MISS PEPPER’S LETTER.
Mrs. Churchill was better, and Georgie was talking again of going to
Chicago, and had promised to find Edna and render her any service in her
power. Roy had written to Edna at last, but no answer had come to him,
and he was beginning to wonder at her silence and to feel a little
piqued, when one day early in December Russell brought him a letter
mailed in Canandaigua and directed to his mother in a bold, angular
handwriting, which stamped the writer as a person of striking
originality and strongly marked character. In his mother’s weak state it
would not do to excite her, and so Roy opened the letter himself and
glanced at the signature:
“Yours to command,
“JERUSHA AMANDA PEPPER.”
And that worthy woman, who rejoiced in so euphonious a name, wrote from
her own fireside in Richmond to Mrs. Churchill, as follows:
“RICHMOND, ALLEN’S HILL,
“ONTARIO CO., N.Y., _Dec. 4th, 18—_.
“MRS. CHURCHILL:
“_Dear Madam_—I’ve had it on my mind to write to you ever since that
terrible disaster by which you were deprived of a son, who was taken to
eternity without ever the chance for one last prayer or cry to be saved.
Let us hope he had made his prayers beforehand and had no need for them.
He had been baptized, I suppose, as I hear you are a church woman, but
are you High or Low? Everything to my mind depends upon that. I hold the
Low to be purely Evangelical, while the High,—well, I will not harrow up
your feelings; what I want to say is, that I do not and never have for a
single moment upheld my niece, or rather my great niece, Edna, in what
she has done. I took her from charity when her father died, although he
was _higher_ than I in his views, and we used to hold many a
controversial argument on apostolic succession, for he was a clergyman
and my sister’s son. His wife, who set up to be a lady and taught music
in our select school, died when Edna was born, and I believe went to
Heaven, though we never agreed as to the age when children should be
confirmed, nor about that word regeneration in the baptismal service. I
hold it’s a stumbling block and ought to be struck out, while she said I
did not understand its import, and confounded it with something else;
but that’s neither here nor there. Lucy was a good woman and made my
nephew a good wife, though she would keep a girl, which I never did.
“When William died, twelve years ago, I took Edna and have been a mother
to her ever since, and made her learn the catechism and creed, and
thoroughly indoctrinated her with my views, and sent her to
Sunday-school, and always gave her something from the Christmas tree,
and insisted upon her keeping all the fasts, and had her confirmed, and
she turned out High Church after all, and ran away with your son. But I
wash my hands of her now. Such a bill as I have got to pay the teachers
in the seminary for her education! It was understood that after she
graduated she was to stay there and teach to pay for her schooling, and
what does she do but run away and leave me with a bill of four hundred
dollars! Not that I can’t pay it, for I can. I’ve four times four
hundred laid up in Mr. Beals’s bank, and like an honest woman, I took it
out and paid the bill and have got the receipt in my prayer-book, and I
showed it to her, for she’s been here; yes, actually had the cheek to
come right into my house on Thanksgiving day, when I was at church; and
a good sermon we had, too, if our new minister did bow in the creed,
which rather surprised me, after telling him, as I did only the day
before, that I looked upon that ceremony as a shred, at least, if not a
rag of Popery. He lost a dollar by that bow, for I had twelve shillings
of milk-money I calculated to give him, but when he bowed over so low
right at me as if he would say, ‘You see, Miss Pepper, I’m not to be led
by the nose,’ I just put on my fifty cents, and let it go at that.
“The stage came in while I was at church; but I never thought of Edna
till I got home and smelled the turkey I had left in the oven more than
I should have smelled it if somebody hadn’t hurried up the fire; and
there was the vegetables cooking, and the table set for two; and Edna,
in her black dress, stood before the fire with her hands held tight
together, and a look on her face as if she felt she’d no business there
after all she had done.
“‘Edna Browning,’ I said, ‘what are you doing here, and how dare you
come after disgracing me so?’
“Then she said something about its being the only place she had to go
to, and my being lonely eating dinner alone Thanksgiving day, and began
to be hystericky, of course.
