DEATH IN THE LOG CABIN.
Cora Lander had been a good deal into society during the latter part of
her season in town. With her great beauty and reputation for enormous
wealth, there was no difficulty in taking her position in fashionable
life. It came and lay down at her feet. Hundreds of the highest among
the high followed her and her bridegroom to that mansion on the Hudson,
where the marriage ceremony was to be performed with a splendor that had
never been witnessed in this country before. A glorious moon flooded
that clear summer evening with its light, and flashed, like rippling
quicksilver, along the river as the train tore along its banks. The
sound of laughter and low, sweet voices softened the noises of the
engine and the rattle of wheels to those within the cars, as that
wedding party was whirled onward almost with the speed of lightning.
All at once that white house, with all its stately trees, drooping
shrubbery and clustering vines, illuminated as with ten thousand stars,
burst upon the view. The marble colonnade shone out clear and white, all
its fluted pillars well defined, and the long white leaves of their
Corinthian capitals tangled in, as it seemed, with wreaths of fire. The
roses were in full bloom, loading the air with fragrance; such fruit
trees as grew near were lighted up, and their blossoms fell around the
hanging lamps like garlands of snow.
From the terrace stairs to the front of the building, a broad pathway of
crimson carpeting was laid, bordered on each side with greenhouse
plants, massed till their blossoms seemed one tangle of flowers from the
steps to the colonnade.
Within, everything was in stately keeping with the exterior; all the
rooms, on which Mrs. Lander had lavished so much money, were flung open.
The air penetrated them through clouds of lace. Some were brilliantly
lighted, others left in a soft moonlight obscurity, inviting repose. The
colors in each room contrasted or harmonized with the next so
imperceptibly that they could hardly be separated in the mind, but
composed one grand picture of light, rich coloring and artistic effects.
When the company came pouring into these rooms, chatting, laughing,
brilliant with expectation, it only added a movement of graceful life
without in the least crowding them. The beautiful women moving to and
fro seemed like lost Peris that had found a new way back to Paradise and
were rejoicing over it.
This crowd of gay people had come rather early, scattering themselves
about the rooms and the grounds, as previously arranged. The ceremony
would not come off before eleven o’clock. Then the supper rooms would be
thrown open, and there would be dancing for those who liked it. The
whole affair was, in fact, one grand reception. Mrs. Lander received the
guests in a dress of silver gray satin, clouded with Brussels point,
that swept the carpet in a train absolutely regal. She had cast off her
nervousness and threw life into a scene which was her highest idea of
happiness.
While all this fashion and beauty were passing in and out of the lower
rooms, Cora stood in the chamber of which she had so ruthlessly
defrauded her cousin, ready for her second marriage. Excitement had
rendered her more than beautiful; her cheeks were burning with
rose-tints; the rich tresses, rolled back from her forehead, fairly
flung off the light. The satin robe fell around her as snow settles to
its place, and swept the floor in long, sumptuous folds. She held the
bridal veil in her hand and was directing the attendant how to arrange
it in her hair with perfect art and seeming negligence, when a servant
knocked at the door.
“See what it is,” she said, “surely it cannot be time!”
The woman opened the door and brought back a note, which the servant
said a strange man had delivered, with directions that it should be
given into her own hands at once.
Cora tore the note open impatiently; she was annoyed by the delay it
occasioned. This was what she read:
“I am at the log cabin waiting for you. If you fail to come at once, I
shall stand by your side at eleven o’clock.
“YOUR HUSBAND.”
Cora Lander neither fainted away nor uttered one sound of the terrible
dread that seized upon her. She folded the note and held it firmly in
her hand. Then turning to the woman, she bade her unlace the corsage of
her dress, it was rather tight, and she would let the dressmaker, who
was in attendance from the city, alter it a little, there was plenty of
time. She took up her watch from the dressing-table and made sure of
this. It was about ten o’clock.
The woman obeyed, and in a few moments Cora came out of those voluminous
folds of satin as if she had just escaped from a snow-drift.
“Shall I carry the dress to Mrs. Green?” inquired the maid.
“Yes, tell her to let it out the least in the world. Give me that scarf,
I will attend to something else while she finishes it. These
hair-dressers tire one to death. I will ring when you are wanted again.”
The woman went out, carrying the dress carefully on her arm. The moment
she was gone, Cora stepped into the next room, snatched up the dress she
had flung off before commencing her toilet, and put it on. Across one of
the chairs hung a lace shawl, which she had worn in the grounds that
afternoon. She threw this over her head, gathering it up in black folds
about her bosom, which scarcely seemed to rise or fall with human life.
