Charles Winthrop had written his family that matters which he wished to
complete would detain him at the college for a few weeks, and begged his
father to make his excuses at the wedding. He had an instinctive
feeling that Harrington would not care, as well as an inexplicable
aversion to being a witness at the wedding ceremony of his elder brother
and the girl who had burst upon his vision that afternoon and seemed to
open a new world to him.
He had long ago put by the strange, sweet sense of having discovered in
her a familiar friend--one who fitted into his longings and his ideals
as though he had always been waiting for her. He called the thought a
foolish sentimentality, and, in view of the relation in which she was
soon to be placed to him, he tried to be as matter-of-fact as possible
with regard to her. He sent several pleasant brotherly messages--which
never reached her--through the medium of Harrington. He tried to accept
the thought of a new sister as a delightful thing, and always he
regarded her beauty and grace with the utmost reverence. The father,
while feeling that Charles's absence was almost a discourtesy to his
brother, nevertheless gave reluctant consent.
Then, a few days before the wedding, there came over Charles an
overwhelming feeling that he must go. All his former arguments in favor
of remaining away seemed as water. He felt as if the eyes and the smile
of the girl he had seen upon the hillside called him imperatively. Try
as he would to tell himself that with his present feelings it was
foolish, even dangerous, for him to go near her, and that his brother
was already a little jealous owing to the look that had passed between
them, it made no difference; he felt that he must go, and go he did.
Without waiting to do more than throw a few necessities into a valise,
he took the first stage-coach that started from Boston. All through the
long journey his heart beat wildly with the thought that he was to meet
her. He was ashamed of the feeling. Yet in vain he told himself that
it was wrong; that he ought to go back. Once he flung himself out of
the coach at a station where they were taking on fresh horses,
determined to return to Boston, and then madly climbed up to the seat
with the driver just as the coach started again. After that he grimly
faced the matter, asking himself if it were not better to go on after
all, meet his new sister-in-law on a common, every-day basis, and get
this nonsense out of his head forever. Then he tried to sleep and
forget, but her face and her smile haunted him, and there seemed to be
an appeal in her eyes that called him to her aid.
When he presented himself at his father's door in the early morning of
the day before the wedding, his face was gray with combat, yet in his
eyes was the light of a noble resolve. In spite of all his reasoning,
he could not help the feeling that he had come because he was needed,
but he was here, and there was a duty connected with it which he felt
strong to do. It was therefore not a surprise to him when his father
met him with eager welcome and a grave face.
"My son, you have come just when I needed you most," he said as he drew
the young man inside the library door. And then Charles noticed that his
father seemed suddenly aged and heavy with sorrow. He knew it was
nothing connected with the immediate family of the household, for they
had all welcomed him with eager clamor and delight.
"Sit down, Charles."
His father was fastening the door against intrusion, and the young man's
heart stood still with apprehension.
Mr. Winthrop turned and looked in his son's face with feverishly bright
eyes that showed their lack of sleep. Then he seated himself in the
arm-chair before the desk, drawing Charles's chair close, that he might
speak in lowered tones.
"Something terrible has occurred, Charles. Your mother does not know
yet. The blow has fallen so suddenly that I find myself unable to
believe it is true. I am dazed. I can scarcely think. Charles, your
only brother, my son----" The old man paused, and with a sudden
contraction of his heart Charles noticed that there were tears coursing
down his father's wrinkled cheeks. The voice quavered and went on:
"Our first-born has been guilty of a great wrong. It is best to face
the truth, my boy. Harrington has committed a crime. I don't see how
it can be thought otherwise by any honest person. I am trying to look
at the facts, but even as I speak the words I cannot realize that they
are true of one of our family."
Charles waited, his eyes fixed upon the old man's face, and a great
indignation growing within him toward the brother who could dare bring
dishonor upon such a father!
Mr. Winthrop bowed his head upon his hand for a moment, as though he
could not bear to reveal the whole truth. Then he roused himself as one
who has need of haste.
