All the afternoon, Madam Winthrop had steadily refused to converse about
her oldest son. The party were nearing the edge of the town where the
Van Rensselaers lived.
Twice Charles had endeavored to bring his mother's mind to the subject,
and once his father had said: "Now, Mother, it is absolutely necessary
that you put aside your attitude and let me tell you all about this
matter." But to all advances she was adamant.
"I shall never allow you to say such wicked things about my son,"
declared the old lady, rising from her seat and attempting to get out of
the coach. They were compelled to give it up and trust to developments.
The stars were coming out when they entered the village streets. The
father called to his daughters to wait a moment, and he stopped the
coach horses. Turning around in his seat, he faced his wife.
"Janet," said he, and his voice was firm as when he was a young man, "it
is best that the family stop at the inn while Charles and I go on to the
house and make the family acquainted with the truth. I wish you and
Martha and the girls to stop here and wait until our return."
The old lady looked ahead impatiently, as if she did not see her
husband.
"I shall do nothing of the kind, Mr. Winthrop," she said. "You may as
well save time by driving on."
The anger was rising in the old gentleman's face. He had been defied
for years and had borne it with fortitude and a measure of amusement.
He had always felt that he could assert himself when he chose. But now
he had chosen, and apparently he had been mistaken all these years. His
wife would not obey. It was mortifying, and especially before his son
and his sister. He turned sharply to Martha, sitting frightened and
meek in the dark corner of the coach.
"Martha, get out," he commanded in a tone she had never disobeyed.
Martha proceeded to obey hastily.
"Don't you do any such foolish thing, Martha Winthrop. You stay right
where you are. I won't have any scenes," said Madam Winthrop.
Martha paused and put her mitted hand on her heart.
"Martha, this is my carriage, and you are my sister, and I tell you to
get out."
Martha had not heard that voice from her brother's lips for forty years.
She got out.
"Pompey, Caesar"--to the two negroes who drove up at that moment--"see
that the ladies are cared for in the inn until our return. Attend to
the other carriage, and tell the young ladies it is my wish that they
remain in the inn parlor until I come back."
With grave dignity, the master of the situation guided his horse past
the carryall and down the dim evening street. Madam Winthrop sat
amazed, with two red spots on her cheeks.
"It seems to me, Mr. Winthrop," she said coldly, when they had gone some
distance, "that you are carrying things with a pretty high hand. If I
had known that such traits would ever develop in you, I am sure I should
never have left the shelter of my father's house."
Her husband made no reply.
As the coach drew up before the fine old house, Mr. Van Rensselaer came
out to greet the arrivals. Madam Winthrop sat up with grave dignity,
and allowed him to hand her down and escort her into the house.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer met her with nervous ceremony in the wide hall and
took her into the stately parlor. Once there, the lady looked about her
as if in search of some one, scarcely noticing her hostess.
"Where is my son?" she asked. "I supposed he would be here. Will you
tell Harrington that his mother wishes to see him at once? It is most
important."
"Your son has not yet arrived," said the other woman, watching her
jealously. "We do not expect him until the morning train."
She mentioned the train with an air of pride, for the new railroad was a
matter of vast importance to the little city. A few miles of railroad
was a wonderful distinction in a land where railroads had just begun to
be. But the guest had no recognition for such things.
"Not here yet? I supposed of course he would have arrived. Then, if it
is convenient, I will go directly to my room, as I am very much
worn-out. No, thank you. I could not eat a mouthful to-night. You may
send me a cup of tea if you please."
Dawn had fled in a panic far into the depths of the garden. Crouched
behind the tall, clipped hedges, her heart beating wildly, she listened,
while frightened tears stood in her eyes. If she had dared, if she had
known where to go, she would have fled out into the dark, unknown world
at that moment, so did her heart revolt at the thought of her marriage.
She listened. The night was very sweet with roses and honeysuckles and
faint waft of mignonette all about her, mingled with the breath of
heliotrope. But only the night sounds came to her--the plaintive
cricket monotonously playing his part in the symphony of the evening;
the tree-toads shrilly piping here and there, with the bass of a frog in
the mill-pond just below the hill; the screech-owl coming in with his
obligato; the murmur of the brook in the ravine not far away; and the
sighing of the night-wind over all.
A sudden hush seemed to have come over the house, with only the faint
echo of voices. Oh, if there were but a place in the world where she
might slip away and never be found! It would be terrible to leave them
that way, with the wedding all prepared, but she would not care what she
did if only she might get away from it all.
The coach had been sent to the stables, and the gentlemen were closeted
with Mr. Van Rensselaer in his library, the room made memorable to Dawn
by so many sorrowful scenes. It was right and fitting that the
revelation should be made within the sombre walls where had been enacted
so many tragedies connected with the little girl.
