COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY.
“Godfrey, I wish to see you for a few moments,” the colonel said to his
son when towards noon he found him in the library alone.
“Certainly, I wish to see you, too,” Godfrey replied, as he arose and
followed his father to the little office in the rear of the house, where
the colonel transacted his business.
Colonel Schuyler did not know exactly what he wished to say to his son,
and after they were seated there ensued a moment’s silence, which
Godfrey broke by saying:
“What is it, father? What do you want with me?”
“Oh, yes, sure. I—I—wish to speak of this affair,—your engagement, you
know, and arrange about the marriage, and when it will take place. The
sooner the better, I think, as I do not believe in long engagements.”
“But, father, I have not my profession yet,” Godfrey said, feeling again
the cutting pain as he thought of being really tied to Alice, with no
longer a right to think of that sweet face which had looked at him
through the moonlight and made his heart throb so fast.
“Yes, I know; but you can finish your studies after marriage,” the
colonel replied; and seeing Godfrey about to speak again, he continued:
“I need not tell you how glad I am of this engagement, which I have
hoped for so long. Alice is a fine girl,—a very fine girl; not as
handsome, perhaps, as some,” he said, as he guessed what was in
Godfrey’s mind, and thought, himself, of a rare type of beauty, which
moved even him at times.
“No, Miss Creighton is not a beauty,—I should think not,” Godfrey
interrupted, impatiently, whereupon the colonel brought his eyebrows
together, and regarding his son curiously, went on:
“Such girls as Alice, I have often noticed, grow into fine-looking old
ladies; so they have the advantage in one respect.”
“Yes; but who cares or thinks of a good-looking _old_ wife!” Godfrey
said, petulantly.
But his father did not seem to notice his petulance, and continued:
“Your Uncle Calvert writes me that you looked at a house which Alice
would like. Did it suit you as well?”
“Yes; I found no fault with it except its size. It will cost one fortune
to furnish it, and another to run it according to Alice’s ideas,”
Godfrey answered, crisply, seeing, even then, as in a vision, a lovely
little cottage somewhere among the hills in the quiet country, with just
room enough in it for himself and _one more_, and that one, alas! _not_
Alice.
“Thirty thousand a year ought to run most any house; and that, I
believe, is Miss Creighton’s income,” was the colonel’s remark, to which
there was no reply; and he continued: “I think we may as well secure
this house at once. I will write to your Uncle Calvert to-day; and,
Godfrey, it will suit me to have the marriage consummated soon,—say some
time in the autumn. Shall I call Alice, and see if she is willing?”
He arose to touch the bell, when Godfrey interposed, and grasping his
father’s arm, said quickly:
“Father, listen to me! My engagement was a hasty thing, brought about
Heaven only knows how, and now I will not commit a second blunder by
allowing myself to be driven into a hasty marriage.”
“Godfrey, my son!”—and now the colonel roused a little,—“one would think
your heart was not in this marriage, which I desire so much!”
There was no answer from Godfrey, and the colonel went on:
“I trust you knew your own mind when you offered yourself to Alice, and
that you have no thought of drawing back. Remember, that for many
generations a Schuyler has never broken his word; they have all been men
of honor, and my son must not be the first to disgrace us.”
Godfrey was white now, even to his lips, and his voice shook as he
replied:
“You need not fear for me, I shall keep my word to Alice. The Schuylers
will not be disgraced by me. And now, father, one question to you. The
Schuylers, you say, were all men of honor, and I put it to your honor to
answer me truly. Four years ago last spring, when I came home from
Andover and found Gertie Westbrooke gone, I was terribly disappointed.
That child,—she was one then,—had a powerful hold on me, and by her
purity of principle and plain way of speaking to me was doing me untold
good, and I wanted to see her again and hear what she had to say. But
she was gone, and so I wrote to her, and gave the letter to _you_ to
post just as I would have given you one for Bob. It may seem strange
that I remember it so distinctly. But I do. You were going out with
letters in your hand and I gave you that, but never heard from it
afterward. After waiting awhile for an answer I wrote again from school
with a like result, and then when I knew she was here I wrote again, and
directed to your care. Do you know why neither of these letters ever
reached her, for they did not? She told me so last night when I asked
her why she did not reply.”
