AT LEIGHTON HOMESTEAD.
It was a magnificent old place, and had borne the name of Leighton
Homestead, or Leighton Place, ever since the quarrel between the two
brothers, Arthur and Robert, as to which should have the property in New
York, and which should have the old family house on the Hudson, thirty
miles or so below Albany, and in plain sight of the Catskills. To
Arthur, the elder, the place had come at last, while Robert took the
buildings on Broadway, and made a fortune from them, and dying without
family, left it all to his brother’s son and namesake, who, after his
father’s death, was the richest boy for many miles around.
As Roy grew to manhood he caused the old place to be modernized and
beautified, until at last there were few country seats on the river
which could compete with it in the luxuriousness of its internal
adorning, or the beauty of the grounds around it. Broad terraces were
there, with mounds and beds of bright flowers showing among the soft
green turf; gravel walks which wound in and out among clumps of
evergreen and ran past cosey arbors and summerhouses, over some of which
the graceful Wisteria was trailing, while others were gorgeous with the
flowers of the wonderful Trumpet-creeper. Here and there the ripple of a
fountain was heard, while the white marble of urns and statuary showed
well amid the dense foliage of shrubbery and trees. That Roy had lived
to be twenty-eight and never married, or shown a disposition to do so,
was a marvel to all, and latterly some of the old dowagers of the
neighborhood who had young ladies to dispose of had seriously taken the
matter in hand, to see if something could not be done with the grave,
impassive man. He was polite and agreeable to all the girls, and treated
them with that thoughtful deference so pleasing to women, and so rarely
found in any man who has not the kindest and the best of hearts. But he
never passed a certain bound in his attentions, and the young ladies
from New York who spent their summers in the vicinity of Leighton Place
went back to town discouraged, and hopeless so far as Roy was concerned.
“It was really a shame, and he getting older every year,” Mrs. Freeman
Burton of Oakwood said, as on a bright October morning in the autumn
succeeding the May day when we first met with Roy, she drove her ponies
down the smooth road by the river and turned into the park at Leighton.
“Yes; it really is a shame that there is not a young and handsome
mistress to grace all this, and Georgie would be just the one if Roy
could only see it,” the lady continued to herself, as she drove to the
side door which was ajar, though there was no sign of life around the
house except the watch-dog Rover, who lay basking in the sunlight with a
beautiful Maltese kitten sleeping on his paws.
Mrs. Freeman Burton, whose husband was a Wall-street _Bull_, lived on
Madison Square in the winter, and in the summer queened it among the
lesser lights in the neighborhood of Leighton Homestead. As thought Mrs.
Freeman Burton of Oakwood, so thought Mrs. Anna Churchill of Leighton,
and as Mrs. Burton knew that Mrs. Churchill was in all respects her
equal, it came about naturally that the two ladies were on the most
intimate terms,—so intimate indeed, that Mrs. Burton, seeing no one and
hearing no one, passed into the house dragging her rich India shawl
after her and knocking at the door of her friend’s private sitting-room.
But Mrs. Churchill was up in Roy’s room in a state of great mental
distress and agitation, which Roy was trying to soothe as well as his
own condition would admit. He had been thrown from his horse only the
day before and broken his leg, and he lay in a state of great
helplessness and pain when, about half an hour before Mrs. Burton’s
call, the morning letters were brought in and he asked his mother to
read them.
There were several on business, which were soon dispatched, and then
Mrs. Churchill read one to herself from Maude Somerton, a relative of
Mr. Freeman Burton, who had spent the last summer at Oakwood, and
flirted desperately with Charlie Churchill all through his vacation. Roy
liked Maude and hoped that in time she might become his sister. Once he
said something to Charlie on the subject, hinting that if he chose to
marry Maude Somerton, and tried to do well, money should not be wanting
when it was needed to set him up in business. There had been an awkward
silence on Charlie’s part for a few moments, while he turned very red,
and seemed far more embarrassed than the occasion would warrant. Then he
had burst out with:
“Don’t you mind about Maude Somerton. She will flirt with anybody who
wears a coat; but, old Roy, maybe I shall want that money for somebody
else; or at all events want you to stand by me, and if I do, you will;
won’t you, Roy?”
And Roy, without a suspicion of his brother’s meaning, said he would,
and the next day Charlie returned to Canandaigua, while Maude went back
to her scholars about ten miles from Leighton; for she was poor, and
earned her own livelihood. But for her poverty she made amends in the
quality of her blood, which was the very best New England could produce;
and as she was fair, and sweet, and pure as the white pond-lilies of her
native State, Mrs. Freeman Burton gave her a home at Oakwood, and gave
her Georgie’s cast-off clothing, and would very much have liked to give
her Charlie Churchill, after she heard that Roy intended to do something
for his brother whenever he was married.
Maude’s letter was a very warm, gushing epistle, full of kind
remembrances of Roy, “the best man in the world,” and inquiries after
Charlie, “the nicest kind of a summer beau,” and professions of
friendship for Mrs. Churchill, “the dear sweet lady, whose kindnesses
could never be forgotten.”
