Doubly false

The winter came, sharp and cold, while Virginia lay ill; for the fever left her helpless as a child, and the physician said that, without great care, she must sink into a decline. This he suggested to Cora early in the season. Her system, he said, had received some great shock and refused to rally its strength again. Unless something could be done to interest her, his skill would be of little avail. If Cora was rejoiced by this intelligence, she took good care to conceal the shameful truth, for no person ever seemed more anxious than she did for the recovery of another. Indeed she haunted that sick chamber with the pertinacity of a professed nurse, though warned by Eunice again and again that her presence was hurtful to the patient. Fortunately for Virginia, this affectionate farce only lasted two or three weeks, for after that time Cora persuaded Mrs. Lander to go with her to the city, and took up her residence in their old rooms at the hotel. She learned, with infinite satisfaction, that Clarence Brooks had taken rooms there for the season.

This was true, but Brooks had no idea that Cora had made this house her stopping-place, and was surprised when they met in the public drawing room one day, some few weeks after Seymour’s trial. He strove to inquire after the welfare of her cousin with composure, but his voice shook in spite of himself, and he again thanked Heaven that Cora was ignorant of the deep cause of interest he had in that unhappy girl.

She answered him very quietly, and with every appearance of unconsciousness that Virginia had been quite ill. Some disappointment seemed to have thrown her into a fever. Probably the person who had given them all so much uneasiness had abandoned his pursuit of her after attaining the money he wanted. She could only guess at this. But her cousin had been taken much worse after the boy who had been there once before came a second time with a letter, and for a few days was confined to her room. There was no doubt some tendency to insanity in all this, for Virginia had taken the most unaccountable dislike both to her and her mother. As for herself, it was not strange; but a kinder mother never lived than her aunt Lander. So bitter had this antipathy become at last, that the physician made it a particular request that they should both leave the house until some change took place. This was the reason they had come down to the city. She wished people to understand all this, because it might seem unfeeling in a mother to leave her child in her sickness if all the facts were not explained. The whole affair had been very painful both to herself and her aunt.

Clarence Brooks had no reason to doubt all this; he believed that no human being but himself knew of the identity of Seymour with the man who had robbed him. He was also certain that Cora had no knowledge of his engagement, or even acquaintance with Virginia; the manner and conversation of Cora Lander convinced him of her ignorance. In this respect, it was fortunate that Ellen was so completely at variance with Cora and Mrs. Lander. That romance of the ravine, the sweetest of his life while it lasted, was sacred to himself, and shared only by those two lonely girls. Of course Virginia was sad; of course she must feel the absence or, if she knew it, the incarceration of her lover with such anguish as might throw her on a sick bed. But this was the natural result of her own mad infatuation; no human help could protect her from it. She had been wrested from this bad man by an act of legal power that made his heart ache when he thought of it; yet, under the same circumstances, he would have done it again, even though the girl had never been dear to himself.

Cora was very sweet and gentle when they met; you would have thought Virginia had appeared over again from her manners, for never on this earth was there a better actress lost to the stage. At her instigation, Mrs. Lander invited Brooks to their parlor. There was no visible reason why he should not accept this invitation to intimacy with Amos Lander’s daughter. The treachery of his niece could not reach that fair being. Had not his dead friend warned him against one and invited his love for the other?

He went to that pleasant parlor again and again. He saw that singularly gifted being in all the phases of her loveliness. There was no struggle in his bosom then; never in this world was there a more willing victim. If uncertain of his own feelings, he soon became vividly conscious of hers, for, with all her art, the creature could not conceal the absorbing passion that had entered her heart with such irresistible power.

Cora Lander was right in one thing; she had found her master passion in this love for Clarence Brooks. I have no heart to give the details of that wicked courtship. The old intimacy revived, those two persons spent half their time together; for Cora still pleaded her mourning as an excuse for avoidance of general society. She sent for Blackbird, and almost every afternoon a pair of black horses, with two of the finest-looking riders ever seen in those broad avenues, were admired and commented on till it became generally known that Amos Lander’s heiress was engaged to the distinguished-looking foreigner who was forever by her side.

As the spring came on, this rumor was confirmed by the dress makers and furnishing houses where the wedding paraphernalia was being prepared.

All this time Virginia was worse than an invalid; she received no company, and heard nothing that was going on in the out-door world; those who saw her believed that a few months would end a life that, from no given cause, seemed to have become wearisome to that fair young creature, and a burden that she would not be long troubled with.

