THE SECOND CONQUEST.
The winter came, sharp and cold, while Virginia lay ill; for the fever
left her helpless as a child, and the physician said that, without great
care, she must sink into a decline. This he suggested to Cora early in
the season. Her system, he said, had received some great shock and
refused to rally its strength again. Unless something could be done to
interest her, his skill would be of little avail. If Cora was rejoiced
by this intelligence, she took good care to conceal the shameful truth,
for no person ever seemed more anxious than she did for the recovery of
another. Indeed she haunted that sick chamber with the pertinacity of a
professed nurse, though warned by Eunice again and again that her
presence was hurtful to the patient. Fortunately for Virginia, this
affectionate farce only lasted two or three weeks, for after that time
Cora persuaded Mrs. Lander to go with her to the city, and took up her
residence in their old rooms at the hotel. She learned, with infinite
satisfaction, that Clarence Brooks had taken rooms there for the season.
This was true, but Brooks had no idea that Cora had made this house her
stopping-place, and was surprised when they met in the public drawing
room one day, some few weeks after Seymour’s trial. He strove to inquire
after the welfare of her cousin with composure, but his voice shook in
spite of himself, and he again thanked Heaven that Cora was ignorant of
the deep cause of interest he had in that unhappy girl.
She answered him very quietly, and with every appearance of
unconsciousness that Virginia had been quite ill. Some disappointment
seemed to have thrown her into a fever. Probably the person who had
given them all so much uneasiness had abandoned his pursuit of her after
attaining the money he wanted. She could only guess at this. But her
cousin had been taken much worse after the boy who had been there once
before came a second time with a letter, and for a few days was confined
to her room. There was no doubt some tendency to insanity in all this,
for Virginia had taken the most unaccountable dislike both to her and
her mother. As for herself, it was not strange; but a kinder mother
never lived than her aunt Lander. So bitter had this antipathy become at
last, that the physician made it a particular request that they should
both leave the house until some change took place. This was the reason
they had come down to the city. She wished people to understand all
this, because it might seem unfeeling in a mother to leave her child in
her sickness if all the facts were not explained. The whole affair had
been very painful both to herself and her aunt.
Clarence Brooks had no reason to doubt all this; he believed that no
human being but himself knew of the identity of Seymour with the man who
had robbed him. He was also certain that Cora had no knowledge of his
engagement, or even acquaintance with Virginia; the manner and
conversation of Cora Lander convinced him of her ignorance. In this
respect, it was fortunate that Ellen was so completely at variance with
Cora and Mrs. Lander. That romance of the ravine, the sweetest of his
life while it lasted, was sacred to himself, and shared only by those
two lonely girls. Of course Virginia was sad; of course she must feel
the absence or, if she knew it, the incarceration of her lover with such
anguish as might throw her on a sick bed. But this was the natural
result of her own mad infatuation; no human help could protect her from
it. She had been wrested from this bad man by an act of legal power that
made his heart ache when he thought of it; yet, under the same
circumstances, he would have done it again, even though the girl had
never been dear to himself.
Cora was very sweet and gentle when they met; you would have thought
Virginia had appeared over again from her manners, for never on this
earth was there a better actress lost to the stage. At her instigation,
Mrs. Lander invited Brooks to their parlor. There was no visible reason
why he should not accept this invitation to intimacy with Amos Lander’s
daughter. The treachery of his niece could not reach that fair being.
Had not his dead friend warned him against one and invited his love for
the other?
He went to that pleasant parlor again and again. He saw that singularly
gifted being in all the phases of her loveliness. There was no struggle
in his bosom then; never in this world was there a more willing victim.
If uncertain of his own feelings, he soon became vividly conscious of
hers, for, with all her art, the creature could not conceal the
absorbing passion that had entered her heart with such irresistible
power.
Cora Lander was right in one thing; she had found her master passion in
this love for Clarence Brooks. I have no heart to give the details of
that wicked courtship. The old intimacy revived, those two persons spent
half their time together; for Cora still pleaded her mourning as an
excuse for avoidance of general society. She sent for Blackbird, and
almost every afternoon a pair of black horses, with two of the
finest-looking riders ever seen in those broad avenues, were admired and
commented on till it became generally known that Amos Lander’s heiress
was engaged to the distinguished-looking foreigner who was forever by
her side.
As the spring came on, this rumor was confirmed by the dress makers and
furnishing houses where the wedding paraphernalia was being prepared.
All this time Virginia was worse than an invalid; she received no
company, and heard nothing that was going on in the out-door world;
those who saw her believed that a few months would end a life that, from
no given cause, seemed to have become wearisome to that fair young
creature, and a burden that she would not be long troubled with.
