EDNA GOES TO LEIGHTON.
Owing to some mistake Roy did not get Edna’s second letter, telling him
when to expect her, consequently there was no one waiting for her at the
station and learning that Leighton Place was only three-quarters of a
mile distant, she determined to make the journey on foot. It was one of
those bright, balmy days in early September, when nature, like a matron
in the full maturity of her charms, reigns in all her loveliness a very
queen. On the hills there was that soft, purplish haze, which only
autumn brings; and the sky above was without a cloud, save here and
there a floating, feathery mist, which intensified the deep blue of the
heavens, while the Hudson slept so calmly and quietly in the golden
sunshine, that Edna involuntarily found herself recalling the lines:
“River, in this still hour thou hast
Too much of heaven on earth to last.”
Indeed, everything around her seemed almost too much like heaven for her
to keep it long; and when at last she reached the gate which opened into
the Leighton grounds, she was obliged to stop and rest upon a rustic
bench, beneath one of the maples which shaded the park.
She was there at last at Charlie’s old home, and her eyes were feasting
themselves upon the beauties, which had not been overdrawn either by
Charlie’s partiality, or Maude’s enthusiasm. Everything was
beautiful,—from the green, velvety turf, the noble elms, the profusion
of bright flowers and shrubs, to the handsome house, with its broad
piazza and friendly open doors, all basking in the warmth and sunlight
of that autumnal morning. “It is like a second Eden,” she said; and
then, with a sad kind of a smile, born of a sudden heart-pang, she
glanced toward the river, and saw what she knew must be the roof of the
Gothic cottage, whither she once intended moving Roy and his mother, so
they would not be in the way of the gayeties with which she meant to
fill the house. That time lay far back in the past. And she had learned
a great deal since then. Charlie was dead; and his grave was on a little
knoll to the right of the house. Maude had told her all about it, and
she could see the marble gleaming through the evergreens; and she
shuddered as she always did, when she recalled the awful night of nearly
two years ago. Still, time, which will heal almost any heart-wound, had
been very kind to Edna, and though she always remembered Charlie with
sadness and pity, thoughts of him had long since ceased to make her
unhappy; and when at last she left her seat by the gate and pursued her
way to the house, Roy was more in her mind than the boy Charlie, who
slept under the evergreens, all unconscious that his wife was standing
now at the very portal of his old home, and ringing for admission. Her
ring was answered by the servant girl, who, inviting Edna into the
library, bade her be seated while she carried her card to her mistress.
Holding it close to her poor, dim eyes, Mrs. Churchill made out the word
“Overton,” and knew the expected stranger had come.
“How awkward that Roy should be gone,” she said, as, declining the
servant’s offered aid, she made her way alone to the library.
It was a peculiarity of hers not to be helped by any one if she could
avoid it, and there was something touching and pitiful about her as she
walked slowly through the hall, trying to _seem_ to see, with one hand
partly extended in front, and making sundry graceful, cautious motions.
Edna heard her, and arose to meet her, her cheeks glowing and her breath
coming pantingly at first, but when she saw the pale, languid woman, who
stopped just inside the door, all her nervousness left her suddenly, and
quick as thought she darted forward, and grasping the uncertain hand,
exclaimed:
“Mrs. Churchill, here I am; Miss Overton. Let me lead you to a seat.”
It was a blithe, silvery-toned young voice, expressive of genuine
interest and sympathy for the poor blind woman, who did not refuse
Edna’s offered assistance, but held her hand, even after seated in her
chair.
“I am glad to welcome you, Miss Overton,” she said; “but am sorry you
had to walk. We did not know you were coming to-day. You must be very
tired.”
Edna assured her she was not; and then Mrs. Churchill continued:
“I cannot see you as distinctly as I wish I could, for I like to know
the faces of those I have about me. It is terrible to be blind!”
Her lip quivered as she said it, and instantly there awoke in Edna’s
bosom a feeling akin to love for this woman, who was her mother, in one
sense of the word, and before whom she knelt, saying cheerily:
“Let me come nearer to you, then. Perhaps you will get an idea of me. I
don’t mind your looking at me as long as you like.”
