LIFE AT BEECHWOOD.
The next morning was bright and beautiful, as mornings in early October
often are, when the summer seems to linger amid flower and shrub, as if
loth to quit the glories its own sunshine and showers had created.
The mist still lay in soft clouds upon the river and on the mountain
sides, when Magdalen arose, and, leaning from her window, drank in the
bracing morning air, and acknowledged to herself that Beechwood was
almost as beautiful as Millbank. She had slept quietly, and felt her old
life and vigor coming back to her again as she hastened to dress
herself.
She had heard no sound as yet, except the tread of a servant in the
yard, and the baying of the Newfoundland dog up the mountain path.
Alice was not in her own room. She must have dressed and gone out before
Magdalen awoke, and the latter was hesitating whether to go down to the
parlor, or to remain where she was, when Alice appeared, her blue eyes
shining brightly, and a faint flush upon her cheek.
“I slept _so_ well because you were here near me,” she said as she
linked her arm in Magdalen’s, and started for the dining-room.
As they passed through the hall, Magdalen noticed at the farther
extremity a green baize door, which seemed to divide that part of the
hall from the other, and which she knew by the location was the door
which she had heard shut so many times. Where did it lead to? What was
there behind it? What embodiment of sorrow and pain was hidden away in
that portion of the building? That there was _somebody_ there, Magdalen
was sure; for, just as she reached the head of the stairs she saw a
servant girl coming up a side staircase, bearing in her arms a silver
tray, on which was arranged a tempting breakfast for an invalid.
“I shall know all in good time,” she thought, and she pretended not to
see the girl, and kept on talking to Alice until the dining-room was
reached, where Mr. Grey and his sister were waiting for them. Both
seemed in unusually good spirits, and Mr. Grey kissed his daughter
fondly as she nestled close to him and smiled up into his face with all
the love of a trusting, affectionate daughter. The sight for a moment
smote Magdalen with a keen sense of desolation and loneliness. Never had
she known,—never could know the happiness of a father’s watchful love
and care, and never had she felt its loss as keenly as she felt it now,
when she saw the caressing tenderness which Mr. Grey bestowed upon his
daughter and the eagerness with which it was returned. They were both
very kind to her, and treated her more like a guest than one who had
come to them as a hired companion.
It was a delightful day for driving; and after breakfast was over, Alice
asked for the carriage and took Magdalen to all her favorite resorts,
down by the river and up among the hills, where she said she often went
and sat for hours alone. They were firmer friends than ever before that
drive was over, and Alice had dropped “Miss Lennox” for the more
familiar “Magdalen,” and had asked that she should be simply “Alice,”
and not that formal “Miss Grey.”
That afternoon Magdalen wrote a short letter to Hester Floyd, telling
her where she was, explaining how she chanced to be there, and going
into ecstasies over the loveliness and beauty of Alice Grey, but never
hinting at Mr. Grey’s identity with the man who had tempted Jessie to
sin. It was as well to keep that to herself, she thought, inasmuch as
the telling it would only awaken bitter memories in Rogers heart. Once
she determined not to speak of Roger at all, but that would be too
marked a neglect, and so she asked to be remembered to him, and said she
should never forget his kindness to her, or cease to regret the
meddlesome curiosity which had resulted so disastrously for him. She
made no mention of either Mrs. Walter Scott or Frank. She merely said
she left Millbank at such a time, and expressed herself as glad to get
away, it seemed so changed from the happy home it used to be in other
days.
“Mrs. Hester Floyd. Care of Roger Irving, Esq., Schodick, N. H.,” was
the direction of the letter which Magdalen gave to Mr. Grey, who was
going to the post-office and offered to take it for her. Very narrowly
she watched him as he glanced at the superscription, and she half pitied
him when she saw his lips quiver and turn pale for a moment as he read
the name of a place which he remembered so well. Once in his life _he_
had sent letters to that very town, and the Schodick post-mark was not
an unfamiliar one to him. Now she to whom he had written was dead, and
he held a letter directed to the care of her son. How he longed to ask
something concerning him, and finally he did so, saying in a half
indifferent tone, “Schodick?—I once spent a summer there, and I have
heard of Mr. Irving. Does he live in the village?”
