Doubly false

Cora Lander had been a good deal into society during the latter part of her season in town. With her great beauty and reputation for enormous wealth, there was no difficulty in taking her position in fashionable life. It came and lay down at her feet. Hundreds of the highest among the high followed her and her bridegroom to that mansion on the Hudson, where the marriage ceremony was to be performed with a splendor that had never been witnessed in this country before. A glorious moon flooded that clear summer evening with its light, and flashed, like rippling quicksilver, along the river as the train tore along its banks. The sound of laughter and low, sweet voices softened the noises of the engine and the rattle of wheels to those within the cars, as that wedding party was whirled onward almost with the speed of lightning.

All at once that white house, with all its stately trees, drooping shrubbery and clustering vines, illuminated as with ten thousand stars, burst upon the view. The marble colonnade shone out clear and white, all its fluted pillars well defined, and the long white leaves of their Corinthian capitals tangled in, as it seemed, with wreaths of fire. The roses were in full bloom, loading the air with fragrance; such fruit trees as grew near were lighted up, and their blossoms fell around the hanging lamps like garlands of snow.

From the terrace stairs to the front of the building, a broad pathway of crimson carpeting was laid, bordered on each side with greenhouse plants, massed till their blossoms seemed one tangle of flowers from the steps to the colonnade.

Within, everything was in stately keeping with the exterior; all the rooms, on which Mrs. Lander had lavished so much money, were flung open. The air penetrated them through clouds of lace. Some were brilliantly lighted, others left in a soft moonlight obscurity, inviting repose. The colors in each room contrasted or harmonized with the next so imperceptibly that they could hardly be separated in the mind, but composed one grand picture of light, rich coloring and artistic effects.

When the company came pouring into these rooms, chatting, laughing, brilliant with expectation, it only added a movement of graceful life without in the least crowding them. The beautiful women moving to and fro seemed like lost Peris that had found a new way back to Paradise and were rejoicing over it.

This crowd of gay people had come rather early, scattering themselves about the rooms and the grounds, as previously arranged. The ceremony would not come off before eleven o’clock. Then the supper rooms would be thrown open, and there would be dancing for those who liked it. The whole affair was, in fact, one grand reception. Mrs. Lander received the guests in a dress of silver gray satin, clouded with Brussels point, that swept the carpet in a train absolutely regal. She had cast off her nervousness and threw life into a scene which was her highest idea of happiness.

While all this fashion and beauty were passing in and out of the lower rooms, Cora stood in the chamber of which she had so ruthlessly defrauded her cousin, ready for her second marriage. Excitement had rendered her more than beautiful; her cheeks were burning with rose-tints; the rich tresses, rolled back from her forehead, fairly flung off the light. The satin robe fell around her as snow settles to its place, and swept the floor in long, sumptuous folds. She held the bridal veil in her hand and was directing the attendant how to arrange it in her hair with perfect art and seeming negligence, when a servant knocked at the door.

“See what it is,” she said, “surely it cannot be time!”

The woman opened the door and brought back a note, which the servant said a strange man had delivered, with directions that it should be given into her own hands at once.

Cora tore the note open impatiently; she was annoyed by the delay it occasioned. This was what she read:

“I am at the log cabin waiting for you. If you fail to come at once, I shall stand by your side at eleven o’clock.

Cora Lander neither fainted away nor uttered one sound of the terrible dread that seized upon her. She folded the note and held it firmly in her hand. Then turning to the woman, she bade her unlace the corsage of her dress, it was rather tight, and she would let the dressmaker, who was in attendance from the city, alter it a little, there was plenty of time. She took up her watch from the dressing-table and made sure of this. It was about ten o’clock.

The woman obeyed, and in a few moments Cora came out of those voluminous folds of satin as if she had just escaped from a snow-drift.

“Shall I carry the dress to Mrs. Green?” inquired the maid.

“Yes, tell her to let it out the least in the world. Give me that scarf, I will attend to something else while she finishes it. These hair-dressers tire one to death. I will ring when you are wanted again.”

The woman went out, carrying the dress carefully on her arm. The moment she was gone, Cora stepped into the next room, snatched up the dress she had flung off before commencing her toilet, and put it on. Across one of the chairs hung a lace shawl, which she had worn in the grounds that afternoon. She threw this over her head, gathering it up in black folds about her bosom, which scarcely seemed to rise or fall with human life. The last thing she did in that room was to open a drawer of the dressing-table and take out a small pistol, scarcely more than a toy, which had been given her at the manufactory in Hartford as a beautiful specimen of its workmanship, once when Amos Lander had taken her and Virginia over the works there. It was loaded, for one day she had given it to Josh Hurd to put in order, and he sent it back ready for use. She put this in her pocket, and now her voice was heard for the first time since the maid went out.

