DOUBLY FALSE.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS,” “THE HEIRESS,”
“THE GOLD BRICK,” “SILENT STRUGGLES,” “THE OLD HOMESTEAD,” “THE
REJECTED WIFE,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE WIFE’S SECRET,” ETC.
There is no pathway leading to the light,
Save that which honor treadeth for her own.
The only star, that guideth through the night,
Truth wears, triumphant, on her azure zone.
· · · · ·
The false, e’en to themselves are traitors all,
Deceit must ever end in weary strife.
As serpents’ eggs give vipers from the thrall
Of their water fosterage, it chains the life—
Coils in and out in many a poisonous fold,
And hisses through the future uncontrolled.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
TO
MY SON’S WIFE,
MRS. ANNIE SUTTON STEPHENS,
THIS BOOK IS
MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
ANN S. STEPHENS.
WASHINGTON, D. C., MAY 5TH, 1868.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— MUSIC AND DANCING 23
II.— OVERBOARD 29
III.— ADRIFT 40
IV.— THE MANSION ON THE RIVER 45
V.— THE IRON SAFE 54
VI.— EUNICE HURD 60
VII.— BROTHER AND SISTER 68
VIII.— FINDING THE WILL 75
IX.— THE BILL OF EXCHANGE 82
X.— MRS. LANDER ENTERS ON HER FORTUNE 93
XI.— SALE OF THE CHESTNUT HORSES 99
XII.— MEETING OF THE LOVERS 110
XIII.— THE MIDNIGHT HOUR 120
XIV.— THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPTED 125
XV.— THE DISTURBED CONSCIENCE 136
XVI.— KINDRED LOVE 140
XVII.— DREAMS AND STRUGGLES 149
XVIII.— WHICH WAS THE DAUGHTER 158
XIX.— THE AUDACITY OF CRIME 168
XX.— EUNICE HURD EXASPERATED 177
XXI.— MRS. LANDER AND CORA VISIT LAWYER STONE 190
XXII.— ANOTHER STRANGE VISIT 195
XXIII.— THE WAYSIDE TAVERN 205
XXIV.— LOVE IN A LOG CABIN 212
XXV.— CORA LANDER AND EUNICE HURD IN COLLISION 225
XXVI.— THE FIEND AND THE ANGEL 232
XXVII.— PREPARING FOR HAPPINESS 241
XXVIII.— THAT BIJOU OF A HOME 256
XXIX.— THE WEDDING TOILET 267
XXX.— AFTER THE WEDDING 272
XXXI.— THE AUDACITY OF CRIME 279
XXXII.— A WEEK OF LOVE LIFE 288
XXXIII.— THE FIRST CLOUD 299
XXXIV.— EUNICE HURD FINDS HER MATCH AND SO DOES THE HEIRESS 308
XXXV.— CLARENCE BROOKS 319
XXXVI.— A LETTER FROM THE DEAD 327
XXXVII.— TELLING WHAT VIRGINIA AND ELLEN FOUND WHILE LOOKING FOR
CHESTNUTS 341
XXXVIII.— BREAKING IN THE BLACK HORSE 354
XXXIX.— THE FISHING PARTY 366
XL.— CLARENCE BROOKS TALKS CONFIDENTIALLY TO CORA LANDER 374
XLI.— WOMANLY FASCINATIONS 385
XLII.— A AUTUMN PIC-NIC IN THE WOODS 394
XLIII.— ELLEN NOLAN VISITS CLARENCE BROOKS 404
XLIV.— THE WHITE HORSE DISTANCES THE BLACK ONE 412
XLV.— GETTING RID OF WITNESSES 418
XLVI.— THE BROTHER’S CONFESSION 428
XLVII.— LISTENING AND PLOTTING 435
XLVIII.— HOPES OF REDEMPTION 448
XLIX.— JOSHUA HURD PROVES HOSPITABLE AND KIND 457
L.— THE FALSE STORY AND THE FORGED LETTER 466
LI.— THE MIDNIGHT RIDE 481
LII.— ANGELS’ VISITS 490
LIII.— THAT CRUEL LETTER 500
LIV.— IN PRISON 508
LV.— THE SECOND CONQUEST 516
LVI.— A NEW HOME 525
LVII.— PLEADING FOR A PARDON 532
LVIII.— DEATH IN THE LOG CABIN 535
LIX.— CONCLUSION 547
DOUBLY FALSE.
CHAPTER I.
MUSIC AND DANCING.
A splendidly bright day in early spring. The ocean was unusually calm;
but a pleasant sunshine broke up its greenish blue, and dashed its tiny
ripples with the restless glory of quicksilver shimmering over crystal.
Far away the waters lapsed imperceptibly into the pure atmosphere of the
horizon, veiling the soft union with a gossamer haze exquisitely
beautiful.
