Doubly false

Ellen Nolan was prompt, both in action and thought. Virginia, in the full security of a first passion, believed herself safe in the shelter of her lover’s strength, but with a presage of evil which sprang out of her own quick intelligence, and would not be shaken off, her friend resolved to meet the question herself. Putting on her black bonnet and shawl, she left the house, and, following the railway soon reached the little hotel where Clarence Brooks found a temporary home. Some men belonging to the station sat in front of the house. To avoid these persons, Ellen passed down on the opposite side, keeping in the shadow, crossed the road at the bridge, and came in sight of the little porch to which the sitting-room Clarence Brooks occupied opened. She drew nearer, saw him walking to and fro in the parlor, and, running lightly up the steps, knocked with her finger against the sash-door.

Brooks saw her through the glass, and opened the door at once, wondering what could have brought her there.

“I have come,” said Ellen, breathing hard, for she had walked rapidly; “I have come to ask a favor of you, Mr. Brooks.”

“There is nothing on earth that I will not grant you, Miss Ellen,” he said, cordially; “but first sit down and let me offer you a glass of wine.”

Ellen took the wine and drank it. She was a brave little creature, ready to go any lengths for the right; but Nature had left her feeble, and, at times, she felt this a great drawback on her exertions.

“Mr. Brooks, my young mistress has told me of—of—”

“She has told you that I love her, and hope to make her my wife. I suppose there is no secret in that; so you need not hesitate.”

“That is what I come to ask, Mr. Brooks. Will you let it be a secret?”

“Did you come from her? Does the lady wish it?” he questioned, in some surprise.

“No; I asked her permission; rather, I urged her to make the request, but she declined.”

“Then why do you ask it?”

“I cannot explain, Mr. Brooks, and you would not understand me if I did; but I ask this favor of you nevertheless, believing that your happiness and the welfare of Miss Lander depend on it.”

“Miss Ellen, you surprise me a little I have never known any good come from a secret yet.”

“Indeed,” answered Ellen. “What has this whole attachment sprung from but a succession of secret meetings?”

Brooks laughed. He rather enjoyed the sharp wit of Virginia’s friend, and trusted her integrity entirely.

“But there was a reason for that.”

“What was it pray, only that it was impossible to receive you at the house, without giving offence to her cousin?”

“Well, that was reason enough; but I do not fear to give offence when my honor requires it.”

“But Miss Cora Lander has no right to your confidence. She is not her cousin’s guardian.”

“True; but Miss Virginia has a mother.”

“Oh! Mr. Brooks, I implore you, let this thing rest a secret, as it has done. Mrs. Lander is a weak, selfish woman, in every way under the control of Cora. She would only do mischief. Believe me, when I solemnly tell you that the secrecy I ask is both honorable and wise.”

“But it must be made known. I really would be glad to oblige you, Miss Ellen; but there are reasons why Miss Cora Lander should be informed of my engagement with her cousin at the earliest moment.”

“I understand the reasons, Mr. Brooks.”

“You!”

“Yes; and that is one motive for my coming here to-night. This much I may speak, Miss Virginia has been cruelly treated by her cousin.”

“About property?”

“In every way. She dislikes her—hates her is nearer the truth. When she learns that her own hopes or fancies—call them as you like—have been thwarted—in secrecy too—by the person she has so wronged, her resentment will be terrible.”

“We shall not fear it,” said Brooks.

“But you will feel it.”

“Miss Ellen, I think you are a little hard on Miss Cora Lander. She never has spoken a word to me about your lady that has not been more than kind.”

“Oh, sir, do not believe in this; it is a part of her character.”

“Hush! hush! Remember this lady is the daughter of my old friend. There has been some trouble, I know, between the cousins. Those things are common enough when great estates are settled, but they all come right in the end; at any rate, in this case, they are of no importance. I never wanted a dollar of Amos Lander’s property, and, thank Heaven, do not want it now.”

Ellen arose to go, sorrowful and disheartened.

“I thought it best to come,” she said. “Knowing the truth myself, I hoped you would believe it: but I have only done mischief—God forgive me!”

“Don’t look so sorrowful, child. At the worst you have done no harm. How earnest you are about this strange request.”

“But you will not grant it?” she said, looking wistfully into his face.

“I would, child, but that I think it wrong to pass, in the household of my old friend, as a free man, when I am absolutely engaged to a lady under a roof that was once his. It seems like social treachery.”

“Mr. Brooks, believe me, I entreat, when I say, that neither in honor or courtesy are you bound to reveal your real position to either of these ladies. Had Miss Virginia thought so, she would never have accepted you unconditionally, as she has done. Do you hold her sense of honor as less delicate than your own?”

There was something peremptory, and yet so respectful, in this speech, that Brooks, spite of himself was impressed by it.

“Well, well, I will think the matter over, and speak with your lady about it. We shall meet to-morrow. Be sure and take your usual walk.”

Ellen took his hand, tears arose to her eyes, and brightened them into absolute beauty. He wondered that her face had never impressed him so before.

“Oh, if you would only believe in me!” she said.

“I do, child. It is impossible to help it.”

“You will not speak of this to-morrow, when you ride out with Miss Cora Lander?”

“No. I have promised that.”

“Thank you. My young lady is very happy now, and happiness drives all sense of wrong out of the heart. She may not look on this matter as I do, who have plenty of time for cool thought. That is what brought me here to-night; forgive it, if I have done wrong. Good evening.”

Brooks seized his hat and overtook her on the stoop.

“I will see you safely home,” he said; “rough men occasionally hang about the depot.”

