Doubly false

A splendidly bright day in early spring. The ocean was unusually calm; but a pleasant sunshine broke up its greenish blue, and dashed its tiny ripples with the restless glory of quicksilver shimmering over crystal. Far away the waters lapsed imperceptibly into the pure atmosphere of the horizon, veiling the soft union with a gossamer haze exquisitely beautiful.

Not a sail was in sight!—not a bird in the air! One great ocean steamer moved through the calm of the waters, her broad, white sails curving like the tired wings of a seagull, and her black pipes heaving forth mighty fleeces of smoke, that curled, eddied and fell apart in the wind, floating off in a soft film of silvery gray, dazzled through and through with sunbeams.

The steamer was full of life, cheerful and brilliant. Though not absolutely crowded, it had no room to spare, and all the luxury that could be introduced into a sea voyage was to be found on its decks that pleasant spring afternoon. Fur rugs and little encampments of crimson cushions lay about in the shady places, occupied by men, women and children, sitting low like Turks, if not exactly in the Oriental fashion. Campstools and a few easy chairs were filled with dreamy occupants, some reading, some chatting, and others sound asleep.

Perhaps four hundred passengers were on board, most of them of that idle upper class which holds some of the weakest and again the most powerful members of social life in its ranks. They were in this case neither better nor worse than the crowd of people who usually cross and recross the Atlantic every season, as if it were some inland lake. Upon those fur rugs and cushions a few men, tired out with the active duties of life, sought that necessary reaction a sea life brings; with them were merchants on business, clever men travelling for information—commonplace people killing time—sharpers on the alert for prey—adventurers, and worse still, adventuresses, forcing themselves, by craft or brazen assurance, into respectable society—with all the odds and ends of that strange thing called fashionable life. To this great majority were added one or two God-gifted souls to whom life, in itself, was an exquisite blessing. These found even that calm sea voyage full of wonderful poetry which the crowd never dreamed of. They saw glorious pictures in the sky as it bent over them—thrilling music in the soft heave of the waves which floated them steadily shoreward, and still more varied interest in the life that moved and changed and worked itself out among the human beings with whom they were cast.

Of this class was the young girl seated on that carriage robe of white fur, which was spread out on a shadowy portion of the deck like a snow-drift, half melted away, upon a ground-work of azure-cloth scolloped and embroidered into a rich lace-work border. She was a bright, happy-looking girl, with a face that Titian would have given a goblet of wine to paint, exactly as she reclined, with her elbow resting on a pile of cushions over which a shawl of blue cashmere, with a good deal of gold-color in the border, had been flung in rich drapery. Her head, with more ruddy brown hair than most women possess, was supported by the palm of a white and finely-shaped hand—not very small, for the girl herself was of generous proportions, and in perfect symmetry lay her chief claim to that grace and loveliness which distinguished her.

Close by the pretty couch, which had an air of the Orient in it, sat a middle aged man, rather handsome—very respectable—and at the moment closing his eyes in a dreamy way which might or might not be slumber. Something in the distance aroused the girl and caused the father to open a pair of mild blue eyes rather suddenly, for she cried out in her quick, eager way:

“Look, look, papa!”

It was only a couple of sturgeons tumbling over each other and leaping into the sunshine, which for an instant scaled their backs with silver and kindled a little rainbow among the drops they flashed into the air.

“Isn’t it wonderful, papa, that such awkward creatures can manage to display so much beauty?” cried the girl, resting one arm on her father’s knee and raising herself up to the cushions that she might watch the ponderous gambols that any one else might have considered a disturbance.

“Nonsense, my dear; we have seen a hundred of them tumbling about like salt-water pigs. Let me rest, do—this glare hurts my eyes.”

“Well, sleep away, dear old papa, if you like it best—I’ll settle to reading again, since you will have nothing to do with me.”

This was uttered with a good-natured little laugh, while the young lady settled back into her former position, assuming her book, in its dainty binding, of scarlet and gold, which had been lying half-buried in the white fur, but she contented herself for a time with rustling the leaves as it lay in her lap.

With a smile on his lips the old man fell off into his sweet slumber again, and his daughter began to read. Just then a group of young persons came up from the cabin, chatting together and sending out little joyous bursts of laughter. The first that appeared was a young lady who presented so complete a counterpart of the person we have been describing that a stranger would have glanced at the white carriage robe at once to make sure that she had not left it. The same lithe form was there, the same brilliant complexion, with eyes not altogether gray or blue, but which partook of either color as fancy or passion warmed them. The hair was of that remarkable tint which even artists have failed to name properly, but which the Venetians painted in all its glory. These traits, and more than these, the two girls had in common; no sisters ever looked more alike or possessed the same grace of manner. They were closely related, no one could doubt that who looked upon them, though one was quietly reading her book and the other appeared in all the ardor and joyousness of a spirited conversation.

