, when Eunice opened the door.
“What’s the matter now?” she said, in her curt, dry way. “Some
highflying feller has come, so the men tell me, and acts as if he was
going to stay all his life. Now I want to know the truth on’t.”
“Yes, a gentleman has come, Eunice—a very fine-looking man indeed. He
brought a letter from Amos Lander.”
“Amos Lander! Well now, that heats me! Has Amos Lander come to life as
well as the rest on ’em? I’m glad on it. Now we shall see who’s who!”
“Eunice Hurd, how can you talk so wickedly? Amos wrote the letter before
he sailed on that terrible steamer. Of course he’s fathoms and fathoms
under water.”
“Oh, he is, is he? Well, dead men tell no tales—I wish they did. Anyhow,
who is this feller, and what does he want?”
“He’s a gentleman Amos knew abroad, Eunice. I can’t stay to tell you
more; my niece will expect me back—I only came out to read the letter.
Is my hair all right—does this dress sweep gracefully? Do, for once, be
good-natured and tell me. I declare it seems like old times to have
company in the house!”
Away Mrs. Lander swept with something of her old spirit and grace,
leaving Eunice standing in the middle of the room, struck dumb with
astonishment.
“Well!” she ejaculated, “well, this does take me right off from my feet!
Hoity-toity, how we do spread our feathers! That Eliza Lander is enough
to tire the patience of Job and all the other Bible folks that were sot
up for I patience. Now, this morning she was broken-hearted, ready to go
into a Methodist class-meeting and confess more sins than the
class-leaders could listen to in a week. Now she’s all ago putting on
airs like a girl, and ready to stand by that young serpent to the last.
I can see that in her eyes. I wonder what has done all this.”
The open letter offered a solution of these doubts. Mrs. Lander, in her
haste and excitement, had forgotten it on the table. Eunice seized upon
it and soon mastered its contents, spelling out the words aloud and
making her comments as she went on.
“Oh yes, his daughter is all in all. Well now, she was a purty cretur,
and kind as kind could be. Of course Eliza’s girl was no more to be
compared to her than chalk’s like cheese—a hateful, stuck-up cretur,
that hadn’t heart enough to be grateful, though Amos Lander did treat
her as if she’d been a princess instead of—well now, I mustn’t talk
about that out loud, if I am alone.” Eunice muttered all this over to
herself, then fell to reading the letter with earnestness, and went on
with her comments. “I didn’t think Amos Lander was ’cute enough to find
out the difference between them two girls. He allays treated ’em so much
alike. I saw it clear enough. They didn’t seem scarcely a bit alike to
me. When nobody else could tell ’em apart, I knew which from which by
the look of the eye and the bend of the head. That’s a thing one isn’t
always free to swear to, but it satisfies me. Oh! if Eliza Lander wasn’t
what she is, I’d set things to rights in less ’en twenty-four hours. I
wonder if they’ll let her see this—poor thing. It’s the last line her
father ever wrote, I’ll be bound. She shall have it—they shan’t keep
this from her with the rest.”
Eunice obeyed this impulse, and took the letter up to Virginia, who was
practising her noble voice in the remote room assigned to her.
“Here, take this and just tuck it in your bosom if you want to keep it,”
she said, flinging the letter down upon the piano. “It may be a comfort
to you, and it mayn’t—I don’t know, but if anybody in this house has a
right to read it, you have.”
Virginia took the letter and read it through. Eunice stood by and
watched her with interest. She saw the color retreat from that beautiful
face as the poor girl recognized the handwriting; then it came back,
swelling the delicate blue veins and flushing the whole face with a
pressure of tender weeping.
“Oh! how he loved me—how he did love me!” she cried pressing the paper
to her lips with mournful rapture.
“Eunice, had you given me back every dollar my father was worth, I
should not have been more thankful. Who was the letter written to? How
came it in your hands? Be kind, dear Eunice, and tell me all about it.”
“Now don’t be making an old fool of me—don’t now, I can’t stand it. The
letter was sent to a man that is in the house this minute—a first-rate
looking chap, with an air as if he was President of the United States
and King of the Sandwich Islands thrown in. He was an old friend of
your—of Amos Lander—and I like his looks, what I saw of ’em through the
door.”
