Doubly false

On the next day, that pic-nic in the woods came off, and a pleasant affair it was. The brook that filled the ravine with its music found its source in a spring that came from a ledge of rocks, high up on a slope of the hills, back of the Lander grounds. This ledge was one broad table of granite, sloping inward some ten feet, where a shelf of stone shot out, cleft by a fissure from the upper rock, and from that long break in the stone the spring leaped forth and poured itself over the granite shelf in one transparent sheet of crystal. These bright waters were gathered below the ledge into one of the loveliest little rocky pools you ever set eyes on. Soft sand with pebbles, white as snow, gleamed up from the bottom, and jagged points of rock held it in, covered with that delicate moss which finds its highest green in the crystal of ever-falling water drops. Here the sheltering banks and overhanging trees had kept away the frost, and all the pool was bordered with tall ferns, spear-like rushes and broad-leaved water plants, turning red about the edges. Some lily pads, too, floated like sheeted emeralds on the water, and the ledge above the little cataract was fringed with maiden-hair, sarsaparilla and other rock-clinging plants, which sent their trailing vines now and then to the very outgush of the waters, rippling them into ridges of silver as they prepared for a plunge into the pool.

A perfect bower of hemlocks, pines, and feathery larches bent over and twined themselves about this ledge, so completely closing it on all sides except the one which opened to the ravine, that twenty people could have taken shelter there undiscovered.

Into this delicious retreat Clarence Brooks came with the two girls who had so often been his companions of late, after a long ramble through the woods. There really was no tiring youth out in a day like this, for the sky overhead was blue as blue could be, and the clear, silvery sunshine gave it a luminous softness never witnessed in the hot summer time, when out-door excursions are most in vogue.

They came up to the ledge, these three persons, and sat down on its brink, very cheerful and happy, but rather more silent than usual. The truth was, Clarence Brooks had lost a good deal of his playful self-possession since that first day under the chestnut tree. Many things troubled him, and for some days a struggle had gone on in his life which no one dreamed of but himself. It was over now and his resolution taken. But he was anxious, and so grave that Ellen, who had won a high place in the general companionship, asked him more than once what it was which made him so serious. He answered with some light evasion, but soon fell into his quiet mood again.

He was thinking of a downcast face drooping with such feminine modesty over a guitar, which uttered its sweet complainings under a hand that had half challenged half repelled his kiss. He was thinking, more seriously yet, of the dear old friend whose most sacred wishes he was about to sacrifice. Was it right? Was it generous? Did the girl really love him, as every look and word that evening seemed to imply?

He remembered the look, so full of gentle love-light, which she had lifted to his face at parting—the pressure of her hand, which had nestled itself like a bird into his. He remembered, too, how wistfully she had gazed after him when he went out into the storm. He could see her yet, standing in the French window, purpling the golden light behind her like a cloud, the masses of ruddy hair sweeping back from her head, bent slightly forward as it peered into the darkness. Why would this picture haunt him so? On that day, too, when he had determined on a step which should drive all such thoughts from his mind.

These reflections had possessed him as he waited for the girls under the chestnut tree and amused himself with flinging clusters of the open burs into the brook, which bore them onward as if the rough things were a burden. He could not shake them off after those young creatures came, looking bright as flowers and happy as birds. The spirit of Amos Lander seemed to reproach him for the purpose that lay in his heart.

This was the reason of the seriousness for which Ellen half rebuked him. He threw it off with the vigor of a strong mind giving itself to an honest idea and was himself again as they came out upon the ledge. Here some moss-cushioned stones had been rolled into place, forming seats around a broad, flat stone, which had fallen from the embankment above, and answered capitally for a table.

“Under that broad hemlock branch which sweeps so close to the ground you will find a basket, with lots of things which belong to the housekeeping,” said Brooks, looking around well pleased. “My duties lie somewhere back of this pile of rocks.”

