Doubly false

Virginia and Ellen had reached the edge of the woods, and ran like children down a footpath which led to the little log cabin. On the other side of the bridge stood a huge chestnut tree, heavy with brown burs, opened like stars by the frost. Some of its branches overhung the bridge, which was now bereft of all its ear-jewels and asters, which had perished long ago with the first cold turn. But quantities of ferns clung about its arches yet, shedding that delicate perfume on the air which is only exhaled after a frost has revelled among their long feathery leaves.

Virginia and Ellen ran along the bridge, laughing joyously as the chestnuts rattled over their heads. Virginia gathered up the skirt of her black dress and began to pick up the nuts, sweeping the beautiful leaves away with her hand as she searched for them.

“Oh! Ellen, I remember doing this so often, when Cora and I were little girls. She was wild as a bird then, and I loved her—you have no idea how I did love her.”

Ellen drew close to her mistress, and, holding out her skirt, exhibited the nuts she had gathered about the bridge.

“So many!” exclaimed her mistress. “Why, Ellen, you beat me.”

“Come to the bridge, they lie thick among the fern leaves.”

Virginia left her place and ran down to the bridge, over which a great gnarled branch stretched itself horizontally, bristling all over with burs.

“If I had a club, or something to beat them down with,” she cried out, “what quantities we might gather. Stay, I can climb up the sides of the bridge and shake the bough.”

“Pray, let me do that for you, Miss Lander,” said a voice from the log cabin. “You would stand a fair chance of being thrown into the brook.”

Virginia started, dropped down from the side of the bridge, up which she was clambering, and stood looking at the cabin window thoroughly abashed. Who was there? What man had been listening to them?

“Forgive me, I did not intend to listen,” said Clarence Brooks, coming through the door, “but really it is dangerous, Miss Lander, and I must be permitted to help you.”

Virginia guessed who it was, and make an effort to resume her tranquillity.

“You are not so angry at this intrusion that you will not bid me good morning, I hope?” he continued, gaily. “If so, I shall regret my good fortune in seeing you again so soon.”

He paused all at once, and stood on the bridge regarding the young girl with a puzzled look. Virginia dropped the skirt of her dress and allowed the chestnuts to rattle over the bridge.

“I think—I fancy perhaps—that you have mistaken me for my cousin,” she said, advancing toward him with her hand extended. “If it is Mr. Clarence Brooks, this is the first time that we have met.”

“I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Lander, but the resemblance is so—so very remarkable—yet when I look on your face there is a difference, which one feels rather than sees. Now that I have been so careless or so rude as to force myself upon you, pray let me attack this great bough. It would have proved too tough for a lady’s management, believe me.”

Brooks sprang upon the parapet of the bridge, and seizing the huge chestnut branch, shook it with so much vigor that a storm of nuts came rattling over the bridge and splashed into the brook on either side. Here the wavelets seized upon them and went dancing on their way, laughing, chasing, jostling each other and sending out a ripple of music all the while.

The girls darted back and forth, picking up the nuts in wild glee. Virginia, all careless of the effect, gathered up her skirt again and dropped nut after nut into it with joyous rapidity. The frills of her white underskirt fluttered around her daintily clad feet, relieving the general gloom of her dress. Her straw hat, with its knots and streamers of black ribbon, had fallen off, exposing a head of hair that would have driven Titian wild with a wish to paint it exactly as it was done up in a sumptuous coil back of the head, and rippling in wavy folds away from the forehead. There certainly was feminine grace and pure guilelessness in this girl, which Cora never, in her most amiable moments, could hope to possess.

“She is what Lander describes. They are alike, yet how unlike,” thought Clarence Brooks as he grappled the bough, for another hard shake. “The heiress has dash, brilliancy, self-possession, but this girl is pure, womanly. How could Lander be so blind? Even a father’s partiality must have seen the difference.”

As this thought flashed through his mind, Virginia looked up and laughed; the supply of nuts was nearly exhausted on the bridge, but overhead yawned hundreds on hundreds of great clustering burs, to which the ripe fruit clung in rich abundance.

“Oh, Mr. Brooks, they are getting scarce down here.”

The voice was cut short by a tornado rushing over the great chestnut bough, and such a storm of nuts came pattering around her that she cried out for mercy, as well as she could for laughter.

Down he sprang from the side of the bridge and began scattering the gorgeous drifts of ripe leaves about with his hands, shaking out the nuts and filling Virginia’s skirt with such perseverance that she soon began to feel oppressed by the weight.

