WOODBINE
While Beverly Ashby is squabbling good-naturedly with her brother and
chum, suppose we take this opportune moment in which to learn something
about the trio?
Beverly and her brother, Athol, had elected to enter this world exactly
fifteen years and four months prior to the opening of this story. They
also chose the thirteenth of May, 1897, to spring their first surprise
upon their family by arriving together, and had managed to sustain their
reputations for surprising the grownups by never permitting a single year
to pass without some new outbreak, though it must be admitted that
Beverly could certainly claim the greater distinction of the two in that
direction.
"Woodbine," their home, had been the family seat for many generations. It
had seen many a Seldon enter this world and many a one depart from it. It
had witnessed the outgoing of many brides from its broad halls, and seen
many enter to become its mistress. It was a wonderful old place,
beautiful, stately, and so situated upon its wooded upland that it
commanded a magnificent view of the broad valley of Sprucy Stream. Over
against it lay the foothills of the blue, blue mountains, the Blue Ridge
range, and far to the westward the peaks of the Alleghanies peeped above
the Massanutton range nearer at hand.
The valley itself was like a rare painting. The silvery stream running
through the foreground, the rich woodlands and fertile fields, the
marvelous lights and shadows ever holding the one looking upon it
entranced. And all this lay before the broad acres of Woodbine, so named
because that graceful vine hung in rich festoons from every column,
gallery, portico and even the eaves to which it had climbed, a delicate
gray-green adornment in early spring, a rich, darker tone in midsummer,
and a gorgeous crimson in the autumn.
It was a spacious old mansion and would have been considered a large one
even in the north, where, during the past fifty years, palaces have
sprung into existence under the misnomer of "cottages." Happily, it did
not tower up into the air as many of the so-called cottages do, but
spread itself comfortably over the greensward, the central building being
the only one ambitious enough to attain to two stories and a sharply
peaked roof, in which were set several dormer windows from which a most
entrancing view of the valley and distant mountain ranges could be
obtained.
These dormer window chambers were rarely used, and, excepting during the
semi-annual house cleaning, rarely visited. That one of these rare visits
should have been paid one of them upon this particular day of which we
are writing was simply Kismet. But of that a little later. Let us finish
our picture of lovely Woodbine.
Across the entire front of the main floor as well as the second story,
ran a wide piazza, gallery they call it in that part of the country. The
lower gallery gave upon a broad, velvety lawn dotted with elms, beeches,
oaks and feathery pines. No path led to this gallery, and when one
stepped from it one's feet sank into the softest green turf. The door
which opened upon it fairly spoke hospitality and welcome from its
beautiful fan-like arch to its diamond-paned side lights and the hall
within was considered one of the more perfect specimens of the
architecture of its period to be found in the state, as was the stately
circular double stairway leading to the floor above. Half way up, upon a
broad landing, a stained glass window, brought long, long ago from
England, let the western sunlight filter through its richly tinted panes
and lie in patches of exquisite color upon polished stairs and floor.
At the north and south ends of the house were the real entrances from the
carefully raked, wide driveway which described almost a complete circle
from the great stone gateway half a mile across Woodbine's lawn. Could
this driveway have run straight through the house the circle would have
been perfect, but it had to stop at the big south portico, with its
graceful columns, and resume its sweep from the north one which gave upon
the "office," the overseer's cottage, the various buildings devoted to
the business "ob de gr'et house," as the darkies called it, and away
further to the stables, carriage house, granaries and other buildings of
the estate, with the servants' cabins behind these. All upon the north
side of Woodbine was devoted to the practical, utilitarian needs of the
place, all upon its southern to its pleasures and luxuries, for in the
buildings circling away from the south end were the spacious kitchens,
dairy, smoke house, laundry and other buildings necessary to the domestic
economy of the household. None of these buildings touched directly upon
the main house, but were connected with it by a roofed-over colonnade
upon which the woodbine ran riot, as it did upon all the detached
buildings, producing an effect charming beyond description. The
colonnades described a semicircle from the north-west and south-west
corners of the big house, and led from the kitchen to the big dining
room, and from the office to the Admiral's study. All the buildings were
constructed of rich red brick, brought from England generations ago, the
pillars being of white marble. The effect against the dark green foliage
was picturesque to agreed.
