Dawn of the Morning Part 7

"Our first-born has been guilty of a great wrong. It is best to face the truth, my boy. Harrington has committed a crime. I don't see how it can be thought otherwise by any honest person. I am trying to look at the facts, but even as I speak the words I cannot realize that they are true of one of our family."

Charles waited, his eyes fixed upon the old man's face, and a great indignation growing within him toward the brother who could dare bring dishonor upon such a father!

Mr. Winthrop bowed his head upon his hand for a moment, as though he could not bear to reveal the whole truth. Then he roused himself as one who has need of haste.

"Charles, your brother already has a wife and two little children, yet he was proposing to wed another woman. He has dared to court and win an innocent young girl, and to hoodwink her honorable father. And the worst of it is that he meant to carry it out and marry her! Oh the shame of it! We are disgraced, Charles! We are all disgraced!" With a low groan the father buried his face in his hands and bowed himself upon the desk.

The heart of the young man grew hot. A great desire for vengeance was surging over him. He arose excitedly from his chair.

"Harrington has done this, father!"

The words burst from his lips more like a judgment p.r.o.nounced than like a question or a statement of fact. It was as if the acknowledgment of his brother's sin were a kind of climax in his thought of that brother, whom he had been all these years attempting to idealize, as a boy so often idealizes an elder brother. The words bore with them, too, the recognition of all the pain and disappointment and perplexity of many things throughout the years. Charles's finer nature suddenly revolted in disgust from all that he saw his brother to be.

He stood splendidly indignant, above the bowed head of his father, a picture of fine, strong manhood, ready to avenge the rights of insulted womanhood. There before him arose a vision obscuring the walls of the book-lined library-the vision of a girl, fresh, fair, lovely, with eyes alight, cheeks aglow, floating hair, and fluttering white drapery, garlanded in pink and white blossoms that filled the air with the breath of a spring morning. It blazed upon him with clearness and beauty, and veiled by no hindering sense of wrong. With a great heart throb of joy, he recognized that she no longer belonged to his brother.

The thought had scarcely thrilled his senses before he was ashamed of it. How could he think of joy or anything else in the midst of the shame and trouble that had fallen upon them all? And most of all upon the beautiful girl, who would bear the heaviest burden.

True, there was another side to the matter, a side in which she might be thankful that Harrington's true character had been discovered before things had gone further; but there was mortification, and disgrace inevitable. Then, it was to be presumed that she had loved Harrington, or why should she be about to marry him? Poor child! His heart stood still in pity as he realized what the sin of his brother would mean to her.

These thoughts went swiftly through his mind as he stood beside his father. It seemed to him that in the instant of the elder man's silence he reviewed the whole catastrophe in its various phases and lived through years of experience and knowledge. Then his father's trembling voice took up the story again:

"Yes, Harrington did that!" They were Charles's own words, but somehow, on his father's tongue, they spoke a new pathos, and again the young man saw another side to the whole terrible matter. Harrington was the oldest son, adored of his mother. Though he had been gone from home for years, he had yet remained her idol until it had seemed his every virtue had grown to perfection, while all his faults were utterly forgotten.

During his visits, which had been few and far between, the whole family had put itself out of its routine, and hung upon his wishes. His stories had been listened to with the deference due to one older and wiser than any of them could ever hope to be. His wishes had been law, his opinions gospel truth. Charles recalled how his mother had always called together the entire family to listen to the reading to one of Harrington's rare epistles, demanding a solemnity and attention second only to that required at family wors.h.i.+p. 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," a.s.sented 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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."