Doubly false

Cora Lander lay still a full half hour. No sob stirred her bosom, not a tear reached the feverish hotness of her eyes. Her very hands thrown upward above the pillows were white and still. But for this death in life—this stupor following suppressed excitement, the woman must have gone mad or died.

At last she started from the bed, threw up the window and let the cold air blow over her neck and bosom, tearing her habit open with both hands to give it free course. There was hail in the air, which fell cold and hard as shot on her delicate skin. But she received it with a sob of satisfaction. It cooled the fever of her blood. How she had struggled against herself—how she had endured—it made her faint to think of it. But she had performed that awful task bravely. He guessed nothing, dreamed of nothing that was going on in her heart while they were talking so quietly. Still he seemed to pity her, thinking that she suffered only from paltry fright brought on by a restive horse. What would he have thought or felt had he known the miserable truth?

“But he never shall! he never shall!” she exclaimed, holding fast to the window-sill and leaning out into the storm. “I will keep the disgrace close as death, secret as the grave; no human being shall ever know what a fool I have been. I will break this thing off, crush it under my feet, tear it out of my life! The villain, the double-dyed villain! The weak, miserable cheat! Great Heavens! and I am that man’s wife! His legally wedded wife!”

She drew her head in from the window. Beads of hail lay thickly in her hair and melted on her neck. She shook with cold now, and threw off her wet habit. Wrapping herself in a zephyr shawl of soft white wool, she crouched, like a wild animal, in a corner of a tête-à-tête, and strove to gather up her thoughts.

“Shall I let him know? Shall I load him with the scorn and hatred which makes me despise myself? Shall I forbid him ever to look upon me again? He loves me madly, more madly than I ever thought possible. It might drive him to suicide—I think it would. But the letter found upon him would betray all. I am hampered on every side. What can I do? How free myself? If I could see him once, and kill him with words I dare not write. Yes, that is it—I will do nothing. When he waits day after day, and receives no letter, this mad love will bring him back, spite of everything. Then I will see him—oh! yes, I will see him!”

The cruel scorn that stirred within her broke forth in words here and lifted that beautiful upper lip from the white teeth as a wild animal shows its instinct of hate. She arose from the tête-à-tête, unlocked the desk and took out the cruel epistle written, to her shame, before the knowledge of that day came to her; lighting a small lamp that stood upon her desk, she held this letter over its flame till it shrivelled up and fell in a shower of black flakes from her hand.

“It was a relief to write it,” she muttered. “Oh! how I wish it were not madness to send it! Sitting still and doing nothing is the hardest of all.”

After this, Cora became more calm, and, huddled in the soft network of her shawl, held counsel with herself. On reviewing her position, she found less cause for regret in it than a first passionate view had revealed. So long as Clarence Brooks was in the neighborhood of New York, Seymour would never return unless some overpowering inducement drew him into a place full of danger. But, with no letters from her, he might return any day. How was she to act then? Break him down with the weight of her own indignation—overwhelm him with scorn—convince him so thoroughly of her loathing, that he would have no heart or power ever to seek her again. She remembered then that the marriage certificate was in her own possession, and, better still, the name and residence of the clergyman only known to herself and Alice Ruess, to whom was consigned the duty of finding him. The cook, Lubin, was not informed in this matter. Seymour, she remembered now, had never looked at the certificate.

Cora thought over all these points with deliberate coolness, and asked herself how it had happened that all the proofs of her marriage lay so completely under her own control. Had some latent caution been at work all the time under the overweening passion that had expired so soon and so entirely? Had she ever thought of repudiating him in those days?

No, there had been no absolute design in the girl’s mind; she was too madly infatuated for that. But, crafty by nature, she had acted with unconscious craft even then, and fairly hugged herself when the memory of all the precautions she had taken presented itself. There was one person who must be got out of the way—two, in fact—Alice Ruess and Lubin. She would attend to that; no time should be lost.