“If there’s anything I pride myself on more than another, it’s
_firmness_ and presence of mind, and I am happy to say I maintained them
both, though I did come near giving way, when I saw how what I said
affected her.
“I told her that to get into any family the way she did into yours was
mean and disgraceful, and said she was to blame for the young man’s
death; and asked who was to remunerate me for that four hundred dollars
I had to pay for her schooling; and who was to pay for all the trinkets
at Greenough’s in Canandaigua, and if she was not ashamed to wear a
wedding ring a stranger had to pay for.
“Up to this point, I must say Edna had not manifested much, if any
feeling, and I really felt as if she was hardened and did not care; but
when I spoke of the ring something about her made my flesh creep, and
told me I had gone far enough.
“There came a kind of pale-gray look all over her face, and a steel-gray
look in her eye, as she took off the ring and put it away in her purse,
saying, in a queer, low voice:
“‘You are right, Aunt Jerry. I am a murderess, and I ought not to wear
this ring until I have paid for it myself, and I never will.’
“She did not eat a mouthful of dinner, but with that same look in her
eyes sat staring out at a blighted rose-tree just opposite the window,
and when I asked what she saw, she answered:
“‘My future life.’
“And that was all she said till the dishes were washed and it began to
get dark. I was going to light a candle, but she turned kind of fierce
like toward me and said:
“‘Don’t, Aunt Jerry,—don’t light that candle. I like the darkness. I
want to talk to you, and I can do it better if I don’t see your face.’
“’Twas a queer notion, but I humored her, and she told me about your
son, and took all the blame to herself, and said she was sorry, and told
me of the money Mr. Leighton sent, and how much she kept, and that she
was going to pay it back.
“‘And if I live I’ll pay you that four hundred dollars too,’ she said;
and her voice was so strange that I felt shivery like, and wished the
candle was lighted. ‘I have sent Mr. Leighton my note for the first two
hundred. I shall send him another to-morrow,’ she went on, ‘and give you
one too.’
“And sure enough she did, and I have her ‘promise to pay four hundred
dollars with interest from date,’ so that makes a debt of $800 she’s
saddled herself with, and she only seventeen. And upon my word I believe
she’ll do it! She is a little bit of a girl, but there’s a sight of grit
and vim wrapped up in her, and she seemed to have grown into a woman all
at once, so that, mad as I was, I liked her better than ever I did
before.
“She staid all night, and told me that Mrs. Dana in Chicago died
suddenly from paralysis, and the husband asked _her_ to be Mrs. Dana 2d,
and take care of his little children and a baby of six months, and his
wife only dead two weeks. That started her from there, and where she is
now I know no more than the dead. She left me next morning, bag and
baggage, and when I asked where she was going, she said, ‘_to earn my
living_.’
“Then I asked if she had friends, and she said, ‘None but God,’ and
added after a minute, ‘Yes, one more, but he can’t help me.’
“Who she meant I don’t know, nor where she’s gone. I tried to make her
stay, but she said, ‘No, I am my own mistress now. Marriage has made me
that, if not my age, and I am going away;’ and she went in the stage,
and after she was gone I sat down and cried, for I felt I was a little
too hard on her, and I could not forget the look on her face as I came
in from church, nor the look as I talked to her about the ring and
killing her husband. I have no idea where she’s gone, but feel sure she
will keep out of harm. She’s been well brought up, and though some of
her notions do not suit me, she is thoroughly indoctrinated in the
truth, and will come out all right; so my advice is to let her alone for
a spell at any rate, and see what she’ll do.
“My object in writing this to you is to give you some little insight
into the character of the family you are connected with by marriage, and
to let you know I don’t take my niece’s part, although it is natural
that I should find more excuse for her than you, who probably think it a
disgrace to be connected with the _Peppers_. But, if you choose to
inquire hereabouts, you’ll find that I am greatly respected and looked
up to in the church, and if you ever come this way give me a call, and I
will do the same by you. If you feel like it, write to me, if not, not.