One day, early in the last month of spring, Brian Nolan went from New York to see Ellen, who received him up stairs in Virginia’s parlor; she, poor girl, was lying feeble and pale on the bed in her own room. But the door was open, and the great house so still that almost every word could reach her from the parlor.

Ellen had finished her book during the winter and it lay on her desk, sealed in a large package, which she was anxious to put in some publisher’s hands. There was no great vigor of life about Ellen in those days. Her slight figure had fallen away with constant watching and severe thought; her eyes were almost wild with anxiety, and she was constantly giving little nervous starts, as if apprehending some evil every minute.

“You look ill, Ellen,” said Brian, sitting down by the desk.

“No, no; I am not ill, Brian, only it makes me suffer to see her passing away so quietly and so surely.”

“Is she no better, then?”

“Worse, if anything, Brian.”

“Do you know, Ellen—can you guess what it is that preys upon her?”

Brian asked this under his breath. Remember, Cora had denied her identity to him, and had sent down word that she was ill on another occasion. He had seen Virginia at Seymour’s residence, and fully believed her to be his wife, pining perhaps to death under the unaccountable absence of her husband.

“Brian, all that ails her is soon told. Among them, they have broken her heart.”

“Do you think she is so bad? Will the sweet lady really die?”

“God help us, I dare not ask the question, much less answer it!” said Ellen, beginning to cry.

Brian could not speak openly, he was held down by that solemn promise to his brother. He had just been to the prison and came up to get news of the woman whom that unhappy convict so thoroughly loved.

“This will be sad, sad news for him,” was his silent reflection. “Should she die, he will feel the shock through his prison walls. O! if I dared say one consoling word to her!”

These were silent thoughts; he would not have spoken them for the world, shackled so with that oath of secrecy. But one thing he could do. Seymour had not altogether forbidden him to make a confidant of Ellen. He would tell her, not about the marriage, but regarding his brother’s unhappy condition.

“Ellen,” he said, after a prolonged silence, “will you shut that door, I want to say something to you alone?”

“She is there, speak low, I think she is sleeping,” said Ellen, closing the door softly and retreating to the farther side of the room. “Now you can tell me, Brian. Is it anything about our brother?”

“Yes, Ellen, I just came from him!”

“Came from him? Where is he then?”

“Stoop down your head, sister.”

Ellen bent her head, listened, turned deadly white and stepped back as if he had struck her.

“In prison—sent there by Clarence Brooks—Brian, why was this kept from me so long?”

“He forbade me to tell you, or any one. It would have done harm.”

“But I am his sister.”

“And for that reason have enough to bear. Even now I tell you without authority. But for what I have heard to-day, I would still keep silence.”

“And this was where he was—this was why he did not need our money. Brian, Clarence Brooks is a villain, a double-dyed villain! I detest him!”

“So did I at first, but after seeing him—Ellen, there is something strange about this. Mr. Brooks does not seem vindictive. He would not accept any portion of the money, though I urged it upon him. He seemed distressed, anxious to make Alfred’s life easy where he is. Ellen, at one time I saw tears in that man’s eyes.”

“Have you seen him more than once?”

“Yes, but not to speak with him. Only last week I saw him riding in the Park with Mrs. Lander and the young lady.”

“What! Cora Lander?”

“Yes, it is said about the hotels that they are going to be married soon.”

Ellen flushed red and turned white again; thought after thought flashed through her mind. Cora Lander had known her brother. She remembered thinking so at the hotel the first time they all met there. Had she instigated Brooks to prosecute him as he had done?

There was no chance that an honest mind could follow Cora Lander in her iniquitous scheming, but Ellen jumped at the one broad conclusion that she was at the bottom of all her brother’s trouble and of Virginia’s sad state.

“That cruel wretch shall not break his heart!” she exclaimed.

Brian thought that she alluded to Clarence Brooks, and answered:

“I do not think it was done from cruelty. This man is not hard-hearted. Something that we do not understand is at the bottom of it all.”

“Brian, tell me more of our brother. How many years is it?”

“Seven!”

“So many! Let me think—let me think! Oh! if she were well now!”

“That is it. You must keep this from her, of all persons in the world.”

“We must keep it from every one, though the secret burns our lives out.”

“If she had not been in the danger you speak of, I would not have told you.”

“I do not understand. My lady has nothing to do with it; she would be sorry, of course, but I will not tell her or any one. Our father left Alfred to us. To save him is the duty of my life.”

“Ellen.”

“Well, Brian?”

“I should like to see your lady.”

“No wonder, Brian; it would be strange if you did not. She has the loveliest face. I hear her moving. Perhaps she will come out.”