“Maude writes a very good letter,” Mrs. Churchill said, folding it up
and laying it on the table, and as she did so, discovering another which
had fallen from her lap to the floor.
It was from Charlie and directed to Roy, but Mrs. Churchill opened it,
turning first scarlet and then pale, and then gasping for breath as she
read the dreadful news. Charlie was going to be married; aye, was
married that moment, for he had named the morning of the 7th of October
as the time when Edna Browning would be his wife! At that name Mrs.
Churchill gave a little shriek, and tossed the letter to Roy, who
managed to control himself, while he read that Charlie was going to
marry Edna Browning, “the nicest girl in the whole world and the
prettiest, as Roy would think if he could see her.” They had been
engaged a long time; were engaged, in fact, when Roy and his mother were
in Canandaigua, and he would have told them then, perhaps, if his mother
had not asked who “that brazen-faced thing” was, or something like it,
when they passed the seminary girls in driving.
“Mother means well enough, I suppose,” Charlie wrote, “but she is too
confounded proud, and if I had told her about Edna, she would have
raised the greatest kind of a row, for Edna is poor as a church
mouse,—hasn’t a penny in the world, and nobody but an old maid aunt who
lives in Richmond, and treats her like a dog. Her father was an
Episcopal clergyman and her mother was a music teacher, and that’s all I
know of her family, or care. I love her, and that’s enough. I s’pose I
may as well make a clean breast of it, and tell you I’ve had a fuss with
one of the teachers; and I wouldn’t wonder if they expelled me, and so
I’ve concluded to take time by the forelock, and have quit on my own
hook, and have persuaded Edna to cast in her lot with mine, a little
sooner than she had agreed to do. They wrote to you about the fuss, but
I paid the man who carries the letters to the office five dollars for
the one directed to you, as I’d rather tell you myself, and it gives me
time, too, for this other matter in hand. Fortune favors the brave. Edna
went yesterday to Buffalo with her room-mate, who is sick, and wanted
her to go home with her; and I am going up to-morrow, and Wednesday
morning, the 7th, we shall be married, and take the early train for
Chicago, where Edna has some connection living.
“And now, Roy, I want some money,—there’s a good fellow. You remember
you spoke of my marrying Maude Somerton, and said you’d give me money
and stand by me, too. Do it now, Roy, and when mother goes into
hysterics and calls Edna _that creature_, and talks as if she had
persuaded me, whereas it was I who persuaded her, say a word for me,
won’t you? You will like Edna,—and, Roy, I want you to ask us to come
home, for a spell, anyway. The fact is, I’ve romanced a little, and Edna
thinks I am heir, or at least joint heir with you, of Leighton
Homestead. She don’t know I haven’t a cent in the world but what comes
from you, and I don’t want her to. Set me up in business, Roy, and I’ll
work like a hero. I will, upon my word,—and please send me five hundred
at once to the care of John Dana, Chicago. I shall be married and gone
before this reaches you, so there’s no use for mother to tear her eyes
out. Tell her not to. I’m sorry to vex her, for she’s been a good
mother, and after Edna I love her and you best of all the world. Send
the money, do. Yours truly,
“CHARLIE.”
This was the letter which created so much consternation at Leighton
Homestead, and made Mrs. Churchill faint with anger, while Roy’s pale
face flushed crimson and the great drops of sweat stood on his forehead.
That Charlie should be disgraced in school was bad enough, but that to
the disgrace he should add the rash, imprudent act of marrying, was far
worse,—even if the girl he married had been in all respects his equal.
Of that last, Roy did not think as much as his mother. He knew Charlie
better than she did, and felt that almost any respectable girl was good
enough for him; but it did strike him a little unpleasantly that the
Edna Browning, whose caricature of himself was still preserved, should
become his sister-in-law. He knew it was she,—the girl in the cars, and
his mother knew it too. She had never forgotten the girl, nor could she
shake off the impression that Charlie knew more of her than she would
like to believe. For this reason she had favored his flirting with Maude
Somerton, who, though poor, was highly connected, which was more than
could be said for Edna.
During the summer, there had been at Oakwood a Miss Rolliston, a friend
of Maude Somerton, and a recent graduate of Canandaigua Seminary. And
without seeming to be particularly interested, Mrs. Churchill had
learned something of Edna Browning, “whom she once met somewhere” she
said. “Did Miss Rolliston know her?”
“Oh, yes, a bright little thing, whom all the girls liked, though she
was only a charity scholar, that is, she was to teach for a time in the
Seminary to pay for her education.”
“Indeed; has she no friends?” Mrs. Churchill asked, and Miss Rolliston
replied: “None but an aunt, a Miss Jerusha Pepper, who, if rumor is
correct, led her niece a sorry life.”
It was about this time that Charlie commenced flirting so desperately
with Maude Somerton, and so Mrs. Churchill for a time forget Edna
Browning, and what Miss Rolliston had said of her. But it came back to
her now, and she repeated it to Roy, who did not seem as much impressed
with Miss Pepper and the charity scholar part as his mother would like
to have had him. Perhaps he was thinking of Charlie’s words, “You’ll
stand by me, won’t you, old Roy,” and rightly guessing now that they had
reference to Edna Browning. And perhaps, too, the shadow of the fearful
tragedy so soon to follow was around him, pleading for his young brother
whose face he would never see again.