“Come this way and empty your nuts on the cabin floor; we must not leave these for the squirrels,” said Brooks. “Take my arm and I will help you up this rough slope. Here we are, with room enough for a dozen bushels. There, now you are free to begin again.”

Virginia laughed and dusted her hands, knocking the rosy palms together in childish glee.

“What a quantity! and we so little time about it! Why the old monster must have bushels and bushels on its upper branches. Would you believe it, Mr. Brooks, we used to climb ever so high in that chestnut tree when we were girls. It was great fun, I can tell you!”

“Suppose I climb it now?”

“Well, if you like it; I’m sure there is no danger. But where is Ellen?—we have run away from her.”

Brooks leaned out of the window.

“No,” he said, “she is down among the fern leaves. What a strange little creature it is.”

“Sir,” answered Virginia, “she is an angel.”

“I shouldn’t exactly look for an angel in that form.”

“But you would. Her face is splendid when she thinks brightly or feels deeply. To me, that girl is beautiful.”

“Love makes all things beautiful. It even made your uncle think his daughter more lovely than his niece.”

The light went out of Virginia’s face instantaneously, and her eyes filled with a rush of tears, so sudden and impetuous that they startled even his composed nature.

“No, no, he never did. I beg pardon, Mr. Brooks, but upon this subject I am a little sensitive.”

He saw that she was trembling all over in the sharp struggle she was making against her tears. Just then Ellen came up to the cabin with her contribution of nuts. She saw that Virginia had been crying, and guessed the cause.

“Please not to speak with her about—about Mr. Lander; it breaks her heart to hear him mentioned,” she said, in a low voice, that sounded severe to the man, who was feeling like a culprit. But instantly her voice changed—she poured her nuts into the general pile and called out cheerfully:

“There’s plenty more, Miss Lander; the fern leaves under the bridge are thick with them.”

Virginia leaned out of the window to hide her tears.

“I will gather no more,” she said; “the childish spirit has left me.”

“Have I driven it away?” said Brooks, leaning against the window-frame, really troubled. “If so, sweet lady, one sob from those lips has been punishment enough.”

She drew her head in from the window and met his look with a smile which made the tears flash as if they had leaped up from her heart perfect diamonds.

“I am very foolish, and should ask your forgiveness. Now, if you have the nerve for a climb, which is an undertaking, I can tell you from experience, Ellen and I will do the work below—won’t we, Ellen?”

“Indeed we will,” answered the hunchback.

Brooks caught a glimpse of her face as she spoke, and admitted in his mind that it was one not easily forgotten, for never in this world did spirit master the material more thoroughly.

“Come then,” he said, throwing himself down the acclivity which lifted the cabin from the bridge. “Now give one leap, and I will help you down.”

Ellen came forward first, looked him steadily in the eyes a moment, and said, gently:

“Yes, I can trust you,” and sprang into his outstretched arms.

Virginia hesitated one instant, but made her leap, and for one instant the strong man held her in his arms. It was but an instant—still the blood thrilled in his veins and his heart gave a bound that startled him.

“Now,” he said, dashing over the bridge, “let us go to work in earnest. I never went a chestnuting before in my life.”

“Nor I,” said Ellen, kneeling down among the leaves, “but it is pleasant, so pleasant!”

“Indeed it is,” he answered, “I shall never forget this day. It is like working out a dream.”

“Or a fate,” muttered Ellen.

Virginia leaned against the great, rough trunk of the chestnut, and watched Brooks as he swung himself upward from one huge limb to another. Her father had done the same thing for her hundreds of times in his younger days, but she had never looked upon the process with anything like terror till then. Was it that she had grown older and understood the peril as she had never done before? Before he reached the topmost boughs she was pale as death, and stood trembling at the root of the tree like a frightened child.

“Oh, come down, come down, there is peril in it!” she cried out when a limb swayed and cracked under his feet. But he had swung himself out of danger and sent back a laugh from among the leaves.

“Keep from under,” he called out, “for now comes the deluge.”

Virginia and Ellen ran down under the bridge and waited among the ferns. Directly it seemed as if a hailstorm were rattling over them heads; now and then a nut dropped down to their hiding-place and rolled into the brook.

“Once—twice—three times, and I am coming down to help pick them up,” called out a voice high in the chestnut.

“Dear me, how high he is!” exclaimed Ellen, shading her eyes with one hand. “The limb he stands on bends like a whip-stick. I wish he would come down!”

“Ask him! oh, ask him!”

Virginia’s hand trembled as she seized Ellen by the arm. Her voice was low and hoarse. How could she have tempted a fellow creature into such peril?

