Everet Mapleson, while reading the fashionable items in a New York paper one morning, came across the announcement of this approaching marriage.
He bounded from his chair with a muttered imprecation.
“So soon!” he said, with a frowning brow. “They are in a great hurry, it seems to me; but perhaps the trip abroad explains it. Let me see—they are to be married on the thirtieth,” he continued, referring to the paper again, “and will sail the next day on the Scythia. The Scythia? That is not a New York steamer—that sails from Boston; so, of course, they will have to leave New York immediately after their marriage to be in season for it.”
He paced up and down the room, with bent head and sullen, thoughtful brow.
All at once he gave a violent start.
“I wonder,” he muttered, stopping short in his pacing; “I wonder if it would be possible to manage it?”
He tossed back the disheveled hair from his forehead; his eyes blazed with some sudden purpose, his lips were set in a firm, livid line.
“I shall try for it,” he said, in a low, hoarse whisper. “I have everything to win or lose, and I will not yield without a desperate struggle.”
Two hours later his portmanteau was packed, and he was taking leave of his father and mother.
They expressed great surprise over his sudden departure, and protested against his leaving home before the holidays, since they had made arrangements for a gay time at Christmas, chiefly on his account.