THE TWO BROTHERS.
Ralph had been away from home since the day before Mabel was taken ill.
He had left suddenly, after a conversation with Agnes in the
breakfast-room; and, though the governess sat up till late at night,
anxious and watchful, he did not return. Thus it happened that Mrs.
Harrington was, for the time, left completely in the hands of her
servants.
But, where had Ralph gone, and why? To indulge in one strong passion,
and escape the meshes of another, the young man had left home. Spite of
her craft, and that consummate self-control that seemed incompatible
with her evil nature, Agnes had at last madly confessed her love to the
young man. It is possible that some kindly expression on his part might
have led to this unwomanly exposure, for Agnes had an amount of sullen
pride in her nature which would have kept her silent, had not some
misinterpreted word or action led her astray. Ralph's unfeigned
surprise, joined to the cold restraint with which he met her outgush of
passion, fell like cold lead upon her fiery nature. All that was bitter
and hard in her soul, rose up at once to resent the indignity which her
own uncurbed impulses had provoked. But, she was tenacious of an object
once aimed at; and, instead of the hope that had filled her life till
now, came a firm resolution, at any cost of truth or conscience, to win
a return of her love, even though it were to cast it back in bitter
retribution, for the shame under which she writhed.
This was a new source of distress to the young man, and he left home
really without any definite object, but to escape the society of a
person whose presence had become almost a reproach to him. He did not
speak of his departure to Mrs. Harrington, because its object was
indefinite in his own mind, and he had spent one night from home before
she was aware of his absence.
By some attraction, which we do not pretend to explain, the young man
went first to the house where he had seen Lina. He had no wish to enter
it, and shrunk painfully from the thought of seeing her again; but still
he lingered around the dwelling--left it--returned again, and could not
tear himself away, so tenacious and cruel was his object.
His object--true it was not love; now the very word seemed enough to
drive him mad. The unwelcome passion of one woman heaped upon the wrongs
done him by another, was enough to make the very remembrance repulsive.
No, love was lost to him, he madly thought, forever. But there is yet a
fiercer and more burning passion and that urged him forward. He would be
revenged on the man who had torn all the joy from his life. He would
meet that false brother face to face, beyond that Ralph had calculated
nothing. It seemed to him that the very glances of his eyes would be
enough to cover the traitor with eternal remorse. So he watched and
waited before Zillah's house, hoping, burning with impatience, that
Harrington would pass in or out while seeking the presence of his
victim, and thus they might meet. But he watched in vain.
Already had Ralph inquired at every hotel where James Harrington would
be likely to stay, and now weary and full of smouldering rage, he
resolved to go home, and there await some news of him.
On his way up town, a hotel carriage passed him, filled with passengers
from some newly arrived train. In that carriage Ralph saw his brother.
The carriage stopped after a little. James Harrington, dusty, pale and
travel-worn, stepped out, and stood face to face with his young brother.
For one instant his fine eye lighted up, and he grasped the youth's
hand.
"Ralph!"
Ralph wrenched his hand away, and James saw that his eyes were full of
lurid fire.
"What is this, Ralph? You look strangely!" he said.
"I feel strangely," answered the youth, shuddering under the rush of
tenderness that surged up through his wrath. "I have been searching for
you, sir, waiting for you"----
"Why, it is not so long since I left home, Ralph."
"It seems an eternity to me," answered the boy; and spite of his
wrathful manhood, tears sprang up, and spread like a mist over the
smouldering fire of his eyes.
James looked at him with grave earnestness, his own face was pale and
careworn, his eyes heavy with a potent sorrow, but it took an expression
of deeper anxiety as he perused the working features before him.
"My dear boy, something is amiss with you; come into the hotel. I have a
room here yet. Cheer up, it must be a bitter sorrow, indeed, if your
brother cannot help you out of it."
Ralph ground his teeth, and the word "hypocrite" broke through them.
But James did not hear it, he had turned to enter the hotel. Ralph
followed him, growing paler and paler as he walked. The bitter wrath
that had been for a moment disturbed was concentrating itself at his
heart again.
They entered James Harrington's room, a small chamber in the highest
story of the hotel, and both sat down.
"Now," said James, kindly, "tell me why it is that you are so changed. I
scarcely know you with that look, Ralph."
