Doubly false

That great Egyptian monster, crouching like an embodied pestilence in the heart of New York, concentrating all the horrors of a prison with the awful solemnity of a tomb, never received a human being into its portals who gave himself up to despair more thoroughly than Alfred Seymour. All night long he lay in that narrow cell—hard, cold granite in the floor, the walls and the ceiling, cold iron shutting him in at the narrow door, which opened and closed with a clang that made him start and shudder from head to foot—all night long he lay, thinking such thoughts as might turn the hair on a young man’s head white as snow and create little wonder.

A gleam of moonlight pierced through a long, narrow loop-hole that served as a window, cut so deep in the outer wall that the radiance came through wedge-shaped, and, to his tortured imagination, seemed solid in its whiteness. No steel ever went more keenly through a human heart than that mournful illumination penetrated his. Only the night before, those self-same moonbeams had fallen like shimmering silver along the highway when Cora rode by his side, cheerful as a bird, animated as he had seldom seen her before, talking so hopefully of the early day when their marriage would be proclaimed and they need not steal forth in secret or at night to meet each other. She had even proposed to proclaim the choice she was so proud of and end all secrecy at once. But he dared not accept this generous proposition, though enforced by eloquence and such affectionate caresses as nothing but a heart shackled down by crime could have resisted.

This was only one night ago. It seemed an eternity to him, there in that prison, with the stillness of death all around him. Thinking of her thus, generous, loving and so beautiful, the unhappy man came to a solemn resolution. She should never hear of his fate; they might bury him in prison walls still more gloomy than those which seemed to enclose him in like a grave, and he would make no sign. To-morrow, perhaps, they would bring him into court for examination. He would plead guilty there, and again when they brought him before a higher tribunal for final trial. No public journal should make a romance of his crime or his misery. He would allow the law to do its worst, and disappear.

This man had done wrong, but he was not a hardened sinner; no creature who was ever wept as he did that night. He had longed to make atonement for his crime, and struggled hard for the power which was almost within his grasp when this ruin came upon him. This nearness to escape made his fate doubly bitter.

“A few hours—only a few hours, and I should have paid all,” he said, aloud. Then, frightened by the sound of his own voice, which seemed struggling up from a grave, he drew the coarse, gray blanket over his head and lay moaning out his grief at intervals, hiding away from the moonlight which reminded him so keenly of all that was wrested from him.

At last the dawn came struggling through that loop-hole, filling the cell with gloomy light. Then a crash of locks and the heavy swing of iron doors struck on his ear ominously. The routine of that mournful tomb’s life had commenced, and every new sound made him shiver beneath that gray blanket like some wounded animal that hears the hounds scenting out its lair.

After awhile the door of his own cell was flung open, a heavy can was set down on the stone gallery close by, and out of this grim vessel a tin cup half full of coffee was dipped, this with a piece of bread, was placed upon his cell floor.

Seymour drew the blanket from his face and turned his bloodshot eyes upon this coarse breakfast. He was not hungry, and would have rejected the most dainty food—this he loathed.

Hours went by and Brian Nolan came with his sorrowful heart, and again craved to know what could be done for his brother.

Nothing. Seymour had fully made up his mind now. The misery that Fate had in store for him he would accept. Perhaps he would be so happy as to die. Then that noble young creature who had loved him so dearly would have freedom. She might—no, no, he could not think of a second marriage. He was ready to die, and the rest might follow, but it would be a long, long time—that grand-hearted creature was too thoroughly his for any meaner result. He said all this to Brian, and charged him, as he hoped for happiness, never to betray the secret of his marriage to any human being, not even to Ellen; never hint at his knowledge of it to the woman who, in a fatal hour, had become his wife; but, in every respect to guard the confidence placed in him. Not content with a simple promise, he went farther.

There was a cheap missionary Bible in the cell. This he placed in Brian’s hands and bade him take an oath never to reveal the secret of his marriage or hint at it to any living soul.

Brian touched the book with his lips and took the oath.

“It is hard to ask this of me. Your lady has money and power enough to open these doors.”

“To let the husband she knows to be a criminal out. Brian Nolan, the first look of her face after that would kill me. I shall plead guilty; there will be no trial. The officer promises me that there shall be no publicity. When all is over, I will write two letters, one to her, one to the man whose vengeance is upon me. There is money belonging to him which he must have—a favor which he will grant if he is not a demon.”

The mention of money reminded Brian of that which his sister Ellen and Miss Virginia Lander had promised to bring.

“What shall I say to them when they come with the money?” he asked. “Is it altogether too late, if I appeal to this cruel man with the money in my hand?”

“Yes, too late. He has no power to save me if he wished, I know that much of American law. Beside, you cannot go to him. He, above all men living, must be kept in ignorance that I ever saw one of the Miss Landers. There is no appeal, no hope for me. Give up the thought, Brian.”

Brian did give up the thought and went away broken-hearted. Virginia and Ellen came to the house the day after, radiant and happy, with the money which Lawyer Stone had just paid over to them. Brian met them in the drawing room, thanked Virginia with tears in his eyes, but refused to take the money. His brother had settled all his difficulties in another way. It involved a somewhat lengthened absence from the city, he said, but everything was in a sure course of arrangement. Mr. Seymour had charged him to give a thousand thanks for her kindness, which he should feel to his dying day.

“Did he leave no word for me?” inquired Ellen, nervously. “Not even a farewell?”