The last thing she did in that room was to open a drawer of the
dressing-table and take out a small pistol, scarcely more than a toy,
which had been given her at the manufactory in Hartford as a beautiful
specimen of its workmanship, once when Amos Lander had taken her and
Virginia over the works there. It was loaded, for one day she had given
it to Josh Hurd to put in order, and he sent it back ready for use. She
put this in her pocket, and now her voice was heard for the first time
since the maid went out.
“I will kill him! If he attempts it, I will kill him!”
You would not have known that voice—you would hardly have recognized the
woman’s face as she went out of her chamber and made for a flight of
back stairs leading to a passage-way near the kitchen. Once in the open
air, she paused, holding her breath, if indeed she could be said to
breathe at all. How she hated that bright illumination which made the
tiniest flowers in the thickets visible; for it had filled the grounds
with her wedding guests, who were walking, chatting, or gathering roses
in the beautiful light which fell around them; half moonbeams and half
fire.
The woman had no time to wait hesitating there. She gathered the black
lace over her head and took a somewhat shadowy course by the stables.
Then she skirted the stone wall and ran toward the ravine; passing
through the shadows with swift stillness as if she had been a spirit of
the night; fleeing in search of perfect darkness. As she went Cora tore
her husband’s note into fragments and cast it to the winds.
A man was waiting for her in the log cabin; the moonlight lay upon his
face as he looked out of the window, revealing its fixed and terrible
whiteness. Not twenty-four hours before, he had been in one of the
prison cells at Sing-Sing, but the Governor was haunted by the words and
looks of that hunchbacked girl so persistently, that his great, generous
heart spoke out in spite of legal forms, and a pardon set the young man
free.
Seymour went first to his sister, full of eager gratitude; for had she
not given him back to his wife and spared her the misery of knowing how
unworthy he was? Ellen told him of the wedding, bitterly, for she almost
hated Clarence Brooks and the girl he was about to marry. But she did
not dream of the awful blow her words dealt on the unhappy man who had
just come out of his imprisonment; indeed the resentment she felt
towards those two persons must have been overpowering, to break through
the joy that filled her heart when she knew of a certainty that her
brother was free, and through her intercession.
Seymour left her without a word, looking deathly. He had no time to
lose; the sun was already verging toward the west.
While Ellen stood where he had left her, lost in painful wonder, Brian
came up. He had gone to the prison, hoping to see his brother, and there
heard news of his pardon. Knowing well where he would go first, the
happy youth followed him to Ellen’s residence.
“Where is he? Has he gone in there—was she glad? How, now, Ellen, she
will get well again. It was only the pining.”
Brian was so full of joy that he forgot his promise—forgot that Ellen
was still ignorant of their brother’s marriage.
“What do you mean, Brian? What does all this mean? Alfred came to see
me, beaming with happiness, and left me like a ghost when I told him
that this was Clarence Brooks’ and Cora Lander’s wedding day.”
“And he did not see her?”
“He saw no one but me, and scarcely that. What does this mean, Brian? He
seemed turning to stone when I told him of Cora Lander’s wedding.”
“Ellen, tell me one thing—did your lady know our brother in Europe?”
“No.”
“Has she ever been for days together in the city?”
“No; I have been with her every day, almost every hour. No, I say.”
“Ellen, Ellen Nolan, is she—tell me truly—is she breaking her heart for
him?”
“For him? No, no, a thousand times no. She has never seen him alone in
her life.”
Brian looked around, frightened.
“Which way did he go, Ellen?”
“Up the river, toward the depot. But what does this mean? I will know.”
“Hush, Ellen, I hear a train coming—kiss me—pray for us—pray for him
most of all.”
He was gone; she saw him fleeing down the cross road in desperate haste,
never looking to the right or left, but straight forward, as if the race
was for his life. She saw him stop suddenly. The train was sweeping
by—he was too late.
Yes, he was too late. But the boy walked on, and in a minute commenced
running again. Something might delay the train. Three minutes—he only
asked three minutes—no, it swept off like a serpent, coiling slowly
around a curve of the road, and no other train would stop there before
night. He walked on in the desperate hope of being taken up by some
miracle of chance, or of springing on board a train at slow speed, for
the boy was ready to risk his life without question. He did get on that
special train full of wedding guests when it stopped a moment to have
the hot wheels examined.
This delay left Seymour to his own wild self till that note was written,
and Cora Lander came down to the log cabin, where he stood waiting for
her.
She passed in at the door and stood by his side in the moonlight,
throwing the lace shawl back upon her shoulders.