“I will kill him! If he attempts it, I will kill him!”

You would not have known that voice—you would hardly have recognized the woman’s face as she went out of her chamber and made for a flight of back stairs leading to a passage-way near the kitchen. Once in the open air, she paused, holding her breath, if indeed she could be said to breathe at all. How she hated that bright illumination which made the tiniest flowers in the thickets visible; for it had filled the grounds with her wedding guests, who were walking, chatting, or gathering roses in the beautiful light which fell around them; half moonbeams and half fire.

The woman had no time to wait hesitating there. She gathered the black lace over her head and took a somewhat shadowy course by the stables. Then she skirted the stone wall and ran toward the ravine; passing through the shadows with swift stillness as if she had been a spirit of the night; fleeing in search of perfect darkness. As she went Cora tore her husband’s note into fragments and cast it to the winds.

A man was waiting for her in the log cabin; the moonlight lay upon his face as he looked out of the window, revealing its fixed and terrible whiteness. Not twenty-four hours before, he had been in one of the prison cells at Sing-Sing, but the Governor was haunted by the words and looks of that hunchbacked girl so persistently, that his great, generous heart spoke out in spite of legal forms, and a pardon set the young man free.

Seymour went first to his sister, full of eager gratitude; for had she not given him back to his wife and spared her the misery of knowing how unworthy he was? Ellen told him of the wedding, bitterly, for she almost hated Clarence Brooks and the girl he was about to marry. But she did not dream of the awful blow her words dealt on the unhappy man who had just come out of his imprisonment; indeed the resentment she felt towards those two persons must have been overpowering, to break through the joy that filled her heart when she knew of a certainty that her brother was free, and through her intercession.

Seymour left her without a word, looking deathly. He had no time to lose; the sun was already verging toward the west.

While Ellen stood where he had left her, lost in painful wonder, Brian came up. He had gone to the prison, hoping to see his brother, and there heard news of his pardon. Knowing well where he would go first, the happy youth followed him to Ellen’s residence.

“Where is he? Has he gone in there—was she glad? How, now, Ellen, she will get well again. It was only the pining.”

Brian was so full of joy that he forgot his promise—forgot that Ellen was still ignorant of their brother’s marriage.

“What do you mean, Brian? What does all this mean? Alfred came to see me, beaming with happiness, and left me like a ghost when I told him that this was Clarence Brooks’ and Cora Lander’s wedding day.”

“And he did not see her?”

“He saw no one but me, and scarcely that. What does this mean, Brian? He seemed turning to stone when I told him of Cora Lander’s wedding.”

“Ellen, tell me one thing—did your lady know our brother in Europe?”

“No.”

“Has she ever been for days together in the city?”

“No; I have been with her every day, almost every hour. No, I say.”

“Ellen, Ellen Nolan, is she—tell me truly—is she breaking her heart for him?”

“For him? No, no, a thousand times no. She has never seen him alone in her life.”

Brian looked around, frightened.

“Which way did he go, Ellen?”

“Up the river, toward the depot. But what does this mean? I will know.”

“Hush, Ellen, I hear a train coming—kiss me—pray for us—pray for him most of all.”

He was gone; she saw him fleeing down the cross road in desperate haste, never looking to the right or left, but straight forward, as if the race was for his life. She saw him stop suddenly. The train was sweeping by—he was too late.

Yes, he was too late. But the boy walked on, and in a minute commenced running again. Something might delay the train. Three minutes—he only asked three minutes—no, it swept off like a serpent, coiling slowly around a curve of the road, and no other train would stop there before night. He walked on in the desperate hope of being taken up by some miracle of chance, or of springing on board a train at slow speed, for the boy was ready to risk his life without question. He did get on that special train full of wedding guests when it stopped a moment to have the hot wheels examined.

This delay left Seymour to his own wild self till that note was written, and Cora Lander came down to the log cabin, where he stood waiting for her.

She passed in at the door and stood by his side in the moonlight, throwing the lace shawl back upon her shoulders.

“You have sent for me under a threat. I am here to listen, if you have anything to say.”