One day, early in the last month of spring, Brian Nolan went from New
York to see Ellen, who received him up stairs in Virginia’s parlor; she,
poor girl, was lying feeble and pale on the bed in her own room. But the
door was open, and the great house so still that almost every word could
reach her from the parlor.
Ellen had finished her book during the winter and it lay on her desk,
sealed in a large package, which she was anxious to put in some
publisher’s hands. There was no great vigor of life about Ellen in those
days. Her slight figure had fallen away with constant watching and
severe thought; her eyes were almost wild with anxiety, and she was
constantly giving little nervous starts, as if apprehending some evil
every minute.
“You look ill, Ellen,” said Brian, sitting down by the desk.
“No, no; I am not ill, Brian, only it makes me suffer to see her passing
away so quietly and so surely.”
“Is she no better, then?”
“Worse, if anything, Brian.”
“Do you know, Ellen—can you guess what it is that preys upon her?”
Brian asked this under his breath. Remember, Cora had denied her
identity to him, and had sent down word that she was ill on another
occasion. He had seen Virginia at Seymour’s residence, and fully
believed her to be his wife, pining perhaps to death under the
unaccountable absence of her husband.
“Brian, all that ails her is soon told. Among them, they have broken her
heart.”
“Do you think she is so bad? Will the sweet lady really die?”
“God help us, I dare not ask the question, much less answer it!” said
Ellen, beginning to cry.
Brian could not speak openly, he was held down by that solemn promise to
his brother. He had just been to the prison and came up to get news of
the woman whom that unhappy convict so thoroughly loved.
“This will be sad, sad news for him,” was his silent reflection. “Should
she die, he will feel the shock through his prison walls. O! if I dared
say one consoling word to her!”
These were silent thoughts; he would not have spoken them for the world,
shackled so with that oath of secrecy. But one thing he could do.
Seymour had not altogether forbidden him to make a confidant of Ellen.
He would tell her, not about the marriage, but regarding his brother’s
unhappy condition.
“Ellen,” he said, after a prolonged silence, “will you shut that door, I
want to say something to you alone?”
“She is there, speak low, I think she is sleeping,” said Ellen, closing
the door softly and retreating to the farther side of the room. “Now you
can tell me, Brian. Is it anything about our brother?”
“Yes, Ellen, I just came from him!”
“Came from him? Where is he then?”
“Stoop down your head, sister.”
Ellen bent her head, listened, turned deadly white and stepped back as
if he had struck her.
“In prison—sent there by Clarence Brooks—Brian, why was this kept from
me so long?”
“He forbade me to tell you, or any one. It would have done harm.”
“But I am his sister.”
“And for that reason have enough to bear. Even now I tell you without
authority. But for what I have heard to-day, I would still keep
silence.”
“And this was where he was—this was why he did not need our money.
Brian, Clarence Brooks is a villain, a double-dyed villain! I detest
him!”
“So did I at first, but after seeing him—Ellen, there is something
strange about this. Mr. Brooks does not seem vindictive. He would not
accept any portion of the money, though I urged it upon him. He seemed
distressed, anxious to make Alfred’s life easy where he is. Ellen, at
one time I saw tears in that man’s eyes.”
“Have you seen him more than once?”
“Yes, but not to speak with him. Only last week I saw him riding in the
Park with Mrs. Lander and the young lady.”
“What! Cora Lander?”
“Yes, it is said about the hotels that they are going to be married
soon.”
Ellen flushed red and turned white again; thought after thought flashed
through her mind. Cora Lander had known her brother. She remembered
thinking so at the hotel the first time they all met there. Had she
instigated Brooks to prosecute him as he had done?
There was no chance that an honest mind could follow Cora Lander in her
iniquitous scheming, but Ellen jumped at the one broad conclusion that
she was at the bottom of all her brother’s trouble and of Virginia’s sad
state.
“That cruel wretch shall not break his heart!” she exclaimed.
Brian thought that she alluded to Clarence Brooks, and answered:
“I do not think it was done from cruelty. This man is not hard-hearted.
Something that we do not understand is at the bottom of it all.”
“Brian, tell me more of our brother. How many years is it?”
“Seven!”
“So many! Let me think—let me think! Oh! if she were well now!”
“That is it. You must keep this from her, of all persons in the world.”
“We must keep it from every one, though the secret burns our lives out.”
“If she had not been in the danger you speak of, I would not have told
you.”
“I do not understand. My lady has nothing to do with it; she would be
sorry, of course, but I will not tell her or any one. Our father left
Alfred to us. To save him is the duty of my life.”
“Ellen.”
“Well, Brian?”
“I should like to see your lady.”
“No wonder, Brian; it would be strange if you did not. She has the
loveliest face. I hear her moving. Perhaps she will come out.”