“You have sent for me under a threat. I am here to listen, if you have
anything to say.”
Her voice was hard and sharp as steel; her eyes glittered in the
moonlight.
He looked at her and reached out his arms with such a cry of tender
anguish as thrilled the very air.
“Oh, Cora! Cora! this is not so! Tell me that is not the truth!”
She stood like a statue, neither repelling nor accepting his embrace.
His arms fell heavily downward, a groan broke from his lips.
“Will you not speak to me, Cora?” he cried.
“I have nothing to say, Alfred Nolan.”
“Alfred Nolan! Great Heavens! has it reached her at last.”
“It reached me at first. Before you were put into the prison, where you
should have hid yourself forever had my will availed anything, I knew
all that you had done and felt all the shame of having been your wife
even for an hour.”
The poor man dashed both hands to his face and cried out:
“Oh! my God—my God, have mercy upon me!”
“There shall be no mercy for you,” she answered, hoarsely, “unless you
quit this place at once and forever. I came here to make this proposal:
go to the Indies—go to Australia—I will give you one half of all that I
have on earth; secure it to you with bonds that can neither be violated
nor evaded. Only go—go—go! and never let me hear of you again!”
That wretched man shook from head to foot. She saw the agony in his face
clearly by the moonlight. That look would have stirred even a hard heart
to compassion, but she had none.
“Make up your mind at once. In becoming a convict, you set me at
liberty. The certificate of our marriage is in my hands; the witnesses
are beyond your reach; the grave itself never closed over a dead man
more firmly than that disgraceful secret is locked up from all human
knowledge.”
“Cora! Cora! was this done purposely? Was it in your heart then? Did you
never love me?”
“I don’t know what was in my heart, but supreme folly, of which I
repented. Yes, if you will have it—if it will make you hate me—revolt at
the sight of me—hear the truth. I had ceased to love you before this
infamy gave me a reason for it.”
“Oh! have mercy, have mercy! And I loved you so! I loved you so!”
She took no heed of the anguish which broke out in this cry, but went on
ruthlessly:
“Take my offer—it is a princely fortune, but I am tempted to double it
and make sure that these eyes will never see you again. Not that I fear
you. Refuse it, come up to the house and claim me, as you threatened so
delicately in your note, and I will say, ‘this man is insane, he is just
out of the State’s Prison; I do not know him.’ Where is your means of
proving that we ever met?”
She broke off, for Seymour seized her by both arms, and, forcing her up
to the window, looked wildly into her face.
“Is this my wife? Is this the woman I loved; or some fiend in her shape?
Woman! woman! do not go too far! I reject your money; it was for you—not
that—I became criminal. I will not permit the crime you meditate against
an honorable man. Tell me that it is a slander, a gross falsehood—that
you never thought of marrying Clarence Brooks, or I will claim you
before the crowd you have gathered up yonder. There is evidence, at any
rate, that you lived in the same house with me.”
“And I will tell them as I told him, that it was my cousin Virginia
Lander who was domesticated with you there—she who is so intimate with
your hunchbacked sister. They will believe that, and so will he.”
Seymour still held her arms; his dark eyes looked into hers.
“Is the woman a demon?” he exclaimed, wildly. “Is your love for this
honorable man such as you gave to me? Would you tear up his heart by the
roots as mine is torn?”
“I love Clarence Brooks, the man you robbed, with all my heart and soul.
Oh, that makes you writhe! Let go my arms, you are pinching them black
and blue, and I am to be married to him this night. In defiance of your
ravings I shall. I did mean to shoot you; but, no, I have the courage to
dare the worst.”
“No, madam,” said a deep, grave voice close by her, “neither this night
nor ever will you marry Clarence Brooks. He has heard this
conversation—your wicked confession arrested him on the threshold of
that door. He—”
The woman started upright and turned her haggard face toward him. The
moonbeams lay full upon them both. Her dress swayed and rustled as if
she were grasping its folds with a shaking hand. With a slow, almost
stealthy motion, the hand was lifted. The click of a pistol followed.
Seymour uttered a cry and attempted to wrest the weapon from her, but
too late. The sharp sound of a shot rang up the ravine. She fell forward
into the arms thrown out to save her, and lay on her husband’s breast,
dying.
The sound of that shot reached the pleasure grounds where the guests
were wandering a little impatiently, for it was full eleven o’clock, and
as yet they had seen no signs of the bride and bridegroom. The shot was
followed by a wild shriek, and up from the ravine came a boy, flinging
up his hands and crying aloud for help. There was a simultaneous rush
through the shrubberies. Men, seeing the darkness into which they were
going, snatched lamps from the lower boughs of the trees and lighted
their way down into the ravine. The lad went before them, pointing out
the little log cabin, from which came heavy sobs and moans, such as can
be wrung only from the bosom of a strong man.