He was looking steadily at his father, whose eyes were cast down as he
replied:
“My son, I have to beg your pardon there. It was not an honorable thing
to do, though I did it for the best. I never sent the letter committed
to my care, and I wrote to Miss ——, the preceptress, sending her a
specimen of your writing, and asking her if any letter came to Gertie
Westbrooke, directed in that hand, to withhold it from her and mail it
back to me. She did so, and when your third and last arrived I kept it
also, and have them now unopened and unread.”
“And truly that was a very honorable thing for one to do who talks to
_me_ of _honor_! May I ask why you did it?” Godfrey said, his young face
flushing and his voice full of anger.
“I did it to prevent possible trouble. I knew how much you were
interested in the girl, and I did not wish to have her harmed.”
“Father!” and Godfrey’s voice rang with surprise and scorn. “You knew
me. I am your son, and you knew that sooner than dishonor any woman I
would part with my life; much less then would I harm a hair of the head
of one who has been to me the sweetest thing I ever knew since I first
saw her years ago in England. You had nothing to fear for her. There was
some other reason. Will you tell me what it was, honestly?—the Schuylers
are men of honor, you know!”
To this appeal the colonel answered a little hotly:
“Yes, Godfrey, I will tell you the truth. I feared an entanglement which
might interfere with the wish of my life. I knew how beautiful, and
sweet, and pure Gertie was just as well as you. But she is not a fitting
wife for you. She has neither money, name, nor friends.”
“How do you know that? Mary Rogers always said she was a lady born,”
Godfrey exclaimed impetuously, and his father replied:
“When Mary died and the child came here to live, I took pains to inquire
into her antecedents, and wrote to the firm where her annuity is
invested. But they could tell me nothing; the business had been done by
Mrs. Rogers as guardian of the child, and I came to regard the big house
and the high-born mother as a myth. No, Gertie has no friends, no money,
no name, and I would not see you throw yourself away as you might have
done had the correspondence been permitted to go on. Believe me,
Godfrey, I acted for the best. It was your mother’s dying wish that you
should marry Alice, and for her sake, if for no other, you will not
break your word.”
“I have no intention of breaking my word. I am engaged to Alice, and
shall marry her in time, but if it were to do again, I should think
twice before I made a promise I find so hard to keep; for, father, we
will have no more concealments. I love Gertie Westbrooke so much that I
would rather live with her on a crust a day than share with another all
the splendors of the world. It is no sudden passion either. She has been
in my heart constantly, though absence and silence had dimmed the
picture a little, and I thought of her always as a child. But when I saw
her yesterday in the full bloom of womanhood, and compared her with
Alice and my sisters and all the girls I ever saw, I knew that for me
there was no other woman living, no other love which could ever touch my
heart and make it throb just as it does now at the mere mention of her.
I love her better than my life, and love her all the more for knowing
she is not for me. I have promised to marry Alice and shall keep my
word, unless she releases me of her own free will. But I will not be
hurried into matrimony. I will have my profession first and keep my
freedom a little longer. You need not bargain for that house; I shall
not need it. I presume our conference is ended, and if you will excuse
me I’ll go where I can breathe; the atmosphere of this room is
stifling.”
He arose precipitately, and, with a bow to his father, rushed into the
open air, and going to the stables bade John saddle Bedouin, his
favorite mare and pet.
“Surely, Mr. Godfrey, you will not ride in this dreadful heat. It will
kill the mare. She has not been much used to exercise lately,” John
said, for he knew his young master’s partiality for fast and long
riding, and dreaded the effect on Bedouin, a beautiful young chestnut
mare with graceful, flowing mane.
