Front matter (continued 2)

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.

CHAPTER VII

The long journey was anything but what it had promised to be when it was anticipated. The carryall containing the three girls headed the procession. They were talking in subdued and frightened tones, Madeleine and Cordelia endeavoring to find out from Betty more than the child really knew. When she could not satisfy their curiosity and anxiety with facts, she supplied them with running comments on human nature and her elder brother in particular. Now and again they pulled her up sharply with: "Betty, be still!" or "I am ashamed of you Elizabeth. You jump to conclusions. I am sure there must be some explanation. Charles was very wrong to tell you until he had made sure about it. You see Mother does not believe the story, or she would never go."

"Mother wouldn't believe Harrington had done wrong if she saw him do it," declared Betty irreverently.

"Now, Betty! How you talk! One would think you didn't love Harrington."

"Well, I don't very much, and that's a fact," shrugged Betty. "Charles is worth two of him. Harrington always hushes me up when he comes home, and talks as if I were a baby yet. Besides, he is selfish. Look how he wouldn't take me to Harriet Howegate's corn-husking when he was home the last time, just because he was too lazy to change his clothes! I don't see why I should love him if I don't, just because he happens to belong to the same family. I'm sure he can't love us much, or he wouldn't have gone off so long ago and stayed away from us so much."

"Why, Betty!" said Madeleine, shocked. "He had to go and earn his living and make a man's way in the world."

"No, he didn't. He could have stayed at home and gone into business with Father, as Father wanted him to. I haven't a bit of patience with Harrington."

"I'm sure, Betty, that's a very shocking way to talk about your own brother, and Mother would highly disapprove!" said Madeleine.

"If I were you, I should keep still, Betty," advised Cordelia.

Betty pouted, and a solemn silence settled upon the three as the old gray horse plodded sleepily over the road. The occupants of the coach were by no means at ease. Aunt Martha sat shrivelled in the back seat, with the ready tears coursing silently down her cheeks. She had heard enough of what her brother had told his wife, to be filled with gloomy apprehensions. Aunt Martha was always sure of the worst.

Madam Winthrop sat severely silent, with her delicate, cameo features held high. Her keen blue eyes never wavered, nor did her firm, thin lips quiver. Apparently, she had not one misgiving, and her only regret seemed to be that the rest of the family had taken leave of their senses. She looked straight in front of her, ignoring the sad gray head of her husband, and the yellow curls of the strong young son with whom she was offended. They would all see their mistake soon enough, and meantime she was giving them a bit of a lesson not to doubt the idol of her heart. To do her justice, she firmly believed she was right, and was amazed that her husband had taken the attitude he had. Of course Harrington would not do such a dreadful thing. Such things did not happen in real life. It was out of the question. She dismissed the subject with that, and fell to going over her own arrangements and the wardrobe of the family, with satisfaction.

The sound of the horses' hoofs on the old corduroy road, and the husky crickets by the wayside, beat a funeral dirge for the heart of the Father in the front seat. His countenance was heavy, and now and again he brought forth an audible sigh.

The lugubrious attitude of her family annoyed Madam Winthrop. She turned to her sister-in-law sharply.

"For pity's sake, Martha, do stop snivelling! One would think you were going to a funeral instead of to a wedding. I must say I don't think you honor your nephew very much, showing such distrust in him. Do wipe your eyes and sit up. If you go on this way, you won't be able to come to the ceremony to-morrow morning, and you know how that will annoy Harrington. I must say, Mr. Winthrop, you are acting in a very strange manner, for the father of such a son."

She always called him Mr. Winthrop when he had offended her. At other times it was "Father."

Her husband turned in the seat and faced her solemnly. "Janet," he said sadly, "it's no use for you to try to blind yourself to the truth. You'll only have it harder to bear in the end. You might as well understand the awful truth that our boy Harrington has committed a great sin, and we ought to be thankful that it was discovered before any more harm was done. You don't seem to see what a task we've got before us to tell that father and his innocent young daughter that the man in whom they trusted, our son, has played them false."

"Now, Mr. Winthrop, I don't want to hear another word of such talk. You must be beside yourself!" Madam Winthrop half arose in her seat and cried out shrilly: "Stop it, I say! Don't you dare say such words in my presence again! If you do, I shall get right out of this carriage and walk! Walk, I tell you! And what will the servants think of you then? You will find out your mistake in due time, of course, and be ashamed of yourself. Until then I must ask you not to speak to me on the subject. No, Charles, don't you dare to interfere between me and your Father again. I have had enough of your disrespect for one day. Just keep absolutely quiet until you can speak in a proper way. I simply will not stand such talk."

She sat up with dignity, and spoke to them both as if they were naughty children. Her husband looked into her eyes sadly for a moment, and then turned deliberately back to his horses. He knew by former experience that it was well nigh impossible to convince his wife of anything against her will. Well, she would have to go on and take the consequences of her stubbornness. There was no other way. And perhaps it was as well, for, with her excitable nature, there was no telling what state it might throw her into, once she realized the truth about her idolized son. She might lose consciousness and have to be carried back, and so perhaps delay them. His first duty now was to tell the sad truth to his old friend Van Rensselaer and his poor daughter. Every step that the horses took made him shrink more and more from the task before him. It seemed that his shame and disgrace were being burnt into his soul with a red hot iron. He kept thinking how he should tell his story to his host when he reached his journey's end, and the horses' hoofs beat out the dirge of a funeral; while keeping pace behind, with decorous bearing, rode the two old servants, pondering what had cast a shadow over the gay party they had hoped to escort.