After pondering these things over in her mind hour after hour, Cora prepared to dress for the evening, when Clarence Brooks had promised to come. The dinner hour had long since passed, and it was getting dusk. Hail was rattling against the window, and a mournful sound of dead leaves came up from the grounds, carried off by the wind, which seemed to moan over them. All this made her shudder. She rang the bell and ordered a strong cup of tea. That would give her strength and brilliancy. Brilliancy! She felt a thousand years old! Would a feeling of true youthfulness ever come back to her? A mirror stood opposite her seat, swinging between two gilded figures that seemed to hold it in place with their hands. Did the thoughts which shook her so belong to that beautiful girl, with all her rich hair loosened into sumptuous disorder, and the weary young face resting on that small hand, which the waves of hair half concealed? How delicate and pale and wild-eyed the girl in the glass looked. There was something weird about her which a man like Brooks would shrink from. Yes, a cup of strong tea would change all that; if not, there was plenty of champagne in the cellar, and that always invigorated her.

A dress of purple silk hung in a wardrobe in the next room, she would wear that—nothing should induce her to put on black for that one evening. Everything, out doors and in, was gloomy enough without that. This purple dress had the bloom of a ripe plum rippling over it in waves. She would wear some delicate lace about her neck and run a white ribbon through the folds of her hair, with a blush rose in the knot. He might think strange of it, but she was weary of presenting herself before him in eternal black.

It is wonderful how soon the thoughts of a young person can be diverted from all sources of annoyance by pretty trifles of the toilet. Even a woman like this gives way to such weaknesses quite as readily as the innocent of heart.

“I will think of him no more,” she said, pushing back her hair with both hands; “‘sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.’ When the time comes for action I will act; I shall find myself sufficient for the occasion when it arrives. After making myself mistress here, unquestioned almost, there is little that I need despair of doing.”

With these thoughts floating in her mind, she folded her arms in the shawl, fell back against the cushions of her seat and was soon in a profound slumber.

A servant came up with some tea, but, seeing her position, went away again, walking on tiptoe.

Clarence Brooks came later in the evening, and found Cora radiant. The purple dress seemed rippling with chain lightning as she passed under the chandeliers; the sparkle of champagne was in her eyes; the glow of almond flowers suffused her cheeks. Brooks had never seen her in colors before, at least by gas-light. She was indeed a creation of rare beauty.

“I need not ask if you are suffering—never did I see an appearance of health more perfect,” he said, taking the hand she held out.

She drew him toward the couch, where the cushions he had brought for her still lay in confusion.

“Sit down,” she said, seating herself in an easy chair close by the couch. “It is chilly this evening; you will not find a hickory-wood fire oppressive. No, indeed, I will arrange the cushions for you now. Do I look like a patient?”

“Like an houri, rather. What a strange girl you are! Why, this morning, I really thought you would be ill.”

“No,” she said, leaning her arm on the head of his couch and dropping her hand carelessly downward till the fingers touched his hair, “my sympathies are troublesome enough, but in your case they shall not make me ill.”

“You felt for me, then, in my bitter disappointment regarding this man?”

“Felt for you! Did I seem to feel? But we must not talk of it. I am resolved that nothing sad or grievous shall come between us to-night. Every thought given to this miserable person is a jewel thrown away.”

He felt her hand upon his hair; he felt her breath floating over his face. This man was not very much better or worse than other men of honor and culture; all this had its effect upon him. The night was stormy and disagreeable outside; hail was beating upon the marble of the colonnade, and gushes of rain swept across the windows. The contrast with all that warmth and silken elegance, full of comfort as it was, made itself felt luxuriously.

That white hand dropped lightly as a snow-flake from his hair and fell down to a level with his mouth. He turned his head suddenly and kissed it. I think almost any other man would have done the same thing, tempted so; but instantly a rush of color came to his face, he started up from his lounging position and begged her pardon with great earnestness.

She smiled sweetly, looked down upon the flush of red his lips had left on the whiteness of her hand, and pressed her own lips upon it.

“This is how I forgive you,” she said.

He looked at her a moment and sat down suddenly as if he had been shot.