"Charles, your brother already has a wife and two little children, yet
he was proposing to wed another woman. He has dared to court and win an
innocent young girl, and to hoodwink her honorable father. And the
worst of it is that he meant to carry it out and marry her! Oh the
shame of it! We are disgraced, Charles! We are all disgraced!" With a
low groan the father buried his face in his hands and bowed himself upon
the desk.
The heart of the young man grew hot. A great desire for vengeance was
surging over him. He arose excitedly from his chair.
"Harrington has done this, father!"
The words burst from his lips more like a judgment pronounced than like
a question or a statement of fact. It was as if the acknowledgment of
his brother's sin were a kind of climax in his thought of that brother,
whom he had been all these years attempting to idealize, as a boy so
often idealizes an elder brother. The words bore with them, too, the
recognition of all the pain and disappointment and perplexity of many
things throughout the years. Charles's finer nature suddenly revolted in
disgust from all that he saw his brother to be.
He stood splendidly indignant, above the bowed head of his father, a
picture of fine, strong manhood, ready to avenge the rights of insulted
womanhood. There before him arose a vision obscuring the walls of the
book-lined library--the vision of a girl, fresh, fair, lovely, with eyes
alight, cheeks aglow, floating hair, and fluttering white drapery,
garlanded in pink and white blossoms that filled the air with the breath
of a spring morning. It blazed upon him with clearness and beauty, and
veiled by no hindering sense of wrong. With a great heart throb of joy,
he recognized that she no longer belonged to his brother.
The thought had scarcely thrilled his senses before he was ashamed of
it. How could he think of joy or anything else in the midst of the
shame and trouble that had fallen upon them all? And most of all upon
the beautiful girl, who would bear the heaviest burden.
True, there was another side to the matter, a side in which she might be
thankful that Harrington's true character had been discovered before
things had gone further; but there was mortification, and disgrace
inevitable. Then, it was to be presumed that she had loved Harrington,
or why should she be about to marry him? Poor child! His heart stood
still in pity as he realized what the sin of his brother would mean to
her.
These thoughts went swiftly through his mind as he stood beside his
father. It seemed to him that in the instant of the elder man's silence
he reviewed the whole catastrophe in its various phases and lived
through years of experience and knowledge. Then his father's trembling
voice took up the story again:
"Yes, Harrington did that!" They were Charles's own words, but somehow,
on his father's tongue, they spoke a new pathos, and again the young man
saw another side to the whole terrible matter. Harrington was the
oldest son, adored of his mother. Though he had been gone from home for
years, he had yet remained her idol until it had seemed his every virtue
had grown to perfection, while all his faults were utterly forgotten.
During his visits, which had been few and far between, the whole family
had put itself out of its routine, and hung upon his wishes. His
stories had been listened to with the deference due to one older and
wiser than any of them could ever hope to be. His wishes had been law,
his opinions gospel truth. Charles recalled how his mother had always
called together the entire family to listen to the reading to one of
Harrington's rare epistles, demanding a solemnity and attention second
only to that required at family worship. These letters always ended
with a description of some new enterprise in which he was deeply
involved, and which required large sums of money. His father and mother
had always managed to send him something to "help out" at such times,
and made no secret of it, rather rejoicing that they were able to do so.
Charles knew that his father owned large and valuable tracts of land,
and was well off; yet it had not always been convenient to send
Harrington large sums of money, and often the family luxuries and
pleasures had been somewhat curtailed in consequence. All such
sacrifices had been cheerfully made for the family idol, by himself as
well as by his three sisters, his maiden aunt, and his father and
mother.
At this critical moment it occurred to Charles to wonder if his father
had ever received any interest from these many sums of money which he
from time to time had put into Harrington's business schemes.
Then his father's voice drowned all other thoughts:
"I do not know how to tell your poor mother!" The trembling tones were
almost unrecognizable to the son. "She ought to know at once. We must
plan what to do. The Van Rensselaers must be told."