“I would rather go alone,” she said gently; “not by the railway, that does frighten me a little. But I know the footpath by the brook and will take that; enough moonlight will come through the branches, now so many leaves are gone, to show the path. I don’t want any one to know that I have been here, so shall be safest alone.”

Brooks saw that she was in earnest and let her go, but he stood on the stoop and watched her little figure till it was lost in the duskiness of the woods.

Ellen walked up the path rapidly, holding her breath with a vague sense of awe, for the noise of the brook and the shivering of dead leaves filled the night with that weird music which makes the silence beyond it so impressive. The moon gave down a fitful light, exaggerating the shadows and throwing fantastic gleams through the half stripped branches. All at once she stopped and gave out a sharp cry. The figure of a man stood before her in the path, just below the rise of ground on which the log cabin stood. At first she thought it one of those heavy shadows thrown by the body of a tree; but the figure stooped and rose again—a spark of fire seemed to float upward with the motion. Then the blue light of a match revealed, for one instant, the handsome face of her brother Brian’s benefactor. All was dark again in an instant, save the glow of a cigar which the man had evidently just kindled.

Ellen hastened forward, sweeping back a branch that had fallen across her path, so eagerly that it swayed into place again with a loud rustling noise, enough to startle any one desirous of concealment. The branch had brushed her face, blinding her for the moment. When she looked for the man he was gone.

She stood a full minute, searching around in blank amazement, then hurried away, fairly panting for breath, and so frightened that she ran at full speed across the lawn, and sheltered herself in the house.

What was that man doing in a place held so sacred to the Lander family? Was he staying at the hotel? Did he know any one in the neighborhood, or was it a myth that had startled her into such abject cowardice? No, she had seen the face plainly, for that single instant it was illuminated in all its features; but why had it gleamed upon her so strangely in that place?

The next morning Cora carried out a plan that had been arranging itself in her mind, and went down to the city. She had engaged to ride with Brooks that day, and the sacrifice which she made in giving up this pleasure was a great one; but a feeling of insecurity troubled her, and she resolved to make her future secure at once. She arose early, took her breakfast alone, and went away by the first morning train, leaving a note of apology for Brooks behind her, which she ordered Joshua to deliver before ten o’clock.

It was wonderful the restraint which that girl’s absence took off the whole household. No sooner did Mrs. Lander learn that she was gone, to be absent some days, perhaps, than her spirits rose far above their usual languid pitch. She refused to have breakfast sent to her room, and took something of the old liberty on herself, in assuming the head of the family table. Eunice, in high good humor, went up to summon Virginia, carrying Mrs. Lander’s compliments with her, in place of the usual great silver tray, with its elegant equipments.

Both Virginia and Ellen were glad to accept any change. Indeed, the former, in her great happiness, could have refused Eunice nothing, for the woman, in her brusque way, had been very kind to her. So they went down to the breakfast-room smiling, and so cheerful, that Mrs. Lander became unusually social. Eunice herself waited on the table that morning, and a sense of domestic comfort prevailed in that well-appointed breakfast-room, to which it had been a stranger for months.

“Now, I tell you what it is, girls, jest take the bits atween your teeth, while she’s gone, and have a good time of it. Miss Virgie, I want to see you a riding on that white pony, that’s been a spiling in the stable, till our Josh is getting savage about it. So jest put on your habit after breakfast, and let us see if you can’t set a side-saddle as well as other folks. It’s a burning shame that you hain’t been out afore.”

Eunice shook her head, like a vicious horse, and crashed a plate of toast down upon the table, with a force that cracked the delicate china. She was always violent, even in her fits of good nature, and spoke now, in a state of apparent indignation, about somebody, looking fiercely at Mrs. Lander all the time.

“Dear me, Eunice,” said the lady, coloring crimson under the greenish deepening of those eyes; “it isn’t my fault that Virginia hasn’t ridden every day of her life. Is it, my dear?”

“It is no one’s fault, I fancy,” answered Virginia, smiling—(the happy girl could not speak without smiles that morning)—“only I, I don’t care much about riding.”

“It’s no such thing. You know better. But that white animal has got to be brought out this very morning, or I’ll know the reason why.”

“But, Eunice, I have no habit.”

“There goes another. Wasn’t you measured, with t’other one in Paris, and wasn’t the habits and whips, and them side-saddles, all sent over together, long afore you started? Trust Amos Lander for that.”

“Eunice! Eunice! how can you?” cried out Mrs. Lander, white with the sudden shock which that name was sure to produce. “Have you no feeling?”

“I’ve got a good deal of feeling for her,” answered Eunice, who was ready to show fight on any subject just then. “She’s been hived up here long enough, and you’ve stood by and seen it done without a whimper. Some folks are afeared to say their souls are their own; but I ain’t one of that sort. Come now, Miss Virgie, jest to please me, let Josh bring out that white critter. He bought it for you.”

Virginia’s eyes filled with tears. Eunice saw it, and drew the back of her bony hand across her own eyes, sniffing violently.

“That’s right! that’s right! I thought his name would do it!” she exclaimed. “The habit is all laid out on your bed, gold buttons and all. There’s a soft hat, too, with a feather as long as the foot-post. He ordered ’em jest alike, all but the hat and feather. He never made no difference between girl and girl, only as one looked better in a thing than t’other.”

A still more vicious look at Mrs. Lander destroyed all that lady’s appetite, and, with genuine tears in her eyes, she besought Virginia to oblige her and take a ride. The happy girl would have done anything that morning, to please even her worst enemy, so she made the promise, at which Mrs. Lander arose from the table and kissed her.

Eunice stood by, smiling grimly at all this, with the feeling that she was fast getting up a happy family, which would some time be sheltered under her own wings.