“Have I shocked you with the punishment?” she questioned, shrinking back timidly. “Do you think the worse of me for that?”

“Think the worse of you—Heavens, no! Why ask the question?”

“You looked so serious.”

“Would you have me look triumphant?”

“I—I have been very much to blame.”

Tears stood upon her eyelashes. She was really distressed. He saw this, and strove, with delicate chivalry, to reassure her.

“Does the daughter of Amos Lander regret that she has been kind to his friend? Does she fear that he will presume upon it?”

“She fears nothing on this earth so much as losing his good opinion,” she said, in a soft, low voice.

“That she never can. It is too firmly rooted. Why, you are trembling, dear child!”

“Am I?—not much—it is very foolish. Will you have some music—some battle-piece to harmonize with the storm?”

“No; let the tumult without take its own way. We will have nothing that is not sweet and pathetic. Shall I open the piano?”

“No; I will bring my guitar.”

She went out of the room, ran up stairs, and came down again with a guitar in her hand.

“I must have a low seat,” she said, drawing an ottoman close to the head of his couch and resting herself upon it like a Bird of Paradise. Her purple draperies swept far out on the carpet; the rose in her hair sent its perfume across her auditor’s lips. There was no use in resisting the charm of her presence; he gave way to it, especially as she did nothing to challenge admiration, but sat with downcast eyes and a sweet seriousness of demeanor, tuning her guitar.

She played a slow, tender little air at first, and after awhile joined in with her voice, which was sweet and sympathetic without being powerful. There was no attempt at anything superior. She played and sung naturally, but with such feeling that Brooks felt tears stealing into his eyes.

“That is too sad; the guitar is best for lively airs,” she said, lifting her humid eyes to his, questioning him with them rather than with her voice.

“Not yet; do not make the transition too abrupt; the charm would be broken. What a sweet, plaintive voice you have.”

She answered him with a grateful look. The desire to please was so intense that it absolutely made the haughty creature humble as a little child. Had this feminine spirit been upon her from the first, the struggle that had been going on in the heart of Clarence Brooks would probably never have existed. Be that as it will, for the time he yielded unresisting to the sympathetic feeling which her gentleness and grace excited, and listened to her music with half-closed eyes, doubting if he really knew his own heart, and had not done grave injustice to the lovely creature at his feet.

Cora was not unobservant. From under those fringed eyelids she cast many a look at the noble face, which the fire-light shone upon so fitfully, and felt that her hour of triumph was fast approaching. What would she do with it? Of what avail the conquest she was almost sure of? Was she not that other man’s wife? “No, no, no, a thousand times no!” she said in her heart. He had committed a gross fraud in marrying her, had made himself amenable to the law, degraded himself forever. She had been infatuated, insane, but not in love with him. All that was a delusion. How could it have been love when she hated him so now? When this new feeling was so different?

This new feeling! Alas, alas, had it come to that? Yes, the haughty creature had found her master passion when it was all too late. She would not believe it, but hoped yet to wrest happiness out of the future, reasoning, as wicked women will, that the one great fault in her husband absolved her from all the obligations of her marriage vow—obligations that the world should never know. This woman, in the grander and nobler passion, as she deemed it, which possessed her now, found excuses for treachery, injustice, and even crime. Had he not deserved all this? Was Alfred Seymour worthy of a moment’s consideration? How had he dealt with her?

Exactly as she had dealt with him in her rash, passionate selfishness—if she could only have seen it. But vanity and arrogance would not permit her to look clearly on her own conduct.

It was singular that, in the intense scorn that she really felt for her husband’s crime, her own more deadly offence never once presented itself as far outmatching his. She was a usurper in that house; an impostor; a woman who made her beauty the accessory of a fraud whose least crime had been greater than his, because unrepented of, yet she dared to arraign and despise him. The creature was sincere in all this; her crime seemed only the action of great ability—the proof of an intellect born to control circumstances. The woman almost turned her fraud into poetry and gloried in the genius that carried it out. She was thinking these things over as that soft music flowed from her lips.