And Mrs. Churchill did look at the fresh young face held so close to her
own, and passed her hand over the mass of golden brown hair, and lifted
one of the heavy curls and held it to the light; then, with a gesture of
satisfaction, she said:
“There, that will do. I think I know tolerably well how you look. I
certainly know the feeling of your hands and hair. You are a little bit
of a girl, and Maude rightly named you _Dot_. She is at Oakwood now with
some young ladies from New York and a Mr. Heyford. They are having a
croquet party, and Roy is there too. Maude is croquet mad, I think.”
Suddenly it occurred to Mrs. Churchill that her guest might like to see
her room, and she arose, saying:
“I do not like being led; it implies too much helplessness; but I think
I shall not mind using you for my guide. I can lean on your shoulder
nicely. I am glad you are so short.”
The soft, white hand rested itself softly on Edna’s shoulder in a
caressing kind of way, and the two went slowly from the library and out
into the wide hall, through which blew the warm September wind, sweet
with the perfume of flowers it had kissed in its passage across the
garden. To Edna it seemed as if she had gained an entrance into
Paradise, as through either open door she caught glimpses of the
beautiful grounds, stretching away to the winding river in one direction
and back toward the Catskill hills in the other. Slowly up the long
flight of stairs they went, till they reached the hall above, and Mrs.
Churchill, pointing to a door, said:
“That is Roy’s room, and the one farther down, where the door is shut,
was Charlie’s, my other son, who died two years ago. Yours is this way,
opposite mine. I hope you will like it. Georgie Burton said it was all
right.”
They were in the room by this time, and with a cry of pleasure Edna
broke away from the hand on her shoulder, and running to the window,
from which the grounds, the river, and so many miles of country could be
seen, exclaimed:
“Oh, I like it so much! It is all like fairyland; and seems a dream that
I should ever be in a place like this! I hope I shall not wake and find
it so; that would be very dreadful!”
She was talking more to herself than to Mrs. Churchill, who nevertheless
said to her:
“Have you seen so hard times that this place should seem so desirable?”
“Not hard in one sense,” Edna said. “Almost everybody has been kind to
me; but—” she hesitated a moment, and Mrs. Churchill added:
“Yes, Maude told me you had lost all your nearest relatives; was in
black for your father, I think; but you have laid off mourning, I
imagine, from the color of your travelling suit; and I am glad, for I
would rather have you in bright colors. I am sure they suit you better,”
she said, laying her hand again on Edna’s shoulder, and asking if she
cared to dress for lunch; “because if you do not, there is no necessity,
as Roy lunches at Oakwood. He will be home to dinner, and some of the
young people may come with him.”
This brought to light the fact that Edna’s trunk was still at the
station, whither Mrs. Churchill immediately dispatched a servant for it;
then leaving Edna alone for a time, she bade her rest, and amuse herself
in any way she liked until lunch was ready.
It was a very delicate lunch, and served in the prettiest of rooms,
where the French windows opened upon a raised bed of bright flowers,
whose perfume filled the room, as did the delicious air of that soft
September day; and Mrs. Churchill was very kind and attentive to the
young girl sitting opposite her, and wondering if it could be herself,
there at last at Leighton Place, with only Charlie’s monument shining
through the distant evergreens to remind her that she was not the Miss
Overton she professed to be.
They went out to the grave that afternoon. It was a habit of Mrs.
Churchill’s to visit it every day, and she asked Edna to accompany her,
and leaned upon her as she went, and began talking to her of her poor
boy, who was killed.
It would be difficult to tell just what Edna’s emotions were as she
stood by Charlie’s grave, and read his name and age, cut deep into the
marble. Mrs. Churchill had taken a seat on an iron chair which stood
near by, and freed from her, Edna leaned heavily against the monument,
and felt for a moment as if she was suffocating. But she never lost a
word of what Mrs. Churchill was saying of her boy, or failed to observe
how sedulously any mention of Charlie’s wife was at first avoided. After
a little, however, Mrs. Churchill said:
“As you are to be one of the family, you cannot avoid hearing Roy or
some one speak of it, and I may as well tell you that Charlie left a
wife,—a young girl, to whom he had been married that very day. Edna was
her name; and they tell me she was pretty. I never saw her but once, and
then scarcely noticed her. We don’t know where she is. Roy cannot find
her. She is teaching school, and keeps her place of residence a secret
from us.”
