THE FELTONS
A month crept by with warm rains at the end of it, and the spring called
the blood back to the pale tree-tops with a bound.
Though the people of Harley's Mills did not by any means hibernate in
woodchuck fashion during winter, they did conserve their forces after
the habits of their thrifty forebears and did not light or heat any more
of their usually ample houses than was absolutely necessary. A strong
tie of kinship threaded the whole community. The stately residents of
Quality Hill and Westboro Road were often second and third cousins of
the owners of the lonely hill farms, of the blacksmith at the
cross-roads, or the joiner and carpenter, whose correct eye and a
self-taught course of mechanical drawing enabled him to supply plans
when required. Nor did this carpenter think it necessary to call himself
an architect and builder, as he would to-day, in order to back his
claims to consideration.
No one was jealous because the Misses Felton, year after year, went to
New York after Thanksgiving, and returned via the South late in May.
Rather were their doings a sort of general stimulant and tonic,
administered in regular doses through the letters that Miss Emmy Felton
wrote weekly to pretty little Mrs. Latimer, the Episcopal minister's
wife, who had a love of life beyond the radius of eight hundred a year,
while Miss Felton herself was in constant communication with her
steward, Wheeler, as to every detail of the management of the place, so
that all Harley's Mills knew exactly what to expect before it happened.
With the other wealthy landowner of the town the conditions were wholly
different. When John Angus left his house for travel or the city, the
gates were closed as far as knowledge of him was concerned. Ever since
he had come home to take the property at his father's death, twelve
years before, he had been a builder of barriers, not only between
himself and those he thought beneath him, but he hedged himself with
ceremony in his own household, his own inflexible will being his
universal measure, and every act being in accord with a fixed plan. If,
in his dislikes, he was deliberate and inexorable, those who knew him
said that it was the same with his passions; in nothing had he the
saving grace of spontaneity. Small wonder that his roseleaf wife
withered by his side until some final shock, too strong for her
endurance, swept her away to die in oblivion.
Thus the news came to Harley's Mills not only that the Feltons would
return the middle of April because the disturbed state of the South had
made their usual journey impossible, but that John Angus, who had been
running up at odd times all the month, was going to remodel his place
for the reception of his bride in June; while following on the heels of
this report, house-painters, paperers, masons, and a landscape-gardener
came to confirm it. So it fell out that, for a time, the lady baby, who
remained unclaimed at Oliver Gilbert's, became a thing of secondary
interest to every one but the postmaster and Satira Pegrim, until the
full month having gone, the village was again excited, this time by the
news that Gilbert had taken the final steps toward adopting the child.
Immediately several impromptu debating societies of villagers took up
the merits of the case for and against the adoption. The women of the
Hospital Aid Society vowing, as they rolled bandages and scraped lint,
that a man of Gilbert's age was no fit guardian for a female child,
especially as Satira Pegrim might be relied on to take her second at any
time he should come to hand, which might easily happen in a post-office,
and leave her brother in the lurch.
The men did their talking in the blacksmith's shop, a place where
Gilbert was not likely to appear suddenly, their objections being
impersonal and based chiefly on the fact that it wasn't a good plan to
encourage the leaving of stray children on people's stoops, also that
the presence of the mysterious child might be prejudicial to his
official position; next the three ministers of the town, Episcopal,
Congregational, and Methodist, had all made friendly calls at the
post-office house and asked, according to their different methods,
whether Gilbert recognized the responsibility he was contemplating.
Meanwhile, in the thick of the discussion, the Misses Felton and Mr.
Esterbrook arrived. Not all together, it is true, for Miss Emmy, being a
trifle delicate and disliking the mixed air, crowds, and jolting of the
cars, always drove from New York in the family carriage, a spacious
landau, lined with rose satin and swung high upon C springs, the journey
of fifty odd miles being broken for luncheon and a change of horses, the
sedate family grays having been sent on to this point the day previous.
Mr. Esterbrook accompanied Miss Emmy on this excursion; Nora, maid and
general factotum, making the third.
As for Miss Felton, this means of progress was too slow. She took the
train with the other maids and Caleb, the colored man-servant; but even
this method of progression was far from rapid, as the cars were pulled
singly by horses from the station in East Twenty-sixth Street, a little
above the Feltons' house on Madison Square, through Fourth Avenue until,
the press of traffic left behind, the cars were united and an engine
attached. Still, journey as they might, the family group that parted
after breakfast in the great high-ceiled house facing the square would
meet at a flower-decked supper table in a new and healthier atmosphere,
without hurry or disarrangement, so harmonious was Miss Felton's
housekeeping in the subduing of annoying details.
Not to understand the component parts of the household that lived, or,
one might almost say, reigned, at Felton Manor would be to have little
understanding of the conditions of the life and surroundings into which
the lady baby bid fair to be adopted. The Felton ladies were Bostonians
by birth and education, their father having been a prominent judge.
