Doubly false

A man lay sick almost unto death in that stone farm-house. Hot fever was preying upon his brain; an awful sorrow gnawed at his heart. He did not even know that sweet-voiced, gentle sister, who watched over him so faithfully, or the wild-eyed boy, who stood hours together at the foot of his bed, praying for him as only good, true-hearted youth can pray. Virginia Lander, too, came and went among them with kindly soothing, though her own heart was filled with gloomy anxieties; for she knew that an inquest had been held in her father’s house, and that her cousin, the young girl she had once loved so dearly, lay cold and dead, shrouded in the marriage garments that had been prepared for her wedding. She knew that Cora’s own account of the death had been received unquestioned by the jury. Indeed, what other reason could be given for the violent death of a young creature, so richly endowed, whose path of life seemed altogether of roses—a creature who did not seem to have an enemy on earth.

Neither Clarence Brooks nor Alfred Nolan were questioned, but the servants confirmed the account that unhappy woman gave of her death. Having a little time, while the dressmaker was letting out her wedding-robe, she had put on another and gone out, doubtless, as she said, to take leave of a place made dear by loving associations. There she had met her death. It was a strange fancy for a young bride to indulge in; but the evening was beautiful, and she had loved that place from childhood, when it had been her play-house. Some said it was in this little cabin she had first seen Clarence Brooks. So, in place of a scandal, the crowd of persons who had gone up to a wedding and found a death-bed, went home weaving out beautiful romances, which no one ever contradicted. Cora Lander had besought those she had wronged to spare her memory, and they did spare it, with religious sacredness.

While Seymour lay in his first illness, and Virginia shared Ellen’s duties in the sick room, Lawyer Stone came down from the marble house and besought her to go home. The will, he said, left Amos Lander’s property to his niece, after the daughter’s death, so there was no need of the question of identity being opened at all. He had brought her a letter from Clarence Brooks, the gentleman to whom her cousin would have been married, but for the sad accident which had sent her so suddenly out of life. Would she read the letter before they started?

Virginia took the letter into her own room, and read it alone, with tears and prayers and mournful thanksgiving. It told her everything that the reader knows. It told her more; though there was not one word of love in all those closely written pages, she knew, as well as if it had been printed there in letters of gold, that in Clarence Brooks’ heart there had been no real unfaithfulness. He did not say this in words; but it pervaded the whole letter as if it had been lying close to his heart for a year.

So Virginia, feeling this her higher duty, went back to the home which was now all her own. There Clarence Brooks met her at the door. They looked into each other’s faces in mournful silence, and, without a word, he led her up stairs into the room from which Cora had driven her so rudely, little more than a year ago. There, upon a bed pure and cold as a snowbank, she found all that was left of this haughty woman. The mother, ignorant of that other marriage, which made the bridal dress a mockery, had insisted that the satin robe, in all its rich amplitude, should go with her down to the grave. She lay there, calm, and still, like a young bride sleeping. The rich folds of her hair had been drawn in waves over the wound on her temple, concealing it entirely. The veil fell over her face, like frost-work on the white rose. All that had been bright and blooming about her had vanished into dead whiteness.

Up to that time, a bitter sense of wrong still lingered in Virginia’s heart against Cora Lander. But it melted into tender forgiveness, when she saw her lying there in the tired repose of death. She lifted the veil, which cast its faint shadows over her face, and kissed the lips that had wronged her so. When she turned away, holy tears trembled in the network of that shrouding lace.

She was about to leave the room, when her progress was stopped by Eunice Hurd, who came in, supporting Mrs. Lander with one arm, and followed by Joshua, whose eyes were red with weeping.

“Miss Virginia, we have come here to say how wrong—”

“Hush!” said Virginia, pointing to the bed. “Spare her; we know everything. Do not be troubled, Eunice; I can never forget how truly you were my friend when I needed one so much. Aunt Lander, for her sake let us be friends. But we must not talk here.”

Mrs. Lander looked piteously into that sweet face. She saw nothing but forgiveness there, and the tears began to tremble from her eyes. She cast a glance at the bed, and, in a low, broken voice, tried to take blame on herself.

“It was me. My child! my poor child! It was for my sake she did it.”