“Call to him, Ellen! Why don’t you call, when I ask you?”

“He is coming down, dear lady. There is no danger now. This is the fourth volley of nuts. How fast he comes—don’t you hear the leaves rustle? There, he has swung himself on to the side of the bridge and is looking down at us.”

“Are you sure—are you quite sure?”

“Look up and see.”

Virginia lifted her eyes and saw the head of Clarence Brooks, splendid with excitement, bending over the arch.

“Come and see how thickly the earth is covered with them—or shall I jump down there and rest awhile?”

He swung himself over an end of the bridge, and with a leap landed in the bed of ferns.

“Ah, how pleasant it is,” he said, lifting the light hat from his head and allowing the wind to sweep over it. “The air is more bland than spring time. If this is what you Americans call chestnuting, I would not mind gathering nuts forever. What do you say to that, little lady?”

He spoke to Ellen, who had fixed her large eyes on him in undisguised admiration. She laughed and said that hour in the woods had been like Heaven to her. But she crept away as she spoke, and going down to the brook, walked a little distance up its bank, apparently enticed by its murmurs. She did not go out of sight, but the young couple were not the less isolated. Yet they both felt themselves alone, and possibly it was a consciousness of this fact which kept them so silent. But the silence itself was full of exquisite pleasure. He sat by her side, pulling up tufts of the frostbitten ferns and flinging them lazily into the brook, which laughed, and sparkled and carried them away, as it had before rippled off with the chestnuts. She was thoughtful and dreamy, but tranquil as a breath of Heaven. It seemed as if she had known that man all her life—as if she were stronger, wiser, infinitely better, when he was by her side. She, too, began to tear the fern leaves up by the root and cast them after his. Sometimes the leaves united and floated off together, mingling so closely that all proprietorship was lost. Then these two people, so lately thrown together, would look at each other and smile as if some mutual hope had been fulfilled in the companionship of those dim leaves.

“Why would you not come and see me when I inquired for you?” he asked at last, struck by a sudden thought.

“Do not ask me.”

Virginia spoke in a low voice, but it was serious as death, and he could not press a subject that had begun to trouble him.

“But you will not refuse yourself to me again?”

“Yes, up yonder I must.”

“And why? Have I been unfortunate enough to have offended you unseen? Have I an enemy?”

“No, no, it is not that. On the contrary, I never heard anything that was not good of you; never had a thought of you that was not pleasant.”

“Then you have thought of me?”

“Oh yes, with him, you know, I could not help it.”

“Then I was in good hands. Your uncle thought far better of me than I deserved, but charity was in his nature.”

Virginia was silent; she could not speak of the dead as her uncle. Then Brooks spoke again:

“But you have not told me why you will refuse my visits.”

“Will you not accept the fact without explanation?”

She turned her eyes on his face with a look of such entreaty that he had no heart to press her farther. But she seemed to have formed a sudden resolution, and spoke again, more frankly:

“My cousin and I are not good friends—I cannot meet any one with her on equal terms or without pain.”

Clarence Brooks grew thoughtful. He would not ask any explanation of the estrangement she spoke of; but the fact of its existence struck him unpleasantly.

“But she spoke so affectionately of you,” he said at last.

Virginia looked up wistfully.

“Did she?” was all her lips uttered, but there was deeper meaning in those eyes.

“Her father always spoke of his daughter as royal in her generosity.”

“Oh, sir, you do not understand—you never will understand!” the poor girl cried out in her anguish.

“I can understand, dear young lady, that you at least are blameless, let the cause of this trouble be what it may.”

“I am blameless, do believe that—neither in thought, word or deed have I ever wronged my cousin.”

“You tremble. This agitation will hurt you, Miss Lander. As her father’s friend, I may have some personal influence with your cousin. Be sure it shall be used in your behalf.”

“No—no, I beseech you, sir, as his friend, I beseech you not to intercede for me or even speak of me to her. Our difficulty is one which never can be reconciled by human means, I solemnly think. Let it alone, sir—let it alone.”

“On one condition, I will. If you ever discover a way in which I can interfere with any hope of success, call on me. Promise this, and I will be silent.”

“I do promise it.”

“With all your heart?”

“With all my heart and soul.”

“Then it is a compact.”

“Yes,” she answered, smiling sadly enough, “it is a compact.”

“But I must see you again.”

“I do not know how,” she answered, drearily.

“But I must and will, unless you hate me for this first rude intrusion.”

“Hate you!”