The girls laughed, and began to loop their dresses high up on their snowy skirts and roll the sleeves back from their white arms ready for work.

That broad hemlock branch, which spread itself along the earth like a banner, concealed a world of choice articles. First came a basket, which gave out a warning rattle of china striking against silver or steel, all buried under a table-cloth and a pile of napkins. This was soon disposed of, and directly that great flat stone loomed up from the centre of the ledge, like a snow-drift, and the girls were busy as bees laying plates, arranging knives and forks, opening little jars of jelly and pickles, unrolling biscuits and discovering little pats of butter stamped with tiny birds, and all sorts of dainties that were constantly taking them by surprise and bringing forth exclamations of delight.

When all was arranged, the girls began to wonder what had become of Mr. Brooks. They had heard the crash of a breaking stick now and then, denoting his presence somewhere in the neighborhood, and now a curl of blue smoke, floating in and out of the hemlock branches, excited their curiosity. They stole to the verge of the table rock and looked over. Nothing but a silvery flash of water met the view in that direction, but to the right, standing before the hollow of an old oak, whose half dead branches stretched far and wide, bristling through the pines and hemlocks like broken spears, they saw Mr. Brooks. He was hard at work before a fire made of chips and dry branches, turning half-a-dozen lengths of twine attached to a horizontal branch overhead, on which as many woodcocks were spinning round and round, raining drops of gravy on the yellow leaves underneath at every turn. He looked up and saw the girls watching him from the ledge.

“Don’t be impatient,” he called out; “they are almost done.”

Then he gave a twirl to the threads of twine all round, and fell to his task again. The girls enjoyed the sight amazingly.

“Wouldn’t it be delicious to spend one’s life so,” said Virginia, pressing her hands softly together. “I wonder if we shall ever be so happy again?”

“Who knows?” Ellen answered, smiling in her usual quiet way, which was at all times a little sad. “But why not? Nature is the only thing in creation that eternally renews itself. So long as the world lasts she will prove the same.”

“Why, how gravely you talk, Ellen! It is not Nature which makes us so—makes everything so pleasant. These woods are gloomy enough with the rich leaves all turning brown as dust, if a weary heart goes with them. You remember the first day we came here, how grandly all the foliage was colored, how warm and bright the sunshine was. Yet we were very sad.”

Ellen looked up with a bright smile in her eyes.

“What is it then that makes the change?” she asked.

A vivid blush rose to Virginia’s face; she looked away, far down a vista of the wood, and answered softly that she was sure she did not know. Then Ellen dropped her eyes and sighed very faintly. This love was a mournful study for her, poor thing. She might witness it, feel it, dream of it, but who was ever known to love a girl deformed as she was? Who could understand the true, warm heart and great brain fettered to a form like that?

No wonder Ellen sighed and longed to go away into the woods and sit alone when the happy face of her mistress brought reflections like these into her mind. But why did the heart in her bosom grow heavier and heavier day by day? God help the girl! Did she too love the man who had come so strangely into their lives? or was it only the yearning of her woman’s nature for a little of the affection which she saw lavished upon others?

“Will some one bring me a plate?—I cannot leave the birds,” called out a voice from the fire.

Ellen started to her feet, and, snatching a plate from the table, ran down to the oak and received the woodcocks upon it as they were cut loose from the twine that held them.

“Splendidly done—now carry them up, while I go after the fruit and wine,” cried Brooks, gaily.

Ellen went up to the rock, carrying the plate of birds steadily between her hands. Brooks went down to the little cataract, and, from under the broad leaves of some water plant that grew among the ferns, brought forth a basket of grapes and delicate lady-apples, with a long-necked bottle, capped with tin-foil. The spring water had acted like ice upon them, and the first rare bloom lay on the grapes like a frost.

Cora had sent a quantity of cut flowers from the greenhouse to the little hotel that morning, and Brooks had garlanded the basket with them, after his own taste, mingling the scent of roses with the rich odor of the grapes. Perhaps Cora might not have liked this, had she known it, but the party on the ledge considered that basket a crowning glory of the feast.

