Doubly false

Cora Seymour—we cannot honestly call her Lander, though others did—had her fit of abstraction also. She had been in the drawing room all the evening, anxious, feverish, indignant. In all those days she had made no head way with this strange man, Clarence Brooks. Their morning rides had been bright, cheerful, exhilarating as ever. He had spent almost every evening in her company, when she had charmed him with the brilliancy of her music and fascinated him by her conversation. Still the man’s heart seemed no nearer to her than ever. She did not want his admiration, that was not enough, but his whole being—that intellect which so overmastered her own, compelling such homage as she had never given to human being before—the heart, proud, tender, honest. She wanted absolute power over this man, to enslave him with her love, tie him down with ten thousand meshes woven by her crafty mind and burning heart. She cried out to herself as Cleopatra questioned her handmaid:

“Did I ever love Seymour like this?”

Her imperious nature answered exultantly:

“Never, never; that was not love. The mad passion of a mad heart lifted him to my level for a brief time, but had no power to hold him there. He is coming, I hear his step on the gravel. No, no, it is the heavy animal, Joshua Hurd. How I loathe that man! He will not come to-night. But to-morrow we ride again. How his absence stings me! I asked him to come—implored him! He only smiled, but promised nothing!”

She walked that spacious room hurriedly up and down, round and round, like a wild leopardess in its den. Fight against it as she would, the knowledge that she was a married woman tortured her. A hoop of diamonds concealed her wedding ring; even in her waning love some romantic fancy had induced her to put it’s duplicate with the lock of hair which she had given her husband when he set forth on this journey westward—a journey for which she could find no reason. He was not well, certainly, but that offered no excuse for this prolonged delay. A sort of vague respect for the sanctity of her marriage vow had kept the ring on her finger, but this evening she took it off, guard and all, and, darting through the French window on to the colonnade, hurled them both into the night with a gesture of absolute loathing.

It was ten o’clock now, and there was no hope that Brooks would come, so her heart leaped forth to the morning, when she was sure to see him.

Once in her own room, she locked the door with an angry twist of the key, and sat down by her desk with hot red upon her cheeks and hot fire in her eyes.

She wrote a letter to Seymour—a harsh, cruel, bitter epistle—reproaching him for the advantage he had taken of her youth and inexperience. She told him, in sharp words, that she did not love him, never had loved him, and from the depths of her heart hated the idea of ever seeing him again. “Go,” it said, “go to Montana, to Oregon, to the Indies, any place where the English language is not spoken or civilized rites recognized. I will send you money for this purpose to an unlimited extent, make you rich enough to satisfy the ambition of any man, but never on this earth let me hear your voice again, never take the name of wife, as regards me, between your lips, for I will perish rather than recognize myself as your wife.”

The letter was entirely in this strain. All the disappointment and venom of a bad heart she threw upon the paper, blindfold as to its consequences. For the time, the cunning and craft of her nature were swept away. This man was an impediment; he had snared her in the first wild impulses of her youth, and she found a keen pleasure in hurling defiance at him.

The letter once written she treated it like an enemy, struck its folds down to the table with her clenched hands, then dropped burning wax upon it, which she stamped fiercely under a seal ring which he had given her.

When all this was done, the cold craft which underlaid the rash passion asserted itself.

“Not yet,” she muttered, “but it shall be, though it were like tearing shackles from my wrists with red-hot pincers. It shall be done, but warily, warily. With gold and courage I shall find my way out.”

She closed her desk and locked it, first securing the compartment in which the letter was placed with a tiny key, which formed an ornament to her chatelaine.

After this the woman went to bed, and lay awake all night planning such plans and thinking such thoughts as take all the youth out of a human life.

Clarence Brooks came at his usual hour in the morning. He was graver than usual, and placed the woman, whose eyes were fixed upon him with such earnest meaning, in her saddle without looking in her face. For a time they rode on in silence. There might have been some cause for this depression in the heavy air and clouded sky which overshadowed the beautiful woods and crisp fields with a gloom which took away half their brilliancy.

“You seem depressed this morning,” said Cora, reining her horse up to that on which Clarence Brooks sat, upright and thoughtful, looking straight before him. “Is it this dull sky, or has something happened?”

“It is not exactly the sky, though we have ridden under those that were brighter—nor is it that anything has happened; but I received a letter this morning which has set me to thinking of unpleasant subjects.”

“Are they such as a very sincere friend may not share?” she asked, sweetly. “I am low-spirited enough myself to sympathize with anything sad.”

“I think it is the saddest thing in the world to meet with ingratitude where one has loved, and treachery in reward for honest confidence.”

“And is this your case?”

“I will tell you, Miss Lander, for it is a thing that has troubled me not a little, and I am in doubt how to act. You remember something that I told you about my illness in the East?”

“Yes, I remember every word you ever said to me.”

She spoke impressively and with a slight tremor in her voice. He turned on his saddle and looked at her earnestly a moment. She felt the blood rising to her cheeks, and, with a sudden impulse of that modesty which springs from genuine feeling, made her horse wheel half round, thus taking her face out of view.