Not a sail was in sight!—not a bird in the air! One great ocean steamer
moved through the calm of the waters, her broad, white sails curving
like the tired wings of a seagull, and her black pipes heaving forth
mighty fleeces of smoke, that curled, eddied and fell apart in the wind,
floating off in a soft film of silvery gray, dazzled through and through
with sunbeams.
The steamer was full of life, cheerful and brilliant. Though not
absolutely crowded, it had no room to spare, and all the luxury that
could be introduced into a sea voyage was to be found on its decks that
pleasant spring afternoon. Fur rugs and little encampments of crimson
cushions lay about in the shady places, occupied by men, women and
children, sitting low like Turks, if not exactly in the Oriental
fashion. Campstools and a few easy chairs were filled with dreamy
occupants, some reading, some chatting, and others sound asleep.
Perhaps four hundred passengers were on board, most of them of that idle
upper class which holds some of the weakest and again the most powerful
members of social life in its ranks. They were in this case neither
better nor worse than the crowd of people who usually cross and recross
the Atlantic every season, as if it were some inland lake. Upon those
fur rugs and cushions a few men, tired out with the active duties of
life, sought that necessary reaction a sea life brings; with them were
merchants on business, clever men travelling for information—commonplace
people killing time—sharpers on the alert for prey—adventurers, and
worse still, adventuresses, forcing themselves, by craft or brazen
assurance, into respectable society—with all the odds and ends of that
strange thing called fashionable life. To this great majority were added
one or two God-gifted souls to whom life, in itself, was an exquisite
blessing. These found even that calm sea voyage full of wonderful poetry
which the crowd never dreamed of. They saw glorious pictures in the sky
as it bent over them—thrilling music in the soft heave of the waves
which floated them steadily shoreward, and still more varied interest in
the life that moved and changed and worked itself out among the human
beings with whom they were cast.
Of this class was the young girl seated on that carriage robe of white
fur, which was spread out on a shadowy portion of the deck like a
snow-drift, half melted away, upon a ground-work of azure-cloth
scolloped and embroidered into a rich lace-work border. She was a
bright, happy-looking girl, with a face that Titian would have given a
goblet of wine to paint, exactly as she reclined, with her elbow resting
on a pile of cushions over which a shawl of blue cashmere, with a good
deal of gold-color in the border, had been flung in rich drapery. Her
head, with more ruddy brown hair than most women possess, was supported
by the palm of a white and finely-shaped hand—not very small, for the
girl herself was of generous proportions, and in perfect symmetry lay
her chief claim to that grace and loveliness which distinguished her.
Close by the pretty couch, which had an air of the Orient in it, sat a
middle aged man, rather handsome—very respectable—and at the moment
closing his eyes in a dreamy way which might or might not be slumber.
Something in the distance aroused the girl and caused the father to open
a pair of mild blue eyes rather suddenly, for she cried out in her
quick, eager way:
“Look, look, papa!”
It was only a couple of sturgeons tumbling over each other and leaping
into the sunshine, which for an instant scaled their backs with silver
and kindled a little rainbow among the drops they flashed into the air.
“Isn’t it wonderful, papa, that such awkward creatures can manage to
display so much beauty?” cried the girl, resting one arm on her father’s
knee and raising herself up to the cushions that she might watch the
ponderous gambols that any one else might have considered a disturbance.
“Nonsense, my dear; we have seen a hundred of them tumbling about like
salt-water pigs. Let me rest, do—this glare hurts my eyes.”
“Well, sleep away, dear old papa, if you like it best—I’ll settle to
reading again, since you will have nothing to do with me.”
This was uttered with a good-natured little laugh, while the young lady
settled back into her former position, assuming her book, in its dainty
binding, of scarlet and gold, which had been lying half-buried in the
white fur, but she contented herself for a time with rustling the leaves
as it lay in her lap.
With a smile on his lips the old man fell off into his sweet slumber
again, and his daughter began to read. Just then a group of young
persons came up from the cabin, chatting together and sending out little
joyous bursts of laughter. The first that appeared was a young lady who
presented so complete a counterpart of the person we have been
describing that a stranger would have glanced at the white carriage robe
at once to make sure that she had not left it. The same lithe form was
there, the same brilliant complexion, with eyes not altogether gray or
blue, but which partook of either color as fancy or passion warmed them.
The hair was of that remarkable tint which even artists have failed to
name properly, but which the Venetians painted in all its glory. These
traits, and more than these, the two girls had in common; no sisters
ever looked more alike or possessed the same grace of manner. They were
closely related, no one could doubt that who looked upon them, though
one was quietly reading her book and the other appeared in all the ardor
and joyousness of a spirited conversation.
