THAT CRUEL LETTER.
That great Egyptian monster, crouching like an embodied pestilence in
the heart of New York, concentrating all the horrors of a prison with
the awful solemnity of a tomb, never received a human being into its
portals who gave himself up to despair more thoroughly than Alfred
Seymour. All night long he lay in that narrow cell—hard, cold granite in
the floor, the walls and the ceiling, cold iron shutting him in at the
narrow door, which opened and closed with a clang that made him start
and shudder from head to foot—all night long he lay, thinking such
thoughts as might turn the hair on a young man’s head white as snow and
create little wonder.
A gleam of moonlight pierced through a long, narrow loop-hole that
served as a window, cut so deep in the outer wall that the radiance came
through wedge-shaped, and, to his tortured imagination, seemed solid in
its whiteness. No steel ever went more keenly through a human heart than
that mournful illumination penetrated his. Only the night before, those
self-same moonbeams had fallen like shimmering silver along the highway
when Cora rode by his side, cheerful as a bird, animated as he had
seldom seen her before, talking so hopefully of the early day when their
marriage would be proclaimed and they need not steal forth in secret or
at night to meet each other. She had even proposed to proclaim the
choice she was so proud of and end all secrecy at once. But he dared not
accept this generous proposition, though enforced by eloquence and such
affectionate caresses as nothing but a heart shackled down by crime
could have resisted.
This was only one night ago. It seemed an eternity to him, there in that
prison, with the stillness of death all around him. Thinking of her
thus, generous, loving and so beautiful, the unhappy man came to a
solemn resolution. She should never hear of his fate; they might bury
him in prison walls still more gloomy than those which seemed to enclose
him in like a grave, and he would make no sign. To-morrow, perhaps, they
would bring him into court for examination. He would plead guilty there,
and again when they brought him before a higher tribunal for final
trial. No public journal should make a romance of his crime or his
misery. He would allow the law to do its worst, and disappear.
This man had done wrong, but he was not a hardened sinner; no creature
who was ever wept as he did that night. He had longed to make atonement
for his crime, and struggled hard for the power which was almost within
his grasp when this ruin came upon him. This nearness to escape made his
fate doubly bitter.
“A few hours—only a few hours, and I should have paid all,” he said,
aloud. Then, frightened by the sound of his own voice, which seemed
struggling up from a grave, he drew the coarse, gray blanket over his
head and lay moaning out his grief at intervals, hiding away from the
moonlight which reminded him so keenly of all that was wrested from him.
At last the dawn came struggling through that loop-hole, filling the
cell with gloomy light. Then a crash of locks and the heavy swing of
iron doors struck on his ear ominously. The routine of that mournful
tomb’s life had commenced, and every new sound made him shiver beneath
that gray blanket like some wounded animal that hears the hounds
scenting out its lair.
After awhile the door of his own cell was flung open, a heavy can was
set down on the stone gallery close by, and out of this grim vessel a
tin cup half full of coffee was dipped, this with a piece of bread, was
placed upon his cell floor.
Seymour drew the blanket from his face and turned his bloodshot eyes
upon this coarse breakfast. He was not hungry, and would have rejected
the most dainty food—this he loathed.
Hours went by and Brian Nolan came with his sorrowful heart, and again
craved to know what could be done for his brother.
Nothing. Seymour had fully made up his mind now. The misery that Fate
had in store for him he would accept. Perhaps he would be so happy as to
die. Then that noble young creature who had loved him so dearly would
have freedom. She might—no, no, he could not think of a second marriage.
He was ready to die, and the rest might follow, but it would be a long,
long time—that grand-hearted creature was too thoroughly his for any
meaner result. He said all this to Brian, and charged him, as he hoped
for happiness, never to betray the secret of his marriage to any human
being, not even to Ellen; never hint at his knowledge of it to the woman
who, in a fatal hour, had become his wife; but, in every respect to
guard the confidence placed in him. Not content with a simple promise,
he went farther.
There was a cheap missionary Bible in the cell. This he placed in
Brian’s hands and bade him take an oath never to reveal the secret of
his marriage or hint at it to any living soul.
Brian touched the book with his lips and took the oath.
“It is hard to ask this of me. Your lady has money and power enough to
open these doors.”
“To let the husband she knows to be a criminal out. Brian Nolan, the
first look of her face after that would kill me. I shall plead guilty;
there will be no trial. The officer promises me that there shall be no
publicity. When all is over, I will write two letters, one to her, one
to the man whose vengeance is upon me. There is money belonging to him
which he must have—a favor which he will grant if he is not a demon.”
The mention of money reminded Brian of that which his sister Ellen and
Miss Virginia Lander had promised to bring.
“What shall I say to them when they come with the money?” he asked. “Is
it altogether too late, if I appeal to this cruel man with the money in
my hand?”
“Yes, too late. He has no power to save me if he wished, I know that
much of American law. Beside, you cannot go to him. He, above all men
living, must be kept in ignorance that I ever saw one of the Miss
Landers. There is no appeal, no hope for me. Give up the thought,
Brian.”
Brian did give up the thought and went away broken-hearted. Virginia and
Ellen came to the house the day after, radiant and happy, with the money
which Lawyer Stone had just paid over to them. Brian met them in the
drawing room, thanked Virginia with tears in his eyes, but refused to
take the money. His brother had settled all his difficulties in another
way. It involved a somewhat lengthened absence from the city, he said,
but everything was in a sure course of arrangement. Mr. Seymour had
charged him to give a thousand thanks for her kindness, which he should
feel to his dying day.
