GETTING RID OF WITNESSES.
Cora went directly to her house the moment she reached the city. She
hated the place now, and nothing but an important purpose would have
induced her to enter it. The servants were in possession, all except
Lubin, who, loving his art better than money, had left a place where his
talent had so little chance of appreciation. The week before, he had
discharged himself and sailed for New Orleans. This was good news for
Cora; it relieved her visit of half its difficulty. This man had been
present at her marriage; he knew of her domestic life, and was therefore
dangerous. But he was removed from her path now, and the only person
left whose evidence would be fatal was the woman, Alice Ruess; she it
was who had gone after the clergyman; she had witnessed the marriage
ceremony and held the whole secret in her possession. This woman must be
disposed of—but how? Could persuasion or money do it? That was what had
brought Cora to the city. Mrs. Lander believed that the trip was taken
in order to superintend the new dresses which had been purchased with
such liberality for her own wardrobe. But dressmakers were very little
in Cora’s mind just then, and while her mother thought her busy with
lavender and purple silk, she sat quietly in that little room,
conversing with Alice Ruess in the most kindly and social manner. Cora
had long noticed that there was something on her humble friend’s
mind—not that she called her humble—Cora had too much tact for that,
under the circumstances. Indeed, did Alice suppose her so entirely taken
up by her own affairs that she had no sympathy for others? On the
contrary, she had come now to learn if there was nothing that she could
do which might alleviate the sadness that really was mournful. What was
it that preyed upon Alice Ruess with such depressed effect?
Alice Ruess had her troubles, poor thing—and very serious ones they
were. After a good deal of persuasion, and more caresses than Cora
usually bestowed on any one from whom she wanted nothing, the unhappy
woman was prevailed upon to admit that she was a married woman and had a
husband in California, whom she had not seen in three years. He had left
Germany, promising to send for her the moment he was settled in the gold
region; but year after year had gone by without bringing the promised
summons. So she had saved a little money by hard work and paid her
passage to New York, where she was compelled to remain for want of means
to go farther. But she was hoarding her wages, every cent of them, and
in the course of another year hoped to have enough to pay her passage to
San Francisco. It was a long time to wait, but necessity knew no laws;
she had been compelled to patience before, and must endure it again.
Then it was that Cora came out in a new and beautiful character. Why had
she never been applied to before? It was cruel, it was unjust. Did Alice
consider her the most hard-hearted creature in the world? Of course she
should go at once to California. In the very next steamer if money could
do it. What, separate a husband from his wife for the want of a little
money, the thing was barbarous! Alice was in an ecstasy of gratitude.
She loved her husband, and was dying to proceed at once on her
pilgrimage in search of him. This munificence in her employer brought
genuine tears into her eyes. She fell upon her knees, buried her face in
Cora’s lap, and called down blessings upon her, such blessings as a good
woman would have felt to the core of her heart. Even this calculating
creature; took a sort of glory to herself when the grateful voice,
broken with sobs, told how happy this goodness had made her. She had so
long pined in silence for the means generously offered now, that it was
a benefit beyond her realization.
Cora was glad to know that the means she was using for her own safety
had given so much happiness. She liked Alice, and was grateful to her
for asking so few questions and receiving all her sympathy with such
genuine good faith.
Cora slept at the Fifth Avenue Hotel that night; she still retained
rooms there, expecting to return in the winter. As for sleeping in that
house, her very soul recoiled from it. She shuddered when Alice proposed
it, and put the woman away from her with both hands.
“Not for the world!” she said, breaking into a passion.
She checked herself instantly; it was no part of her purpose to inform
Alice of her discontent. Her tools must be used blindly. No old diplomat
was ever more reticent in his craft than this young woman, to whom
duplicity came by heart. She could not always restrain those outbreaks
of feeling which belonged to her double character. But her mind, ever on
the alert, had explanations and excuses ready for adroit use on such
occasions, and her resources were always sufficient for the occasion.
“You forget,” she added, with a saddened face, “he is not here, and
without him I think my heart would break, surrounded by these precious
associations. Alice, you know what it is?”
Alice began to cry from tender sympathy.
“But Monsieur will return, he has not gone for long,” she said, with a
kind effort at consolation. “The great God is good, he will not allow
Madame, who is so generous, so munificent, to suffer a long separation,
such as has taken away all my youth.”
Cora was a splendid actress. When she entered into a part like this, it
was with all her soul. She put a handkerchief, made of filmy linen and
lace, to her eyes, and shook her head mournfully.
“It is a long time even now, Alice.”