She was right, the door opened and Virginia came into the room, pale as
a lily. Her white merino dress was girded in at the waist by a black
ribbon, and a string of jet beads fell from her neck. She had heard his
voice and put these things on hurriedly, hoping something from his
visit, but without knowing what.
“You have come to see Ellen; I am glad of it,” she said, gently, as
Brian bowed before the frail creature whom he believed to be his
brother’s wife. “Is there any news of her brother yet?”
Brian’s face lighted up. Here was a chance of giving her comfort without
betraying his knowledge of her secret.
“Yes, we have heard from him; he is well, and thinks nothing so
important as his return to us.”
“But when will he return?”
“Not yet; he cannot tell. But this is certain, his heart is with us.”
She smiled faintly at his eagerness, and sat down wearily, supporting
her head with one hand.
“I shall write, lady. May I tell him that you remember him kindly?” said
Brian, so agitated that his voice shook while uttering words that seemed
to him of great hidden importance.
“Yes, say that, for I do remember him very kindly, little as I have seen
of him. Ellen’s brother, you know, is almost my brother.”
“Thank you, he will be pleased! Sister Ellen, good-bye.”
“I will go with you, brother. We must not say good-bye so soon.”
Ellen walked with her brother down to the depot, conversing earnestly
with him all the way, and waited till the train took him up.
About a week after this, Eunice intercepted Ellen as she was coming in
from the garden.
“Come here,” she said, “I’ve got a letter from Mrs. Eliza Lander. Read
it, but don’t say a word to _her_.”
Ellen read the letter. It told Eunice, as a matter to be kept secret in
the household, of Cora’s approaching marriage. “Everything is getting
ready,” it said; “Cora’s first year of mourning will be more than over
in June, when the wedding will take place at the mansion. She wishes you
to have the house put into perfect order. Hire extra help, and tell the
gardener to put on a double force if the grounds require it. The wedding
will be a large one and some of the first people in the land will be
present. There is one thing that troubles my niece, and I share her
anxiety. What can be done with my—with Virginia and her uncouth friend?
If she would only consent to live in the city. Cora has such a lovely
house; it belonged to Mr. Lander: she will give her a deed of it, if
that will suit her for a residence. She can choose her own servants and
have some nice elderly person to live with her. The house has just been
beautifully fitted up Cora tells me, especially for her cousin. I have
been over it, and it is superb. There is a colored woman in charge now,
but Cora will send her off and let her cousin have full sway. I think
this very liberal—don’t you, Eunice? If you like it, would you object to
speaking to her about the arrangement? Now that a strange gentleman is
coming into the family, it does seem best that something should be done.
I wouldn’t speak to her myself about it, nor would Cora, she is so
sensitive; but you will not mind it, I am sure, Eunice. Do try and get
that girl with the back to favor this measure. She can do anything with
Virginia.
“E. LANDER.”
* * * * *
“What do I think of that?” cried Eunice, when Ellen had read the letter
through. “Jehosaphat, Judas Iscarrot and Nebbecudnezzer rolled into one
heap of wickedness. Eliza Lander’s getting to be disgusting! Don’t look
at me, I’m blushing all over for her. It’s scandalous!”
“Still my young lady must go. It would kill her to remain here.”
“But it is turning her out of doors. This city house that the critter
has been a fixing up isn’t her home like this, though it is a purty
place.”
“She will not go there, Eunice, I am sure of that. But she has some
money. We raised it on those jewels—bless you for getting them—and I can
work.”
“Work! You! why you couldn’t iron a pocket hankecher without being tired
out.”
“But I can write.”
“Why that ain’t work.”
“I fancy you would think it was, Eunice, if you had it to do.”
“Why, you cretur you, I thought you was a doing it jest for fun!”
“Fun,” answered Ellen, smiling wearily, for this hard writing had worn
her out, “see how my hand trembles, feel how hot my head is. This a
pretty severe fun, Eunice!”
“And what’s the good of wurrying yourself out so? I hain’t seen nothing
come of it but a heap of paper with writing on it that Jehosaphat
couldn’t read if he was to come right out of the Scripters to do it.”
“You may be right. After all my toil, it may be worth nothing,” answered
Ellen, who had arisen from the pile of manuscript so depressed and
exhausted that even such criticism as Eunice gave discouraged her. “But
I have tried so hard! Besides she would be disappointed!”
“Will she? Well, cherk up, cherk up, if writing ever is worth anything,
yours will come up above the level. I don’t know much about it, but I’ve
seen your face kinder blazing out and withering up over that paper day
after day. There must be something in it to make a young cretur work as
you have. Don’t let anything I’ve said put you down in the mouth, for I
don’t know no more about writing than a swing fence. Gracious knows, I
wish I never had learned, so does Josh, though we ain’t either on us
much to brag of.”