She was right, the door opened and Virginia came into the room, pale as a lily. Her white merino dress was girded in at the waist by a black ribbon, and a string of jet beads fell from her neck. She had heard his voice and put these things on hurriedly, hoping something from his visit, but without knowing what.

“You have come to see Ellen; I am glad of it,” she said, gently, as Brian bowed before the frail creature whom he believed to be his brother’s wife. “Is there any news of her brother yet?”

Brian’s face lighted up. Here was a chance of giving her comfort without betraying his knowledge of her secret.

“Yes, we have heard from him; he is well, and thinks nothing so important as his return to us.”

“But when will he return?”

“Not yet; he cannot tell. But this is certain, his heart is with us.”

She smiled faintly at his eagerness, and sat down wearily, supporting her head with one hand.

“I shall write, lady. May I tell him that you remember him kindly?” said Brian, so agitated that his voice shook while uttering words that seemed to him of great hidden importance.

“Yes, say that, for I do remember him very kindly, little as I have seen of him. Ellen’s brother, you know, is almost my brother.”

“Thank you, he will be pleased! Sister Ellen, good-bye.”

“I will go with you, brother. We must not say good-bye so soon.”

Ellen walked with her brother down to the depot, conversing earnestly with him all the way, and waited till the train took him up.

About a week after this, Eunice intercepted Ellen as she was coming in from the garden.

“Come here,” she said, “I’ve got a letter from Mrs. Eliza Lander. Read it, but don’t say a word to her.”

Ellen read the letter. It told Eunice, as a matter to be kept secret in the household, of Cora’s approaching marriage. “Everything is getting ready,” it said; “Cora’s first year of mourning will be more than over in June, when the wedding will take place at the mansion. She wishes you to have the house put into perfect order. Hire extra help, and tell the gardener to put on a double force if the grounds require it. The wedding will be a large one and some of the first people in the land will be present. There is one thing that troubles my niece, and I share her anxiety. What can be done with my—with Virginia and her uncouth friend? If she would only consent to live in the city. Cora has such a lovely house; it belonged to Mr. Lander: she will give her a deed of it, if that will suit her for a residence. She can choose her own servants and have some nice elderly person to live with her. The house has just been beautifully fitted up Cora tells me, especially for her cousin. I have been over it, and it is superb. There is a colored woman in charge now, but Cora will send her off and let her cousin have full sway. I think this very liberal—don’t you, Eunice? If you like it, would you object to speaking to her about the arrangement? Now that a strange gentleman is coming into the family, it does seem best that something should be done. I wouldn’t speak to her myself about it, nor would Cora, she is so sensitive; but you will not mind it, I am sure, Eunice. Do try and get that girl with the back to favor this measure. She can do anything with Virginia.

“What do I think of that?” cried Eunice, when Ellen had read the letter through. “Jehosaphat, Judas Iscarrot and Nebbecudnezzer rolled into one heap of wickedness. Eliza Lander’s getting to be disgusting! Don’t look at me, I’m blushing all over for her. It’s scandalous!”

“Still my young lady must go. It would kill her to remain here.”

“But it is turning her out of doors. This city house that the critter has been a fixing up isn’t her home like this, though it is a purty place.”

“She will not go there, Eunice, I am sure of that. But she has some money. We raised it on those jewels—bless you for getting them—and I can work.”

“Work! You! why you couldn’t iron a pocket hankecher without being tired out.”

“But I can write.”

“Why that ain’t work.”

“I fancy you would think it was, Eunice, if you had it to do.”

“Why, you cretur you, I thought you was a doing it jest for fun!”

“Fun,” answered Ellen, smiling wearily, for this hard writing had worn her out, “see how my hand trembles, feel how hot my head is. This a pretty severe fun, Eunice!”

“And what’s the good of wurrying yourself out so? I hain’t seen nothing come of it but a heap of paper with writing on it that Jehosaphat couldn’t read if he was to come right out of the Scripters to do it.”

“You may be right. After all my toil, it may be worth nothing,” answered Ellen, who had arisen from the pile of manuscript so depressed and exhausted that even such criticism as Eunice gave discouraged her. “But I have tried so hard! Besides she would be disappointed!”

“Will she? Well, cherk up, cherk up, if writing ever is worth anything, yours will come up above the level. I don’t know much about it, but I’ve seen your face kinder blazing out and withering up over that paper day after day. There must be something in it to make a young cretur work as you have. Don’t let anything I’ve said put you down in the mouth, for I don’t know no more about writing than a swing fence. Gracious knows, I wish I never had learned, so does Josh, though we ain’t either on us much to brag of.”