As the young man in the front seat of the coach sat and frowned at the shining chestnut backs of the horses, he was conning over and over a thought that his sister had put into his heart, and each time it ran like sweet fire along his veins, until it began to seem a possibility, and fairly took his breath away.

The day was wonderful. The air was fine and rare, the sky clear, with not a fleck of cloud to mar the blue—a blue that fairly called attention to itself as being bluer than ever before. But not one of all that little company of wedding-goers saw it.

The foliage everywhere was washed fresh for the occasion by a shower that had passed in the night. Diamonds strung themselves from grass-blade to grass-blade, and begemmed even the mullein stalks. Late dandelions flared and gleamed, shy sweet-brier smiled here and there by the roadside in delicate pink cups, inviting the bees. The birds in the trees were singing everywhere, and the sweet winds lifted branches and played a subdued accompaniment. To the soul of the young man, their music came in happy harmonies, and, while he was not conscious of it, little by little they began to play him a kind of wedding march, the joyous melody of his thoughts, now glad, now fearful, yet ever growing sweeter and more sure of the victorious climax.

He grew presently unconscious of the inharmony behind him: of Aunt Martha and her efforts not to "sniff"; of his mother's disapproval; and of his father's heavy heart. He thought only of the girl whom he had seen upon the hillside, and the smile her eyes had given him as they met his. Every time he thought upon it now his heart-beats quickened. All the pent-up flood of emotion that she had set going that spring afternoon upon the Hudson hillside, and that he had fought bravely all these weeks, and thought he had conquered, came now upon him with the power of stored-up energy and swept over his being in a flood-tide of gladness.

In vain he shamed himself for such unseemly joy when his only brother was in disgrace. In vain he told himself that the girl-bride would be plunged into grief when her bridegroom turned out to be no bridegroom at all. Still his heart would catch the faint melody of the wedding-march those birds and winds and branches were breathing, and would go singing along with a new gladness.

The morning was a silent one for the whole party. Even the coachman checked Pompey's levity when a robin chased a chipmunk across a distant path, and the old darkey snapped him up sharply when he ventured a question or a wonder about "Marsa" and "Missus."

But while each held to his own thoughts, and the horses sped willingly over the miles, in the heart of the young man in the front seat was growing a steady purpose.

About noon they stopped at an inn to dine, and give the horses a brief respite.

Madam Winthrop would not lie down, as they urged her, nor would she permit her husband or her son to talk with her concerning the forbidden theme. She kept the three girls with her also, that nothing might be said to them to prejudice them against their brother.

Aunt Martha, however, unable to bear up longer under the scornful scrutiny of her sister-in-law, was glad to take refuge on the high four-poster bed that the landlady put at her service, and weep a few consoling tears into the homespun linen pillow-slip. Aunt Martha was by no means sure that all was well with the boy whom she adored, though she acknowledged to herself that he had his weaknesses. Had she not seen those very weaknesses from babyhood upward, and helped many times to hide them from his blind mother and adoring sisters? Her fearful soul accepted the possibility of his sin, yet loved him in spite of it all. She resented the thought that public opinion would be against Harrington if he had done this thing, and, could she have had her way, would have had public opinion changed to suit his special need. She felt in her secret soul that prodigies like Harrington should not be expected to follow the laws like ordinary mortals.

Madam Winthrop sat bolt upright in a wooden chair, and eyed her three daughters suspiciously. Now and then she made a remark about their conduct at the wedding, and they acquiesced meekly. They had learned never to dispute with their mother when she was in her present mood.

Charles and his father wandered by common consent into the woods near-by. It was the son who spoke first.

"Father, I've been thinking all the morning about what you said of her—Miss Van Rensselaer." He spoke the name shyly, reverently, and his heart throbbed painfully. He felt himself very young and presumptuous. The bright color glowed in his face. "It will be terrible for her." He breathed the words as if they hurt him.

"Yes," assented the father; "I cannot get her out of my mind, the poor innocent child! Think of Betty, Charles. Suppose it was Betty."

The young man frowned.

"Father, did you ever see her?"

"No," said the older man, wondering at his son's vehemence. "Did you?"

"Yes, I saw her once, when I met Harrington on my way to Boston. I stopped off with him at the school where she was being educated, and we saw her. She is beautiful, Father, beautiful, and very young. She looked as if she could not stand a thing like this, as if it might crush her. Don't you think we ought to do something for her, to make it easier? Isn't it our place? I mean—say, Father, in the Bible, you know, when the older brother died, or failed in any way, the younger brother had to take up the obligation. Do you understand what I mean, Father? Do you think I could? I mean, do you think she would let me? It wouldn't be so public and mortifying, you know, and I think girls care a great deal about that. Betty would, I'm sure."

The father looked up in astonishment.

"What do you mean, Charles? Do you mean you would marry her?"

"Why, yes, Father, that's what I meant. What do you think of it?"

The boy in him came to the front for an instant and looked out of his eyes, though he shrank from the blunt way the older man had of stating facts.

His father eyed him keenly.

"But you're only a boy, Charles, and you're not through college yet. How could you marry?"

"I'm past twenty-one," boasted the boy, and vanished into the man. A graver look came out upon his face.

"I could leave college, if it were necessary, or I could go on and finish. I could work part of the time and take care of her." The last words he breathed gently, reverently, like a benediction.

The father stopped in the wooded path and grasped his son's hand.

"Boy, you've got good stuff in you! I'm proud of you," he said, lifting his head triumphantly. "If only your brother had been like that!" Then he bowed his head in bitter thought.

