Doubly false

Clarence Brooks sat on the stoop, into which his room opened, that night, thinking over the last few weeks in his mind. How could he have been so utterly deceived. Why had this girl, loving another, engaged herself to him? Was it in human nature to feign that purest and holiest of all passions so thoroughly? No, he could not believe that. Whatever had been, Virginia Lander loved him then—to believe otherwise would be horrible. That she had fallen into a serious, perhaps disgraceful entanglement with some unprincipled man, it was impossible to doubt, but she was young, inexperienced—no, no, he could not say that, remembering all she had said to him—how earnest and true she had seemed. The girl was artful, unprincipled, worthless. Yet he could not fling her entirely from his heart. Some designing man, with the aid of that singular little hunchback, had perverted her into the thing she was. What had they really intended? If she did not love him, why—

He paused, angry with himself. The girl was not worth thinking about. Yet if, by a miracle, she should prove innocent—that was, of course, an impossibility. Cora Lander had no motive for deceiving him. She did not know of his engagement or dream of the secret meetings which had so ensnared him. That secrecy, which seemed so pleasant at first, veiling his love with a sort of romance—why had he never suspected its true meaning before? She would have married him; her earnestness on this point was evident enough. But why?—Did she know him to be a wealthy man? He had never told her so much till the very day of their engagement, and she had no means of understanding the fact. If money was not her object, where was the motive for all this deception? That letter, in the very handwriting which had been worn against his heart, had method, decision in every word. It was not the language of a young girl wildly in love. How far had Ellen Nolan influenced the destiny of her benefactress? Was it this strange girl who had led her into the meshes of a deception so debasing? He remembered with what noiseless facility she had disappeared whenever he wished to converse with Virginia. Had this been a practice with her? Was she indeed the crafty little thing such conduct would bespeak her?

To these questions of the brain, Clarence Brooks’ heart was constantly answering, “no!” But for the letter in his pocket he would have cast off all that burning load of suspicions and trusted to the simple denial of a young creature, whose very presence was a contradiction of everything evil. True, she had seemed willing to make an unnecessary secret of her acquaintance with himself—had met him over and over again in the solitude of that glen, with no companion but that little hunchbacked imp, as he called Ellen in his mind, for he remembered with bitter disgust how she had pleaded with him not to speak of his engagement that night when she came alone to his hotel.

“I will search this to the bottom,” he promised himself, “and either rescue her from these people or force the man, whoever he is, to come out openly and claim her. She is lost to me, I know that,” he added, with a swelling heart, “but having consecrated her with a love, pure as man ever felt for woman, I will not abandon her to the fate which may prove a terrible one.”

Brooks was thinking in this generous way when he heard the sound of a horse coming along the road, evidently treading upon the turfy border. His heart stood still; muffled as it was, he knew the fall of those light hoofs, and listened breathlessly. Directly a white horse, with a woman upon its back, rode slowly over the little plank bridge. The lady turned her face toward the hotel, looking partly backward, and he saw the face plainly as clear moonlight could reveal it. The long feather, which he had seen Virginia wear so often, fell to the shoulder nearest him, but that only established her identity in his mind.

Directly after she crossed the bridge, the lady evidently put her horse to his speed, for the quick clatter of his hoofs sounded distinctly along the road, beating down that noble heart with every step.

As the noise died away, Brooks arose and staggered back against the window-frame sick at heart. Up to this moment he had not given up all hope that, by some miracle, the woman he loved might be cleared from the suspicion which wounded him so terribly. But now all was over. His own eyes had witnessed what his heart ached to disbelieve. She was lost to him forever, but he still hoped not to herself.

He went into his sitting-room and paced it up and down for half an hour, growing stern and resolute every minute.

“I will wait for her here,” he said; “as she crosses that bridge I will stand before her horse and demand the truth from her own lips; she shall not plunge over this precipice without some one to hold her back.”

His voice shook under the blow he had received. As the poor artist picks up the scattered fragments of a statue which he has just fashioned into beauty only to see shattered at his feet, he resolved to rescue some peace of mind out of the chaos of this ruin for the only woman he had ever loved. With this generous resolve in his heart, he sat down patiently and waited.