“No, sir, he lives at his mother’s old home. They call it the Morton
farm. Did you know his mother, Jessie Morton?”
Magdalen put the question purposely, but regretted it when she saw the
look of intense pain which flitted across Mr. Grey’s face.
“I knew her, yes. She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw,” he
replied, and then he turned away and walked slowly from the room with
his head bent down, as if his thoughts were busy with the past.
The days succeeding that first one at Beechwood went rapidly by, and
each one found Magdalen happier and more contented with her situation as
companion of Alice, who strove in so many ways to make her feel that she
was in all respects her equal, instead of a person hired to minister to
her. Indeed, the hired part seemed only nominal, for nothing was ever
required of Magdalen which would not have been required of her had she
been a daughter of the house and Alice her invalid sister. They rode
together, and walked together, and read together, and slept together at
last, for Alice would have it so, and every morning of her life Magdalen
was awakened by the soft touch of Alice’s hand upon her cheek, and the
kiss upon her brow.
To Magdalen this was a new and blissful experience. At Millbank she had
always been alone, so far as girls of her own age were concerned, and
Alice Grey seemed to her the embodiment of all that was pure and
beautiful, and she loved her with a devotion that sometimes startled
herself with its intenseness. The mystery, if there was one, was very
quiet now, and though Alice went often down the hall and through the
green baize door, she never looked as sad and tired when she came back
as she had done on that first day at Beechwood. Mr. Grey, too,
frequently passed the entire evening with the young girls in the parlor,
where Magdalen, who was a very fine reader, read to them aloud from
Alice’s favorite authors. But after the first night she was never asked
to _sing_. Alice often requested her to play, and they had learned a few
duets which they practised together, but songs were never mentioned, and
Magdalen would have fancied that there was something disagreeable in her
voice were it not that when alone with Alice among the hills and down by
the river, whither they often went, her companion always insisted upon
her singing, and would sit listening to her as if spellbound by the
clear, liquid tones.
At last there came a letter from Hester Floyd, who, in her
characteristic way, expressed herself as pleased that Magdalen “had grit
enough to cut loose from the whole coboodle at Millbank, and go to do
for herself. I was some taken aback,” she wrote, “for I s’posed by the
tell that you was to marry that pimpin, white-faced Frank, and I must
say you showed your good sense by quittin’ him, and doin’ for yourself.
Me and Roger would have been glad for you to come here; that is, I
_b’leeve_ Roger would, though he never sed nothin’ particklar. He’s some
altered, and don’t talk so much, nor ’pear so chipper as he used to do,
and I mistrust he misses _you_ more’n he does his money. He’s a good
deal looked up to, both in the town and in the church, where they’ve
made him a vestryman in place of a man who died, and ’twould seem as if
he’d met with a change, though he allus was a good man, with no bad
habits; but he’s different like now, and don’t read newspapers Sunday,
nor let me get up an extra dinner, and he has family prayers, which is
all well enuff, only bakin’ mornins it does hender some.”
Then followed a description of the house and Schodick generally, and
then a break of two days or more, after which the old lady resumed her
pen, and added: “Roger’s got a letter from Frank, askin’ if he knew
where you was. He said you left while he was away unbeknownst to him,
and had never writ a word, by which I take it you and he ain’t on the
fust ratest terms. Roger talked the most that day that he has in a
month, and actually whistled, but then he’d just gained a suit, and so
mabby it was that, though I b’leeve it wouldn’t do no harm if you were
to drop him a line in a friendly way. It’s leap year, you know.”
This was Hester’s letter, over which Magdalen pondered long, wondering
if the old lady could have suspected her love for Roger, and how far she
was right in thinking he missed her more than his money. Magdalen read
that sentence many times, and her heart thrilled with delight at the
thought of being missed by Roger; but from Hester’s suggestion that she
should write him a friendly line, she turned resolutely away. The time
was gone by when she could write to Roger without his having first
written to her. After that interview in the library, when his kisses had
burned into her heart, and his passionate words, “Magda, my darling,”
had burned into her memory, she would be less than a woman to make the
first advances. Concessions, if there were any, must come from him now.