Virginia was reading her father’s letter a second time.
“What does he mean? Is it something that relates to me, I wonder?” she
thought. “But all the letter is about me. How the gentleman will be
disappointed. Who ever will regard me with my father’s eyes? Alas! alas!
and he is dead! God help me! if I could have gone down in his arms, what
a mercy it would have been! This great crime would have been spared to
Cora, and I should have been so much happier.”
“Hope the gentleman won’t be disappointed in Mr. Lander’s daughter,”
broke in Eunice. “She’s making herself agreeable now, I tell you.”
Virginia looked up wonderingly. For the moment she had forgotten that
Cora was in the house.
“And will she take my father’s friend from me? The man he seems to have
loved so dearly?”
“I don’t see how you are to help it.”
“I will go down and speak with him.”
“And what will you tell him? That letter musn’t kick up no row. It isn’t
the time, and I won’t have Eliza Lander thrown into hysterics, if I can
help it.”
“I will tell him that I am Miss Lander.”
“But you won’t be particular about the which Miss Lander, will you now,
that’s a good girl?”
“Have no fear about that—I shall provoke no dispute. But the man who was
my father’s friend I must and will welcome under my father’s roof. It
matters very little whether he thinks me the mistress or a guest here.
My father wished me to know him, and I will.”
“Well, I reckon I’d do purty much the same thing; your—that is, Amos
Lander did intend you to know one another, I’m sure of that from the
letter—that is, supposing you are—mercy on me! one does get tangled up
so, it’s dreadful talking at all!”
Ellen Nolan was sitting in another part of the room, writing with such
earnestness that she did not heed what was passing near the piano; but
she heard Eunice now, and looked up.
“Come here,” said Eunice; “tell her not to go down and raise a muss.
That’s a York word I despise, but it will get into one’s mouth unawares.
But don’t let her raise a muss with a stranger in the house. It’s none
of his business which is which.”
“But I don’t intend to make a disturbance, Eunice.”
“Well, then don’t go down. It’ll make me sick as rank pison to see her a
introducing you.”
“You are right, Eunice; I will not take any part in the imposition which
places me in a false light before this man or any other person. At first
I was excited and rash. To present myself in any other character than my
own would be to sanction a fraud.”
“If the gentleman is worth knowing, he will not like you the less
because you can not present yourself as an heiress,” said Ellen, in a
low voice.
“True, Ellen. I will take no part in his reception.”
“That’s a good girl. Give out rope—give out rope—if she’s wrong. I don’t
say she is, though; but supposing she’s wrong, she’ll hang herself at
last. Be sartain of that.”
Eunice went out with these words on her lips, leaving Virginia and her
companion together. Virginia gave her father’s letter to Ellen.
“_He_ so wanted me to know this gentleman,” she said, regretfully. “I
have heard him speak of Mr. Brooks a hundred times on the passage, and
before that.”
“Who is Mr. Brooks, lady?”
“He is an American by birth, the son of a banker who spent his life in
London, having moved there when this young gentleman was a lad. My
father knew his father before he left this country, and has always
considered the younger Brooks almost as a son. I think there was some
unusual friendship between the families while our parents were young men
together. At any rate they were fast friends for life.”
“Have you ever seen this Mr. Brooks?”
“No; my father said that he had written to invite him here, and seemed
to think much of it. He described him to me as good and noble—a man
among men. He appeared to wish that I should consider him as a brother.”
Ellen read the letter seriously.
“He seems to have some unexplained idea here—some hope only hinted at.”
“Oh, they had business together; I think there was some talk about
establishing a banking house in New York to co-operate with that in
London.”
Ellen smiled faintly, but kept her eyes on the letter.
“I think Eunice was right,” she said at last. “Yes, she is right.”
Virginia sighed heavily, the oppressive weariness of that most wretched
life was beginning to tell upon her. It was hard to turn aside from the
closest friend her father had. But that, like the rest, she must give up
or enter upon a contest from which humiliation or sure defeat might
follow. For half an hour she walked up and down her room feverish with
anxiety. No poor fly in the net of a spider ever felt the thrall of its
imprisonment more keenly than she did. She could have given up the
property with but little regret. Never having learned the power or value
of money, it was of minor importance to her. But to remain under that
roof, to live with the woman who had so wronged her, and not exhibit the
slow indignation that crept upon her stronger and stronger every day,
was fast growing into a torture.