It was between twelve and one o’clock when faint sounds of a coming horse aroused him from the stupor of grief into which he had fallen. He listened, stood up and looked out upon the road. Surely there was more than one horse coming, and at a sharp pace too. His chair stood in a shadowy end of the porch, and he sat down again so far out of sight that no one but a keen observer could have discovered his presence there. That double sound of hoofs came along the road so swiftly that two horses appeared above the bridge with a suddenness that startled him. It was the white horse with that lady rider, and a dark bay, ridden by a man. The two came neck and neck on to the bridge, and drew up there in the full sheen of the moonlight. The man and the woman seemed to be conversing together in low voices. As they talked, their horses veered a little and backed toward the farther side of the bridge, turning those two human faces directly toward the hotel. Brooks started to his feet and leaned forward, struck with sudden panic of suspicion, but as yet uncertain. The man took off his hat, reined his horse close up to the lady’s, threw an arm around her waist and kissed her, more than once, with what seemed the passionate earnestness of a farewell.

This was neither resented nor shrunk from by the lady. To the reverse, when her companion put on his hat and turned his horse, she wheeled after him, leaned from her saddle and offered her lips to him again. Then the two parted, one galloping up the road at full speed, the other moving more cautiously toward the Lander mansion. Clarence Brooks fell back to his chair, uttering a single sentence: “That man!”

The next morning Virginia and Ellen started for the city by an early train. At the same hour Clarence Brooks was riding toward the Longstone tavern where he had eaten that pleasant dinner, it seemed to him ages ago. The landlord met him at the door, beaming with hospitality.

“Was it the gentleman who came day before yesterday, the same that put up, for a week or two, in that second-rate affair just above the lower depot, some time since—no wonder he wanted a change for the better—was that the man?”

“Yes,” Brooks replied, staggering under the new proof which lay in the landlord’s speech. “Yes, it is that man I wish to find.”

“Oh, sir, he went away this morning, I took him to the upper depot in my own buggy.”

“Has he ever been here before? No, not even for a ride. The folks down yonder say he kept mighty quiet, going a trout-fishing up the brook that runs through the Lander grounds, but never ketchen none. From something that happened here last night, I reckon one could make a guess about that.”

Brooks turned away, heart-sick, but came back directly, and asked if the landlord knew where his guest of the night before could be found in the city.

No, the landlord could not exactly tell; but, from something he overheard the young man saying to a boy that came with him that rainy day, he thought it was —— street, somewhere near Madison Avenue.

A flush of red came into Brooks’ face. He remembered the locality of a house in that direction perfectly, a singular house, with a back drapery of vines, and a fountain raining water drops down among flowers in front. He thanked the landlord, ordered a glass of wine as an excuse for leaving a dollar behind him, and rode away.

An hour after, he called on Cora Lander, who came down to meet him with an anxious face.

“She has gone, and taken the hunchback with her,” she said, in great seeming agitation. “The jewels, too, I can find them nowhere; they belonged to my poor mother; but for that I would not care.”

“Belonged to your mother, and gone with her! Why this is—”

“Hush, hush—not that—I did not mean it. She claims that my father gave them to her—perhaps he did. Aunt Eliza thinks so. I only wish that they shall not go out of the family. There is a double string of pearls, with pear-shaped pendants, which has been in the family a long time. If she will only give me a chance to buy them back, it is all I ask. This wretched man may have their value and welcome.”

“Miss Lander, do you, know where your cousin will stay while she is in town?”

“I am not certain; she may go to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, but I rather fancy she will prefer a house that my father used to occupy winters, when we were at school. I have not had the heart to visit it since we came home, but she has been there often, I think.”

“Does any other person live there, Miss Lander?”

“Yes, a servant; some one has always been left in charge. It is a pretty place, and my father loved it so, I gave my agent orders to keep it in good condition. Some day I hope to find courage to visit it, but not yet.”

No violets after a rain ever looked more touchingly beautiful than Cora Lander’s eyes as she said this.

“What do you fear so much, Miss Lander? Is it that your cousin will marry this brother of Ellen Nolan?”

“Yes, I fear that; she has not been kind to me, but I could not hear to see her thrown away upon an adventurer like him; for he must be an adventurer.”

“She shall never marry him. Leave that to me!”

“How kind you are—how—forgive me, I hardly know what I am saying; this has made me so nervous; not to tell any one that she was going—I have not deserved this. Indeed, indeed I have not.”