It was a strange scene, those men and women with their rich dresses
sparsely lighted by the tiny lamps, crowding up this broken path and
stopping in dumb awe at the cabin door. Brian went in advance. He too
had snatched a lamp from the branches and held it up, revealing a
terrible picture.
Seymour was holding the woman, whom they had all been so impatient to
see in her bridal dress, in his arms. He had been trembling, moaning and
weeping over her in a wild passion of sorrow. In the darkness he had
kissed her lips, her forehead and her half-closed eyes, calling upon her
to answer him, look at him, breathe so that he could hear the life stir
in that bosom. But when that frightened crowd came up he hushed his
grief and looked down upon her, still as death.
Clarence Brooks was on his knees also, pressing a handkerchief to the
wounded temple, which was blackened a little and bled in slow drops,
staining the linen deeper and deeper.
“Here is the physician,” said Brian Nolan, addressing his brother.
Seymour lifted his haggard face, and a gleam of hope came into it. An
eminent physician, who had been invited among the guests, touched Brooks
on the shoulder, who arose and resigned his place. There was no hope—the
lady might live through the night, but that would be more than he could
answer for. How had this terrible thing happened?
The woman stirred, struggled and spoke:
“I did it with my own hand. The pistol is mine, my name is on it.”
Then the clergyman came into the cabin, his long gown sweeping like
night around him, as he had put it on for the bridal ceremony. He too
knelt by her side and took the pale hand in his.
“Was it an accident?” he said.
“Yes, I did it! I was alone—no one else.”
Those white lips only uttered these words. Question that dying woman as
they would, she answered still:
“I did it—I was alone—an accident.”
Neither Seymour nor Clarence Brooks spoke. The crowd held them no more
responsible than the rest. It was natural that the man who had first
lifted that dying woman from the ground should be pale and agitated—more
natural that the bridegroom, who stood before them in his wedding
garments still and stricken, would be almost paralyzed by a calamity so
dreadful. No one dreamed that Seymour was not one of the invited guests;
his air, his face, everything about him carried out the idea. So the
pallor and the silence of these men passed as a natural thing.
Cora’s lips moved, her eyes opened, and she fixed them on Seymour. He
bent down his head, and she whispered:
“Be silent, I—I charge you.”
He whispered back:
“I will, so help me God.”
The clergyman bent over her with sorrow and compassion in his face.
“Poor lady,” he said, “tell us how this dreadful thing happened. It may
save great trouble.”
She made a violent effort and spoke, so loud that they heard her outside
of the door:
“I loved this cabin; we were going away in the morning. I had time, and
came down to take a farewell look. The pistol was in my pocket,
forgotten there; I came to the window, the pistol struck against the
logs; I bent down to search for it, low, for it caught in my dress; I
was drawing it upward with force, when it went off. It was an accident,
I was alone.”
The force of these words exhausted her; for a moment she did not
breathe. The doctor felt her pulse anxiously. All at once she revived.
“Doctor, must I die?”
“Yes, poor lady, I dare not say otherwise.”
She made a painful struggle and turned her head, fixing those eyes,
heavy with coming death, on Brooks. The clergyman and doctor saw that
she wished to speak with her bridegroom, and made way for him, drawing
back to those who stood around the door.
Brooks obeyed the sad appeal of those eyes, knelt down, bending his head
to hers.
“I am not his child, but the niece he warned you of. Virginia is his
daughter. Spare my memory. Tell her it was I, not my poor mother, who
did it. He says I must die; deal gently with me then.”
“May God forgive you and pity you as I do.”
She turned her eyes back to Seymour and faintly pressed the hand which
was shivering under the coldness that was numbing her fingers. Perhaps
some gleam of the old love awoke in that death hour, for he remembered
in after years that it was his bosom she turned to at last.
“Forgive me, Alfred!”
“I do—I do!”
“Do not let them hurl shame on my grave.”
“No, no, I will perish first. Oh! Cora, my wife! my wife! would to God I
had died for you!”
Her hand fell away from his, those beautiful eyes turned to lead, her
limbs stretched out suddenly and the stillness of death fell upon that
log cabin; but outside, the breeze was moaning in the hemlocks; and the
low, sad chime of waters came up from the depths of the ravine,
answering the shiver of the leaves and the rustle of flowers that
trembled beneath their night-tears, and seemed to whisper mournfully
each to the other as the death spirit passed over them.