Doubly false

Seymour waited awhile in the hall, afraid to present that scared face before his wife. He turned to Alice, and, lifting the hat from his head, questioned her.

“Do I look ill? Do I look wild?”

Great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead and upper lip; his whole face was fearfully pale, his eyes unnaturally bright.

“Yes, monsieur,” answered the woman. “Monsieur is pale and wild. Let me bring monsieur some wine.”

“Wine!—No, no, bring me brandy. Tell Lubin to send the decanter.”

Seymour went into the parlor and threw himself on a couch, wiping the moisture from his face as he waited for the brandy. It was the couch on which he and Cora had seated themselves after the ceremony that had made them man and wife. This came to his mind, and tears sprang to his eyes. “Poor girl—poor, unhappy girl—had I known this, I would have died rather than drag you down with me,” he muttered.

Alice came in with the brandy and a goblet. Seymour seized the decanter and filled the glass half full, dashing the brandy over his unsteady hands as he did it. He drank eagerly, set the glass down on a Mosaic table, leaving a broad stain, and starting up, would have gone in search of his wife, but she met him at the door with a white heat of anger on her face and a smile upon her lips.

By this time Seymour’s face was flushed with color, and a gleam of red stained the pure white of his eyes. She thought that he was intoxicated, and for the moment loathed him; for Cora was as fastidious as she was unprincipled. Drinking was sure to imperil the grace that she was so proud of and stain the noble beauty of his features. This was why she recoiled from it with such terror.

“What is the matter, have you been ill?” she demanded, in a low, constrained voice.

“Yes, darling, I have been very ill.”

“In the street?”

“Yes, something seized me in the street—a vertigo.”

“It seems more like a panic,” she said, looking keenly in his face.

“I—yes, I suppose it must be like a panic. Being so ill, I was afraid of terrifying you—the very thought made me a coward.”

“Was that all? Well, you see that I am not frightened.”

“That is a brave girl. Kiss me, dear, for I am almost heart-broken.”

She kissed him upon the forehead. His lips were moist with brandy; she could not have forced herself to touch them, with all her self-control.

“What is it about, Seymour? What is it that is breaking your heart?” she asked, softly, thinking of her own secret with dread.

“Breaking my heart? Did I say that? What nonsense! I was only afraid that you would think me worse than I really was. See, I am well again; give me a few moments to dress for dinner, and I shall be gay as a lark.”

He ran up stairs laughing rather loudly, and, entering his dressing-room, fell upon his knees by the couch, and struggled with his grief till the frail structure shook under him.

“What can I do? What shall I do? No deer was ever run to covert so closely as I am. She will hate me, or it will be her death. Better the last—better death a thousand times! One look of hate on that face would be such punishment as no other human being has power to give. Oh! my God! my God! how I love her! Will she believe it? Can I convince her that it was this craving affection, this intense love that drove me on? Oh! if I had told her that day in the little cabin, when the subject came up so naturally! She would have forgiven me then, I am sure of it—forgiven me and saved me—but now I dare not tell her. There was something in her eye and the touch of her lip that froze me. Can she suspect?”

He started up while these thoughts were flashing through his mind, bathed his face in cold water over and over again, and began to brush his hair violently. The exercise did him good; he tore away at his black curls like a tiger.

“If I could tear them out! If I could only change this mass of black waves, all might yet be saved. But with her eyes upon me there can be no change. Oh! if she would but go away for a month or two, or let me. Perhaps she will. Yet how can I live without her, my wife—my dear, dear wife!”

He sat down on the couch now, with the hair-brush in his hand, gazing past it on the floor, in deep thought. All at once he started up and began to dress himself more rationally. His face cleared, his lips parted and lost the iron tension of nerves that had strained them together when he attempted to speak cheerfully. An important idea had come into his mind—an idea that drove away all the excitement from his brain and left him with the face of a man who had indeed been ill.