Her eyes opened wide at the idea. She reached out her hand, then drew it back, blushing red, and strove to conceal the action by tearing up a little wild vine that grew by the stone on which she sat, fiercely as if it had done her some harm.

Clarence Brooks smiled. He had gathered up some experience of the better sort of women in his lifetime, and understood an innocent impulse better than most men. He took the hand quietly which she had withdrawn, and pressed his lips upon it.

“Think of me kindly, at least,” he said, with more tenderness in his voice than he was conscious of. “Heaven knows, I shall think of you often enough.”

Virginia arose.

“You are weary, you will gather no more nuts to-day?” said Brooks, reluctant to part with her.

“Not to-day,” she answered. “Some other time, perhaps. They are safe in the cabin; no one ever comes there in these days.”

“But to-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow we will come,” she answered, with shy frankness. “I shall be glad to see you again.”

“No one shall gather our harvest of nuts. Meantime I take it on myself to guard this part of the woods till you come again.”

Ellen saw that they were both standing, and came up from the brook side.

“Are you going, lady?”

“Remember Miss Nolan, you are to help finish our work to-morrow. We have a large crop to gather in, and must commence early—say just after dinner.”

“If Miss Lander pleases, I shall like it; one so enjoys running wild in the woods,” answered Ellen, brightening all over. “See what a color it has given the lady!”

It is true Virginia’s cheeks wore a rich flush. This idea of another day’s meeting had set her heart in a pleasant tumult, and every pulse sent up a glow of wild roses to her face.

“I hope it will be a pleasant morning,” she said. “Now good-bye till we meet again.”

Brooks walked with them till they reached the edge of the woods. Then, seeing a look of anxiety on Virginia’s face, he lifted his hat and returned along the footpath.

When they were alone, Virginia turned and looked earnestly at Ellen.

“Have we done right? Was it well to encourage this gentleman in all his kind attentions as I have done?”

“Lady, I think it is right. He was your father’s fiend. It was certainly his wish that you should know each other. Nothing could be more clearly expressed than that was in the letter.”

“It is strange, I cannot lose my identity for a moment, but he looks upon me as the niece my father mentions with such wonderful sagacity. I wonder how he came to understand her so well? How I trusted her then! how I loved her!”

“She fascinates all who meet her for the first time,” said Ellen, drily.

“Do you think he is pleased with her?” asked Virginia, in a low voice.

“At first—yes. The glowing affection expressed in that letter being applied, as he thinks, to her, will draw him toward her. She is beautiful, has many accomplishments, converses well, and, worse than all, has a triumphant sense of success. This may please him for a time, but he is no common man, lady.”

“Indeed I think so, Ellen.”

“His keen penetration will not long be at fault; the true nature of your cousin will sooner or latter appear.”

“Sooner or later—sooner or later. Oh! there lies the danger. What if he too were shipwrecked? He speaks of having influence with her already.”

“Dear lady, can you trust nothing to this gentleman’s penetration? Can you trust nothing to our God?”

“But we do fall victims to craft and wickedness.”

“For a time.”

“Oh, Ellen, I never felt my helplessness or the wrong that has been done me as I do now. This man was my father’s friend.”

“And will be yours. The high nature must assert itself.”

“At any rate, I am powerless as a child. Were I to tell him the truth he would not believe me against a mother’s assertion. Then the very distrust that my father expressed of her, will, in this gentleman’s mind, apply to me. Oh! Ellen, is it not terrible that, in defrauding me, that wretched girl should find the power to make me responsible for all the wrong acts of her own life. It is I who abandoned my benefactor and left him to perish, while saving myself! It is I who attempted to claim the patrimony of his child! These thoughts are driving me mad. In wresting away my fortune, she has left me a burden of reproach. This is how I am placed. Never was a poor girl so fearfully beset. If I dared to take fate in my own hands, to change my name and escape from all this, life might become endurable again.”

“Not yet, lady. Do not abandon the home which is by right yours, while it can be held with self-respect. My father used to say that difficulties change or disappear when firmly met. We have but to watch and be ready when God opens the path for us. When everything seems dark and you are afraid to move in the gloom, rest quietly and be hopeful. There will be a break in the clouds somewhere, and light must shine through. This was my father’s method of reasoning.”

“True, Ellen, but he went down with that burning wreck.”

“I know it. There was a glorious opening in the clouds that beset his path. He lacks no enlightenment now. He believed then that God’s justice was eternal; he knows it now.”

The two girls had been walking slowly with downcast eyes, not heeding the surrounding objects, but they both started when a horse came sweeping down the carriage road, and the skirt of a long riding-habit flaunted by.