Failing of sons, he had, after being some years a widower, virtually
adopted and educated a cousin's son to be his confidential secretary,
and afterward appointed him in his will as a sort of guardian and
adviser to his daughters, who were left at the respective ages of
eighteen and twenty with a large property for those days. This man was
William Esterbrook, ten years the senior of Elizabeth Felton.
When Squire Felton died, the combination household continued as before,
except that the Boston house was given up for one in New York, as the
east winds were bad for Miss Emmy's throat. Miss Felton, however, took
her Aunt Lucretia's place at the helm. Strangers sometimes remarked upon
the peculiarity of the household arrangements, where William Esterbrook,
in a house not his own, filled the old-world position of guardian over
attractive and marriageable wards. The family friends, however, saw
nothing more than a brotherly and sisterly arrangement, and this was the
view that the trio thought they held themselves. The real fact was that
the kinship, so remote as to be merely a shadow, had kept them all three
from leading the normal life that was their due.
Twenty years had passed, years full of event and social intercourse with
the best that either came to or lived in the land, and still it was the
Misses Felton that bought a picture from a rising but struggling artist;
gave the young poet or musician a chance to be heard; entertained the
sedate at dinner or the opera, and, though they no longer joined in it,
gave the young a chance to dance in their great rooms, or sit out the
dances on stairs or in the trim conservatory. For, motherless and young
as they had been at the time of their father's death, they realized the
true social and moral responsibility of their wealth. Miss Felton was
independent, I had almost said masculine, of action; without being
brusque, she was direct and to the point, comprehended financial
questions, and had an accurate judgment in real estate. Tall and of
elegant proportions, she wore dark rich silks of simple lines, a plain
linen collar and brooch, while her splendid hair, without a thread of
gray, was drawn loosely over the ears and braided close to her head. She
did not seem to make any exertion to follow the fashions, and yet was
always distinguished.
Miss Emmy, having been the younger, and the pet of her father in
addition, was of the spontaneous, romantic, and feminine type that,
while it seems very yielding, has quite fixed ideas. She was but a
trifle above medium height, with large gray eyes and light brown hair,
that at forty was either heaped high in puffs, gathered in a netted
"waterfall" at the back of her head, or let loose in a shower of
ringlets as the whim of the moment required. She loved everything
dainty, in people as well as in clothes; her skirts rippled with ribbons
and lace as she trailed slowly along, her sunshades were of the
daintiest, and her flowery hats bits of art that almost defied nature.
Lyric music was her passion, and in spite of her years she still had a
pretty voice, quite the size for ballads. Small wonder that between
these two opposites William Esterbrook, who, though of somewhat
superfine tastes combined with an undeveloped sense of responsibility,
was still a man, stood undecided.
Twenty years before, his interests had centred upon Miss Felton, and
together they had regarded pretty, kittenish Emmy as a child, a
plaything. This aspect soon ceased, when Emmy, coming into the social
world, had taken the sedate man of thirty-two for her cavalier quite as
a matter of course, and alternately bullied him and turned to him in
every strait. Once only he had come face to face with his manhood and
resolved to make the plunge and propose to Emmy, but an over-estimate of
the effect it might have upon Elizabeth held him back, and so the three
had drifted through the best years of life, loyal to each other, yet too
supremely and evenly comfortable to ever know the highest happiness.
If the trio had been separated even by a season of travel, they might
have discovered their real selves, for absence is often quite necessary
to give the perspective for rightly judging the feelings and relations
with one another.
Six months before, the fire of war had entered Esterbrook's veins, and
he, the veteran of a militia regiment, had almost broken away to join a
company of his old comrades as a minor officer; but even here he was
rebuffed and turned back by something wrong with his heart action that
his physician discovered at the last moment. Consequently, at fifty odd,
William Esterbrook, whom Miss Emmy called Willy, and Miss Felton,
cousin Esterbrook, though a very well-preserved man, who had no need as
yet to use either hair tonic or other toilet accessories, was possessed
by a sort of self-consciousness and a certain agitated courtesy of
manner.
A married man of this age usually has relaxed his tension through
natural processes; a confirmed bachelor, living in his own apartments,
takes his ease because there is nothing to goad him to do otherwise; but
for Esterbrook, he was still living in the play that had absorbed his
youth without realizing that it was a play, and sometimes he was
horribly bored.
In personal appearance he had a style quite his own. At a time of beards
and many whiskers, low collar, and loose tie, he kept a clean-shaven
face and still affected a modified stock. His coat--except in the
evening, a Prince Albert--had a decided waist line; he wore spats that
broke the plainness of the customary high boots of the time, and his
taste in waistcoats was as refined as it was fanciful. After all, it was
the hat that was the most distinguishing characteristic of his apparel.