But the young man's thoughts were not on Harrington now. He grasped his father's hand, and waited impatiently for further words from him.

"Well, Father?"

The old man lifted his head.

"But, Boy, you do not know her. You have seen her only once. You can't spoil your own life that way."

A flood of color went over the younger face, and into his eyes came a depth of earnestness that showed his father that the man had awakened in his son. He was no longer a boy.

"Father, I do not need to know her. I love her already. I have loved her ever since I saw her. That was why I did not want to come to the wedding. I felt that I could not bear it."

The kindly older gaze searched the fine young face tenderly, but the lover's eyes looked back at him and wavered not.

"Is it so, Son?"—the words were grave. "Then God pity you—and bless you," he added, with an upward look. "I am afraid there is no easy way ahead of you. Yet I am proud to call you my son."

After this they walked on silently through the woods, over a pathway of flecked gold, where the sunlight sifted through the leafy branches. No sound came to interrupt the silence beyond the whisking of a squirrel or the flirt of a bird's wings in the branches.

The dinner-bell pealed forth from the inn, and they turned quietly to retrace their steps. They were almost in sight of the house before either spoke. Then the father said:

"Son, she does not know you. Have you any idea how she will take all this?"

"None at all, Father." It was spoken humbly.

"What is your idea? Have you made any plans?"

"Not yet—only, that I shall tell her at once, if I may, and let her decide. If she is willing, the wedding may go on as planned."

A light came into the older man's face, though he looked troubled.

"Well said, Charles! Perhaps you may succeed. But I fear, I fear. Nevertheless, your noble action helps me to hold up my head and look her father in the eye. If I have one son who is a scoundrel, at least I have one who is not, and who is willing to face his brother's obligations."

They went in then and sat down to a dinner of which both were able to partake more enjoyably than either had supposed possible.

"Charles, isn't there going to be an awful time when we get there?" whispered Betty, as they passed out to the carriages.

"I hope not, Betty," said Charles, with a solemn light in his eyes that made the girl wonder.

Charles took his seat beside his father with hopefulness, and all that long afternoon the music of nature rang on; but now to both men the dirge was almost lost in the swelling and sounding of the wedding march.

CHAPTER VIII

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.

CHAPTER IX

When Mrs. Van Rensselaer came down stairs a half-hour later she found Charles in the parlor anxiously awaiting her coming. Her face was bland and encouraging. She tried to smile, though smiles were foreign to her nature.

"Well," she said, seating herself and signing to the young man to take a chair opposite her, "she is naturally very much shocked."

"Of course she would be," said Charles, somewhat sadly, and waited.

"I think, as I said, it will take her a few hours to become adjusted to the new state of things, and it would not be well for you to see her to-night. There will be plenty of time in the morning. The hour was set late, so that all the relatives could arrive, you know. She will undoubtedly accept your proposal, but you must give her a little time."

"You think she will?" asked the young man, brightening. "Oh, that is good! Certainly I can wait until morning. Poor little girl, it must be very hard for her!"

A hard glitter in his hostess's eye did not encourage conversation along these lines, and he soon excused himself to go and meet his father, who had gone to the inn to see that the rest of the family were comfortable for the night.

The household settled to quiet at last, but it was like the sullen silence before a storm.

A heavy burden had fallen upon Mr. Van Rensselaer. He seemed to be arraigned before his first wife's searching eyes, for the trouble that had befallen their child. He could not get away from the vision of her dead face.

His wife spent the night in feverish planning for the morning, a fiendish determination in her heart to be rid of her step-daughter, no matter to what she had to resort in order to compass it.

Mr. Winthrop had leisure now to think upon his oldest son, and the sin which he had been about to commit, and tears trickled down his cheeks as he watched through the long hours of the night. His wife vouchsafed him no word or look. To all appearances, she was asleep, but no one ever knew what struggles were going on within her soul. Perhaps she was holding herself in abeyance for the coming of the beloved son who would explain all.

In the spacious chamber assigned to him, Charles spent much of the night in a vision with a white-robed girl upon a hillside, and his waking visions and those sleeping were so blended that he was scarce aware when starlight merged into morning, and he heard the birds twitter in the branches near his window.

Of all that household, only Dawn slept. Her heart, bowed with its burden of apprehension, had reached the limit of endurance, and the long lashes lay still upon the white cheeks, while her soul ceased from its troubling for a little while.

She awoke with a start of painful realization, while yet the first crimson streak of morning lay in the east. Its rosy light reminded her of the day, and what it was to mean for her. With a sound that was like both a sob and a prayer, she rose quickly, and, slipping on the little white gown she had worn the evening before, nor stopping to do more than brush out the mass of curls, she hastened stealthily down the stairs and, taking care to close the door behind her that her escape should not be noticed, went out into the garden. She would slip back quietly, before the guests were astir, she told herself. She wanted one more hour to herself in the dewy garden, before life shut her in forever from freedom and her girlhood.

Five minutes later, her step-mother, in dressing-gown and slippers, crossed the hall hastily and pushed open the girl's door. She had fallen asleep toward morning, and had slept later than she had intended. But she had her plans carefully laid, and determined to settle the girl's part before any one was up.

At that same instant, Charles, whose heart was alive for the possibilities of the new day, stepped out on the balcony in front of his window, and with easy agility swung himself over the railing and dropped to the terrace beneath. He was too impatient to sleep longer, and felt that somehow he would be nearer his heart's desire if he got out into the dewy morning world.

