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