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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude 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 fort.i.tude and a measure of amus.e.m.e.nt.

He had always felt that he could a.s.sert 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 ba.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude 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.