“But Monsieur will return. He will shoot many birds, grow tired, and
come home. Oh, Madame Seymour, I will pray very much for that!”
Cora started as this name was uttered. A gleam of pleasure came to her
face, which Alice thought had sprung out of the comfort given by her
assurances. But Cora remembered that his name of Seymour was the only
one that even Alice ever had known her by. Here she was doubly guarded.
“I see Madame will take hope,” said Alice, cheered by her fancied
success.
“But I am so young—so foolish, Alice! To me weeks seem like years when
he is away.”
“Ah yes, I understand. My years have been so long—so long!”
“But there shall be only weeks now between you and your husband. By the
very next steamer you shall go.”
“Ah, Madame, you are so good!”
“I will send down, get your ticket and arrange about the state-room this
afternoon. Now I think of it, get into the carriage and we will drive to
the office at once.”
The grateful woman put on her bonnet with trembling hands, and throwing
a mantilla over her shoulders, stood in readiness to go, more glad at
heart, than she had been for years.
They got into a carriage, which stood at the door, and drove down to the
Bowling Green almost in silence. Both were cheerful—Alice, because she
was going to her husband; Cora from a consciousness that, one by one,
the shackles of her married life were giving way. When they reached the
office, Cora gave Alice her purse.
“Get the ticket, arrange everything, and keep the rest, you will want
it.”
“Oh, Madame!”
“There, there; go at once or the choice of berths will be less,” said
Cora, waving aside the poor woman’s gratitude, which, being thoroughly
genuine, began to rebuke her a little.
Alice went into the office, and came out with her ticket, smiling
gratefully.
“When does the steamer sail, Alice?”
“In three days, Madam.”
“Well, I will drive you home; you must begin to pack up at once, three
days are soon here and gone.”
“In a month—in one little month, I shall see him!”
“And this makes you so happy.”
“So happy—oh, _mon Dieu_, so happy!”
“Well, here we are. Be ready in time.”
“But the house, Madame—what shall I do about that?”
“Leave it with that stout black woman—I forget her name—but she seems
honest.”
“As madame pleases—Hagar is very good negar.”
Alice got out of the carriage and Cora drove away, well pleased with her
morning’s work. She did not inform Alice Ruess where she was going, but
promised to call again or send for her; so the woman was well content.
After driving a block or two, Cora pulled the check-string and ordered
the coachmen to return. Alice saw the carriage and came out.
“Come here, close to the door,” she said.
Alice obeyed, and Cora whispered to her:
“If my husband should return, tell him I have gone up the river, and do
not speak of my coming down again, that might keep him here and I should
lose so much time, you know.”
“But I shall see you again, Madame?”
“Yes; oh yes, I shall see you off, never fear. But remember what I have
just told you.”
“Certainly, Madame.”
After this, Cora drove away for good, and actually did go to Mrs.
Lander’s dressmaker and torment the poor woman terribly with a confused
discussion about trimmings—white, lavender, purple and gray—with which
the second mourning was to be illuminated into a phase at once sorrowful
and desponding. The happy medium in such cases is difficult to reach.
Three days from that, Cora drove to the door of her own residence and
took Alice into the carriage. The luggage was already on board, and
Alice Ruess had no friends to weep over or bid farewell. When once
seated in the carriage, she said:
“Oh, Madame, Monsieur came last night.”
“What, my husband?” Spite of herself Cora’s voice was sharp and
startled.
“Yes, Madame, Monsieur Seymour. He was grieved—very sad indeed, when I
told him Madame was up the river.”
“And I have missed him—of course he took the train at once.”
“Perhaps. He went away but said nothing.”
Cora looked at her watch.
“The steamer sails at twelve, I have plenty of time. It is only a few
hours delay.”
She spoke carelessly, but her face was like ashes in its paleness. They
drove down to the wharf, crowded with drays, carriages, wheelbarrows,
and swarms of people of all grades and character, from the rich
aristocrat to the humblest orange woman. Men and women crowded the deck
and swarmed up the gangway, jostling each other, some carrying carpet
bags, some holding great bouquets, and others, who came late, dragging
valises and trunks desperately upward by one handle.
It was a scene of wild confusion. Women leaned down from the deck,
searching for those they loved and were leaving among the crowd; some
with a last gift of flowers in their hands, others flinging kisses from
lips quivering with grief, others again weeping piteously.
Through this crowd Alice Ruess made her way with a little satchel in her
hand and a look of touching joy on her face. She had nothing to leave,
but all the world to follow. In a few weeks she would see her husband.