What passed within that door no one knew exactly, save the three who
took part in the low-voiced conversation. The lady of the house sat in
gloomy mortification within her stately parlor, reviewing with vexed
mind the recent interview between herself and the mother of the
bridegroom. Mrs. Van Rensselaer decided that the other woman was a most
unpleasant person, with whom she wished to have as little to do as
possible in future. It was well that she and her step-daughter had
little in common, if this was the kind of family she was marrying into.
The low tones in the library went on. The lady of the house did not
like the idea of being shut out.
What could they be talking about? How very strange! Had something
happened to the bridegroom? They looked so solemn when they came in.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer caught her breath at the thought. It would be
nothing short of a catastrophe to have the girl-bride on her hands, if
the wedding were to be delayed for any reason. The child was almost
beside herself now with excitement and nervousness. It was positively
uncanny to have her around. She was making herself sick, one could see
that at a glance, even if one didn't love her very much. Of course she
would settle down and be all right after she was married. Girls always
did. This girl was particularly headstrong, and it was as well that her
prospective husband was older than herself, and would be able to control
her wild fancies and put her through wise discipline. Mrs. Van
Rensselaer was one of those who think all women save themselves need
discipline.
While she meditated, Dawn flitted in at the front door noiselessly and
stole up the stair like a wraith, her white dress flashing by the parlor
before her step-mother could sense what it was.
The woman started angrily. It was one of the things about the girl that
vexed her, this stealing softly by and giving no warning that she was
near. Her step-mother named it "slyness."
In a moment more the library door opened and her name was called.
She went into the hall with an attitude that said plainly she felt
insulted by the way things were going.
"Where is Jemima?" asked her husband, and she saw by his face that
something unusual had happened. His look was that he had worn the day
he came home from seeing his dead wife. Jemima indeed! Why did he not
consult her first? She bustled up to the door.
"Jemima has gone to her room," she said decidedly. "By this time she has
retired. It would be better not to disturb her. She has been very
nervous and excited all day."
To the two guests inside the library, the protest sounded like loving
solicitation. Perhaps the woman meant it should. She had been wont to
show her interest thus before Dawn's father, and seldom let him know her
true feeling toward the girl.
Mr. Van Rensselaer's severe brow did not relax. He was used to having
life thicken around him in hard experiences, both for himself and for
those who were dependent upon him.
"It will be necessary for her to know to-night, I think, Maria," he
said. "Sit down and I will give you the facts. It may be best for you
to tell her, after all."
With the injured importance of one who feels she should have been told
at the first, Mrs. Van Rensselaer sat down upon the extreme edge of a
stiff chair, grudgingly, not to seem too eager to be told.
"Maria, Mr. Winthrop has kindly come to inform us of a most unfortunate
state of things relating to the young man who was to have married Jemima
to-morrow morning."
Mrs. Van Rensselaer held her breath, and her face actually blanched with
the vision of the future. "Was to have married!" Then something had
occurred to stop it. Her premonitions had been correct. Well, she
would do something to get that whimsical minx out of her house, any way.
Her husband needn't think she was to live her lifetime out in the same
house with that girl. She set her lips together hard in a thin line of
defence.
"I realize that the whole thing is painful in the extreme to my friend,
Mr. Winthrop, so it is not necessary for us to discuss the matter at
length. It is sufficient for you and my daughter to know that it has
been discovered by Mr. Winthrop that his son Harrington is already
married to a woman who is still living, and who is the mother of his two
children. The situation is most embarrassing on both sides, and it will
be necessary for my daughter to understand it at once."
There was a quick, eager movement of the young man on the other side of
the big desk, but no one noticed him. Mrs. Van Rensselaer was perhaps
the only one in the room whose heart was not wrung with the anguish of
the moment.
"A most unpleasant state of things, Mr. Winthrop," she said sharply,
turning to the elder guest.
The old man bowed his head in assent, too overcome to reply.
"But one for which Mr. Winthrop and his family are in no wise to blame,
of course," said Mr. Van Rensselaer quickly.
"I suppose not," said his wife dryly, in a tone which implied that there
was more than one way of looking at the matter.
"The first thing is to tell Jemima," said her father.
"I'm sure I don't in the least see why," responded his wife. "The first
thing is to plan what is to be done. Jemima is far better off asleep
until we arrange it all. She will make a fuss, of course. Girls always
make a fuss, whatever happens."
Charles eyed the woman indignantly, the color rising in his face.
"But, Mr. Van Rensselaer, I----" he began eagerly.