He bowed his head with another groan.
The son sat down and endeavored to get a better grasp of the situation.
"Since when have you known this, Father?" he asked keenly.
"Last night. Mother had gone to bed, and I did not disturb her. I felt
I must think it all out--what to do--before I told them; but I cannot
see my way any clearer. It is a most infamous thing to have happened in
a respectable family. Charles, I'm sorry to have to say it, but I'm
afraid your brother is a--a--a--_scoundrel_!"
The old gentleman's face was red and excited as he brought forth the
awful utterance. It was the thought which had been growing in his mind
all through the long night watch, but he had not been willing to
acknowledge it. He arose now and began to pace the room.
"He certainly is, if this is true, Father," said the son. frowning.
"But are you quite sure it is not some miserable blackmailing scheme?
Such stories are often trumped up at the last minute to get money out of
respectable people. I've heard of it in Boston. It is rare, of course,
but it could happen. I cannot think Harrington would do such an awful
thing."
"Son, it is all too true," said the old man sadly. "Do you remember
William McCord? You know he was my trusted farm-hand for years, and I
have kept in touch with him by letter ever since he went out West to
take up a claim on gold land. Well, it was he that brought me the
terrible news. He came last evening, after mother and the girls had
gone upstairs. He did not want to see them and have them question him
till he had told me all. He brought letters and proofs from
Harrington's wife and the minister who married them, and, moreover, he
was an eye-witness to the fact that Harrington lived in the West with
his wife and two children. You yourself know that William McCord could
not tell a lie."
"No," assented Charles; "never."
"Harrington's wife is a good, respectable woman, though not very well
educated. She is the daughter of a Virginia man who went out there to
hunt for gold. He died a couple of years ago, and now the daughter and
her children have no one to look after them. It seems Harrington has
neglected them for the past three years, only coming home once in six
months, and giving them very little money. He has told them a story of
hard luck.
"The wife is desperate now. She has been ill, and needs many things for
herself and the children. At last she learned of Harrington's intended
marriage through William, whose sister had written him the home news.
"She sold what few possessions she had and brought the proceeds to
William, begging him to come on here and find out if the story was true.
William refused to take her money, but started at once, at his own
expense, and came straight to me with the story. Just think of it,
Charles! Our grandchildren actually cold and hungry and almost
naked--our own flesh and blood! Your nephew and niece, Charles."
The younger man frowned. He had very little sympathy at present to
expend upon any possible nephews and nieces. He was thinking of a
lovely girl with eyes like stars. What were cold and hunger compared to
her plight?
"Where is my brother?" The boy looked older than he had ever seemed to
his father as he asked the question.
"I do not know. He has always told us to write to an address in New
York, but often he has not answered our letters for weeks. I am afraid
there is still more to be told than we know. McCord tells me he was
under some sort of a cloud financially out there--some trouble about
shares in a gold mine. I'm afraid he has been speculating. He has
borrowed a great deal of money from me at one time and another, but he
has always told me that he was doing nicely and that some day I should
have a handsome return for all I had put in. But if that is the case,
why should he have dared to involve a sweet and innocent young girl in
it all? Why should he dare do so dreadful a thing!--unless he is under
the impression that his first wife is dead. I cannot think that my boy
would do this thing!"
The father's head dropped upon his breast, but the brother stood erect
with flashing eyes.
"I see it all clearly, Father. He is marrying this girl for her money.
He needs money for some of his schemes, and he is afraid to ask you for
any more, lest you suspect something. He told me once that she was very
rich. I think you are right: my brother is a scoundrel!"
The father groaned aloud.
"But, Father, what are you going to do about it? Have you sent word to
Mr. Van Rensselaer? The wedding is set for to-morrow morning. There
will be scarcely time to stop the guests from coming."