He knew how sorry she was about the will; he had exonerated her from all
blame in that matter, and now, if he had any stronger feelings for her
than that of a friend, he must make it manifest. This was Magdalen’s
reasoning over the Roger portion of Hester’s letter, and then she
thought of Frank, and felt a nervous dread lest he might follow her,
though that seemed hardly possible, even if he knew where she was. Still
he would undoubtedly write as soon as he could get her address from
Roger, and she was not at all disappointed when, a week or two after the
receipt of Hester’s letter, Mr. Grey brought her one from Belvidere,
directed in Frank’s well known handwriting. After obtaining her address
he had written at once, chiding her for having left so suddenly without
a word for him, and begging of her to return, or at least allow him to
come for her, and take her back to her rightful place at Millbank.
“I can’t imagine what freak of fortune led you to the Greys,” he wrote.
“It is the last place where I could wish you to be. Not that I do not
respect and esteem Miss Grey as the sweetest, loveliest of women, but I
distrust both her father and her aunt. For some reason they have never
seemed to like me, and may say things derogatory of me; but if they do,
I trust it will make no difference with you, for remember _you_ have
known me all your lifetime.”
Magdalen wrote next day to Frank, who, as he read her letter, began for
the first time to feel absolutely that she was lost to him forever. He
was sure of that, and for a moment he wept like a child, thinking how
gladly he would give up all his money if that would bring him Magdalen’s
love. But it was not in his nature to be unhappy long, and he soon dried
his eyes and consoled himself with a drive after his fast bays, and in
the evening when his mother mentioned to him the names of two or three
young ladies from New York who were coming to Millbank for the holidays,
and asked if there was any one in particular whom he wished to invite,
he mentioned Miss Burleigh, whom he had met in Springfield. And so Bell
was invited, and hastened to reply that she should be delighted to come,
but feared she could not, as “pa never liked to be separated from his
family at that time, and sister Grace would be home from school, and
could not, of course, be left behind.” She was so sorry, for she had
heard such glowing accounts of Millbank, and its graceful mistress, that
she ardently desired to see and know both, but as it was she must
decline.
As might be supposed, the invitation to Miss Bell Burleigh was repeated,
including this time the Judge and Grace, both of whom accepted, Grace
for the entire holidays, and the Judge for a day or two, as he did not
wish to crowd. And so Christmas bade fair to be kept at Millbank with
more hilarity than ever it had been before. Every room was to be
occupied, Bell and Grace Burleigh taking Magdalen’s, for which Frank
ordered a new and expensive carpet and chamber set, just as he had
ordered new furniture for many of the other rooms. He was living on a
grand scale, and had his income been what his principal was he could
scarcely have been more munificent or lavish of his money. He was at the
head of every charitable object in Belvidere and Springfield, and gave
so largely that his name was frequently in the papers which he sent to
Magdalen, with his pencil mark about the flattering notices; and
Magdalen smiled quietly as she read them and then showed them to Alice,
who once laughingly remarked, “Suppose you refer him to Matthew vi. 2.
It might be of some benefit to him.” And that was all the good Frank’s
ostentatious charity did him in that direction.
Meantime the tide of life moved on, and Christmas came, and the invited
guests arrived at Millbank, where there were such revellings and
dissipations as the people of Belvidere had never seen, and where Bell
Burleigh’s bold, black eyes flashed and sparkled and took in everything,
and saw so many places where a change would be desirable should Millbank
ever have another mistress than Mrs. Walter Scott.
Guy Seymour, too, had his holidays at Beechwood, which seemed a
different place with his great, kind heart, his quick appreciation of
another’s wants, his unfailing wit and humor, his merry whistle and
exhilarating laugh, his good-natured teasing of Auntie Pen, and his
entire devotion to Alice, who was rather reserved toward him, but who
talked a great deal of him to Magdalen when they were alone, and _cried_
when at last he went away.