Her voice was hard and sharp as steel; her eyes glittered in the moonlight.

He looked at her and reached out his arms with such a cry of tender anguish as thrilled the very air.

“Oh, Cora! Cora! this is not so! Tell me that is not the truth!”

She stood like a statue, neither repelling nor accepting his embrace. His arms fell heavily downward, a groan broke from his lips.

“Will you not speak to me, Cora?” he cried.

“I have nothing to say, Alfred Nolan.”

“Alfred Nolan! Great Heavens! has it reached her at last.”

“It reached me at first. Before you were put into the prison, where you should have hid yourself forever had my will availed anything, I knew all that you had done and felt all the shame of having been your wife even for an hour.”

The poor man dashed both hands to his face and cried out:

“Oh! my God—my God, have mercy upon me!”

“There shall be no mercy for you,” she answered, hoarsely, “unless you quit this place at once and forever. I came here to make this proposal: go to the Indies—go to Australia—I will give you one half of all that I have on earth; secure it to you with bonds that can neither be violated nor evaded. Only go—go—go! and never let me hear of you again!”

That wretched man shook from head to foot. She saw the agony in his face clearly by the moonlight. That look would have stirred even a hard heart to compassion, but she had none.

“Make up your mind at once. In becoming a convict, you set me at liberty. The certificate of our marriage is in my hands; the witnesses are beyond your reach; the grave itself never closed over a dead man more firmly than that disgraceful secret is locked up from all human knowledge.”

“Cora! Cora! was this done purposely? Was it in your heart then? Did you never love me?”

“I don’t know what was in my heart, but supreme folly, of which I repented. Yes, if you will have it—if it will make you hate me—revolt at the sight of me—hear the truth. I had ceased to love you before this infamy gave me a reason for it.”

“Oh! have mercy, have mercy! And I loved you so! I loved you so!”

She took no heed of the anguish which broke out in this cry, but went on ruthlessly:

“Take my offer—it is a princely fortune, but I am tempted to double it and make sure that these eyes will never see you again. Not that I fear you. Refuse it, come up to the house and claim me, as you threatened so delicately in your note, and I will say, ‘this man is insane, he is just out of the State’s Prison; I do not know him.’ Where is your means of proving that we ever met?”

She broke off, for Seymour seized her by both arms, and, forcing her up to the window, looked wildly into her face.

“Is this my wife? Is this the woman I loved; or some fiend in her shape? Woman! woman! do not go too far! I reject your money; it was for you—not that—I became criminal. I will not permit the crime you meditate against an honorable man. Tell me that it is a slander, a gross falsehood—that you never thought of marrying Clarence Brooks, or I will claim you before the crowd you have gathered up yonder. There is evidence, at any rate, that you lived in the same house with me.”

“And I will tell them as I told him, that it was my cousin Virginia Lander who was domesticated with you there—she who is so intimate with your hunchbacked sister. They will believe that, and so will he.”

Seymour still held her arms; his dark eyes looked into hers.

“Is the woman a demon?” he exclaimed, wildly. “Is your love for this honorable man such as you gave to me? Would you tear up his heart by the roots as mine is torn?”

“I love Clarence Brooks, the man you robbed, with all my heart and soul. Oh, that makes you writhe! Let go my arms, you are pinching them black and blue, and I am to be married to him this night. In defiance of your ravings I shall. I did mean to shoot you; but, no, I have the courage to dare the worst.”

“No, madam,” said a deep, grave voice close by her, “neither this night nor ever will you marry Clarence Brooks. He has heard this conversation—your wicked confession arrested him on the threshold of that door. He—”

The woman started upright and turned her haggard face toward him. The moonbeams lay full upon them both. Her dress swayed and rustled as if she were grasping its folds with a shaking hand. With a slow, almost stealthy motion, the hand was lifted. The click of a pistol followed.

Seymour uttered a cry and attempted to wrest the weapon from her, but too late. The sharp sound of a shot rang up the ravine. She fell forward into the arms thrown out to save her, and lay on her husband’s breast, dying.

The sound of that shot reached the pleasure grounds where the guests were wandering a little impatiently, for it was full eleven o’clock, and as yet they had seen no signs of the bride and bridegroom. The shot was followed by a wild shriek, and up from the ravine came a boy, flinging up his hands and crying aloud for help. There was a simultaneous rush through the shrubberies. Men, seeing the darkness into which they were going, snatched lamps from the lower boughs of the trees and lighted their way down into the ravine. The lad went before them, pointing out the little log cabin, from which came heavy sobs and moans, such as can be wrung only from the bosom of a strong man.