He walked slowly down the carefully tended paths, into the garden, stopping to notice a bird's note here, the glint of dew-drops over the lawn, the newly opened flowers in the beds of poppies, bachelor buttons, foxglove, asters, and sweet-peas. A great thorny branch that must have evaded the gardener's careful training reached out as if to catch his attention, and there upon its tip was a spray of delicate buds, just half blown, exquisite as an angel's wings, and with the warm glow of the sunrise in the sheathlike, curling petals. Were they white or pink or yellow? A warm white, living and tender, like a maiden's cheek. He reached for the spray and cut it off, feeling sure he could make his peace with the mistress of the house when he confessed his theft. He stood a moment looking at the beautiful roses, one almost full blown, the other two just curling apart, like a baby trying to waken. He drank in their fragrance in a long, deep breath, and then, thinking his fanciful thoughts of the girl to whom he had given his heart so freely before he yet knew her, he walked slowly on to the little arbor hid among the yew trees.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer stood in the doorway of Dawn's room, aghast, scarcely able to believe her eyes. Yes, the girl was gone. Where? was her instant thought. Perhaps she had fled, and would make them more trouble. A great fear clutched at the woman's heart lest she had made a terrible mistake by not talking the matter over with her step-daughter the night before, and making her understand what she was to do. Now, perhaps, it would be found out by them all, and by her husband in particular, that she had not yet told the girl anything. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had a decided fear of her husband. Their wills had never really clashed so far, but for some years she had had a feeling that if they ever did, he would be terrible. She shrank back with a wild heating of her heart, and looked about the shadowy hall as if she expected to find the girl lurking there. Then her stern common-sense came to the surface, and she went boldly into the room and made a systematic search. It did not take but a minute to make sure that Dawn was not there, and that wherever she was she had taken nothing with her, save the clothes she had worn the evening before. It suddenly occurred to the step-mother that she ought to have gone into the room before retiring last night and made sure that her charge was there; but so sure had she been that she had heard Dawn come in, it had not occurred to her to do it. Besides, where could the girl go? She was very likely maundering about that dull old garden she had haunted ever since her return from school.

With that, Mrs. Van Rensselaer looked out of the window, just in time to catch sight of her young guest cutting the roses. With keen apprehension, she saw what might be about to happen, and knew that instant action was the only thing that could prevent a catastrophe.

Regardless of dressing-gown and slippers, and of the night-cap which concealed her scant twist of hair, she descended the stairs, strode out the front door and down the garden path, coming in sight of the young man just as he turned the corner of the yew hedge into the walk that led into the green arbor.

Charles stopped suddenly, for there sat Dawn in her little white gown, with her head bowed upon her arms, on the rustic table, and her wealth of dark curls covering her. Her young frame shook with sobbing, yet so quietly did she weep that he had not heard her.

Her ear, alert with apprehension, caught the sound of his foot upon the gravel, and she raised her head as suddenly as he had stopped.

She looked at him with frightened eyes, out of which the tears had fled down her white cheeks. The face was full of anguish, yet sweet and pitiful withal, framed in its ripple of dark hair.

One instant she looked at him as if he were a vision from whence she could not tell, then that great light grew in her eyes, as he had seen it on the hillside, and before he knew what he was doing he had smiled. Then the light in her eyes grew into an answering smile and lit up her whole beautiful, sorrowful face. It was like a rainbow in the pale dawn of the morning, that smile, with the tear-drops still upon her lashes.

"Jemima, what on earth!" broke in the harsh voice of her step-mother. "You certainly do take the craziest notions! You out here in that rig at this time in the morning! I guess you didn't count on company rising early, too. And your hair not combed either! I certainly am mortified. Run in quick and get tidied up. There's plenty to do this morning, without mooning in the garden. You'll excuse her"—to the guest. "She had no idea any one else would be out here so early."

The smile had gone from the girl's face, and instead the fright had come back at sound of her tormentor's jangling voice. She looked down at her little rumpled frock, put back her hair with trembling hand, and a flood of sweet, shamed color came into the white face, just as the sun burst up behind the hedge and touched the green with rosy morning brightness.

Without a word in reply, she turned to go, but her eyes met those of Charles with a pleading that went to his heart, and his eyes answered unspeakable things, of which neither knew the meaning, though each felt the strange joy they brought.

As he stood back to let her pass, he held out to her the spray of lovely rosebuds, and without a word she took them and went swiftly on into the house. Not a word had passed between them, yet each felt that something wonderful had happened.

Dawn looked neither to right nor to left, fearing lest she should see some one less welcome, and so she fled to her room, with the sound of her step-mother's clanging voice, uttering some commonplaces about the morning and the garden, floating to her in indistinct waves.

"You will let me see her now just as soon as she is ready to come down?" Charles asked eagerly at the door.

"I will talk with her at once, and let you know what she says," answered the vexed lady evasively. She was all out of breath and flurried with the anxiety lest she had been too late. It had been a narrow escape. She did not like to begin an important day like this with being flustered. Besides, she had become conscious of her night-cap, the ugly lines of her dressing-gown, the flop-flop of her slippers. A long wisp of hair had escaped from her cap and was tickling her nose, as she ascended the stairs with as much dignity as the circumstances and her slippers allowed, in full sight of the ardent lover.

"Well, Jemima Van Rensselaer, I hope you're satisfied!" she flared out, as soon as she was inside the girl's door. "What on earth took you out in the wet at this unearthly hour? And on your wedding day, too! I should think you'd be ashamed! I declare I shall be glad to my soul when this day's over and I can wash my hands of the responsibility of you. If your father knew the freaks and fancies and the queer actions of you I'm not sure what he wouldn't do to you! Now, look here! Sit down. I want to talk to you."