"Yes, certainly, Mr. Winthrop; I am coming to that. There is another
matter, Maria, that slightly changes the affair. This young man, Mr.
Charles Winthrop, has most thoughtfully offered a suggestion which may
help us out of the dilemma in which we are all placed."
Mrs. Van Rensselaer turned toward him sharply, and saw that he was good
to look upon.
"Well?" she said dryly, as her husband hesitated.
"If Miss Van Rensselaer is willing," put in Charles shyly, with wistful
eyes and a smile that would have melted any but a woman with a heart
made of pig iron.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer pursed her lips at the "Miss" applied to Jemima, and
thought in her heart she would see that "Miss Van Rensselaer" was
willing for anything that, would help them out of this most embarrassing
situation.
"Mr. Winthrop has offered his hand to my daughter," went on the father,
dropping his eyes and getting out the sentence stiffly. It was all
painful to him. Somehow, in the last few minutes, it had come to him
that she who had been Mary Montgomery would think he had bungled her
daughter's life most terribly. He was shaken with the thought. It had
been a relief to think that the girl was to be happily married. But
now!
"He proposes to marry her himself, to-morrow morning, at the hour
appointed for the other marriage," went on Mr. Van Rensselaer.
"With her consent, of course," put in Charles.
"Very commendable, I'm sure," commented Mrs. Van Rensselaer, while she
did some rapid thinking.
Here was her chance. The girl must marry this young man, whether she
would or no. All those relatives who were coming to-morrow should not
have a chance to scoff at her proud arrangements. The step-mother
desired that they should all see how well she had done for the girl who
was not her own. Besides, he was a goodly youth, full as handsome as
the other man, and of the same family. What was there to object to?
The girl might even be pleased, though there was no forecasting that.
Such a queer girl would probably do the opposite from what was expected
of her. The matter with her was that she was too young to know what she
did want, and in the present circumstances it was best for her that some
one else should decide her fate. She--Mrs. Van Rensselaer--would decide
it. She would take matters into her own hands and see that all went the
way it should go. Meantime, she picked at a bit of thread on her
immaculate gown, and, to make time for thought, murmured again:
"Most commendable, I'm sure."
Charles's face lighted with hope. He was ready to fall upon the
cold-looking lady's neck and embrace her, if that would hasten matters.
He thought she looked more pleasing than when he had first seen her.
"I think, Mr. Van Rensselaer, you would do well to leave this matter in
my hands now. As you say, it is a very delicate situation, and one that
must be handled most carefully. I will go to Jemima at once and talk
with her. I must break the news gently----"
"Of course, of course--the poor lamb!" murmured the kind old father of
the reprobate bridegroom.
"She is very nervous and quite unstrung with the day's preparation,"
went on the step-mother, the more to work her will upon the feelings of
those present.
"Of course, of course--poor child! Don't distress her any more than is
necessary, I beg. It is dreadful for her, dreadful!"
"But it isn't quite as if she had never seen me," put in Charles
wistfully. "Tell her I have loved her from the very first sight I had
of her----"
The woman turned the chilly search-light of her eyes upon the young
man's ardent face, and a sense of foreboding passed over him. Poor
soul, she was only wondering what it must be like to have some one talk
in that way about one. Still, she was keen to see an advantage, and
knew it would help her in the task she had set herself to get rid of her
step-daughter.
"Whatever you think best, Maria," assented Dawn's father wearily. He
was glad, after all, not to have to tell the girl. He had come to fear
her eyes, which were like her mother's, and her temper, which was his
own.
"Of course, of course," said old Mr. Winthrop.
Dawn's father bowed once more his assent. In his heart he heard again
the words: "You have no right. You have no right!" Would the sin of his
youth never be expiated by sorrow?
Mrs. Van Rensselaer arose.
"I will go up and talk with her," she said coolly, as though it were
quite an ordinary matter under discussion.
"You will ask her to come down and let me talk to her?" asked Charles,
following her into the hall. "I think perhaps I can make her see it
better than any one else."
The woman looked him over, frowning. This ardent youth was going to be
hard to control. She must be wary or he would upset all her plans, as
well as his own.
"I will see what is best," she answered coldly. "Remember she has
retired, and this will be a great shock to her. It would be better for
you to give her a little time to recover and to think it over. Leave it
to me. I will do my best for you."
She tried to smile, but conveyed rather an expression of arrogance than
of anything else.
"Of course." The young man drew back thoughtfully. "Do not hurry her."
She passed up the stairs, and Charles wandered out the front door and
into the moonlit garden. He stood and listened to the harmony of sound
and looked up reverently toward a chamber window where glimmered a
candle-light. He wondered if even now she was listening to his message,
and his heart was lifted high with hope.