When Seymour went down stairs all the wildness had left his eyes. He was calm and thoughtful, but apparently suffering from past or present pain. He went up to Cora and kissed her tenderly upon the forehead; she had shrunk from meeting his lips with hers once, and he would not offer them again.

“Did I frighten you, darling?” he said, smoothing the bands of her hair with one hand. “Forgive it; I was really ill. But for the brandy, I must have fainted—see how my hand trembles now.”

She looked up at him,—the beautiful dissembler—and touched his trembling hand with her lips very lightly, but the gesture was playful, and she smiled one of her sweetest smiles.

“I am so unaccustomed to sickness that it frightens me. Come, now let us go to dinner—I, for one, am hungry. Aunt Lander has gone up the river, and I shall be my own mistress till she chooses to come back.”

Seymour tried to express his happiness, but the words stopped in his throat. She looked at him earnestly.

“My husband does not seem so glad as I had expected,” she said, laughing.

“Not glad, Cora! If there is a joy on earth for Alfred Seymour, it is the presence of his wife. Never on this earth was a woman so beloved—so worshipped.”

“Is this real, my friend? Am I indeed so dear to you yet?”

“Ask your own heart, Cora. It shall answer you.”

It did answer her, and truly. Yet she was not satisfied. What was it that had begun to alienate her from the man she had loved so passionately? Who can tell the exact time when the ripe leaves change and fall? When I say that Cora Lander’s love for her husband, from the first, had been an unreasoning passion, those of my readers who know anything of the human heart must have expected the change that was creeping upon her.

“Shall I drink wine?” said Seymour, laughing pleasantly. “Or will you shrink from the flavor on my lips, Cora?”

“Wine—oh, I will pledge you in champagne with all my heart,” she answered; “but brandy, I detest that; you never drank it before.”

“Because I was never so ill before, Cora.”

“And now, dear, you eat nothing.”

“I have no appetite.”

He did indeed seem ill, and it was true that he could not taste the food she placed before him.

“Do try something; I have a horror of sickness. It puts me in mind of death,” she said, seriously disturbed. “I would not have you really ill for the world.”

Seymour leaned back in his chair and covered his face for a moment with one hand.

“It is this confinement, Cora. What if I take a little trip somewhere? That will set me up, I dare say.”

She looked at him a moment, and then answered in her usual clear, calm voice:

“It may come to that, but let us hope not. I cannot spare you yet, Seymour.”

The words were affectionate enough, but there was something in her manner which broke the harmony.

“Well,” he said, “we need not talk about that just now. I am already enough of an invalid to keep me indoors for some days.”

Cora had spoken the truth; she did hate sickness, and had no patience with it in any one. Her own abounding health was perfect, and she was always tempted to consider indisposition in others a pretence. That Seymour could be feverish and complain took away from his perfection with her. The man she loved should have been lifted far away from infirmities like that. But she had some sympathy in her nature, and was just then disposed to take a romantic view of any question that presented itself.

“That will not be so very unpleasant,” she said; “you shall lie upon the couch and listen to me while I read.”

“And will you stay with me, Cora?”

His voice trembled with tender thankfulness, which surprised her.

“Why that was exactly what made me rejoice when my aunt took her departure. It left me at liberty. The people at the hotel think that we have gone up the river in company.”

“So my bird of Paradise has flown to her cage.”

His words were forced, and she felt it, but answered lightly:

“To find her mate sick on the perch.”

They both laughed at this, and she arose from the table. “Come, Alfred, if you are going to play invalid, let us begin.”

He followed her up stairs wearily and with an oppressive weight on his mind.

“Lie down upon the couch, I will search for your dressing-gown and slippers. Here they are—now see what a capital nurse I shall make.”

He took the dressing-gown and put it on, thrusting his feet at the same time into a pair of Damascus slippers which she had given him. Cora brought a pillow from the bed and laid it on the couch.

“There, everything is ready. Lie down and tell me what book I shall read.”

“Anything you like, Cora.”

He lay down wearily on the couch and curved one arm over his eyes, as if the light disturbed him. Cora got a book and began to read, but his immovable position annoyed her.