But Dawn had flung herself upon her bed in a paroxysm of tears, and was smothering her wild sobs in the pillow. She did not hear a word.

Nor could threats nor protests, nor even a thorough shaking, bring her out of it until the tears had wept themselves out. But finally she lay quiet and white upon the bed, and even the hard-hearted woman who did not love her was stirred to a sort of pity for the abject woe that was upon her face.

"Say, look here, Jemima"—even the hated name brought forth no sign from the girl—"now put away all this foolishness. Girls always feel kind of queer at getting married and making a change in life. I did, myself."

Dawn wondered indifferently if her step-mother had ever been a girl. She certainly had not been one when she married Dawn's father.

"You'll feel all right once you get in your own home and have things the way you want them around you."

Dawn shuddered. She would have him around her.

"Now, do get up and wash your face. A bride oughtn't to look as if she was just getting over the measles. Besides, you'll be wanted pretty soon to go downstairs——"

"Oh!" Dawn involuntarily put her hand over her heart. "Must I go down and see all those dreadful people? Couldn't I just stay here till—till—till it's time?"

Now, this was exactly what Mrs. Van Rensselaer wanted her to say, and, moreover, had been counting upon. If Dawn had assented to going down, her step-mother would have found some excuse for keeping her upstairs. But she did not wish the girl to know it, so she assumed a look of mild disapproval.

"It's very queer for you not to want to meet your mother-in-law and father-in-law, and all your new sisters——"

Dawn shuddered more violently, and clasped her hands quickly over her eyes, as if to shut out the unpleasant vision of her new kindred.

"Oh, no, no, please!" she besought, looking up at her step-mother with more earnest pleading than she had ever shown her before.

"Well"—grimly—"I suppose it can be managed, but you'll want to have a talk with him that's so soon to be your husband——"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Dawn wildly. "I do not want to see him. I cannot talk with him now. I could never, never, go through that awful ceremony afterward if I were to see him now. I should run away or something. I'm sure I should. I don't want to see anybody until I have to."

"He'll think it very strange. I don't see how I can explain it. He's very anxious to talk to you. He sent you a message last night, but you were asleep."

So that was what the knock had meant! Dawn was glad she had not answered it.

"Oh, please, please," she said, clasping her hands in the attitude of pleading, "couldn't you just explain to him that I'm a very silly girl, but I should like just these last few minutes to myself. Tell him that if he has any message, please to tell it to you, and to let me be by myself now. Tell him he doesn't know how a girl feels when she is going to stop being a girl. Tell him, please, that if he has any sympathy for me at all, he won't ask to see me now. It is only a little while, and I want it to myself."

Her great pleading eyes met Mrs. Van Rensselaer's cold gaze, and her whole slender figure took an attitude of intense wistfulness. The elder woman, cold and unloving as she was, could not but acknowledge that the girl was very beautiful. Her heart might have been touched more had it not been for the gnawing thought that this child's mother had been the canker-worm which had blighted the step-mother's whole life.

She turned grimly from the girl, well content that her plans were coming out as she desired, yet not entirely comfortable in mind or conscience. Almost she determined to risk telling the girl everything, yet dared not, lest she utterly refuse to be married even at this late hour.

"Well, I suppose you must have your own way. You always have," she said grimly.

Dawn wondered when.

"I'll do my best to explain your state of mind," continued Mrs. Van Rensselaer, "though I'm sure I don't know how he'll take it. It's my opinion he isn't going to have a bed of roses through life, being a husband to you, any way, and I suppose he may as well begin to learn."

With which unsympathetic remark, she went heavily out of the girl's room, and into her own, where she speedily got herself into her wedding garments. A red spot burned in either sallow cheek, but her mouth wore the line of victory. So far she had carried out her schemes well.

CHAPTER X

At breakfast time, as the other guests were coming downstairs, Mrs. Van Rensselaer beckoned Charles inside the dining-room door, and gave him his message in a low tone.

"It will be all right, Mr. Winthrop. Your offer will be accepted gratefully, but she asks you to be kind enough to leave her to herself until the time for the ceremony. She is so much shaken by this whole thing that she is afraid to talk about it, lest it will unnerve her. She says she does not need to talk it over, that you are very kind, and if you have any message, you can send it by me after breakfast."

"Thank you, thank you!" said Charles, his face bright with the joy of knowing that his strange suit had been successful. He was disappointed, of course, not to see the girl at once, but it would not be long before she was his wife, and he could talk with her as much as he pleased. After all, there was something wonderful in her trusting him enough to marry him, when she had seen him but twice. Had she, perhaps, had the same feeling about him that he had about her? Had that been the explanation of the light in her eyes?

These thoughts played a happy trill in his heart as he greeted his father and mother and seated himself at the table. All through the meal, he was planning the message he would send to his beloved.

When her step-mother had left the room, Dawn had fastened the door securely against all intrusion. She was determined to have to herself what little time was left.

On the couch, under her window was spread the beautiful frock which her step-mother had prepared for her to wear. It was of white satin, rich and elaborate, and encrusted with much beautiful lace, which had been in her father's family for years, and was yellow with age. It was traditional that all the brides of the house had worn these rare laces. Dawn hated the frock and the lace. She would much rather have worn a simple muslin of her own mother, but as the marriage was not to her taste, why should her dress be, either? What mattered it? Let them all have their way with her.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer had taken much pride in preparing the beautiful garments, but Dawn knew why. She knew that it was for others to look upon, so that they would praise the step-mother for having been so good to the child who had been thrust upon her care under circumstances which, to put it mildly, were unpleasant. It spoke of no loving kindness toward her.