“Eliza, don’t say that; don’t say nothing. Let the dead bury the dead. But there is one thing that she did not know, and couldn’t have told. Miss Virginia, that poor young cretur, that they seem to have buried in a snowbank, is my own niece, and Joshua is her uncle. Eliza Lander here, is our youngest sister, and she wants us to say so. This awful trouble has took all the pride out of her. She ain’t ashamed to own her poor relations now. She wanted to live with us and we wanted to live with her, but she was a lady born, though it was in a house where you could see daylight through the clapboards, and we wasn’t. But we wasn’t mean enough nuther to want to mortify her amongst her husband’s connections, so we jest came here and hired out. All she asked was that we should take some other name, so that we shouldn’t be found out; and we did it.

“Arter this, it’s sister Eliza Lander’s wish that we should take back the old name, but I wont. She’s a lady, and I’m proud of it. But I ain’t nothing of that sort, nor is Joshua. We’ve told you the truth, because secrets in a family lie awful heavy on the mind; but, as to the rest of the world, it’s none of their business. So my name is Eunice Hurd and his name is Joshua Hurd. Hers is Eliza Lander, and we two are her servants. Where she goes we mean to go, where she lives we shall be chasing after, and we mean to be buried in the same graveyard with her, as that young woman in the Bible said to her husband’s marm. If she’s sent out of this house poor we’ll work for her. She’s the only lady our family ever had in it, and we’ll work our fingers to the bone, before she shall want her lace cap and silk gown, jest as she allers had ’em when Amos Lander was alive, and you two cousins little girls.”

“She shall never want anything that I can give her, not shall you my faithful friend. Aunt Lander, do be comforted; it breaks my heart to see you looking so old and worn.”

She wiped away the tears from those heavy eyes, and kissed that poor, grieving mouth, with more than a daughter’s tenderness. “Take good care of her, Eunice, and tell her that, while we can help it, she shall have no more troubles.”

Here Joshua came forward.

“Miss Jinia, I can’t do much for you. It ain’t in me but I’d—I’d die to please you. Yes, I think it ed come tough; but, if you want me to, I’ll give up licker—never taste another drop of punch in my born days, if you say the word.”

“But I wish you to give up nothing, Joshua.”

“Well then, I’ll take sich care of Snowball; litter her down with roses, if you say so. I’ll take good care of the black horse too, for her sake, for, arter all, she was my own niece.”

When this conversation commenced, Brooks and Virginia had quietly withdrawn from the chamber of death and closed the door, but Joshua spoke low when he alluded to the young creature lying within, and took off the hat, which had been returned to his head, in that natural reverence which even ignorant men pay to death.

After this, the group went down stairs, but directly Eunice returned again.

“About the mourning,” she said. “Eliza Lander is dreadfully anxious, and wants to know if anything has been done.”

“Tell her to please herself. I have no need of change,” said Virginia, almost smiling. “Take charge of everything, Eunice, for, when all is over, I must go back to the farm-house. Ellen has a brother there, very sick.”

He was indeed very sick, nigh unto death, and so he lay for many a weary week. Ellen’s book came out, while he was at the worst, and she scarcely knew of it, though its fame went far and wide, reaching distant lands, and critics on both sides the Atlantic pronounced it a work of wonderful promise. She had no thoughts to give from that sick bed, where the son her father had charged her to save, with his last words, lay suffering. Clarence Brooks found his way to that farm-house, and strove to comfort the young man who lay there with more than his old friendliness.

One day when Alfred Nolan was in his right mind and gazing with wistful observation in Brian’s face, the boy crept close to his bed, and took the hand his brother held out.

“Brother,” he said; “it was I who brought all this upon you. I followed you up the railway—saw you go into that cabin—saw her come down the ravine. This frightened me. I was afraid that some trouble would happen. I heard the threats in her voice and went after Mr. Brooks. He was in a chamber of the house, ready and waiting to be called by pleasanter messengers than I was. But, when I told him that a man was in peril, he seized his hat and followed me. If his coming caused what happened afterward, I am to blame. Forgive me, Alfred, I intended no wrong. Forgive me.”