"I scarcely know myself with these feelings," cried the youth, smiting
his breast in a sudden storm of passion. "Oh! James, James! how could
you be so generous, so kind to a poor fellow only to plunder and crush
him at last? What had I done that you should tear up my youth by the
roots, just as it began to feel the warmth of life?"
"Ralph, are you mad?"
"It is not your fault or hers if I am not mad," was the bitter reply.
"Or hers!" repeated Harrington, turning deathly white, "or hers--who are
you speaking of?"
"Of the woman we both love. I cannot speak her name to you. How dare you
brand that noble creature with shame, after using the privileges of my
father's house to win her love? Was it not enough that you had stolen
her heart from me--from us all? Could nothing but her disgrace content
your horrible vanity?"
"Ralph, Ralph, in the name of Heaven, what is this?" cried Harrington,
starting up with an outcry of terrible agony, which whitened his face to
the lips.
"What is this!" thundered Ralph, "are you detected at last? arch
hypocrite, that you are--desecrating the roof that you should have
upheld, leaving traces of your wickedness on every thing that ever loved
you. I ask you again, why did you seek her love? why, having won it, did
you leave her to shame?"
"Ralph, speak briefly and clearly--what is it you mean? has your father
put this cruel charge against me into your mind? No more hints, no more
vague upbraidings--out with it at once--what do you charge me with?"
Ralph did not speak, there was a grandeur of passion in the man that
held him silent.
"In the name of God, speak!" cried the brother, "you are killing me."
He spoke truly; no human strength could long have withstood the strain
of anxiety that cramped his features almost into half their size, and
made his strong hands quiver like reeds.
"In the name of God, speak!" he cried out again; "of what do they charge
me?"
"I charge you," said Ralph, in a faltering voice, for the power of that
man's innocence was upon him as he spoke; "I charge you with the ruin of
the purest and noblest"--
"Ruin!--who dares"----
"Yes, ruin--has she not left my father's roof, followed you into this
miserable city--left us all, refusing to go back"----
"Boy, boy, she has not--she has not. God help us all, she has not done
this. Your father is pledged, solemnly pledged against it. Ralph, my
dear boy, there is some mistake here; she cannot be so desperate."
"She left home on the very day with yourself, in the storm, when the
snow and the ice cut one to the heart."
"Yes, I remember; the storm seemed of a piece with the rest; a hopeful
heart would have frozen in it. I remember that storm well."
"But she has greater cause to remember it, for in its drifts was buried
her good name forever; if it could have whitened over the infamy that
fell on our house, I should have prayed the snows to be eternal!"
"Ralph, Ralph, this is terrible!"
"Terrible!" repeated the young man, "you should have thought how
terrible before tempting that poor young creature to her ruin. The house
is desolate as the grave. My mother wanders through it like a ghost; she
is worn to a shadow mourning over the ruin of her child, for Lina was
dear as her own child could"----
James Harrington struggled for voice; his pale features began to quiver;
his lips parted; he grasped Ralph by the arm.
"Brother, brother, is it Lina who has left home?"
"Lina--yes."
James Harrington dropped into his chair without uttering a word; and,
for the first time in his life, Ralph saw great tears rush to his eyes.
"Oh, my God! make me, make me grateful!" he cried, and a great shudder
of joy shook his soul. "Ralph Harrington, you will never know how great
a blessing your words have been to me."
Ralph stood by, amazed. The face of his brother looked like that of a
glorified saint. There was no guilt in him; the young man felt this in
the depths of his soul; wrong there certainly was somewhere, but not in
the great-hearted man before him.
"Brother," said James, arousing himself, and reaching forth his hand,
"now, tell me what this trouble is. I can listen like a man--has Lina
left her home? poor child, she loved you, Ralph--what drove her away?"
"I do not know--till now"----
"You thought it was me. Shame on it, Ralph, I did not think you would
believe ill of me." The tear that quivered on that young cheek, proved
that at least "lost faith" had been restored to him. "Come," said James
Harrington, warmly shaking the hand in his, "let us search out this good
child, and save her."
"She will not be saved--she refuses to go home," answered Ralph, sadly.
"Not so, not so--have more faith, my boy. There is something here which
we do not understand, but not guilt, certainly not _her_ guilt--did not
your mother guide her up from the cradle almost? besides that, does she
not love you with her whole heart, and that is not a little? Tell me
where to find her, and I will soon tear out the heart of this mystery. I
am strong now, Ralph, and feel as if mountains would be nothing in my
way. Come."
And Ralph went hopefully forth with his brother.