And so Dawn did not go over to the couch, as many another girl might have done, to examine again the filmy hand-embroidered garments, the silk stockings, and the dainty satin slippers, sewed over with seed-pearls that were also an heirloom in the family. They meant to her nothing but signs of her coming bondage.

Instead, she went to the little three-legged mahogany stand, where she had placed in a tall pitcher her spray of rosebuds. She bent over to take in their delicate fragrance, and the eyes of him who had given them to her seemed to be looking into her soul again, as twice they had looked before.

It was a strange thing—and she thought of it afterward many times—that she did not yet know who he was, and had never stopped to question. It had not even occurred to her to wonder if he were a relative or only a friend, or how he came to be in her home. She accepted him as she would have accepted a respite in some quiet place for her fevered spirit, or the visit of an angel with a message of strength from heaven. She had a vague feeling that if he had come before things might have been different.

She knelt beside the stand and let her hot cheek rest against a cool bud; she touched her lips to another, and then laid the roses on her eyelids. It seemed almost like a pitying human hand upon her spirit, and comforted her tired heart. She felt that she was growing old, very, very old, in these last few hours, to meet the requirements of her wedding day, and the touch of the buds seemed to steady and help her, as her mother's hand and lips might have done.

By and by she would have to get up and put on those fine garments lying over there in the morning sunlight, and go downstairs, for them all to stare at her misery; but now she would forget it all for a little while, and just think of her new-found friend, who had looked at her with such a wonderful smile—a smile in which there seemed no place for fault-finding or sternness or grim solemnity—the things which had seemed to make up the main part of her girlhood life.

Meantime, Mr. Winthrop and his host had gone to meet the train, upon which the expectant bridegroom would arrive.

As they neared the tavern that served as a station for the new railroad, they saw an old man, a woman, and two little children sitting upon a settle on the front stoop. The man arose and came a step or two toward them, and Mr. Winthrop saw that it was William McCord.

He seemed embarrassed and he spoke apologetically:

"Mr. Winthrop, sir, I don't jest know what you'll think about me bein' here—I don't, and I'm sorry's I can be about it; but, you see, I knowed Harrington pretty well. I knowed he might find a way to smooth it all over and pull the wool over your eyes, and I'd passed my word I'd come here with her and stop the marriage, if so be it turned out you couldn't or wouldn't feel called upon to do so. I didn't count on your comin' down to the train. You see, we ben watchin' every train sence yesterday, to make sure he didn't get away to the house without our seein' him. That poor girl there ain't et scarce a mouthful sence she started from home—only just a drop o' coffee now an' then—and she ain't slep' neither. She's jest keepin' alive to hunt him up and try to persuade him to come home to her an' the children. You see, I had to let her come. I couldn't say no. She was up here day 'fore yesterday, when I come to see you. She didn't want I should tell you, because she ain't got the clo'es and fixin's she'd like to hev you see her in, but she was determined to come——"

He paused and looked back toward the bench where the woman and the children sat.

Mr. Winthrop's face had taken on a look of distress as he recognized William McCord. He turned to his companion and explained in a low tone, "This is the man who brought me the evidence."

Mr. Van Rensselaer regarded the man with keen eyes, and decided at once that any word from a man with such a face was as good as an affidavit.

When William looked toward the woman her worn face flamed crimson, then turned deadly white again. She must have been unusually pretty not so very many years ago, but sorrow, toil and poverty had left their ineradicable marks upon her face and stripped her of all claim to beauty now. Her dress was plain, and as neat as could be expected under the circumstances. Her roughened hair showed an attempt to put it into order, and her eyes looked as though she had not slept for many nights. In spite of her shrinking, there was a dignity about her. The bony hand that held the youngest child wore a wedding ring, now much too large for the finger.

The oldest child, a girl apparently of five, had yellow hair and rather bold blue eyes that reminded Mr. Winthrop startlingly of his eldest son's when he was a small boy. The youngest, a sallow, sickly boy, looked like his mother.

The kindly face of Mr. Winthrop was overspread with trouble, but he grasped the humbler man's hand warmly:

"That's all right, William," he said heartily. "I suppose she felt she must come, and there's no harm done. Only, for our friend Mr. Van Rensselaer's sake, keep the matter as quiet as possible."

"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Winthrop, and thank you, sir," said the old man gratefully.

Then he looked questioningly toward the woman, and took a step in her direction.

"Alberty, this here is his father," said William McCord and withdrew hastily.

Mr. Van Rensselaer at once engaged him in earnest conversation, giving the other man opportunity to talk with his unknown daughter-in-law without being observed.

The woman looked up abashed into the kindly eyes bent upon her. Yet she felt the right was on her side, and she had no need to quail before any one.

"It has given me great sorrow, madam, to learn of my son's behavior," he began. "It is particularly distressing to us because he is our first born, and deeply loved by us." He paused, overcome by his emotion, and the dry-eyed woman, who looked as if she had long ago shed all the tears she had to shed, glanced up wonderingly and said in a voice that betrayed her lack of culture:

"Yes, that's one trouble with him: folks always like him too well. He thinks he can do anything he wants, and it won't make no diff'runce. But he can't go no further with me. I've jest made up my mind to take a stand, even ef I have to go to that rich girl and show her them childern."