“You must be sorry for that,” Edna replied. “It would be so pleasant to
have her with you,—a daughter is better than a stranger.”
“Yes, perhaps so,” Mrs. Churchill answered slowly; then, brightening a
little, she said: “I felt hard toward her at first, but I do not now;
and I think I should like once to see the girl Charlie loved and died
for before I am wholly blind.”
There was something so sad and touching in the tone with which Mrs.
Churchill said this, that Edna involuntarily walked swiftly to her side,
with the half-formed resolution to fall upon her knees, and cry out:
“Oh, mother! Charlie’s mother! I am she! I am Edna! Look at me! love me!
let me be your daughter!” But she restrained herself, and Mrs. Churchill
thought that the hand laid so softly upon her hair was put there from
sympathy only, and felt an increase of interest in this Miss Overton,
who was so kind, and gentle, and delicate in her attentions.
Mrs. Churchill liked to sit under the shadow of the evergreens, and they
staid an hour or more by Charlie’s grave, and then went slowly back to
the house.
It was near dinner-time, and Edna went at once to her room and commenced
her toilet for the evening. Mrs. Churchill had said that Roy would be
home to dinner, and probably bring some of the young people with him;
and Edna experienced a cold, faint feeling at her heart as she thought
of the ordeal before her, and tried to decide upon a dress appropriate
to the occasion. Her choice fell at last upon a soft gray tissue, which
had been made by Ruth Gardner’s mantua-maker, and praised by Ruth
herself as faultless. It was very becoming to Edna, for the brilliancy
of her complexion relieved the rather sober hue, while a bit of scarlet
geranium, which she fastened in her hair, heightened the effect.
“Will Roy recognize me, or that Miss Georgie Burton?” Edna asked herself
many times, and as often assured herself that they would not. “Roy
probably did not notice me specially in the car,” she thought; “while
that bruise on my forehead and my terrible agitation and distress must
have changed me so much, that Miss Burton will never dream I am the girl
she looked at with such virtuous wrath.”
There was scarcely a chance of detection except through the hair, and as
that, instead of falling negligently around her face and neck, was
brushed back from the forehead, and fell in masses of curls over a comb
at the back of the head, Edna felt but little fear, and awaited, with
some impatience, the return of Roy, hoping devoutly that Maude Somerton
would be one of those who might accompany him from Oakwood.
The table was laid in the dining-room, and the dinner was waiting to be
served, when down the avenue Edna caught the gleam of white dresses, and
heard the sound of merry voices as Roy and his party drew near.
In her dress of rich black silk, with a soft shawl wrapped around her,
Mrs. Churchill sat upon the piazza and kept Edna at her side, where she
commanded a good view of the approaching guests, her heart giving a
bound of joy as she recognized Maude Somerton, with Jack Heyford in
close attendance. A little in advance of them walked a tall, straight,
broad-shouldered man, whose manner proclaimed him the master, and who
Edna knew at once was Roy; scanning him so curiously as almost to forget
the brilliant woman at his side, who, if Roy bore himself like the
master, bore herself equally like the mistress of Leighton, and pointed
out to one of the party some fine views of the river and of the
mountains in the rear. They were all in high spirits, talking and
laughing and so absorbed in each other as not to see the two ladies
awaiting their approach, until Maude suddenly exclaimed:
“Jack! Jack! there is some one with Mrs. Churchill. It is, it surely is
little Dot!” and with her usual impetuosity Maude broke away from her
companions, and bounding up the gravel walk and the wide steps of the
piazza, caught Edna in her arms and nearly smothered her with kisses.
For an instant Jack’s heart throbbed quickly at sight of the girl he had
loved and lost, but Maude’s pretty, saucy speeches were ringing in his
ears, and his hand still burned with the touch of the soft, warm
fingers, which had so deftly and so gently extracted an ugly sliver from
his thumb, just before leaving Oakwood, and so the wave of memory passed
harmlessly over him; and when Roy, who with Georgie was looking at and
discussing the little figure in gray, said to him:
“Can that be Miss Overton?” he answered, “Yes, that is Miss Overton.”