Unlike many of the old southern homes, Woodbine had always been kept in
perfect repair, and by some miracle of good fortune, had escaped the
ravages of the Civil War. Its present owner, Admiral Athol Seldon,
enjoyed a very comfortable income, having been wise enough during the
troublous times of the war to invest his fortune where it would be
reasonably safe. He would not have been called a wealthy man, as wealth
is gauged in the great northern cities, but in this peaceful valley,
where needs were simple and diversions sensible, he was regarded as a man
of affluence and no little importance.
During the war he had served in the Confederate Navy, and served with all
the strength of his convictions. When it ended in a lost cause he
returned to Woodbine to learn in what condition the home he so loved had
come through the conflict, for it was situated in the very vortex of the
disturbance. Finding it but slightly harmed, and having sufficient means
to repair it, he resolved to end his days there. He had never married, an
early romance having come to a tragic end in the death of his fiancee
soon after the outbreak of the war. Consequently, beautiful Woodbine
lacked a mistress, to the great distress of the old family servants.
To remedy this he sent for his brother's widow and her little
two-year-old daughter, Mary. Beverly Seldon, two years his brother's
junior, had been killed at the battle of Winchester in 1864, and the
little Mary had entered this world exactly five months after her father's
death. Her mother came very near following her father into the great
beyond, but survived the shock to live beneath Athol Seldon's hospitable
roof until Mary was eleven years of age, then quietly went to sleep,
leaving Mary to her uncle's care. The child then and there became
mistress not only of Woodbine, but of every living thing upon the place,
her uncle included, and no only daughter could have been cared for,
petted, spoiled or spanked more systematically than the Madcap Mary
Seldon.
At twenty-six she married Turner Ashby, the grandson of one of the
Admiral's oldest friends. Two years later a little daughter was born, but
died before she was a year old. Then, just when the old Admiral was
beginning to grumble because there seemed to be no prospect of a
grand-nephew to inherit Woodbine, Mary Ashby presented him with not only
an heir but an heiress as well, and the old gentleman came very near a
balloon ascension.
The twins were christened Athol Seldon Ashby and Beverly Turner Ashby
before they had fully decided that they were really American citizens,
and for seven years no happier household could have been found in the
state. Then another calamity visited it. Turner Ashby was killed in a
railway accident while north on a business trip. It was a frightful blow
to the home in which he was adored by every member, from the Admiral
straight down to the blackest little piccaninny upon the estate, and to
make it, if possible, more tragic, all that ever came back to Woodbine
was the seal ring he had worn, picked up in the charred ruins of the
parlor coach. More than eight years had passed since that tragedy, and
those years had changed Mary Ashby from a light-hearted, happy young wife
and joyous mother to a quiet, dignified woman. Never again did her
children find in her the care-free, romping play-fellow they had always
known, though she never ceased to be the gentle, tender mother.
And how they missed it. They were too young to fully appreciate their
loss, though they grieved deeply for the tall, handsome, golden-haired,
blue-eyed father who had been their jolly comrade, riding, romping with
them, rowing, playing all manner of games, and always ready to relate
some thrilling tale, and who, after eleven years of married life, had
remained as much their mother's lover as upon the day he married her.
Indeed, all the countryside mourned for Turner Ashby, for such a
personality could not be snatched from its environment without leaving a
terrible blank for many years.
Athol was like him in character, but not the least in personal
appearance, for both children were Seldon from the crowns of their dark
heads to the tips of their small feet. Their chum, and inseparable
companion, Archie Carey, might more readily have been taken for Turner
Ashby's son: he was so tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed. Two years their
senior and living upon the adjacent estate of "Uplands," he had grown up
in an uninterrupted companionship with Athol and Beverly, and was
regarded by them very much as an elder brother so far as camaraderie
went, though by no means accorded an older brother's privileges by Miss
Beverly. Indeed, she was more often the leading spirit in the fun,
frolics or scrapes into which they were constantly plunging, as for
example the one alluded to in the opening chapter. But that must have a
chapter all to itself.