That was a delicious meal—sharp appetites, the clear autumnal sunshine and soft air of a genial Indian Summer made it perfect. Three children at play in the woods could not have enjoyed themselves more naturally. Even Ellen Nolan came out in force and astonished them with her rare flashes of wit. Brooks was getting to think the world and all of Ellen Nolan—there was something so fresh and sincere about her. Then the bright things that fell from her lips were coupled with words of absolute wisdom, such as only come from keen observation and deep thinking. Sometimes the little creature positively startled him with her sayings.

After the feast was over, and all its fragments packed away except the basket of fruit, which they carried off into the deeper shadows of the rock, Ellen stole off alone, and, letting herself down to the edge of the pool, on which the sunshine shimmered bright as quicksilver, fell to throwing leaves and fragments of wood into the water, giving herself up to gentle thoughtfulness. She had got into her ideal world, and was fashioning a romance out in her mind, smiling or frowning to herself as the scenes she imagined pained or pleased her.

The other two had found a seat far back on the ledge, sheltered by the boughs of a hemlock, that curved over them like a tent. Some conversation had already passed between them, for Brooks was speaking earnestly.

“If you can love me, Virginia, as I love you with all my heart and soul and strength, say it to me in words. I must feel the assurance thoroughly before the exactions of this heart will be satisfied. These blushes are sweet, dear child, and I love to feel your form trembling against my arm. But my love craves something more. Tell it me in words, darling. Can you love me?”

“I do! I do!”

She clasped the hands in her lap and lifted them up as a child does in prayer. Her eyes sought his and fell again, but half veiling the light that filled them; then her face fell forward, and she burst into a sweet passion of tears.

He drew her close to his bosom and kissed her for the first time in his life, gently as a mother kisses her first infant, almost doubting if it yet belongs to her.

Then they sat together in silence, or only uttered such broken words as great joy uses in expressing itself. After a time she drew herself softly from his arms and said, with a little anxiety:

“I have no property; you will marry a penniless girl.”

“So much the better. I would far rather have it so than join poor Lander’s vast wealth to my own. We shall not need it, dear child; I have enough.”

“And you have chosen me, knowing how worse than penniless I am.”

“I have chosen you with all my heart and soul, thinking and caring nothing for the rest. It was your uncle’s wish that I should marry his child.”

“His wish! Indeed—indeed!”

Virginia was greatly excited. It seemed as if, that moment, her father was close to them.

“And he wished it—he wished it! His blessing reaches me in spite of all.”

Brooks remembered the vague distrust in Lander’s letter, and applied this speech to that.

“If the departed really do know what passes here, my child, Lander has read your heart with a juster knowledge than he had on earth. Do not let it grieve you that great affection for his daughter blinded him a little.”

“No, no, he never was unjust. He was good, wise, generous—the best man, I do think, that ever lived. You did not half know him, Mr. Brooks.”

“He certainly did not know you.”

“Indeed—indeed he loved me dearly—I cannot talk of it now, the subject is too sad; but some time, when I can have the power—when we are away from this place—I will tell you everything—you will believe me—I know that you will.”

“Believe you! yes, against the angels themselves.”

Then he drew her close to his heart again and soothed the agitation that seemed to have frightened all the joy from her heart.

It was a full hour before Ellen came up to the ledge again, but the lovers felt her presence as an intrusion, and would not believe it when she told them that the sun was almost setting. They went down the ravine almost in silence, and parted under the old chestnut. A few whispered words passed between the two, and he kissed the little hand she gave him while Ellen was looking over the side of the bridge to see if the ferns were all quite dead. When the two girls reached Virginia’s room, Ellen found herself all at once held in a close embrace.