“What have I done—how have I deserved this treatment?” she cried out at
last. “Am I or am I not Amos Lander’s child? How can a wise and just
being look on and see such terrible iniquity prosper?”
“Hush, lady! this does not seem like yourself. The Being you speak of
bides his own time. Wait patiently.”
“And see my patrimony taken from me—know that my father’s dearest friend
is to be swept from the lowly path she has doomed me to tread—alone. Oh!
it is beyond belief—beyond bearing! I _must_ do something, or go mad!”
“No, dear lady, you will not go mad; that is exactly what they want.”
Virginia listened angrily. She was indeed out of all patience. The life
that lawyer Stone recommended had become unendurable. Must she wait
forever in that dull agony of living? Shut out from friends—forbidden to
make acquaintances by her false position—a prisoner, chained down by
circumstances more potent than iron shackles? Better break through it
all—give up everything and strike out boldly for a new life.
Ellen looked up as her mistress paced the room to and fro with fire in
her eyes and defiance on her lips. “Now,” she thought, “Not even I could
tell her from her cousin. That very tread is alike; with what imperious
pride she walks. How the color wakes and trembles in her face. Thank
Heaven, it cannot last.”
That moment Virginia sunk to the music stool, dropped her folded arms on
the instrument, and her face fell upon them, half smothering the burst
of tears that shook her from head to foot.
“Oh, it is cruel! it is cruel!” she moaned. “If I only knew how to act!”
Ellen’s arms were around her in an instant, gentle kisses stirred her
hair and fell upon her neck.
“Be patient—oh! be patient,” whispered that sweet voice. “God _is_ just.
Wait and see.”
Virginia lifted her head and swept the hot tears from her eyes.
“Ellen, I—I—really think this is jealousy. How foolish! I never saw this
gentleman in my life; but the thought that she assumes my place with him
hurts me worse than the loss of all this property. There, you see how
weak I am!”
Ellen answered with a kiss so fervent that it was far more eloquent than
words.
A servant knocked at the door. Miss Lander’s compliments—there was a
gentleman below who had known Mr. Lander, and would like to see Miss
Virginia.
“Say that Miss Lander is not well, and desires to be excused,” answered
Virginia. “Heaven knows it is the truth,” she said as the man closed the
door after him. “I have worried myself into a headache, Ellen.”
The poor girl laid herself on a couch and quietly wept herself to sleep.
Never since her father’s death had she been so disturbed.
Ellen went on with her writing, and in a few moments was so lost in her
subject that she did not hear the long-drawn sighs that came now and
then from that dear slumberer on the couch. This power of concentration
it was which constituted the force of Ellen’s genius. She literally
lived and breathed in the ideal life her mind created. This it was which
gave the girl that untiring industry without which the brightest genius
in life must die out in flashes of poetry and broken efforts at prose.
Those who reach the temple of fame, in these latter days, must work
their way to its very portals, and toil harder and harder after they are
reached, for that which is won by toil must be by toil maintained.
Clarence Brooks excused himself from accepting the invitation that Mrs.
Lander pressed upon him, to take up his quarters at the house. He had
left his portmanteau at the little hotel just beyond the station, he
said, and would remain there for the present. He should even then claim
hospitality of Mrs. Lander to an unreasonable extent. If he did not
really sleep in the house, they might expect him there half the time, as
he was sure to get terribly weary of his own society. There seemed to be
pleasant drives in the neighborhood; and shooting—he should think there
must be shooting in the back country. Did Miss Lander ride?
Yes, Cora admitted that she had a tolerable seat on horseback, but since
they had been in mourning she had scarcely cared even to take the air.
“Oh, that must be remedied,” the gentleman said. “He must run down to
the city and look up a good saddle horse. Was the lady provided with
one?”
“Oh yes; two ladies’ horses were in the stable—one black as jet, the
other white as snow, which Mr. Lander had himself selected for herself
and his niece before he went abroad.”
By the way, Mr. Brooks wanted to know if he was not to have the pleasure
of seeing this niece who was in her person so complete a counterpart of
the lady before him. He had heard of such resemblances; but really, in
this case, could hardly think it possible that two persons so entirely
beautiful could exist.