“I remember about the illness, certainly. It was strange enough to fasten all its details on the mind.”

“You will then recollect that I spoke of hearing the rustle of papers.”

“Yes. It was very singular.”

“Those papers were bills of exchange on America to the amount of twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty thousand dollars, just that sum?”

“This was how they happened to be with me in the East. I had intended to go directly to America, but learning that your father had come to Europe, changed my plans and set forward to the Holy Land, without disturbing the bills of exchange, which I determined to use at a later period. These bills were taken from my desk when I was supposed to be dead, by a young man whom I had loved and trusted as a brother.”

“Your servant?” questioned Cora, in a low voice.

“No; I had never in my life considered him in any light but that of a friend and travelling companion. He was introduced and recommended to me by a person in whom I had perfect trust. Handsome, accomplished, genial in his character, I had no reason to doubt him, though, from his own confession, he had been a little wild in early youth, which he seemed to regret sincerely. He was, in fact, a petted favorite, and we travelled together as friends; but, in spite of all that, he abandoned me on what he believed to be my death-bed, plundering my desk of these bills before he went.”

“It was an ungrateful act,” said Cora; “an unaccountable act in the man you describe.”

“The more so,” answered Brooks, “because he always had charge of all the money intended for our travelling expenses, and was never questioned regarding it. That money was left. Yet there was enough to have tempted his cupidity.”

“Can you account for this?”

“In no way but one. From the time we left Italy the aim and hope of his life seemed to be a voyage to America. He spoke of it incessantly, and made various efforts to break up our trip to the East, that we might go earlier than I proposed.”

“You spoke of being in Italy with this ungrateful man. In what part?”

“We were staying at Sarento; I was not well, and liked the place. He was much at Naples, and spent some time in the neighborhood of Gaeta, where he met a party of interesting strangers, some of them American ladies, I fancy, for after that he became wild to visit that country.”

“At what period was this?”

“I remember the date well, for I started with him and went up to Rome in advance. He did not join me till six weeks after. It was on the first of June, 18—.”

Cora’s horse swerved from the road. She struck him violently; so violently that he reared and came down with a force which would have thrown a less firm horsewoman over his head. Brooks dashed up, and, seizing her bridle at the curb, brought the horse’s head down upon his chest.

“Are you hurt? What started him? Don’t be frightened, he seems quiet enough now.”

She was white as marble, and her eyes were turned away from him.

“I am neither hurt nor frightened, thank you,” she answered, in a voice so deep and husky that he could not believe her words.

“I am afraid—I am sure you deceive yourself, Miss Lander. Why there is not a gleam of color in your face!”

“That is nothing. He startled me a little, I confess. It was the suddenness. One is not prepared for everything, you know.”

She laughed a sharp, ringing laugh, that cut to his ear like an arrow, and turned her white face full upon him, as if to brave the severest scrutiny.

He shook his head and looked more and more anxious.

“This sort of thing makes one a little hysterical, I suppose,” she said, more quietly, “though I hate to own it. Come, let us ride on; we are losing the best part of the morning.”

Brooks loosened his hold on the bridle, and patted the pony’s neck as he arched it again.

“He does not seem in the least vicious. What could have frightened him so?”

“No matter,” she answered, moving on; “I am not to be surprised again.”

They rode on in silence some ten minutes, then she was the first to speak.

“You did not tell me all. Have you ever seen or heard of this man who robbed you since?”

“Yes, I have seen him twice, and heard news of him only this morning.”

“Oh, that seems interesting. When was it that you saw him?”

“Some weeks ago. He was in the Central Park, driving as handsome a pair of chestnut horses as I ever set eyes on.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, he was quite alone, and driving himself.”

“And the next time? You see I am getting quite curious about this handsome culprit. I think you said he was handsome?”

“Very. I think, in my whole life, I never saw a more perfect specimen of physical beauty. He was clever, too, in a certain way—had a great deal of fanciful taste, and all the telling accomplishments which take so with ladies. But, to do him justice, he seemed to regard these things very little, and rather avoided the popularity they gave him with the sex.”

“He must have been a singularly interesting person.”

“He was; I loved him almost as if he had been my brother. Even now I find myself making excuses for him. Some powerful temptation must have possessed him—of that I am certain.”

“I think you said that you had seen him twice?”

“Yes, but it was under very doubtful circumstances. A person who had loved and observed him less might have been deceived. I was not, though he was carefully disguised. The next morning after seeing him in the Park, I almost ran against him while entering the bank on which my letters of credit were drawn.”

“Indeed! when was that?”

“Just six weeks ago to-morrow.”

“In the morning, did you say?”

“Yes, not half an hour after the bank opened. He had just presented a draft and drawn out most of the funds that he had left on deposit. The date and signature of the draft and its regular endorsement would have convinced ordinary observers that he was far away from New York, but I was sure of my man.”

“Did you follow him?”