Cora turned away and wiped her eyes on a handkerchief taken hastily from her pocket, but they filled again instantly.

“Have you any idea to whom they would go with those jewels?”

“It is impossible to say; perhaps Lawyer Stone would help them. He knows Virginia, and was my father’s lawyer. In fact he is one of the executors of his will.”

“What is Mr. Stone’s address?”

Cora gave the address, but added, with great feeling:

“Don’t say a word, I beseech you, that will lead him to think there is anything wrong. If we save my poor cousin, it must be entirely without stain or blemish. So far, the secret of her imprudence rests with us. It shall never go farther if I can help it.”

“Have no fear, Miss Lander; you can trust this whole affair safely with me. It is a sad, hard task, but I will perform it.”

Brooks was very pale that morning, and there was a strange tone in his voice; but his eyes bespoke a steady, firm resolution. He was going away, when Cora followed him.

“When may I see you again?” she questioned. “I shall feel so anxious, so lonely.”

“When your cousin is safe, not before.”

She lifted her eyes to his; he turned away, their soft expression so resembled Virginia’s that it made him recoil.

“Farewell, then, till you bring me good news.”

“Farewell,” he answered, and added as he went along, “There will never be good news for me in this world again. God is my judge, I only do this to save her.”

A down train came shrieking along as he descended the terrace steps, and a boy met him at the depot with a small valise. He took the valise, sprang into the car, and was whirled off on his painful errand.

The first person Brooks went to after reaching the city was Lawyer Stone. He inquired of that gentleman if Miss Lander had been there that morning.

Lawyer Stone admitted that Miss Virginia Lander had just left the office, with a very singular little friend, whom she had saved from drowning, he believed.

Mr. Brooks then observed, with great quietness:

“Yes, I know, she came on special business, to raise money on some jewels, I believe.”

“You seem to be entirely in the young lady’s confidence,” said the lawyer, smiling.

“So far that I know she is in want of money, and am willing to advance all she may require—that is, in behalf of Miss Cora Lander, who does not wish her cousin to want for money, or anything else. As her agent, I am ready to arrange this matter with you.”

“If Miss Lander is so generous,” answered Stone, drily, “I wonder she did not prevent the necessity of this application on her cousin’s part.”

“She was not informed of any necessity, and only heard of it by accident. Even now I must stipulate that her name shall not be mentioned in the transaction.”

“I shall respect the lady’s secret,” said the lawyer, coldly. “When will it be her pleasure to pay over the money?”

“On the day after to-morrow. Will that be time enough?”

“I am not sure, the young lady seems in great haste. But I doubt very much if she could get it so soon from any other source, so we must be satisfied. I am no judge of this kind of security. You may not find these gimcracks of sufficient value for the money.”

“If it is convenient, let me see them.”

Mr. Stone took an inlaid box from his desk and turned several jewel cases from it to the table.

“Here is something she thinks very valuable,” he said, opening a morocco case and revealing a double string of pearls coiled around a red satin cushion.

“They are of sufficient value, no matter about the rest,” said Brooks, looking sadly at the pearls, but without touching them. “How much money does she want?”

“Three thousand dollars.”

“It shall be ready at the time I mentioned. As for these things, keep them in your own possession. Miss Lander wants neither security nor repayment from her cousin. But say nothing of this at present. We can trust you to return them to her at the proper time. When Miss Virginia comes, simply tell her that the money will be ready at the time mentioned. Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” answered the lawyer, sweeping the jewels back into their box. “A good-looking fellow, and came just in the right time, for I haven’t the least idea that anybody else would have advanced half the amount on these things. What on earth does the girl want with so much money, I wonder? I would have refused to help her, but I knew well enough that some one would direct her to a pawnbroker’s, where Mrs. Lander’s pearls would have cut a pretty figure. Who is this fellow? I suspect the three thousand dollars will come out of his pocket. That girl does not pay it, I’ll be sworn.”

Muttering these words, the shrewd lawyer locked the jewels up in his safe and was soon lost in a pile of papers which lay, with a piece of red tape loosely twisted about them, on his table, for he had been disturbed while untying the parcels, first by Miss Virginia Lander and then by Clarence Brooks, in a fashion which took him so completely out of his usual routine that he found some difficulty in getting into groove again.