Here it was that Virginia was sent for. There was no possibility of
keeping her in the background after this, and Cora submitted with
charming grace. Her cousin was just a little peculiar sometimes; but,
for all that, one of the most interesting characters in the world. Mr.
Brooks would be charmed with her—everybody was.
Here the servant came in and received his orders. Mrs. Lander swept
after him into the hall.
“Tell her she must come, I insist upon it,” she whispered. “This
gentleman must see our family circle complete.”
It was some time since any of the servants had cared much about Mrs.
Lander’s wishes. They were the first to ascertain who was in fact
mistress of the house, and veered round accordingly. Before he had taken
three steps this eagerly-given message was forgotten.
Meantime Clarence Brooks and Cora were talking by the window; for the
gentleman never seemed to weary of looking out upon the soft, smoky air,
and rich coloring of the trees.
“Black or white—which should it be? His saddle horse must match one of
the young ladies’ ponies. Might he choose at a venture with fair hopes
of adopting her color? Then it should be black.”
Cora’s eyes sparkled as she lifted them to his face.
Ah! he had won. Black was her color. Well, his steed should be coal
black and not too large. He did not wish to be overpowering. A ride
under those superb trees would be delightful; he was almost tempted to
run down to the city at once. A day lost that fine weather would be a
misfortune.
Here the servant came in and delivered Virginia’s message. Cora shook
her head, cast a deprecating glance at her guest, and allowed a gentle
sigh to escape her lips.
“It is one of her nervous days,” she said, “I am so sorry.”
“Is your cousin apt to be nervous?” the gentleman inquired.
“She is a little—just a little excitable, as you may guess from my
father’s letter, but a dear, sweet creature. I am so sorry she is ill!”
“Yes, I have great compassion for illness of all kinds. My own
experience in that line has been terrible.”
“Indeed! and you look so thoroughly well!”
“Yes, you will hardly believe it, but not a year ago the best physicians
of the East gave me up for dead. It was when I lay ill of the Syrian
fever, in Damascus. I must have been in some sort of a fit, for the
natives were urgent to have me buried, and even the physicians were
about to give way, when I came to life again. It was the crisis of my
disorder, and I ran a narrow chance of being buried alive. It isn’t a
pleasant thing to remember even now, I assure you.”
“It must have been terrible! I have heard of such things, but always
accepted them with some unbelief,” said Mrs. Lander, joining in the
conversation. “Were you conscious?”
“Yes; that was the most awful part of it. With every nerve stiffened to
iron, and all my senses acutely awake, it was the most exquisite torture
to hear those about my bed discussing my funeral. With closed eyes and
everything but the brain spell-bound, my hearing became unusually keen.
I even heard the rustle of paper two rooms off, when a person I thought
true as steel was searching for the letters of credit I had taken out
for America and carried with me. The sound, to me, was like the shiver
of leaves on a breezy day, yet it must have been faint enough, fer the
man had a light touch.”
“Did he leave you?” asked Cora, suddenly interested.
“Yes; but I do not wish to think of that. There might have been
extenuating circumstances, and I loved the fellow so thoroughly that
even now it is a pain to think ill of him.”
Cora could not press the subject beyond this point; but she was seized
with an eager desire to learn more, and resolved to question her guest
some other time and learn all that there was to know of this singular
event.
Two days from this, Virginia and Ellen went down to the grove. It was a
lovely afternoon, made brighter and more exhilarating by a sharp frost
that had brought whole rainbows of color in the woods the night before.
The roses were all gone now, but many of the bushes were flushed with
berries red as coral, and a rich variety of chrysanthemums still
brightened the lawn and garden.
“After all it _is_ a beautiful world,” said Virginia, pausing in her
walk. “One looks at this scene in amazement after being abroad so long.
I wonder how an American can ever content himself in any other land when
this is his home. Look at the hills, Ellen—have you genius enough to
describe what you see there?”
“Who has?” Ellen replied. “No pen can do it—no pencil can copy it. After
all, God is the great artist.”
“I am glad the frosts have been so sudden and sharp; they have found
enough sap in the leaves to make them vivid. Look here.”