Roy hastened his movements then, and ere Edna knew what she was about he
was shaking her hand, and looking down upon her in a curious, well-bred
way, which did not make her one-half as uneasy as did the bold,
prolonged stare which Miss Burton fixed upon her.
Maude introduced her as “Miss Overton, from Rocky Point,” and all bowed
politely to her, while Georgie, following Roy’s example, took her hand
and stood a moment looking at her, as if trying to solve some doubt or
mystery. Maude, who was watching her, and saw the look of perplexity on
her face, whispered, under her breath, “Old marplot, what if she should
recognize her!”
But if to Georgie there had come any faint remembrance of that awful
night on the prairie, and the little stunned, bewildered creature, whose
eyes had in them such a look of hopelessness and terror, she put it away
for the time, and gave no sign of what was passing in her mind.
It was Roy who took Edna in to dinner, and gave her a seat beside him,
and treated her with as much deference and attention as if she had been
an invited guest instead of the hired companion of his mother, who sat
at the opposite end of the table, with Georgie at her side, acting a
daughter’s part to the poor, half-blind lady.
They were very gay during dinner; and Edna, whose spirits brightened and
expanded in the atmosphere of kindness and good-breeding, joined in the
gayety; and her sweet-toned voice and silvery laugh at some of Maude’s
queer sayings, reached Mrs. Churchill’s ear more than once, and made her
at last speak of the stranger to Georgie.
“Miss Overton has a very musical voice,” she said; and Georgie, whose
ear had been constantly turned in the direction of Edna, and who,
without seeming to notice, knew exactly when Roy spoke to her, and how
much attention he was paying to her, answered indifferently:
“Yes, very much like a child’s voice. She seems a child too, in size, at
least.”
“Isn’t she very pretty?” was Mrs. Churchill’s next remark; and Georgie
replied:
“Yes, though rather too small and _petite_ to impress one very strongly.
There is something familiar in her face; and I should say she looked a
good deal like Mrs. Charlie Churchill.”
“Oh, I’m glad,” and Mrs. Churchill’s hands made a little rattling among
the china and silver, while her heart went out still more kindly toward
the young girl who resembled Charlie’s wife.
Georgie had not intended such a result, and she said no more of Miss
Overton, or her resemblance to Edna Churchill; and, as if inspired with
some new idea, she was very gracious to Edna, and after dinner was over,
and they had returned to the drawing-room, she took a seat beside her,
and questioned her minutely with regard to her journey and her home at
Rocky Point. Had she always lived there, and was it not a charming
place, with such delightful scenery?
“No, I have not always lived there. I was born in Ohio, and lived there
till my father died,” Edna replied, fully alive to the danger of letting
her interrogator too much into the history of her past life, and with a
suspicion that Georgie was really making her out.
But the home in Ohio threw Georgie off the track, and ere she could
resume it again Maude came to the rescue, bringing Roy with her, and
urging Edna to favor them with some music.
“I have told Mr. Leighton how divinely you sing,” Maude said, “and he is
anxious to judge for himself; so please, Dotty, don’t refuse.”
Edna, who knew herself that she could sing, thought it impolite to
refuse; and when Roy seconded Maude’s request, and offered to lead her
to the piano, she arose, and taking his arm walked the whole length of
the long drawing-room to the alcove or bay-window, where the piano was
standing. There was a mist before her eyes, and a visible trembling of
her hands as she took her seat upon the stool; and then, by way of
gaining time, pretended to turn over the sheets of music, as if in quest
of something familiar. But when Roy, who saw her agitation, bent over
her, and said so kindly and reassuringly, “Don’t be afraid, Miss
Overton. You have not a critical audience,—half of us don’t know one
tune from another,” she felt her courage coming back, and her voice
which, as she began to sing, trembled a little, soon gained strength and
confidence, until it filled the room with such rich melody as held every
listener silent, and made Mrs. Churchill brush away a tear or two, as
she thought of Charlie and his grave beneath the evergreens. Edna was
not permitted to stop with one song, but sang piece after piece, until
thoughtful Roy interfered in her behalf, and said it was wrong to urge
her further when he knew how tired she must be.