“Does you head ache badly?” she inquired.

“Yes, it aches; I ache all over;” he replied, turning his face to the wall; “but go on, I am listening.”

Cora went on with her book, and Seymour lay perfectly still. At last a slight noise, something like a broken sob, disturbed her. His hand was over his eyes, but she saw by the crimson strain on his forehead and the quiver about his mouth that he was crying.

“Why, Seymour, what on earth is the matter with you? This is intolerable! I hate tears; especially in a man.”

He dashed the drops from his face and turned suddenly.

“You will soon begin to hate me—I feel it—I know it!”

Cora looked at him steadily. It was true she had no sympathy with grief. What business had he to bring sickness and tears into that chamber?

“Do not let your prophecy work out its own fulfilment,” she said. “The great charm of our love was that no disagreeable thing ever came near it.”

He lay quite still, gazing at her from under those long, moist eyelashes.

“In sorrow or humiliation you would not love me, then?” he said, with a keen interest in the question that convulsed all his features.

“I don’t know,” she answered thoughtfully, as if the question had presented itself for the first time to her mind. “To me love is only perfect with pleasant surroundings. Now, sorrow and tears are not pleasant, take them from any point of view one will; and sickness—when real and in earnest, is simply revolting.”

Seymour got up from the couch with a pitiful attempt at playfulness.

“Then I must be making myself very disagreeable,” he said.

“You might be, Seymour, if the fever did not make your cheeks so red, and if that quick fire had not driven the tears from your eyes. So lie down again. I rather like you in that dress, it puts me in mind of the Orient.”

Seymour lay down again with a heavy sigh, and she went on reading. After awhile her voice became low and drowsy; she read on brokenly, then making long pauses. At length the book fell into her lap, and, with her red lips parted as the last word had left them, she fell into a slumber so profound that she scarcely seemed to breathe.

Then Seymour turned upon his couch and gazed upon her with indescribable mournfulness, which changed after awhile to an expression of such pain as seldom visits an innocent man’s face.

“It is enough,” he thought, “she would not overlook it. That which wounded her delicacy or stung her pride would kill all love. She has no patience with sickness or sorrow. Well, be it so; I can bury my secret here like the Spartan boy, till it eats my heart out. Expose it, I never will.”

Seymour arose carefully from the couch and went into his own room. With eager and trembling hands he put on his coat and boots, brushed his hair and went softly into the next room. Cora was sleeping sweetly, and dreaming of something very pleasant. Her lips parted in a smile, and her cheeks were two sleeping roses. Seymour loved the woman and could not keep his lips from her forehead, but they touched it lightly as rose leaves fall, afraid that a touch would disturb her, and stole out of the room again, holding his breath as if it had been sacrilegious to kiss his own wife in her beautiful sleep. It was dark now, he looked out of the window to make sure of this, and left the house, with the latch-key in his pocket.

First he went to the hotel, where Brian Nolan still kept his room. Brian met him with an anxious face, for he saw at once that there was something wrong. With him sympathy was intuitive; he could not look on his master’s face without knowing of the pain that was consuming him.

“Brian,” said Seymour, sitting down on the boy’s bed panting for breath.

“Sir, I am here,” answered the boy, lifting his great, loving eyes to the young man’s face.

Seymour drew Brian close to him and took his head between both his hands. Thus holding him fast, he looked earnestly into that young face.

“Brian, do you love me?”

“Love you?” answered the boy with a quick heave of the chest. “Yes, I do love you.”

“But if I were a bad man—if I were wicked, could you love me then?”

“I don’t know, because that would make you another person.”

“But if I had, under great temptation, done a wrong thing, could you love me then?”

“Yes; it would break my heart, but I should love you all the same.”

Tears stood in the boy’s eyes; he looked wistfully in Seymour’s face.

“You are only saying these things to try me, sir,” he faltered out.

“Yes, I am saying them to try you, Brian. God forbid that I am ever compelled to put such affection to the test. But it is a great thing to know that it exists; I shall not feel quite friendless or alone in the world now.”