Virginia sprang up, snatching at a twig of maple, broke it off with her
hand and held it towards her companion.
“Here is the most perfect green, fringed so vividly with red that each
leaf might have been traced with vermillion. No painting was ever half
so beautiful. Ah! here comes one quivering down from some tree far off;
deep red, veined all over with maroon color so dark that it looks black
at first sight. Oh! Ellen, no pen of yours or pencil of mine will ever
equal that. Come away, it makes me envious.”
“Thankful, rather, dear lady.”
“Well, thankful. So I am, Ellen. While God surrounds us with so much
beauty, we ought to be full of gratitude, and so happy. Come, come, let
us go down to the grove, the leaves are thick there.”
The girls walked on, chatting cheerfully together; both were young and
full of healthy life. No crime or sense of evil-doing touched the
conscience of either. The very day was enough to make them happy, spite
of their present position—spite of the bereavement which usually
overshadowed them.
“I know of a chestnut tree that must hang full of burs; the frost last
night has let the nuts out—suppose we go look for them. It makes one
feel like a child again to get into the woods. Oh! there is Joshua Hurd,
coming up the carriage road with two splendid horses! The white one is a
beauty! See how she shakes her mane, and dashes the gravel with that
delicate hoof! Oh! Ellen, I should so like to have a gallop!”
“I would have one, if I were you, lady. Ask Joshua to saddle that white
beauty. Why not?”
Virginia shook her head, but that moment Joshua came up, riding the
black horse with a dash and leading the other, who curvetted and danced
over the gravel like some beautiful child tossing her hair to the wind;
the sweeping whiteness of its tail and the mane flowing free, like floss
silk set in motion, gave an air of superb grace to all the creature’s
movements.
Joshua drew up the black horse and challenged the girls’ admiration of
the creature by his really fine horsemanship.
“Isn’t she purty as a blackbird, Miss Ellen; jest let me lay my hand on
your head and she’ll whirl round you like a top; never saw the heat of
these ’ere two animals for ladies’ hosses. Which on ’em do you like
best, Miss?”
“The white one, I think, Joshua.”
Josh began to whistle.
“There’s gumption,” he said, patting the white horse with his great
rough hand. “She would have the black one. Wanted to know which Mr.
Lander bought for his own daughter. I told her black was his choice—no
lie, neither, but then he chose it for t’other one—and black she would
have. Why Snowball cost a hundred dollars the most! I sarched her out
myself, and know all about it. She’s yourn anyway, for the other gal
pounced on the black ’un like a hawk on a spring chicken. When do you
want to ride her, Marm?”
“I’m afraid I shouldn’t he permitted,” said Virginia, speaking to Ellen
in an undertone.
“I’d like to know who’s a going to stop you when Eunice Hurd says it’s
got to be done, or while Josh Hurd takes care of the hosses? Jest give
the order, and I’ll have her saddle on in no time. Now do, I want to see
this animal on the road dreadfully!”
“I will think of it, Joshua; thank you very much—another day will do.
Are you sure, old friend, that my—that Mr. Lander bought that horse for
me?”
“I’m sure he bought it for his own child, and jest as sartin that the
other one never will ride her. I’d drive a nail under her huff if she
was to ask for her.”
“But why, Joshua, if you recognize her as the mistress of this place?”
asked Ellen, very quietly.
“Because I aint a heathen, neither am I a justice of the peace. What
belongs to hosses I know all about, and will stand up to like a sojer;
but property belongs to the courts; I may feel bad to see things going
on so, but it’s none of my business. Besides I couldn’t go agin my—my
old mistress; what she says is right. I’m bound to say is right so long
as Eunice don’t go agin it. But bosses is bosses, and no one touches
this white beauty but you, Miss; you may depend on that as sure as your
life.”
Joshua rode off after this speech, scattering the gravel right and left
as he went.
“That looks well,” said Ellen, turning to her mistress.
“It proves that I have one humble friend that I did not count on,”
answered Virginia. “Now for the woods—I long to be in action. Can you
climb, Ellen?”
“Me!” said the hunchback, looking mournfully down on her person.
“Oh! forgive me, dear; I am in such spirits to-day, that I talk at
random.”
“I can pick up chestnuts as fast as any one,” answered Ellen, laughing.
“I can run too—come along.”