“No, indeed,” she was saying, “I make no pretence; I play well enough, perhaps, but it is my cousin whose voice you heard last night. There she is. Ask her.”

She looked very beautiful, standing there in the passage with a cashmere shawl gathered in careless grace around her, while the wind shook out the barb of Brussels point tied in a knot at the back of her little straw hat, and fluttered the cock’s plume in front, giving a look of breezy cheerfulness to her persona.

“Go ask her—or shall I?”

“You; you, of course,” cried out half-a-dozen voices; “she might refuse us.”

Cora Lander walked across the deck, sweeping it with her robe of rich silk—far too rich for the occasion—and paused close by her cousin, who raised her eyes from the book she was reading with a pleasant smile.

“Virginia, dear, do come and pacify these good people with one little air. They heard that outbreak of yours last night in Ah che la morte, and will not be content without the whole of it.”

Virginia Lander dropped her book, and a bright color flashed over her face, but this was all the sign of annoyance that she gave, though she felt much.

“Oh yes, I will sing, if they desire it,” she said quietly. “Come with me, Cora, and play the accompaniment.”

The two girls went down to the cabin in company, and a brighter, lovelier pair you have seldom looked upon. It was not the prettiness of common beauty, which is in fact less effective than intelligent ugliness. But there was something unique, graceful and spirited which belonged to them alone, provoking inquiry and commanding admiration. Besides, one of them, the daughter of the old man dozing there on the deck, was heiress to every dollar the millionaire possessed.

Cora Lander sat down at the grand piano in the cabin. Virginia took a position by her, and a merry group of young people swarmed around, eager for any amusement that promised to break up the monotony of sea life, but so full of mirth that they could hardly keep quiet even for the music. A prelude—a masterly sweep of the keys, and then Virginia Lander’s voice, full, rich and clear, broke in—at first timidly and with a tremor of distrust in it—for she did not like this public crowd of listeners. But even timidity cannot long hold true genius in thrall. After a moment the color flashed into her face—her lips parted, warm and red as coral, and out gushed the whole volume and force of her exquisite voice, thrilling the hearts that listened as music had seldom touched them before. The depth, power and wonderful pathos of a voice cultivated to perfection charmed the crowd into willing silence, which continued a full minute after the last notes left her lips. Then there was a tumult of compliments—exclamations of delight from those who spoke from the surface—and deep sighs of absolute ecstasy from such as understood and felt the delicious sweetness of her performance.

Virginia was pleased. Who is not by genuine admiration? She laughed a little nervously, blushed crimson on seeing that a good many gentlemen had joined her audience, and retreated shyly to a sofa at some distance.

That moment you might have discovered where the difference lay between these two girls. It was in the expression. As Virginia drew back, half pleased, half ashamed of her own success, Cora let her white hands fall on the keys she had touched with such wonderful skill, and an expression swept over her face that transfigured it completely. In all that buzz, hum and general outburst of praise she had no part. Her supporting music, brilliant as it was, had been utterly overwhelmed by Virginia’s voice. She sat a moment looking straight before her. Humiliating disappointment left her eyes almost black. Her lips curled in their scornful redness, but the color in her cheeks died out, sweeping all the young brightness from her features.

This lasted a single minute, but during that brief time no one would have thought Cora Lander like her cousin Virginia, who had crept into a corner of her sofa abashed by the burst of genuine applause that followed her singing, but thrilled by the sweet exercise of her own genius, which was in itself a delight.

For one instant the stormy look darkened on Cora’s face, then, with an impulse which seemed inspiration, but was defiance, she dashed her hands across the keys and swept them with a power that hushed every voice in the room and turned the current of applause in her favor.

Virginia’s face brightened beautifully as this outburst of approval reached her. Always generous and sympathetic, she forgot herself utterly and came up to the piano radiant. Cora saw her, and with a proud lift of the head, dashed into a waltz which rang through the cabin like a silver war-trumpet challenging hosts to action. Half-a-dozen young ladies accepted the exhilarating appeal, wound their arms around each other, and whirled off in one of those impromptu dances which are the very effervescence of happy youth. Cora cast a glance over her shoulder and dashed on, winging those light feet with melody. Away and around they flew jostling each other, laughing at the fun, changing partners—falling into little mistakes, and sending their clear laughter through the music in a riot of sweet sounds.

Those who could not find room to dance applauded with hands and voice: those who could rushed on more joyously, laughing at their less fortunate friends, till the whole cabin was one whirl of gaiety.

In the midst, piercing like an arrow through the mellow laughter, came a cry from midship:

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”