“My friend, my friend, thank God with me! It is for myself—my own, own self—that he loves me! Had I possessed my father’s wealth there might have been a doubt. Now there is none. Oh! Ellen, how can I make you as happy as the last hour has made me? Child, child, tell me it is all real! Does it take you by surprise? Did you think for a moment that he loved me like that when we saw them riding out so gaily, morning after morning? Tell me the truth, Ellen, did you not think it was her he loved?”

“No, dear lady, I felt from the beginning that it was you.”

“But I never would have met him so—why did you not tell me? It was like putting myself in his way.”

“As he did not seem to feel that an impropriety, we need not grieve over it.”

“Grieve! Why, Ellen, it seems to me as if there was no such thing as grief in the world. She has got my father’s wealth, child, but, oh! how much richer I am than that can make her!”

“Did you tell him the truth, lady?”

“What, about the property? No; it will be time enough by-and-by, when we have nothing pleasanter to talk about. But you look grave—troubled. What is the matter, Ellen?”

“Nothing, lady; I am a little thoughtful, that is all.”

“No, Ellen, there is something more than that.”

“Does Mr. Brooks intend to tell your cousin of this?”

“Perhaps it was mentioned. But why should he wish to conceal it?”

“Lady, I think Cora Lander loves Mr. Brooks herself.”

“Ellen!”

“It is the common talk of the house. But that is nothing; I have watched her closely, and have watched him too.”

“Well, Ellen?”

“She is a girl of subtle power.”

“I know that well, but what then?”

“She loves this man, and love with her will be stronger than ambition. If she knows of this engagement, evil will come of it.”

Virginia turned deadly white.

“What could she do?”

“How can an honorable person tell what an unscrupulous one will do to accomplish a purpose?”

“Ellen! Ellen! you have hurt me! My heart was so light, and now it feels like marble. How can I protect myself from this girl?”

“Keep your engagement a profound secret.”

“But how can I?”

“Easily enough. There is the old way of meeting every morning, if you like. For some cause, she never goes in that direction now. That cause will probably still keep her away.”

“But he will see her in the morning; for some reason, he seems anxious to inform her and have everything settled. They are to ride out again to-morrow, and he will tell her then.”

“Write him a note—ask him to delay it.”

“No, Ellen, I cannot do that without giving a reason. Besides, what have I to fear? He will protect me. His love is enough for me to shelter under. Let us think no more of it; your great affection for me makes you over cautious, my friend.”

“It may be so,” Ellen said; “at any rate we must not keep ourselves miserable with doubts. I have made you look serious.”

“Yes, a little; I cannot help it. Yesterday I had nothing more to lose; now I have nothing to gain. In his love God has given me back everything.”

“And if she deprived you of that?”

“Don’t, Ellen; I cannot think of it. That would be death.”

“Do you love him so entirely?”

“Yes, Ellen. I would not have told you so yesterday, because I did not know. I thought perhaps that it was her, and was ashamed of the feeling that is my glory and blessing now. Like the poor Spartan boy, I should have let my heart be torn in silence, and even you would never have guessed. But now I need not blush, though blushes will come in spite of one out of such feelings, just as perfume steals from a lily. But I need not blush with shame, at any rate, when you ask me this question. Yes, Ellen, I love him better than anything in the world; to me there is but one man on earth. But I am extravagant—words sound coarsely here. Yes, Ellen, I love him: our language can express no more.”

“Then, God make you happy,” said Ellen, solemnly. “Guarded by His love and this other love, all must be well.”

Virginia and Ellen usually took tea in their own room when Cora was at home. Indeed, at such times, they seldom appeared in the lower part of the house at all. Eunice had fallen into this arrangement, and, as neither Mrs. Lander nor Cora made objections, their isolation from the family had become almost complete. That evening they ate very little; Virginia, spite of the doubts that had been forced upon her, was far too happy for any thought of refreshment, and Ellen had evidently something on her mind which made her very serious. She went out with Eunice when she carried off the tray, whispering good-night to the happy young creature, whose greatest wish was to be alone with her memory and her dreams.