“Yes; the carriage which brought me was at the door; I got into it at once and kept my friend in sight. He entered an omnibus, left it and took another, got out and walked, then suddenly entered a singular house in —— street, using a latch-key. It must have been his home.”

“Then you had him in your power.”

“I knew where he was, certainly, for I took the number.”

“And made no use of the knowledge.”

“How could I? the man had been my friend, I had aided him, liked him. He had some fine qualities. Was I to degrade him forever for a few thousand dollars?”

“You are a generous man!” exclaimed Cora with quick admiration. “It is the grand character, after all, which wakes up all the homage of one’s nature.”

After her first exclamation, she had spoken like one in a deep reverie.

“There was no great generosity in leaving this man to his fate. I had no purpose of revenge to gratify.”

“Then you have no thought of arresting him?”

“If I had, the thing would be easy enough, for I know where he is at this moment.”

“Indeed!”

“A party of my friends are going out to the great prairies, buffalo hunting. This man joined them at St. Joseph, in Missouri. They mention him in their letters as the pleasantest fellow in the world.”

“Are you certain it is the same man?”

“Quite certain; he wears a seal ring that I gave him, an antique that I got at Thebes, which one of my friends, who has a fancy for such matters, describes to me minutely. There is not another ring like it in America. Besides, there is no mistaking the account he gives of the person. Then, again, I have reason to believe he went West. When I was in town searching for a good saddle horse, I came across the pair of chestnuts that I had admired so much in the Park. It was these horses which first drew my attention to the man. They were at a livery stable; the keeper of the stable said that he had just received a letter from their owner, who wrote from the West, ordering them to be sold and the money transmitted to St. Joseph.”

They had been walking their horses while this conversation was going on, but all at once Cora drew her bridle.

“Thank you for the story,” she said. “Notwithstanding your rare magnanimity, the fellow seems but a very commonplace plunderer after all. Now, I would have gone to you at once, thrown myself on your mercy and given up all. But such courage as that belongs to great manliness, and that the creature never had.”

“No, Miss Lander, he never would have had courage enough for that, though I cannot exactly see how you should understand him so well.”

“Why all that you have said proves it, Mr. Brooks. But we are allowing this very worthless person to abridge our ride. See, the sun is breaking out. Let us try this stretch of level road and have a race for it. A pair of gloves that Blackbird wins!”

Away she went, challenging him with a clear, silvery laugh, that seemed never to have known what a spasm of the throat meant; but there was what seemed to her an absolute girdle of iron around her chest when that laugh broke from it, and nothing but fierce motion kept her from crying out that this pain was killing her.

“There,” she said, five minutes after, drawing Blackbird up so suddenly that he staggered backward on his haunches with his chest flecked with foam and drops of blood about the bit, “I have won the gloves. Now let us ride along like Christians.”

She reeled upon her saddle as the last words died on her lips, and would have fallen, but Brooks pressed his horse close to hers and supported her with his arm.

“I—I am faint—it was imprudent—let us go home,” she faltered, leaning her head against him.

“Rest a moment as you are,” he answered, gently. “I feared this spirited creature would tire you out.”

She closed her eyes, and up through all the anguish in her bosom a soft smile came trembling to those pale lips.

“Are you better, Miss Lander?”

She neither answered nor moved her head, but the smile died out. His position was an irksome one, and there had been a shade of impatience in his voice, which she felt keenly.

“Yes, thank you, I am better,” she said, after a moment. “The air is very close—this swift motion has made me giddy. How far are we from home? I have not noticed much.”

“Four or five miles, perhaps. Have you strength to return? I will ride close to your horse and keep him steady.”

“Thank you—oh, yes, I shall be able to manage the distance. If I only had a glass of water now.”

“We passed a house a quarter of a mile back; I will get you a glass of water there. Come, Blackbird.”

Cora slowly wheeled her horse around, and in a few minutes reached a little one-story house close by the road. Here a glass of water was obtained, and after that they returned home almost in silence. Brooks asked if she felt better, now and then, with that tender sympathy of manner which made a strong contrast with his sterner qualities, and she answered him gratefully, as proud women sometimes will when doubtful of their power.

When they reached home, Brooks lifted Cora from the pony, and, throwing an arm around her, almost carried her into the drawing room. There he placed her in a curve of one of the broad couches and arranged the cushions for her to lean against.

She accepted these attentions with a wan smile, and taking his hand as it was withdrawn from the cushions, held it close between both hers, looking at him with a mute appeal as if claiming some deeper sympathy than he had yet given her.

“Shall I ring for wine, or anything?” he said. “Perhaps your aunt had better be called?”

“By no means; I am well enough,” she answered, rising slowly from among the cushions. “You are in haste to be gone, I see.”

“Not if I can serve you in anything.”

“But you cannot; I have only to rid myself of this heavy dress and lie down awhile. Good morning, and many thanks. Shall I see you this evening?”

“I shall certainly come to inquire after your health.”

He was gone. Cora ran up stairs, fell upon the bed and lay there motionless.