The father in him almost shuddered at the vernacular. Of what could Harrington have been thinking when he married this woman—Harrington, who had been brought up amid the refinements of life, and been almost too sensitive to unpleasant things? It was the old story of a pretty face, and a boy far from home and acquaintances, with no one to advise, and no danger of being found out.

"I used to like him a lot myself," went on the tired voice, "an' I might even yet ef he'd behave himself and stay home, an' pervide good fer us like he used to." There was a pleasant drawl to her tone, like a weary child's. The father's heart was touched.

"Has my son sent you money during his absences?" The question had to be asked, but it cut the old gentleman to the heart to speak the words.

She turned dull eyes on him.

"Never a cent! He always said he was havin' a hard time to get money enough to keep goin', business was so bad, but I look notice he was dressed up good and smart every time he come home, which wa'n't often." She sighed as if it did not matter much.

"I could stand it all," she began again in her monotonous tone, "but I can't stand him gettin' married again. It ain't right, and it ain't the law, an' I knew ef I didn't stop it, nobody would, so I come on."

"That was right," sighed the old gentleman, fumbling in his pocket, "perfectly right. Here, I want you to take this with you."

He handed her a roll of bills, but she drew back, a red spot coming in either sallow cheek.

"I ain't an object of charity, thank you. I put a mortgage on pap's shack to git the money to come out here, but when I get back I've got plenty of work, an' I can pay it off in a year or so."

"This is not charity," said the disconcerted old gentleman. "This belongs to you. I often lend Harrington money, and sometimes give him some, and this was to be given to him. I think it is safer with you. He can work for his own after this, and I will see that all I should have given him comes to your hands. I have your address. Take it for the children. I guess I have a right to give something to my own grandchildren," he said with a great stretch of his pride, looking down at the two forlorn little specimens of childhood hiding, half frightened, behind their mother's skirts.

The woman melted at once, the first warm tinge of life springing into her eyes at the mention of her children as his relatives.

"Oh, if you put it that way, I'll take it o' course. It ain't no fault of theirs that their father don't do right by me, and they do need a sight of things I can't manage to get anyhow. Last winter Harry was sick for four months—he's named after his pa, Harry is." She pushed his hair fondly out of his eyes, and, moistening her fingers at her lips, rubbed vigorously at a black streak on Harry's nose, at which he as vigorously protested.

But the train was near at hand. Even then the distant rumble of its wheels could be heard.

Mr. Van Rensselaer and William McCord drew near, the latter with an attitude of deferential expectancy.

"Mr. Winthrop," said his host, "would it not be well to let your son's wife meet him first?"

The old father bowed. He saw at once the wisdom of this.

"I'd like ye to stand where ye could get a glimpse of his face when he first catches sight o' his wife. It will be a better proof that I've told ye the truth than all the words I've said to ye," whispered William.

"I have never doubted your word, William," said the father sadly.

With much shouting and blowing of the trumpet, the morning train lumbered in, and the passengers began rapidly to emerge. There were loud talk, and tooting of the horn, and a clatter of machinery, as the fireman jumped down and attended to some detail of the engine's mechanism. Some said he did this to show off before the gaping crowd, who had not yet grown used to the fact that a machine could draw a number of loaded carriages through the country, without the aid of horses.

The two old gentlemen had rapidly withdrawn into a secluded place, by a wide-spreading apple-tree.

CHAPTER XI

One of the first to get out of the carriages was Harrington Winthrop. A high stock held his chin well tilted in the air, his gray trousers were immaculate, and his coat fitted about his slender waist as trimly as any lady's. He wore a high gray beaver hat and carried a shiny new portmanteau. Altogether, he looked quite a dandy, and the eyes of his waiting wife filled with a light of pride even while her heart quaked.

Only an instant she paused to watch him. He was making straight for the Van Rensselaer carriage, which stood not far away, and which he supposed had been sent to bring him to the house. He walked with an importance and pride that any one might see. He did not take note of any one on the platform, though he was conscious that many were watching him.

Then, suddenly, the woman with the two little children clinging to her skirts, stepped in his way. The little girl looked up into his face with bold blue eyes, and cried out: "It's my pa! It's my pa! Oh, doesn't he look pretty?"

The two men standing close together under the apple-tree were near enough to hear the child's cry, and many bystanders turned and looked at the fine gentleman beset by the poor-looking woman and children.

Harrington Winthrop turned his elegant self about with a start and found himself face to face with the worn shadow of the woman who for a time had been his plaything, and whom he had tossed aside as easily and as carelessly as if she had been a doll.

The start, the pallor, the quick, furtive side-glance, all told their tale to the watchers, without other need of words. Then anger surged into young Winthrop's face, and he cried out:

"Stand back, you vagabonds! What have I to do with you? Get out of my way, woman! There is a carriage waiting for me."

But the woman stood her ground, with grim determination, great red waves of restrained anger marking her face and forehead, as if he had struck her with his words. She looked up at him. She had planned it all for so many hours, and now she was calm in this terrible crisis. It would not do to make a public disturbance. Neither for his sake nor for her own, did she wish to have people see or hear, if it could be avoided, so she had schooled herself to be self-controlled.

"Harrington," she said, speaking low and rapidly, "I'm your wife, and you know it. I've come to keep you from an awful sin, and I will do it. You can't forgit me an' the children, and marry a rich girl. It would be wicked. But I've fixed it so you can't do it, any way. If you'll come off quiet with me now, I won't say a word to disgrace you here where I s'pose folks knows you; but if you try to git away from me, I'll tell the whole world who I be, an' prove it too!"