“Did he leave no word for me?” inquired Ellen, nervously. “Not even a
farewell?”
“He left you this, and this,” answered Brian, pressing his quivering
lips to her cheek and forehead.
Ellen knew that there was some terrible sorrow under those kisses, but
the delicate intuition that impressed her heart with the truth kept her
silent. Virginia, who had been so ardent in her desire to serve Ellen’s
brother, was a little disappointed by the result, as any generous person
might well have been. Still there was joy in the thought that they were
at liberty to return home—that within a few hours she would meet
Clarence Brooks.
They went up the river by the first train, Virginia grew light of heart
as she approached home. Would he expect her just then? Was he
disappointed because she did not return the night before? Had he told
Cora and Mrs. Lander of their engagement? How would they feel about it,
glad or sorry? She almost wished that it had been done before she left
home. It would be very awkward enduring their sneers or congratulations,
as they might chance to prove, with no one but Ellen to sustain her.
These thoughts brought a troubled joy with them, and when the train
stopped at the depot she had become nervously anxious. Ellen’s grave
face added to this feeling, this return home really was a trying ordeal
to a young, motherless girl, who believed that the most precious secret
of her life had been given to her worst enemies.
Eunice met them at the door; but no one else came with smiles or
welcome. Mrs. Lander was in her room, the servant said, and Miss Lander
had gone out to ride on Blackbird. Ellen saw the question in Virginia’s
eyes, and asked if Miss Lander had gone alone.
“Yes, quite alone; there had been no gentleman in the neighborhood to
ride with her these two days; a groom followed her, that was all.”
Virginia went up stairs somewhat perplexed. Was Cora so annoyed by her
engagement that she would not ride with Mr. Brooks? What could it all
mean?
Just as the girls were taking off their things, a clumsy knock sounded
from the door, and Joshua Hurd looked in. He beckoned Ellen and
retreated into the upper hall. Ellen went out to learn what he wanted,
when he placed a letter mysteriously in her hand.
“You jest give it to her. He made me promise to put it into her own
hands; but it’s the same thing, now ain’t it, when I give it to you?”
The letter, which Ellen took, was directed in a bold, firm hand, to Miss
Virginia Lander.
“Who gave it to you, Mr. Hurd?” she anxiously inquired.
“He, Mr. Brooks; the chap I took your letter to that rainy night. He
came up here yesterday morning, and, arter siting awhile with t’other
gal, came out to the stables—a thing he never done afore—and took a good
deal of interest in the hosses, ’specially Snowball, a critter that I
allays curry down myself. That morning he diskivered that she’d been rid
hard since any one dressed her down, and was curous about the mark of a
saddle that was plain as could be on her back. You don’t know how that
mark came there nor nothing, do you now, Miss Ellen?” he added, eyeing
her keenly with his little, sharp eyes.
“Me?—No, indeed. How should I?” answered Ellen.
“Jes so; thought as much. Nor she, nuther?”
Joshua pointed over his shoulder to the room where they had left
Virginia.
“What, Miss Virginia? She hasn’t seen Snowball these three or four days,
I can answer for that.”
“Jes so.”
“But what does all this mean, Joshua?”
“Nothing, only he said the hoss must a been rid or else I hadn’t took
good care on her, which made me mad. Rid or no rid, curry-combed or not
curry-combed, it was none of his bisness, and I e’enamost told him so.”
“Well, Joshua, I don’t understand about that, but the letter?”
“Well, he gin me that arter I’d sot him down a peg about the hoss, and a
golden half eagle with it—none of yer greenbacks, but gennine gold, woth
amost double if one specerlates on it, which I mean to. ‘Give that into
Miss Virginia’s own hand, don’t let any other person tech it,’ says he.
‘I depend on you, Mr. Hurd.’ Well, he might do that. If I haint gin it
into her own hand, it was because she was doing up her hair afore the
looking-glass, and that made me kinder skeery; but it’s all right now.”
Ellen was turning away, when Joshua began again:
“Miss Ellen, what was the matter with Mr. Brooks? He looked so down in
the mouth that I raly felt sorry for him; kinder locked up about the
mouth and forrid.”
“How can I tell, Joshua?”
“Jes so. But you’ll give that ’ere letter?”
“Certainly I will.”
“Jes so,” muttered Joshua, stumbling down the hall. “Jes so!”
Ellen went into the room where Virginia was standing, and gave her the
letter.
“From him! from him!” cried the delighted girl, snatching it between
both her hands. “I will be back in a minute, Ellen, and tell you all
about it.”
She went into the sanctuary of her own chamber, pressing the paper to
her lips with both hands, as young girls will when the sweet insanity of
a first love is upon them.
Ellen sat down by the window, wondering why her heart felt so heavy; she
had fallen into thought about her brother, whose present position seemed
to be so mysteriously kept from her, when a sharp cry from the inner
room, and directly after a heavy fall, made her spring from the chair in
sudden dismay.
The next instant she was in the bed-chamber striving to lift Virginia
from the floor with her trembling arms and crying out in her alarm:
“My lady! Virginia! Virginia! won’t you speak to me? It is Ellen, your
own poor Ellen, who loves you better than her life! What have they done
to you, darling?”
In her distress, the poor girl broke into the pathetic terms of
endearment which are so touching in her countrywomen. She kissed that
pale face, dropping unconscious tears upon its whiteness. She strove to
warm the cold hand with her own quivering palms. But all was in vain,
Virginia Lander lay motionless; her lips ashen, her eyes closed in deep
shadows. Ellen at last believed her dead, and shrieked aloud:
“Eunice! Eunice! Oh! my God, will nobody come?”