It was a strange scene, those men and women with their rich dresses sparsely lighted by the tiny lamps, crowding up this broken path and stopping in dumb awe at the cabin door. Brian went in advance. He too had snatched a lamp from the branches and held it up, revealing a terrible picture.

Seymour was holding the woman, whom they had all been so impatient to see in her bridal dress, in his arms. He had been trembling, moaning and weeping over her in a wild passion of sorrow. In the darkness he had kissed her lips, her forehead and her half-closed eyes, calling upon her to answer him, look at him, breathe so that he could hear the life stir in that bosom. But when that frightened crowd came up he hushed his grief and looked down upon her, still as death.

Clarence Brooks was on his knees also, pressing a handkerchief to the wounded temple, which was blackened a little and bled in slow drops, staining the linen deeper and deeper.

“Here is the physician,” said Brian Nolan, addressing his brother.

Seymour lifted his haggard face, and a gleam of hope came into it. An eminent physician, who had been invited among the guests, touched Brooks on the shoulder, who arose and resigned his place. There was no hope—the lady might live through the night, but that would be more than he could answer for. How had this terrible thing happened?

The woman stirred, struggled and spoke:

“I did it with my own hand. The pistol is mine, my name is on it.”

Then the clergyman came into the cabin, his long gown sweeping like night around him, as he had put it on for the bridal ceremony. He too knelt by her side and took the pale hand in his.

“Was it an accident?” he said.

“Yes, I did it! I was alone—no one else.”

Those white lips only uttered these words. Question that dying woman as they would, she answered still:

“I did it—I was alone—an accident.”

Neither Seymour nor Clarence Brooks spoke. The crowd held them no more responsible than the rest. It was natural that the man who had first lifted that dying woman from the ground should be pale and agitated—more natural that the bridegroom, who stood before them in his wedding garments still and stricken, would be almost paralyzed by a calamity so dreadful. No one dreamed that Seymour was not one of the invited guests; his air, his face, everything about him carried out the idea. So the pallor and the silence of these men passed as a natural thing.

Cora’s lips moved, her eyes opened, and she fixed them on Seymour. He bent down his head, and she whispered:

“Be silent, I—I charge you.”

He whispered back:

“I will, so help me God.”

The clergyman bent over her with sorrow and compassion in his face.

“Poor lady,” he said, “tell us how this dreadful thing happened. It may save great trouble.”

She made a violent effort and spoke, so loud that they heard her outside of the door:

“I loved this cabin; we were going away in the morning. I had time, and came down to take a farewell look. The pistol was in my pocket, forgotten there; I came to the window, the pistol struck against the logs; I bent down to search for it, low, for it caught in my dress; I was drawing it upward with force, when it went off. It was an accident, I was alone.”

The force of these words exhausted her; for a moment she did not breathe. The doctor felt her pulse anxiously. All at once she revived.

“Doctor, must I die?”

“Yes, poor lady, I dare not say otherwise.”

She made a painful struggle and turned her head, fixing those eyes, heavy with coming death, on Brooks. The clergyman and doctor saw that she wished to speak with her bridegroom, and made way for him, drawing back to those who stood around the door.

Brooks obeyed the sad appeal of those eyes, knelt down, bending his head to hers.

“I am not his child, but the niece he warned you of. Virginia is his daughter. Spare my memory. Tell her it was I, not my poor mother, who did it. He says I must die; deal gently with me then.”

“May God forgive you and pity you as I do.”

She turned her eyes back to Seymour and faintly pressed the hand which was shivering under the coldness that was numbing her fingers. Perhaps some gleam of the old love awoke in that death hour, for he remembered in after years that it was his bosom she turned to at last.

“Forgive me, Alfred!”

“I do—I do!”

“Do not let them hurl shame on my grave.”

“No, no, I will perish first. Oh! Cora, my wife! my wife! would to God I had died for you!”

Her hand fell away from his, those beautiful eyes turned to lead, her limbs stretched out suddenly and the stillness of death fell upon that log cabin; but outside, the breeze was moaning in the hemlocks; and the low, sad chime of waters came up from the depths of the ravine, answering the shiver of the leaves and the rustle of flowers that trembled beneath their night-tears, and seemed to whisper mournfully each to the other as the death spirit passed over them.