Now, if the young man had known that there were those watching who knew his story he would have been more careful, but his casual glance about the platform had given him no hint of any but the villagers, few of whom he knew even slightly. Yet his wife's face and voice were such that he thought it the part of wisdom to temporize; so he dropped his angry manner and spoke in a low tone. But it happened that the two witnesses under the apple-tree had also, by common consent, moved toward him. With William McCord in their rear, they came and stood quite close to Harrington, and though he did not see them, every word that he spoke was audible.

"Look here, Alberta, what in the name of common sense are you doing up here? Isn't it hard enough for me to have to work and scrape and do all in my power to get my business going again, so that I can come home to you and the children and keep you in the way you ought to be kept, without having you come traipsing around here in such clothes as that? Don't you know you'd ruin my business if anybody thought you belonged to me? Everybody thinks I'm a successful business man, and they must think so or I'm lost and shall never come back to you. Here, take this money. A man just paid me a bill that he has been owing me for two years, and I needed the money to help me in a new deal, but as you are here you'll have to have it to get home with. Now, run along back, and take good care of the children till I come home a rich man. Then we'll live like folks. And what is all this nonsense you are talking about my marrying a rich girl? How ever could you get such an idea? Why, I couldn't marry anybody as long as you are my wife. You must have heard some foolish gossip. Take it quick and run along, or people will be looking and talking, and I shall be ruined."

The thin hand of the wife went out to the money he offered her, but instead of taking it, she struck it into the air, and it fell scattering in every direction. Suddenly the young man became aware of the nearness of others, and, looking up, he saw in quick succession his father, Mr. Van Rensselaer, and William McCord!

He knew at once that they had heard every word he had spoken to his wife, even before their condemning eyes had searched his soul. The presence of William McCord made it plain to him that they had known the story before his arrival, and he realized instantly that he had given the final testimony against himself.

It was too late to turn back and deny knowledge of the woman. There stood his father's former farm manager, who had lived in the Western town where Harrington had married his wife. That McCord would ever come East again and bring back tales against him had not occurred to the careless young scapegrace. McCord was a quiet, silent man, who went about his own business, and seldom, if ever, wrote letters. Young Winthrop had never given an uneasy thought to him, but now he stood and looked at him in growing dismay.

Turning, Harrington met his father's passionate, loving reproach, his wife's bitter hopelessness, and the scorn of the man he had hoped soon to call his father-in-law.

The voice of Mr. Winthrop broke out in bitterness: "Oh, my son, my son!" and the father's kind face was turned away. He was weeping.

This kind of reproach had ever angered Harrington Winthrop beyond all endurance. It seethed over his frightened, fretted spirit now like acid in a wound. The voice of the trainman cried out, "All aboard!" the trumpet sounded, and the wheels moved. The fireman jumped on, board. Then Harrington Winthrop grasped his portmanteau, pushed aside his frightened children, who were eagerly gathering up the scattered money, and sprang into a vacant carriage. His game was up and he knew it.

With a wild cry, the wife caught up her little boy, and, dragging her little girl, rushed after him. A couple of men standing by pushed her up into the carriage with her husband, which happened to be occupied by no one else. Before he had time to turn about and notice what had happened, the train was going rapidly on its way, and the reunited family had ample opportunity to discuss their situation. Harrington Winthrop had completed the last link in the chain of evidence against him: he had fled.

Mr. Van Rensselaer stood looking after the vanishing train with satisfaction. He had watched the changing expressions on the face of the young man who had expected to become the husband of his only daughter: the cruelty, the craven fear, the hate, and the utter selfishness of the man! Suppose his daughter had stood where that poor wife had stood, and begged of him to come home to her and care for her! What an escape!

The daughter who had been the object of so little of his thought or care had suddenly become dear to him. Mary's daughter, the child of his real love! He saw how utterly selfish and unfatherly had been his whole action with regard to her; how almost criminal in his self-absorption. There had come, too, a revelation from the sight of that poor, hollow-eyed, deserted wife, a revelation of what his treatment of his own wife, Mary, had been. He was stung with a remorse such as he had not known before.

As William McCord watched the departing train, he might have been said fairly to glow with contentment over the way things had come out. Not that he felt that matters would be materially improved for the poor broken-hearted woman who was making her last frantic effort to get back what she had lost. But he was justified, fully justified, in the eyes of his benefactor. He could now with a clear conscience take his way back to his claim in western Mississippi, and feel that he had done his duty.

As for Mr. Winthrop, he was filled with horror. His son's face had been a revelation to him. Until now it had been impossible for him to conceive that Harrington had done this wrong. Underneath all his conviction of the truth of William McCord's story, there had still been a lingering hope that in some way the beloved son would explain things satisfactorily.

Mr. Winthrop now realized that he had never really known his boy at all. The old father gazed after the train in the dim distance, saw it round a curve and vanish from his sight, then turned and walked with bowed head away from them all. He felt that such sorrow was too heavy for him.

CHAPTER XII

Dawn was already dressed for the wedding.

Her step-mother surveyed her with a kind of grim pride. The shimmering satin fitted the slim, girlish form to perfection, and the yellow lace set off the pink and cream complexion. It was a beautiful frock, and all who saw it would be sure to say so.

There had been some contention about the arrangement of the girl's hair. Dawn wanted to be married with her curls down her back, as she had always worn them, but her step-mother was firm. That could not be. If her hair had been only long enough to reach to her shoulders, it would not have seemed so absurd, for many young women wore their short ringlets all about the neck. But Dawn's hair fell far below her waist in rich, abundant curls. It was out of the question for her to be married looking so like a child.