Doubly false

Eben Stone was in his office, sitting at a black walnut desk, honey-combed with pigeon-holes and bristling with papers, given endwise to the light. He occupied the most remote of three rooms, all carpeted, with green; along each carpet, from door to door, a footpath was trodden into the fabric revealing its hempen foundation, as grass is worn from a meadow track. This footpath bespoke many clients, and the whole surroundings a prosperous business. Indeed few lawyers of the city boasted a larger practice or higher standing in the courts than Eben Stone.

It was not often that this man lost his equanimity, but he was a little astonished when a clerk from the front office came into his room, followed by the widow Lander and a young lady, so like Lander’s daughter, as he remembered her, that the resemblance really startled him.

The widow sat down in a chair placed for her by the clerk, but did not lift her crape veil, though the young lady put hers aside with a rather defiant sweep of the hand.

“Mr. Stone, I have come to you at once,” said the widow, moving nervously in her chair; “something so strange has happened. Please to look on this young lady and tell me if you know her?”

The lawyer, who was a handsome man for his years, which had numbered at least fifty, turned his fine gray eyes on the girl with a look of puzzled recognition.

“But that I am certain it is impossible, madam, I should say, allowing for growth and time, that this young lady might be Lander’s daughter.”

“You have remembered rightly, sir,” said the widow, starting up with nervous eagerness. “She is Mr. Lander’s daughter, saved from the wreck almost by a miracle—restored to us only two days ago.”

“And Lander—my friend Lander!” exclaimed Stone, eagerly. “What of him?”

The widow shook her head, and her black veil waved mournfully.

“He is dead, sir; my brother and benefactor went down with the steamer.”

“And your own child?” inquired the lawyer, in a restrained voice.

Mrs. Lander’s black-bordered handkerchief went up under the veil, which was mournfully agitated again.

“Not dead, I hope,” exclaimed the lawyer. “Dear me, that is terrible!”

“Not dead, but so much worse. Oh! Mr. Stone, I fear she is insane!”

“Insane!”

Mr. Stone turned his eyes on the young girl as he said this. He saw nothing in her handsome face but a look of gentle concern.

“It was the exposure,” she said in reply to his look, “the horrible scene of the fire, that drove her out of her mind, sir. She is not violent—far from it—but I sometimes think it would have been better if she had never been picked up. Why, sir, she does not know her own mother!”

“She does not, indeed, Mr. Stone!” cried the widow, sobbing out the words from behind her veil. “Refused to own me from the first—fancies that she is Mr. Lander’s child, and sets herself up for the heiress! You have no idea how painful it is!”

Mrs. Lander was evidently in a sad, nervous state; she began to sob piteously, and trembled so much that the young lady put one arm around her and made a gentle effort at consolation.

“She is so disappointed—so sadly harassed by her daughter’s reproaches, sir! You can imagine what it is!” she said, turning her beautiful face on the lawyer. “My heart aches for them both.”

“It is a mournful state of things, certainly,” said the lawyer, with earnest sympathy.

“What can be done—what steps shall we take regarding my poor cousin? I would give half my father’s estate to-morrow, sir, if that would restore her mind. Oh! sir, you have no idea what a lovely character she is—or was before this horrible calamity fell upon her. So fond of me, so grateful to my father. Indeed that she might well be, for he made no difference between us. Pray tell me what can be done for her—you are my father’s old friend—point out some way for us. My poor aunt, here, is breaking her heart.”

The impetuous feeling with which these words were spoken carried the sympathies of the lawyer with it. The bright, generous glow of that face made even his practised heart beat quicker.

“I cannot advise, I cannot even judge correctly,” he said, “without having seen the young lady. It is a hard case—a very hard case.”

Here Mrs. Lander bowed her head gloomily and sobbed out:

“Ah! sir, you cannot think how I suffer! How sadly all this has shaken my nerves!”

“But your daughter is not dangerous. I think you told me that she is never violent.”

“Not exactly violent as yet. But her conduct in the house is very distressing. She has locked herself into her old room with a little deformed creature saved from the wreck, and refuses to come out. But the servants get access to her, and she talks to them as if she were mistress of the house. As for her cousin and myself, she seems to hate us.”

“That is no unusual thing with insane people,” said the lawyer. “It often happens that they take dislikes to those nearest and dearest; but this may only be temporary. Has any physician seen her?”

“No one has seen her,” answered the widow. “We came to you, as her uncle’s old friend, first.”

“Still, I think a physicians’s opinion important.”

“What physician would you recommend?” inquired Cora Lander.

“Any respectable practitioner. There must be one in your neighborhood. Indeed, if it should become imperative to shut her up, two would be necessary.”

“Oh, don’t! don’t speak of that!” exclaimed the young girl. “The very thought wounds me.”

“Still it may become necessary,” said the lawyer. “In what way was she first taken?”

“I can hardly tell,” answered Cora. “At first she was terribly depressed, and mourned continually over the loss she had met with in the death of my dear father, whom she persisted in calling her father. At first I did not correct her, for sometimes she had, in a caressing way, called him father on board the steamer. But when I heard her constantly doing this—with such deep earnestness, too—I spoke to her about it, when she flew at me like a fury, told me that I only wanted to cheat her out of the property and take her birthright from her. From that day she has been possessed with this wild idea. When she came home, after all our troubles, and found her mother yearning to receive her, she absolutely pushed the dear lady aside, and refused to recognize her. Dear, dear aunt, don’t look so sad! it breaks my heart! Indeed, sir, you cannot blame her if she does give way. Oh! Mr. Stone, it was a terrible disappointment! Poor mother! poor, dear aunt! why how you shiver!”

Mrs. Lander was indeed trembling, and her pallid face looked frightful through her crape veil. She had told no more than the truth; her nerves were dreadfully shaken.

“I can endure this no longer!” she exclaimed, starting up in wild haste. “It wrings my heart to hear you say these things, Cora Lander!”

Cora broke off in her speech and looked steadily in Mrs. Lander’s eyes. They were wild and impatient. The conversation had evidently overtaxed her strength.

“Well, dear aunt, we will drop the subject,” she said, sweetly. “It is painful to us all. Mr. Stone understands how it is with my cousin, and will think for us. We are so helpless, sir.”

There was a quick decision in all this which did not strike that keen lawyer as so very helpless. But he made his observations and said nothing. Once, Mrs. Lander lifted her veil and turned a long, wistful look upon him, as if there was something she wished to say, but the veil dropped again, and she went out, following Cora Lander to the carriage.