Outside the window, wheels could be heard on the gravel, as the old
coachman drove the family carriage up to the front steps. Pompey, the
stable boy, followed, driving the mare in the carryall.
Almost simultaneously came the hurry of ladies' feet down the staircase,
and the swish of silken skirts. Betty and Cordelia and Madeleine rushed
through the hall and climbed into the carryall, with soft excitement and
gentle laughter. This wedding journey was a great event, and they had
talked of nothing else for weeks.
"Come, Charles. Come, Father, aren't you ready?" called Betty. "It is
high time we started. Mother is all dressed, and Aunt Martha is just
tying her bonnet. Charles, Mother wants you to ride in the carriage with
her this morning; but you are to change off with us by-and-by, so we'll
all have a good look at you."
The father caught his breath and looked helplessly at his son. "I did
not realize it was getting so late," he murmured. "Of course the
journey must be stopped."
"Of course, Father," agreed Charles decidedly. "Go quickly and tell
Mother all about it. I will tell the girls and Aunt Martha," he added.
With a look as though he were going to his death, the older man hurried
up the stairs to his wife, and Charles went out to the piazza. The two
servants stood grinning happily, feeling the overflow of the festive
occasion. Charles could not reveal his secret there.
"Come into the house, a minute, girls. I've something to tell you."
"Indeed, no, Charles!" said Cordelia emphatically. "I will not climb out
over the wheels again. I nearly ruined my pelisse getting in. It is
very dusty. And I have covered myself all nicely for the journey.
Won't it keep?"
"Cordelia, you must come," said the young man imperiously, and stalked
into the house, uncertain whether they would follow him.
In a moment Betty appeared roguishly in the parlor door, whither Charles
had gone.
"They won't come, Charles," she said. "It's no use. If you had news of
an earthquake or a new railroad, they wouldn't stir. Nothing weighs
against one's wedding garments, and Cordelia has taken special pains."
But Charles did not respond to Betty's nonsense in his usual merry way.
"Betty, listen," he said gravely. "An awful thing has happened."
"Is Harrington dead?" asked Betty, with wide, frightened eyes and
blanched face.
"No, but he might better be, Betty. He has a wife and two little
children out West, and he has deserted them to marry again."
Betty did not scream nor exclaim, "How dreadful!" Instead, she sat down
quickly in the first chair at hand.
After an instant's silence, she said in her matter-of-fact way:
"Then there won't be any wedding, of course! And what will that poor
girl do? Has anybody thought about her? Somehow, I'm not surprised.
I've always secretly thought Harrington was selfish. It's like him
never to think how he would make other people suffer. His letters
always put Father and Mother in hot water. Have they told her yet,
Charles? Oh, I wish I could go and help comfort her! I can't think of
anything more mortifying for her."
"Betty, it is good that she will be saved from anything worse. It is
good to have it found out beforehand."
"Oh, yes, of course; but she won't think of that. With all the wedding
guests coming, how can she have time to be thankful that she is saved
from marrying a selfish, bad man? Charles, it is a shame! Somebody
ought to be at hand to step in and take Harrington's place. If I were a
man, I'd throw myself at her feet and offer to marry her. Say, Charles,
why don't you do it yourself?" declared Betty romantically.
The heart of the young man leaped up with a great bound, and a flood of
color went over his face and neck. But the parlor was darkened, and,
moreover, the girls in the carryall were diligently calling; so Betty
vanished to impart the news, and Charles was alone for the moment, with
a new thought, which almost took his breath from him.
Then down the oaken staircase, with soft, lady-like, but decided rustle,
came Madam Winthrop.
Behind her, nervous, protesting, came her husband's anxious footsteps.
"But, Mother, really, it won't do. We couldn't go, you know, under the
circumstances."
"Don't say another word, Mr. Winthrop," Charles heard his mother's most
majestic voice. "I intend to go, and there is no need of further talk.