“My poor boy,” said the invalid, faintly; “there was no fault in what you did. God was working out our punishment and it came. It was better to have our lives end so than in deeper sin. I thought these things over very solemnly in the stone tomb down yonder. I have thought them over here since our sister gave me, word for word, that last message from our father. She is dead, but God is merciful, and who shall say that the last moments of her young life were not spent in asking for that Divine forgiveness which is not limited by time or space.”

Nolan lay still, and with his eyes closed some minutes after he uttered these words. When he spoke again it was more calmly.

“Brian.”

“Well, brother.”

“This is no place for us. I could never be at rest here. But far away, beyond the Rocky Mountains, lie vast countries, rich in minerals, fertile in soil, and so far from what we call social life, that a man can live by himself and learn to grow strong. God is giving me back life, Brian. I am young, and must no longer be an idle and useless man. Will you go with me to this country, Brian?”

“I will go with you anywhere, brother,” answered Brian.

Ellen came in just then bringing a cup of tea for the invalid.

Brian, with all a boy’s eagerness, asked her if she would go with them.

“Nay,” interposed Alfred; “she is feeble. She must be left behind.”

She looked at her elder brother, and quick tears came into her eyes, while she repeated, with sweet, impressive earnestness, the words of Ruth to her mother:

“Ask me not to leave thee, or cease from following after thee. Where thou goest, I will go. Where thou livest, I will live; thy people shall be my people; thy God shall be my God; and where thou diest, there will I be buried.”

No more was said that day, for neither Alfred nor Brian could speak, their voices were too full of tears. But it was agreed that the brothers should go first, and prepare a home for Ellen, who would get the money her book was bringing in for their use, write another, and make arrangements with the publishers for more, that were yet to come out of her new life. She thanked Heaven that her work could be done anywhere. Alfred wondered at the prompt business way in which all this was said; but he had yet to learn that real, absolute genius is comprehensive as Nature itself. Those who confine it to simple romance dwarf God’s greatest gift to man.

When Clarence Brooks heard what Alfred Nolan had decided on, he resolved to go with him, for Nolan absolutely refused to accept the money which Brooks had almost forced upon him, and he resolved to invest it there, hoping that it would at last find acceptance. So, after a few weeks, these two men, who had travelled over the Old World in company, bridged the awful chasm that had separated them, and went Westward, taking Brian with them. Ellen went back to the marble house, and joined Virginia in the tranquil life she led there.

About a year from this time Brooks came back again, strengthened and rendered cheerful by the constant change and excitement of a frontier life. A month after that, there was a quiet little wedding in that marble mansion, so quiet that the daily journals brought the first news of it to those who had been invited to that other sumptuous affair which ended so fatally.

At many a breakfast table that morning the news was read aloud, and more than once it was followed by this exclamation: “So Clarence Brooks has married Amos Lander’s heiress, after all. So much alike, they say. The bridesmaids—why, there was only one, the author of that book everybody is talking about! Would you believe it? She is a hunchback, but so talented and petite. Such lovely eyes and hair too. Mrs. —— had it from her publishers.”

The next month Ellen Nolan went West with her brother, who had used his scientific learning to great purpose, and was opening sources of prosperity in the wilderness, with his knowledge, which many a hard-working man availed himself of, working the same mines and gathering the same gold, which was fast lifting him into that respectability and independence which honorable labor, either of mind or hands alone can bring.

Ellen keeps his house; she has plenty of mountain flowers all around that neat log cabin, and so many vines clambering over it, that it looks more like a mammoth bird’s nest than a human habitation. But, though she loves flowers, and seeks to cover up coarser things with them, back of that house you may find a well kept vegetable garden, which Brian takes care of, and which the colored girl, who went West with her, sometimes vigorously works in, when there is nothing to be done indoors. Especially she goes out when her young mistress is writing by that little window, curtained with morning glories; for then it seems almost wrong to tread hard upon the floor, and she feels like holding her breath as she moves about.

Just now Ellen is reading a letter from Mrs. Clarence Brooks, who proposed, during the summer, to take that Western trip with her husband. She wrote just then to know if there was an unoccupied room in the cabin for them.

Ellen has taken up her pen, which shakes and quivers in her hand; but she makes out to write, that unoccupied rooms are unheard of in that part of the country, but a new cabin, opening into theirs, will be up long and long before her friends can get there. In fact, Alfred will have the log-rolling at once, that she can have flowers growing over it when they come.