“Not that I could not listen to you all night, but it would be the fable
of the boys and the frogs over again,” he said, as he led her from the
piano and deposited her at his mother’s side.
“You have given me a great deal of pleasure, Miss Overton,” Mrs.
Churchill said; “and I thank you for it. I am very fond of singing; and
you have so sweet a voice. I shall often make demands upon it. I am glad
you are here.”
Mrs. Churchill, who seldom did anything by halves, had conceived a
strong liking for her little companion, and her, “I am glad you are
here,” was so hearty and sincere, that Edna felt her eyes filling with
tears, and wondered how she could ever have thought otherwise than
kindly of this woman at her side.
Meantime, at the farther end of the room, Roy and Georgie were
discussing the stranger and her style of singing.
“The sweetest voice I ever heard,” Roy said; “and I am glad, for it will
afford mother so much pleasure. I remember how delightedly she used to
listen to poor Charlie’s performance on his guitar when it almost drove
me crazy.”
“And that reminds me,” said Georgie, “that Miss Overton looks a little
like Charlie’s wife. Indeed, the resemblance struck me at first as very
strong. Wouldn’t it be a funny joke if it were Charlie’s wife in
disguise?”
“A joke I should hardly relish,” Roy replied; “for why should Edna come
here in disguise when she knows the door stands open to her at any
time?”
There was a lurking demon of evil in Georgie’s black eyes as they rested
upon Edna, sitting so quietly at Mrs. Churchill’s side, and looking so
young, and fresh, and innocent, and as she saw that her remark had
awakened no suspicion in Roy’s mind, she beckoned Jack to her side, and
asked him if Miss Overton did not resemble Mrs. Charlie Churchill enough
to be her sister.
“Why, no,” Jack replied, running his fingers through his hair, and
looking across at Edna. “I should not say she was her sister at all; and
still, there is something in the expression of Miss Overton’s mouth and
eyes like Mrs. Churchill’s, only not quite so sad and pitiful.”
Jack spoke naturally enough, and met his sister’s eyes without
flinching, but inwardly he chafed like a young tiger, and when next he
found himself alone with Maude, he said to her:
“Maude, Georgie has something in her mind which may mean mischief to
Edna; and if she questions you, as she probably will, and presses you
too close, tell her—” Jack hesitated a moment, and then continued: “Tell
her that if she wants her secret kept she must respect the secret of
others; in short, keep her tongue between her teeth.”
Maude, who was very shrewd and far-seeing, had more than once suspected
that there was something in Georgie’s early life which the world
generally did not know, and at Jack’s remark she looked quickly at him,
then nodded understandingly, while her mental comment was, “I knew there
was something about Georgie, and sometime I’ll find it out.”
While this little by-play was going on, Roy had walked to a point in the
room from which he could study Edna’s face without being himself
observed by her. Georgie’s remark had awakened no suspicion whatever,
but he felt more interested in one said to resemble his sister-in-law,
and he stood for several minutes looking at the young girl, and mentally
comparing her face with the one seen in the cars two and one-half years
ago. Whether there were a resemblance or not he could not tell, for the
face of the girl who had so sadly caricatured him and styled him a
Betty, was not very distinct in his mind. Edna was very small, and so
was Miss Overton, but he did not think his sister could be as beautiful
as this girl, whose movements he watched so closely. He had not expected
anything quite so fair and lovely in Miss Overton, and when at last, at
a whispered word from his mother, she rose and led that lady from the
room, he felt as if the brightness of the evening was suddenly clouded,
and something lost from his enjoyment.
Mrs. Churchill’s exit was soon followed by the departure of the young
people from Oakwood, and Roy was left alone with his thoughts more upon
his mother’s hired companion than upon poor Georgie, whose star seemed
to be waning, and whose heart, in spite of the lightness of her words
and manner, as she walked back to Oakwood, was throbbing with a feeling
nearly akin to hatred for the so-called Miss Overton, whom _she_ knew to
be Charlie Churchill’s widow.