Depend upon it, Harrington will be able fully to explain all this
impossible story when he arrives, and it is not for his family to lose
faith in him."
"But, Mother, you don't understand," protested her husband, still
hastening after her and putting out a detaining hand.
"Indeed, I do understand," said the woman's voice coldly. "I understand
that my boy is being persecuted. It is you, apparently, who do not
understand. I am his mother, and I intend to stand by him, and not let
a breath of this wretched scandal touch him. The wedding will go on as
planned, of course, and what would the world think if his family were
not present? How could you possibly explain your absence except by
bringing out these most unfatherly suspicions? No, Mr. Winthrop, there
is all the more need of haste, that we may forestall any of these wicked
rumors. Let us start at once."
"But, Janet----"
"No! You needn't 'But Janet' me. I don't wish to hear another word.
I'm going, no matter what you say, and so are Martha and the girls. You
can stay at home if you like, I suppose. You are a man, and, of course,
will do as you please. I will explain your absence the best way I can.
But I'm going! Come, Martha; we will get into the back seat!"
Charles stepped out of the darkened parlor and intercepted his mother.
"Mother, really, you're making a mistake. You have not stopped to think
what you are going into. It won't do for you and the girls to go. I
will go with father----"
But the imperious lady shook her son's hand from her arm as though it
had been a viper.
"Charles, you forget yourself!" she said. "It is not for you to tell
your mother she is making a mistake. You must not think that because
you have been to college you can therefore teach your mother how to
conduct her affairs. Stand out of my way, and then follow me to the
carriage. You are displeasing me greatly. It would have been better for
you to remain in Boston than to come here to talk to your mother in this
way."
The majestic lady marched on her way to the carriage, followed by her
frightened sister-in-law, who scuttled after her tearfully, not knowing
which to dread the most, her sister-in-law's tyranny, the wrath of her
brother, or the scorn of her nephew. The habit of her life had been
always to follow the stronger nature. In this case it was Madam
Winthrop.
Father and son stood looking on helplessly. Then the father called:
"Well, Janet, if you must go, leave the girls at home with Martha."
The aunt drew back timidly from the carriage-step she was approaching.
"Get in at once, Martha!" commanded Madam Winthrop, already established
in the back seat of the coach. "We have no time to waste. Girls, you
may drive on ahead until we reach the cross-roads. Elizabeth, your
conduct is unseemly for such a joyous occasion. What will the neighbors
think to see your flushed, excited face? Wipe your eyes and pull down
your veil. Drive on, Cordelia, and see that Elizabeth's conduct is more
decorous."
She waved the carryall on, and Cordelia and Madeleine, awed and
half-frightened, obeyed, while excitable Betty strove to put by the
signs of her perturbation until she was out of her mother's sight. In
brief whispers she had succeeded in conveying to her sisters a slight
knowledge of what had occurred.
The old coachman and the stable boy stood wondering by and marvelled
that the wedding had gone to Madam's head. They had seen her in these
imperious moods, but had not thought this an occasion for one. Some one
must have displeased her very much, for her to get in a towering rage on
the day before her eldest son's wedding.
"Now, Mr. Winthrop, we are ready, if you and Charles will take your
seats."
Father and son looked at each other in dismay.
"I guess there's nothing for it but to get in, Father. Perhaps you can
bring her to her senses on the way, and I can drive back with her, or
they can stop at an inn, while we go on. It really won't do to delay,
for we have a duty to the Van Rensselaers."
"You are right, Charles. We must go. Perhaps, as you say, we can
persuade Mother on the way. I am dubious, however. She is very set in
her way."
"Mr. Winthrop, you will need only to get your hat," called his wife from
the coach. "I have had your portmanteau and Charles's fastened on
behind. Your things are all here. Your hat is lying on the hall
table."
With a sigh of submission, the strong man obediently got his hat and
took his place on the front seat of the coach, while Charles indignantly
swung himself up beside his father. Then the family started for the
wedding that was not to be.