“Ah, sir, how can you be alone?”

Seymour smiled but gave no answer. He could not tell that boy of the speeches his wife had just made, and of the anguish with which they had filled his heart. He had evidently called on the boy with some definite purpose, but a change had been wrought by those few words of simple affection, and requesting Brian to be sure and keep within his room all the evening, he let the boy go.

“No, no; better run some risk myself than mix him up with the affair. Danger—I cannot avoid that, but it must be braved rather than imperil him. What a grand heart the lad has. Let me get through this tight place, and he shall be lifted out of this menial position. It is a shame to keep a lad of his parts among such associations, but at present I can do no better. When our marriage is made known, then indeed—”

Seymour was in the street as these thoughts ran through his mind. Whatever enterprise had brought him forth, he was evidently resolved on pursuing it alone. Following a well-formed purpose, he entered a hair-dresser’s establishment.

Wigs—certainly. Light brown—then the gentleman did not want one for himself?

No, it was for a friend—an actor going his theatrical rounds in the west. A moustache too—his friend would want a moustache certainly, something heavy, to match. Were they certain to compare well by daylight? No, he would not have time in the morning, they must be ready for the express.

So the wig was purchased, and on the next block a pair of light steel glasses, fanciful affairs, such as young men sometimes wear who effect short-sightedness. With these done up in a parcel and held tightly in his hand, Seymour walked home in haste, hoping to find his wife still asleep. Cautiously he turned the latch-key in its lock—more cautiously still he went up stairs, thankful for the thickness of the carpet, which rendered his footsteps noiseless. Cora was asleep exactly as he had left her, except that the heavy hair at the back of her head had partly broken loose and coiled down to her shoulder. He had walked rapidly, and, though it seemed an age to him, the real time of his absence had been brief.

Seymour was scarcely a minute changing his dress and locking up his purchases. The gas had been lighted early but burned low; he turned it on more powerfully under its Parian shades, flooding the chamber with moonlight. Still Cora slept, enjoying her slumber, as she did every other physical indulgence. In her very dreams she always had a glowing sense of life, which made her sleep delicious. Sickness really would have been a terrible calamity to this woman.

Seymour kissed her upon the lips now, and attempted to twist her hair into place. This awoke her, and she started up, rubbing her eyes open with both hands, like a sleepy child. Then she opened them wide and wonderingly on her husband.

“Dear me, I must have fallen away reading; and you, I will wager anything, dearest, that you set me a naughty example. After all, this ‘Enoch Arden’ does not stand a second reading; the story looms out of the verse a little too broadly after you have had time to think it over. What business had this Enoch to let his wife live with another man? It made him the chief sinner.”

“You would have had him claim his wife, then?” said Seymour.

“Yes; was not his happiness worth as much as that of the other man? She was his wife.”

“Yes, but she was prosperous and happy with the other man, innocent of all wrong.”

“What then? He, her husband, was miserable, and had a right to her.”

“You would not have given her up, then?”

“Not if I loved the woman still—that is, supposing myself a man. Could you have given me up so?”

She asked this, laughing; but he answered in fiery earnest.

“Give you up, Cora? No, no, a thousand times no! The man who takes you from me must give his life or take mine.”

“But if I loved him?”

“Then I would kill you.”

“Dear me, what a blood-thirsty old darling it is,” cried Cora, who had just re-arranged the hair in a sumptuous twist behind her head. “But it is very pleasant to be loved in this brigand fashion, so long as one loves back, you know.”

“You speak as if change were possible, Cora.”

“Well, all things are possible in this world, I suppose.”

She said this roguishly, looking at him over her shoulder as she thrust a golden arrow through her hair.

“Cora!”

“Don’t speak so—I am loving you desperately this minute; only don’t talk of being sick again and spoil it all.”

“But one cannot always be well—”

“What nonsense! of course you can. Come, take your place again, and I will go over that scene in the woods where the children go a nutting. That is beautiful!”