“Wishing you all consolation in your son’s death,
“Yours to command,
“JERUSHA AMANDA PEPPER.”
Roy read this letter with mingled emotions of disgust and indignation,
and finally of tolerance and even kindly feelings, toward the writer,
who had commenced with being so hard upon her niece, but had softened as
she progressed, and at last had spoken of her with a good deal of
interest and even sympathy.
“Poor little thing,” he called Edna now, and he longed to take her up in
his arms as he would a child, and comfort her. From the tenor of the
first part of Miss Pepper’s letter, he could imagine, or thought he
could, just how hard, and grim, and stern the woman was, and just how
dreary and cheerless Edna’s life had been with her.
“I don’t wonder she married the first one that offered,” he said, and
then as he recalled the man Dana, who had asked Edna to be his wife, he
felt a flush of resentment tinge his cheeks, and his fists clenched with
a desire to knock the impudent Dana down. “And it is to such insults as
these she is liable at any time; fighting her way alone in the cold,
harsh world, though, by Jove! I don’t blame her for leaving that
Pepper-corn, goading and badgering her about the ring, and murdering
Charlie. I wouldn’t have spent so much as the night there after that;
I’d have slept in the dog-kennel first.”
Roy did not stop to consider that no such luxurious appendage as a
dog-kennel was to be found on Miss Pepper’s premises. He only remembered
her cruelty to Edna, and the “pale-gray look which came into her face,”
and the “steel-gray look in her eye,” as she took off her wedding ring,
and then sat looking out at the blighted rose-tree, seeing there her
future life. Roy was not much given to poetry, or sentiment, or flowery
speeches, but he saw the connection between Edna and the blighted tree,
and knew why it should have had a greater fascination for her than her
aunt’s rasping tirade.
“She is a blighted rose herself,” he said, “or rather a blighted bud,
only seventeen, as much a girl as she ever was, a wife of a few hours, a
widow turned out into the world to shirk for herself with an assumed
debt of, let me see, that two hundred to me, four hundred more to that
miserly old sanctimonious Pepper, prating about High Church and Low, and
arrogating to herself all the piety of both parties, just because she
stands up straight as a rail during the creed, and believes Lorenzo Dow
as divinely appointed to preach as St. Peter himself; that makes six
hundred, besides that bill in Canandaigua, which Pepper says she’s
resolved to pay. Eight hundred dollars. Before she gets all that paid
there’ll be a grayer look in her eyes and on her poor little face than
there was when she looked at the blighted rose-tree. And here I have
more money than I know what to do with. I’ll go for her at once, go this
very day,” and forgetting his lame leg in his excitement, Roy sprang to
his feet, but a sharp twinge of pain brought him to his senses, and to
his chair again. “I can’t go. Confound it. I’m a cripple,” he said:
then, as he remembered that he did not know where Edna was, he groaned
aloud, and blamed himself severely for having indulged in his old habit
of procrastination, and so deferred the writing of his letter to Edna
until it was too late.
For of course she never got it. If she had, it might have changed her
whole line of conduct. At least, she would have known that she had two
friends, one Roy, and the other the one she had mentioned to her aunt as
powerless to help her. Who was he? for she distinctly said _he_. “Not
that ass of a Dana sure, else she had not fled from him and his offer,”
and with his sound leg Roy kicked a footstool as the combined
representative of the audacious Dana and Miss Jerusha Pepper. He was
glad that woman was no nearer relative to Edna than great aunt, and so
was his mother, for after his ebullition of anger was over, he decided
to take the letter to her, and tell her what Edna had written to
himself.
As Georgie was not present, there was no counter influence at work, and
Roy’s voice and manner told plainly which way he leaned.
In this state of things, Mrs. Churchill went with the tide, and cried
softly, and said there was more to Edna than she had supposed, and hoped
Roy would never take a cent of pay, and suggested his sending a check
for four hundred dollars to that abominable Pepper woman, who thought to
make friends with them by taking sides against her niece!