But Godfrey was not in a mood to consider either horse-flesh or heat. He
must do something to work off that load weighing so heavily upon his
heart, and mounting Bedouin and giving her full rein, he went tearing
down the avenue at headlong speed and off into the country, mile after
mile, while the people in the farm-houses looked curiously after him,
wondering if it were a case of life or death, or if he were some felon
escaping from justice. On and on he went, knowing nothing of the flecks
of white foam gathering all over Bedouin’s body, and knowing nothing how
fast or how far he was riding, or that he had turned and was going
toward home, until, on a sudden, the poor beast began to reel, and with
a few plunges came heavily to the ground just before the door of Mrs.
Vandeusenhisen. In a trice the good woman was at his side, followed by
the twins whose interest in the struggling steed was greater than in the
young man picking himself up and rubbing his bruised knee.
“Poor Bedouin. I’m afraid it’s all over with you,” Godfrey said as he
knelt by the dying brute, whom he tenderly caressed, and who seemed to
understand him. “Poor Bedouin, poor pet, I did not mean to kill you. I
am so sorry. Poor little lady,” he kept repeating, as he held the
horse’s head on his arm and gazed into the dying eyes, where there was
almost a human look of love and pardon as the noble beast expired.
“He’s a goner, sure,” came from one of the twins, as the horse ceased to
breathe and Godfrey bent to undo the fastenings of the saddle.
“What is it? Is any one hurt? Oh, Godfrey, is that you? What is the
matter?” was spoken in a voice which made Godfrey start, and turning
round he saw Gertie in the door.
She had been sitting with old Mrs. Vandeusenhisen, who was sick, and
hearing the noise outside had come to see what was the matter.
“Are you hurt? What is it? Oh, Godfrey, Bedouin is dead! What _have_ you
been doing?” she asked, with tears in her eyes and reproach in her
voice.
“Been exorcising the demon within me, and believe I’ve succeeded in
casting it out, but at the cost of Beddy’s life. Poor Beddy! I hope
she’s gone where she’ll have nothing to do but eat clover and kick up
her heels the blessed day,” Godfrey answered playfully, trying to make
light of it, though in truth his heart was very heavy as he removed the
saddle and bridle, and calling to some men working on the road at a
little distance, made arrangements with them for burying his horse.
Then turning to Gertie he said:
“I am at your service now, if you are ready to go home. It must be near
dinner-time.”
And so the two walked slowly down the street and up the long avenue
towards the group of girls, who, in their airy evening dresses, stood
watching them as they came.
“Where have you been this scorching afternoon?” Alice asked, with a
cloud upon her face.
“I have been to read to old Mrs. Vandeusenhisen. I go there almost every
day,” Gertie replied, as she went quietly into the house and up to her
room to dress for dinner.
“And you have been reading to old Mrs. Van, too?” Alice asked of
Godfrey, who replied by telling her what had happened to Bedouin.
“The weather was too hot and I rode too fast,” he said. “John warned me
of the danger, but I did not listen, and now Bedouin is dead and I am
two hundred dollars out of pocket, with a reputation for fastness and
cruelty, no doubt, which would bring Bergh about my ears, if he were
only here in Hampstead.”
“But are you hurt, Godfrey? Oh, I’m afraid you are. Look, your pants are
all dirt,” Alice cried, clinging to him with a pretty affectation of
concern, which, if the “demon had not been exorcised,” would have
disgusted and made him angry, but which in his present mood he was
inclined to humor and laugh at.
He had made up his mind to make the best of his situation and bear the
burden bravely. Alice was his betrothed, and had a right to cling to him
and be anxious if she chose, and he let her do it, and even wound his
arm around her as he assured her of his perfect safety.
“Now, then, you must let me go and dress for dinner,” he said, as the
first bell rang out its summons, and breaking away from her he ran up to
his room, where he bathed his face and hands and said to himself, as he
looked in the glass and saw how pale he was:
“It’s a hard thing, old fellow, but you will have to pull through. No
Schuyler ever yet broke his word.”
He was very attentive to Alice that night, while in her delight at his
attentions she forgave Gertie for walking with him from Mrs.
Vandeusenhisen’s, though the germ of jealousy was planted in her mind,
and she resolved to keep a close watch of the girl, who, with blanched
cheeks and throbbing pulse, was, at that very hour, listening to what
very nearly concerned the little heiress of thirty thousand a year.