“What shall we do? What can we do?” his mother asked, and he replied:
“We must make the best of it, and send him the money.”
“But, Roy, the disgrace; think of it,—an elopement; a charity scholar, a
niece of Miss Jerusha Pepper, whoever she may be. I’ll never receive
her, and I shall write and tell her so.”
“No, mother, you’ll do nothing of the kind,” Roy said; “Charlie is still
your boy, and Edna is his wife. She is not to blame for being poor or
for having an aunt with that horrible name. Write and tell them to come
home. The house is large enough. Maybe you will like this Edna
Browning.”
Before Mrs. Churchill could reply, Mrs. Burton’s card was brought to
her, and to that lady as her confidential friend did the aggrieved
mother unbosom herself, telling all she knew of Edna, and asking what
she should do. Mrs. Burton sat a moment thinking, as if the subject
demanded the most profound and careful attention, and then said:
“I hardly know how to advise; different people feel so differently. If
it were my son I should not invite him home, at present. Let him suffer
awhile for his misdeed. He ought to be punished.”
“Yes, and he will be punished, when he comes to his senses and sees what
a _mésalliance_ he has made, though of course she enticed him,” Mrs.
Churchill said, her mother’s heart pleading for her boy; whereas Mrs.
Burton, who had never been a mother, and who felt a little piqued that
after knowing Maude Somerton, Charlie could have chosen so unwisely, was
very severe in her condemnation of both parties, and spoke her mind
freely.
“Probably this Browning girl did entice him, but he should not have
yielded, and he must expect to pay the penalty. I, for one, cannot
promise to receive her on terms of equality; and Georgie, I am sure,
will not, she is so fastidious and particular. Maybe she will see them.
Did I tell you she had gone West?—started yesterday morning on the early
train? She expected to be in Buffalo last night, and take this morning’s
train for Chicago, where she is going to see a child, a relative of her
step-mother, who died not long since. I am sorry she happens to be gone
just now, when Roy is so helpless. She could read to him, and amuse him
so much.”
It was evident that Mrs. Burton was thinking far more of Georgie than of
her friend’s trouble; but the few words she had spoken on the subject
had settled the matter and changed the whole current of Edna Browning’s
life, and when, at last, she took her leave, and went out to her
carriage, Mrs. Churchill had resolved _to do her duty_, and set her
son’s sins before him in their proper light.
But she did not tell Roy so. She would rather he should not know all she
had been saying to Mrs. Burton.
So to his suggestion that she should write to Charlie that day, she
answered that she would, but added:
“I can’t write a lie, and tell him he will be welcome here at once. I
must wait awhile before doing that.”
To this Roy did not object. A little discipline would do Charlie good,
he believed; and so he signed a check for five hundred dollars, and then
tried to sleep, while his mother wrote to Charlie. It was a severe
letter, aimed more at Edna than her boy, and told of her astonishment
and indignation that her son should have been led into so imprudent an
act. Then she descanted upon runaway matches, and unequal matches; and
said he must expect it would be a long time before she could forgive
him, or receive “Miss Browning” as her daughter. Then she quoted Mrs.
Burton, and Georgie, and Roy, whose feelings were _so outraged_, and
advised Charlie to tell Miss Browning at once that every dollar he had
came from his brother; “for,” she added in conclusion,
“I cannot help feeling that if she had known this fact, your unfortunate
entanglement would have been prevented.
“Your aggrieved and offended mother,
“ANNA CHURCHILL.”
She did not show what she had written to Roy, but she inclosed the
check, and directed the letter to “Charles Augustus Churchill. Care of
John Dana, Chicago, Ill.” With no apparent reason, Mrs. Churchill
lingered long over that letter, studying the name “Charles Augustus,”
and repeating it softly to herself, as we repeat the names of the dead.
And when, at last, she gave it to Russell to post, she did it
unwillingly, half wishing, when it was gone past recall, that she had
not written quite so harshly to her boy, whose face haunted her that day
wherever she went, and whose voice she seemed to hear everywhere calling
to her.
With the waning of the day, the brightness of the early morning
disappeared, and the night closed in dark and dreary, with a driving
rain and a howling wind, which swept past Mrs. Churchill’s windows, and
seemed screaming Charlie’s name in her ears as she tried in vain to
sleep. At last, rising from her bed and throwing on her dressing-gown,
she walked to the window and looked out into the night, wondering at the
strange feeling of fear as of some impending evil stealing over her. The
rain was over, and the breaking clouds were scudding before the wind,
which still blew in fitful gusts, while the moon showed itself
occasionally through an angry sky, and cast a kind of weird light upon
the grounds below, the flower-beds, and statuary, which reminded Mrs.
Churchill of gravestones, and made her turn away at last with a shudder.
Then her thoughts went again after Charlie, and something drew her to
her knees as she prayed for him; but said no word for Edna, the young
girl-wife, whose sun of happiness was setting in a night of sorrow,
darker and more terrible than anything of which she had ever dreamed.