“He left you this, and this,” answered Brian, pressing his quivering lips to her cheek and forehead.

Ellen knew that there was some terrible sorrow under those kisses, but the delicate intuition that impressed her heart with the truth kept her silent. Virginia, who had been so ardent in her desire to serve Ellen’s brother, was a little disappointed by the result, as any generous person might well have been. Still there was joy in the thought that they were at liberty to return home—that within a few hours she would meet Clarence Brooks.

They went up the river by the first train, Virginia grew light of heart as she approached home. Would he expect her just then? Was he disappointed because she did not return the night before? Had he told Cora and Mrs. Lander of their engagement? How would they feel about it, glad or sorry? She almost wished that it had been done before she left home. It would be very awkward enduring their sneers or congratulations, as they might chance to prove, with no one but Ellen to sustain her.

These thoughts brought a troubled joy with them, and when the train stopped at the depot she had become nervously anxious. Ellen’s grave face added to this feeling, this return home really was a trying ordeal to a young, motherless girl, who believed that the most precious secret of her life had been given to her worst enemies.

Eunice met them at the door; but no one else came with smiles or welcome. Mrs. Lander was in her room, the servant said, and Miss Lander had gone out to ride on Blackbird. Ellen saw the question in Virginia’s eyes, and asked if Miss Lander had gone alone.

“Yes, quite alone; there had been no gentleman in the neighborhood to ride with her these two days; a groom followed her, that was all.”

Virginia went up stairs somewhat perplexed. Was Cora so annoyed by her engagement that she would not ride with Mr. Brooks? What could it all mean?

Just as the girls were taking off their things, a clumsy knock sounded from the door, and Joshua Hurd looked in. He beckoned Ellen and retreated into the upper hall. Ellen went out to learn what he wanted, when he placed a letter mysteriously in her hand.

“You jest give it to her. He made me promise to put it into her own hands; but it’s the same thing, now ain’t it, when I give it to you?”

The letter, which Ellen took, was directed in a bold, firm hand, to Miss Virginia Lander.

“Who gave it to you, Mr. Hurd?” she anxiously inquired.

“He, Mr. Brooks; the chap I took your letter to that rainy night. He came up here yesterday morning, and, arter siting awhile with t’other gal, came out to the stables—a thing he never done afore—and took a good deal of interest in the hosses, ’specially Snowball, a critter that I allays curry down myself. That morning he diskivered that she’d been rid hard since any one dressed her down, and was curous about the mark of a saddle that was plain as could be on her back. You don’t know how that mark came there nor nothing, do you now, Miss Ellen?” he added, eyeing her keenly with his little, sharp eyes.

“Me?—No, indeed. How should I?” answered Ellen.

“Jes so; thought as much. Nor she, nuther?”

Joshua pointed over his shoulder to the room where they had left Virginia.

“What, Miss Virginia? She hasn’t seen Snowball these three or four days, I can answer for that.”

“Jes so.”

“But what does all this mean, Joshua?”

“Nothing, only he said the hoss must a been rid or else I hadn’t took good care on her, which made me mad. Rid or no rid, curry-combed or not curry-combed, it was none of his bisness, and I e’enamost told him so.”

“Well, Joshua, I don’t understand about that, but the letter?”

“Well, he gin me that arter I’d sot him down a peg about the hoss, and a golden half eagle with it—none of yer greenbacks, but gennine gold, woth amost double if one specerlates on it, which I mean to. ‘Give that into Miss Virginia’s own hand, don’t let any other person tech it,’ says he. ‘I depend on you, Mr. Hurd.’ Well, he might do that. If I haint gin it into her own hand, it was because she was doing up her hair afore the looking-glass, and that made me kinder skeery; but it’s all right now.”

Ellen was turning away, when Joshua began again:

“Miss Ellen, what was the matter with Mr. Brooks? He looked so down in the mouth that I raly felt sorry for him; kinder locked up about the mouth and forrid.”

“How can I tell, Joshua?”

“Jes so. But you’ll give that ’ere letter?”

“Certainly I will.”

“Jes so,” muttered Joshua, stumbling down the hall. “Jes so!”

Ellen went into the room where Virginia was standing, and gave her the letter.

“From him! from him!” cried the delighted girl, snatching it between both her hands. “I will be back in a minute, Ellen, and tell you all about it.”

She went into the sanctuary of her own chamber, pressing the paper to her lips with both hands, as young girls will when the sweet insanity of a first love is upon them.

Ellen sat down by the window, wondering why her heart felt so heavy; she had fallen into thought about her brother, whose present position seemed to be so mysteriously kept from her, when a sharp cry from the inner room, and directly after a heavy fall, made her spring from the chair in sudden dismay.

The next instant she was in the bed-chamber striving to lift Virginia from the floor with her trembling arms and crying out in her alarm:

“My lady! Virginia! Virginia! won’t you speak to me? It is Ellen, your own poor Ellen, who loves you better than her life! What have they done to you, darling?”

In her distress, the poor girl broke into the pathetic terms of endearment which are so touching in her countrywomen. She kissed that pale face, dropping unconscious tears upon its whiteness. She strove to warm the cold hand with her own quivering palms. But all was in vain, Virginia Lander lay motionless; her lips ashen, her eyes closed in deep shadows. Ellen at last believed her dead, and shrieked aloud:

“Eunice! Eunice! Oh! my God, will nobody come?”