GEORGIE’S TELEGRAM.
There was no trace of the storm next morning, except in the drops of
rain which glittered on the shrubs and flowers, and the soaked condition
of the walks and carriage-road. The sun came up bright and warm again,
and by noon the hill-tops in the distance showed that purplish haze so
common to the glorious October days. Everything about Leighton Homestead
was quiet and peaceful, and in nothing was there a sign of the terrible
calamity already passed, but as yet a _secret_ to the mother, whose
nameless terror of the previous night had faded with returning day. She
was in Roy’s room, where a cheerful fire was blazing to counteract any
chill or damp which might creep in through the open window. They had had
their early lunch, and Roy was settling himself to sleep when Russell
appeared, bearing a telegram, a missive which seldom fails to set one’s
heart to throbbing with a dread of what it may have to tell. It was
directed to Roy, but Mrs. Churchill opened it and read it, and then,
with an agonizing shriek, fell forward upon Roy’s pillow, moaning
bitterly:
“Oh, Roy, my Charlie is dead,—my Charlie is dead!”
She claimed him for all her own then. It was _my_ Charlie, her
fatherless one, her youngest-born, her baby, who was dead; and the blow
cut deep and cruelly, and made her writhe in agony as she kept up the
faint, moaning sound,—“My Charlie, my boy.”
She had dropped the telegram upon the floor, but Russell picked it up
and handed it to Roy, who read:
“There has been a railroad accident, and Charlie is dead. His wife
slightly injured. I await your orders.”
“GEORGIE L. BURTON.”
When Roy read his brother’s letter the day before, there had been great
drops of sweat upon his brow; but now his face was pale as death, and
the tears poured over it like rain, as he held the paper in his hand and
tried to realize the terrible sorrow which had fallen so suddenly upon
him. The telegram was dated at Iona, a little town between Cleveland and
Chicago, and nearer to the latter place. Georgie had said: “I await your
orders,” and that brought Roy from his own grief to the necessity of
acting. Somebody must go and bring poor Charlie home; and as Roy was
disabled, the task would devolve on Russell, the head servant at
Leighton, who had been in the family for years. With a grave bow he
received his orders, and the next train which left the Leighton depot
carried him in it, while four or five hours later, Miss Burton, to whom
Russell had telegraphed at once, read that “Russell would start
immediately for Iona.”
Stunned and utterly helpless, Mrs. Churchill could only moan and weep,
as her maid led her to her room and made her lie down upon the bed. She
was a good woman at heart, in spite of the foibles and errors which
appeared on the surface, and far greater than her sorrow for her own
loss was her anxiety for her boy’s future. Was it well with him? Would
she ever meet him again, should she be so fortunate as to gain heaven
herself? She had taught him to pray, and back through the years which
lay between that dreadful day and his childhood, her thoughts went
swiftly, and she seemed to see again the fair head resting on her lap
and hear the dear voice lisping the words “Our Father,” or, “Jesus,
gentle Shepherd, hear me,” which last had been Charlie’s favorite
prayer. But he was a child then, a baby. He had grown to manhood since,
and she could not tell if latterly he ever prayed; and if not, oh, where
was he that autumn day, whose mellow beauty seemed to mock her woe, as,
in the home to which he would never come alive, she made bitter mourning
for him. Suddenly, amid her pain, she remembered the previous night when
she had prayed so earnestly for her boy. Perhaps God had saved him for
the sake of that prayer; His love and mercy were infinite, and she would
trust it all to Him, hoping that as He saved the thief on the cross, so
from Charlie’s lips in the moment of peril there had gone up a prayer so
sincere, and full of penitence and faith, that God had heard and
answered, and had her boy safe with Him. “If I only knew it was so,” she
moaned; but alas! she did _not_ know, and her soul cried out for sight
and knowledge, just as many a bleeding heart has cried out for some word
or token to make belief a certainty. But to such cries there comes no
answer back; the grave remains unopened; the mystery unexplained, and
we, whose streaming eyes would fain pierce the darkness, and see if our
loved ones are safe, must still trust it all to God, and walk yet a
while by faith, as poor Mrs. Churchill tried to do, even when she had so
little to build her faith upon.
They sent for Mrs. Burton, who came at once and did what she could to
soothe and quiet her friend.
“It was such a comfort to know Georgie was there, and so providential
too,” she said, and then she asked if “that girl was hurt.”
Mrs. Churchill knew she meant Edna, and answered faintly: “Slightly
injured, the telegram said,” and that was all that passed between her
and her friend respecting _that girl_. Mrs. Churchill could only think
of Edna as one who in some way was instrumental in Charlie’s death. If
she had not enticed him, he would not have done what he did, and
consequently would not at that moment have been lying where he was, with
all his boyish beauty marred and disfigured, until his mother would not
have known him. It was the evening paper which had that last in it, and
gave an account of the accident, which was caused by a broken rail. The
car in which Charlie and Edna were had been thrown down an embankment,
and five of the passengers killed. Special mention was made of the young
man who had been married in the morning, and though no name was given,
Mrs. Churchill knew who it was, and wept piteously as she listened to
Mrs. Burton reading the article to her.
Of Edna, however, she scarcely thought; Edna, the bride, who, the paper
stated, seemed perfectly stunned with horror. No one thought of her
until Maude Somerton came. She had heard of the accident, and as
Saturday was always a holiday with her, she came on Friday night to
Leighton, and brought with her a world of comfort, though Mrs.