“No, indeed,” she was saying, “I make no pretence; I play well enough,
perhaps, but it is my cousin whose voice you heard last night. There she
is. Ask her.”
She looked very beautiful, standing there in the passage with a cashmere
shawl gathered in careless grace around her, while the wind shook out
the barb of Brussels point tied in a knot at the back of her little
straw hat, and fluttered the cock’s plume in front, giving a look of
breezy cheerfulness to her persona.
“Go ask her—or shall I?”
“You; you, of course,” cried out half-a-dozen voices; “she might refuse
us.”
Cora Lander walked across the deck, sweeping it with her robe of rich
silk—far too rich for the occasion—and paused close by her cousin, who
raised her eyes from the book she was reading with a pleasant smile.
“Virginia, dear, do come and pacify these good people with one little
air. They heard that outbreak of yours last night in _Ah che la morte_,
and will not be content without the whole of it.”
Virginia Lander dropped her book, and a bright color flashed over her
face, but this was all the sign of annoyance that she gave, though she
felt much.
“Oh yes, I will sing, if they desire it,” she said quietly. “Come with
me, Cora, and play the accompaniment.”
The two girls went down to the cabin in company, and a brighter,
lovelier pair you have seldom looked upon. It was not the prettiness of
common beauty, which is in fact less effective than intelligent
ugliness. But there was something unique, graceful and spirited which
belonged to them alone, provoking inquiry and commanding admiration.
Besides, one of them, the daughter of the old man dozing there on the
deck, was heiress to every dollar the millionaire possessed.
Cora Lander sat down at the grand piano in the cabin. Virginia took a
position by her, and a merry group of young people swarmed around, eager
for any amusement that promised to break up the monotony of sea life,
but so full of mirth that they could hardly keep quiet even for the
music. A prelude—a masterly sweep of the keys, and then Virginia
Lander’s voice, full, rich and clear, broke in—at first timidly and with
a tremor of distrust in it—for she did not like this public crowd of
listeners. But even timidity cannot long hold true genius in thrall.
After a moment the color flashed into her face—her lips parted, warm and
red as coral, and out gushed the whole volume and force of her exquisite
voice, thrilling the hearts that listened as music had seldom touched
them before. The depth, power and wonderful pathos of a voice cultivated
to perfection charmed the crowd into willing silence, which continued a
full minute after the last notes left her lips. Then there was a tumult
of compliments—exclamations of delight from those who spoke from the
surface—and deep sighs of absolute ecstasy from such as understood and
felt the delicious sweetness of her performance.
Virginia was pleased. Who is not by genuine admiration? She laughed a
little nervously, blushed crimson on seeing that a good many gentlemen
had joined her audience, and retreated shyly to a sofa at some distance.
That moment you might have discovered where the difference lay between
these two girls. It was in the expression. As Virginia drew back, half
pleased, half ashamed of her own success, Cora let her white hands fall
on the keys she had touched with such wonderful skill, and an expression
swept over her face that transfigured it completely. In all that buzz,
hum and general outburst of praise she had no part. Her supporting
music, brilliant as it was, had been utterly overwhelmed by Virginia’s
voice. She sat a moment looking straight before her. Humiliating
disappointment left her eyes almost black. Her lips curled in their
scornful redness, but the color in her cheeks died out, sweeping all the
young brightness from her features.
This lasted a single minute, but during that brief time no one would
have thought Cora Lander like her cousin Virginia, who had crept into a
corner of her sofa abashed by the burst of genuine applause that
followed her singing, but thrilled by the sweet exercise of her own
genius, which was in itself a delight.
For one instant the stormy look darkened on Cora’s face, then, with an
impulse which seemed inspiration, but was defiance, she dashed her hands
across the keys and swept them with a power that hushed every voice in
the room and turned the current of applause in her favor.
Virginia’s face brightened beautifully as this outburst of approval
reached her. Always generous and sympathetic, she forgot herself utterly
and came up to the piano radiant. Cora saw her, and with a proud lift of
the head, dashed into a waltz which rang through the cabin like a silver
war-trumpet challenging hosts to action. Half-a-dozen young ladies
accepted the exhilarating appeal, wound their arms around each other,
and whirled off in one of those impromptu dances which are the very
effervescence of happy youth. Cora cast a glance over her shoulder and
dashed on, winging those light feet with melody. Away and around they
flew jostling each other, laughing at the fun, changing partners—falling
into little mistakes, and sending their clear laughter through the music
in a riot of sweet sounds.
Those who could not find room to dance applauded with hands and voice:
those who could rushed on more joyously, laughing at their less
fortunate friends, till the whole cabin was one whirl of gaiety.
In the midst, piercing like an arrow through the mellow laughter, came a
cry from midship:
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”