This was the happy thought that went singing through her mind as she was
hustled up to the deck and stood there, eager for the bell to ring, for
she considered every minute lost which was not bearing her onward.
Cora leaned out of the carriage, interested in the woman she had helped.
Indeed she felt almost the sensation which springs from a generous
action. The poor creature’s intense gratitude seemed to make a virtue of
her selfishness.
Finally the bell rang, the great cable was uncoiled and followed the
heaving vessel like a huge snake till rough hands drew it up, wet and
dripping. The ponderous wheels began to buffet the waters; the great
vessel swept out into the river and the boom of a gun sent back her last
farewell. Cora saw the slender figure of Alice, waving a handkerchief,
through the smoke, and drew back into the carriage with tears in her
eyes. Whatever her motive was, she had done good to that helpless little
woman, and loved her a little as we all love those we have benefitted.
But the words she said five minutes after had little of goodness in
them.
“Thank Heaven, that possible danger is escaped. This change of name will
be like a tombstone on the woman should he ever attempt to search her
out.”
In going down to the office that day, Cora had suggested that Alice
should take out her ticket under a changed name. “It will give your
husband a pleasant surprise,” she said.
“You will have the happiness of seeing his heart leap into his eyes. But
the commonplace warning of a passenger list would spoil everything.”
Alice acquiesced. She would have done almost anything at the bare
suggestion of a lady who had so generously befriended her.
This was the reason that Cora congratulated herself with such
earnestness. All traces of Alice Ruess were lost when that California
steamer left the harbor of New York.
From the wharf, Cora drove to a law office in Nassau street. The man she
went to consult was a perfect stranger to her, and she seemed resolved
to keep him so, for, on entering his office, she carefully drew the
thick crape veil over her face, and her figure had been as much as
possible enveloped in a large mourning shawl. She had only a few words
to ask of the gentleman: “Would he give her his attention just for one
moment? A friend of hers had been unfortunate in marrying a man
afterwards condemned to a term of service in the State’s prison, would
that fact relieve her from all marriage obligations?”
Cora had been a little unfortunate in her lawyer, who happened to be a
clerk in the office. Seeing a stylish-looking lady come in, who
evidently mistook him for the superior, he assumed the position and gave
his opinion with confidence.
“No doubt of it—no doubt of it. My dear Madam, the lady is free as air.
No marriage ceremony can bind any woman to a convict.”
“You are quite sure of this?”
The impromptu lawyer smiled in a superior way, and gently waved his
hand.
“Those who know me, dear lady, would not find it necessary to ask that
question.”
“Excuse me,” answered Cora from behind her veil, “but my friend is
naturally anxious to be certain. Her position is a very delicate one.”
“No doubt of it; but the question is a very simple one and easily
answered. Why, common sense teaches one that it must be an unjust law
which ties an innocent woman to her guilty husband when crime itself
separates them. What if a man is condemned for life?”
The petty impostor seemed disposed to enter into an argument on the
subject, being rather anxious in his own mind; but Cora was only too
glad that his convictions were so positive, and, taking out her
porte-monnaie, she handed him a bank bill of considerable value,
scarcely heeding the amount.
The man took it, cast a sharp glance at the face, which only gave an
imperfect outline beneath that provoking veil, hesitated and said,
“Madam,” as if she had spoken.
She turned away, impatient of his scrutiny.
“Hem, hem, Madam, perhaps you will expect some change?” he said, folding
the bill and leisurely placing it in his pocket-book.
“It is no matter,” she answered, moving away.
“But, Madam, Madam, I insist.”
The fellow was closing his pocket-book all the time. She saw the action,
and turned away, despising him in her heart. There is, after all, an
aristocracy of crime in this world. This woman, whose life was one great
fraud, dared to look with contempt upon the man who could commit a petty
offence against herself. She did not regret the money he had pocketed so
adroitly, for the information he had given her was worth ten times that
amount, but her lip curled with contempt of the man.
“To the Hudson River Depot.”
Cora was eager to reach home now—eager to commence the contest which lay
before her. No, she thought better of it. Seymour would never venture to
come into the neighborhood of her residence while Clarence Brooks was
there. She would drive to the house in town and make sure of an
interview with her husband, should he have returned to it. Her haughty
spirit was now prepared for the issue—prepared to repudiate and defy
him, if that course seemed best to her. She drove up to the house and
entered it, almost expecting to meet the man who had been all the world
to her only a few months before in deadly enmity. Whether the contest
would be one of force or craft she had not determined, but she was
resolved that it should be final and decisive.
He was not there.