Churchill’s tears flowed afresh at sight of the girl who, she had
fancied, might one day be her daughter.
“Oh, Maude, my child,” she said, as Maude bent over her. “He’s gone, our
Charlie. You were a good friend of his, and I once hoped you might—”
“Let me bathe your head. It is very hot, and aches, I know,” Maude said,
interrupting her, for she guessed what Mrs. Churchill was about to say,
and did not care to hear it.
She had found it vastly pleasant to flirt with Charlie Churchill, but
when the excitement was over, and she was back again in the school-room
with her restless, active pupils, she scarcely thought of him until the
news of his sudden death recalled him to her mind. That he was married
did surprise her a little, and deep down in her heart there might have
been a pang of mortified vanity that she had been so soon forgotten
after all those walks upon the mountain side, and those moonlight sails
upon the river; but she harbored no ill-will toward his wife, and almost
her first inquiries after Mrs. Churchill had grown quiet were for her.
“Is she so badly hurt, that she will not be able to come home with the
body?” she asked, and Mrs. Churchill started as if she had been stung.
“Come home! Come here! That girl! I’d never thought of that,” she
exclaimed; and then Maude knew just how “that girl” was regarded by her
husband’s mother.
She did not know how Roy felt; but she went to him next and asked if it
was not expected that _Charlie’s wife_ would come to Leighton if she was
able to travel, and Georgie’s telegram “slightly injured” would indicate
that she was. Although he knew it to be a fact, still Charlie’s _wife_
was rather mythical to Roy, and he had thought but little about her,
certainly never that she was coming there, until Maude’s question showed
him the propriety of the thing.
“Of course she will come,” he said. “I wonder if mother sent any message
by Russell. Ask her, please.”
Mrs. Churchill had sent no message. She did not think it necessary; the
girl would do as she liked, of course.
“Then she will come; I should,” Maude said; and next morning, as she
combed and brushed Mrs. Churchill’s hair, she casually asked:
“_Which_ room is to be given to Charlie’s wife?
“I thought, perhaps, she would prefer the one he used to occupy in the
north wing,” she added, “and if you like I will see that it is in
readiness for the poor girl. How I pity her, a widow in less than
twenty-four hours. And such a pretty name too,—_Edna_. Don’t you think
it is pretty?”
“Oh, child, don’t ask me. I want to do right, but I don’t like to hear
of her. It seems as if she was the means of Charlie’s death,” Mrs.
Churchill sobbed, and Maude’s soft hands moved caressingly over the
grayish-brown hair as she spoke again for the poor girl lying stunned,
and scared, and white, so many miles away.
“Charlie must have loved her very much,” she said, “or he would never
have braved your displeasure, and that of Roy. She may be a comfort to
you, who have no other daughter. I begin to feel a great interest in
her, and mean to be her friend.”
Maude had espoused Edna’s cause at once, and her heart was full of
sympathy for the poor girl, for she foresaw just how lonely and dreary
her life would be at Leighton, where every one’s hand was against her.
“Mrs. Churchill will worry and badger her, and Roy without meaning to do
it will freeze her with indifference, while Aunt Burton and Georgie will
criticise and snub her awfully,” she thought. “But I will do what I can
for her, and make her room as attractive as possible.”
So all of Saturday morning was spent by Maude in brushing up and
righting Charlie’s old room for the reception of the widowed Edna. There
were many traces of the dead in there, and Maude’s eyes were moist with
tears as she put them away, and thought how Charlie would never want
them again. It was a very pleasant room, and under Maude’s skilful hands
it looked still pleasanter and more inviting on the morning when the
party was expected.
“I mean she shall come right in here with me at once,” Maude said to
herself, as she gave the fire a little poke, and then for the fourth
time brushed the hearth and rug.
There was an easy chair before the fire, and vases of flowers on the
mantel, and bracket, and stand, and a pot of ivy stood between the
windows, the white muslin curtains of which were looped back with knots
of crape, sole sign of mourning in the room. Maude had asked her
employers for two days’ vacation, and so she was virtually mistress of
ceremonies, though Mrs. Burton bustled in and out, and gave the most
contradictory orders, and made poor Mrs. Churchill’s nerves quiver with
pain as she discussed the proper place for Charlie to be laid, and the
proper way for the funeral to be conducted.
And through it all Roy lay utterly helpless, knowing that it was not for
him to look upon his brother’s face, or to join in the last tribute of
affection paid to his memory. He knew that Maude confidently expected
that Edna was coming to Leighton, and so he supposed she was, and he
felt a good deal of curiosity with regard to the girl who had
caricatured him in a poke bonnet, and stigmatized him as a Betty. Not a
word concerning her had passed between himself and his mother since the
receipt of the telegram. Indeed, he had scarcely seen his mother, for
she had kept mostly in her room, and either Maude or Mrs. Burton had
been the medium of communication between them. The latter had indulged
in some very pious talk about resignation and all that, and then had
descanted upon Georgie’s great kindness and unselfishness in leaving her
own business, and coming back to Leighton. She knew this from the second
telegram received from Georgie, saying, “We shall reach Leighton
sometime on Monday.”
That Georgie was coming was of itself enough to take away half the pain,
and in her blind fondness for her adopted daughter, Mrs. Burton wondered
why Roy and his mother should look as white and grief-stricken as they
did that October afternoon, when the carriage was waiting at the station
for the living, and the hearse was waiting for the dead.