“She’s a perfect old shrew,—a Shylock, you may be assured, and will take
every farthing of principal and interest. Write to her now, and have it
done with.”
“And suppose I do,” said Roy; “what warrant have we that this woman will
not exact it just the same of Edna, who has no means of knowing that we
have paid it?”
“I know she will not do that,” Mrs. Churchill replied. “Disgusting as
her letter is, I think it shows her to be honest, at least. At all
events, I should test her.”
And so Roy wrote to Miss Pepper, inclosing his check for the four
hundred dollars, and asking, in return, for her receipt, and Edna’s
note. His letter was not a very cordial one, and shrewd Miss Jerusha
detected its spirit, and sent back the check forthwith, telling Roy that
she could see through a millstone any time; that it was kind in him to
offer to pay Edna’s debts, but she did not see the necessity of
insulting her with a suspicion of unfair dealing with her own flesh and
blood. She guessed he didn’t know her standing in the church, and had
better inquire next time. As for Edna, he need not worry about her. She
(Miss Pepper) did not intend to harm her. She only wanted to see how
much grit there was in the girl; and he would find sometime, perhaps,
that a Pepper could be as generous as a Leighton.
Roy could not complain of the last sentiment, for he had himself been
conscious of a desire to let Edna alone for a time, and see what was in
her. But he did not feel so now, and if he had known where she was, he
would have gone for her at once and brought her home to Leighton. But he
did not know. The last intelligence he had of her was received in a
letter mailed at Albany, two days after the date of Miss Pepper’s
effusion. In this letter, Edna wrote that she had disposed of her watch
and coral for one hundred and fifty dollars, one hundred of which she
sent to Roy, together with a second note for the remaining hundred due
for the jewelry.
“You will forgive me, Mr. Leighton, for not sending the whole. I would
do so, but I must have something to begin my new life with. I don’t
exactly know what I shall do, but think I shall teach drawing. I have
some talent for that, as well as music, and my voice is not a bad one,
they said at Canandaigua. As fast as I earn anything, I shall send you a
part of it. Mr. Leighton, I have another debt besides yours, and perhaps
you won’t mind if I try to pay that as soon as possible. It will only
make your time a little longer, and I do so much want that other one off
my mind.”
“I don’t wonder she does,” Roy said, as he finished reading the letter
to his mother, who with himself began to feel a deep interest in this
“brave little woman,” as Roy called her aloud.
“She writes a very fair hand and expresses herself well,” Mrs. Churchill
said, examining the letter, and wondering where Edna was. “We have done
our duty at all events,” she added, “and I do not think anybody could
require more of us.”
Roy did not tell all he thought. It would not have pleased his mother if
he had, and so he kept silent, while she flattered herself that they had
done every possible thing which could be expected of them. Roy had tried
to pay Edna’s debts, and that he had not done so was not his fault,
while she harbored no unkindness now toward the poor girl, she said to
Georgie Burton, who came over in the afternoon to say good-by, as she
was going to Chicago at last. Roy would never have told Georgie of
Edna’s affairs, but his mother had no concealments from her, and
repeated the whole story.
“Of course you have done your duty, and I would not give it any more
thought, but try to get well and be yourself again,” Georgie said,
kissing her friend, tenderly, and telling her of her projected journey.
Mrs. Churchill was very sorry to have Georgie go away, and Roy was,
after a fashion, sorry too, and he went down to the carriage with her,
and put her in, and drew the Affghan across her lap, and told her how
much he should miss her, and that she must make her absence as brief as
possible.
“Remember me to your brother,” he said, as he finally offered her his
hand; then after a moment he added, “I did hope to have sent some
message direct to our poor little girl. Maybe you can learn something of
her present whereabouts. I am most anxious to know where she is.”
He held Georgie’s hand all the time he was saying this, and Georgie’s
eyes were very soft and pitiful in their expression as she bade him
good-by, and promised “to find out all she could about the poor, dear
child.”