This was of the softest beaver, brushed until it shone like silk; the
crown of moderate height was belled out at the top and the brim curled
well at the sides. In the crown of this he invariably carried his
right-hand glove, the left being always in place and neatly buttoned.
This habit came of the old-time courtesy of either removing the glove
when shaking hands with ladies or apologizing for its presence. Once
Esterbrook had removed the glove with graceful ceremony before extending
his well-shaped hand. Now?--well, he was a bit weary of manners and
customs, so that the offending glove lived in his hat.
About ten o'clock on the morning after the Feltons' arrival Miss Emmy
and Mr. Esterbrook were seen walking on the road that ran from Quality
Hill down to Westboro. Many heads looked out of windows and nodded, and
not a few hands were extended over gates by way of greeting, together
with bits of local news, either offered at random or for exchange.
"Had the ladies heard of the lady baby left at old Oliver Gilbert's, and
his preposterous idea of keeping her?" asked the farrier's wife, who had
been one of the many helpers who had married from Felton Manor.
"Had they seen Miss Marcia Duane, John Angus's intended, and was she as
handsome and rich as folks said? Able to wind him, who had never before
bent head or knees, around her little finger? And if so, why did she
take a man old enough to be her father?"
"Why?" said Mr. Esterbrook, with his jauntiest air. "John Angus and
myself are nearly of an age, and I'm not yet out of the running."
"Oh! Mr. Esterbrook, present company is always suspected, and then I'm
sure no one ever thinks how old _you_ are; you've always been just the
same," said the farrier's wife.
Yes, always the same, a house cat by the fire; the bitter thought
flashed through his brain, yet the next moment he was stooping
courteously to disentangle Miss Emmy's parasol from the fringe of her
silk mantilla. Then they proceeded along the street, Miss Emmy's full
skirt of gray chiné silk, with its bordered flounces of pink roses,
rustling as it swung about her, buoyed out by many petticoats, for this
dainty lady followed the fashion without the use of what she considered
the unnecessary vulgarity of a harsh and unmanageable hoop-skirt.
Little Mrs. Latimer ran out to remind her friend that the Hospital Aid
Society would meet at the Rectory that afternoon, and did she suppose
that dear Miss Felton would come and say something to the ladies about
the necessity of rolling the bandages straight, as Dr. Morewood had said
that to expect an army surgeon in a hurry to use a long bandage rolled
loosely on the bias, was simply to invite a lesson in profanity.
Finally the post-office was reached. Oliver Gilbert, who was at his work
bench in the back shop, put down a cuckoo clock that he was tinkering
with and came forward quite spryly to meet his visitors, the limp,
caused in boyhood by the ill setting of a broken hip, being less
noticeable than usual.
"We've come to see you first, and then to take a peep at this wonderful
lady baby about whom the village is agog. That is, _I_ have; Mr.
Esterbrook would probably rather stay here and talk with you about the
new soldier, Grant, who has come out of nowhere and is doing such great
things.
"By the way, my watch has been losing time, though sister Elizabeth
declares that I wind it in the dark and turn the hands backward; at any
rate, it will be the better for a visit with you." Then turning to Mr.
Esterbrook, who was trying to decide which of the three morning paper
she should read first, "Willy, my watch, please; you have it in your
pocket."
As Miss Emmy passed through the arbor to the house, she was surprised to
hear the halting tap of Gilbert's footsteps behind her. "I do not need
to take you from the office," she said, "for you must not forget that
Mrs. Pegrim is an old friend of mine."
"'Tisn't that, but I want to know what you think of _her_."
"Hasn't she any name? I mean, haven't you decided what to call her?"
"I've pretty much made up my mind; I had to, for she's to be baptized
this afternoon."
At this moment, Mrs. Pegrim, who had been chafing with impatience ever
since she saw Miss Emmy go into the post-office, opened the door. By her
side, standing straight and true, even though one hand clung to the
woman's apron, was the lady baby.
Very scant was the greeting that Miss Emmy gave Satira Pegrim, for
suddenly she picked up the child and, carrying her across the room,
stood her upon the table so that their faces were upon a level, all
oblivious of the fact that her mantilla had slipped from her shoulders
and that the lace sunshade she had dropped had been seized by the pup,
who bore it to his usual câche under the stove.
"The darling! how could any one have the heart to desert such an
exquisite little creature? Positively, Mr. Gilbert, you must let us
have her; I've always thought that I should adopt a young girl some day,
twenty years hence, to buy pretty clothes for, after I grow too wrinkled
and gray to wear pink and corn color, but I never before realized what a
dear a lady baby could be. After all, it will be much nicer to watch her
grow up; how surprised sister Elizabeth will be, and as for Mr.
Esterbrook, I wonder what he would do if I asked him to carry her home
for me."
As she leaned toward the child, who was clutching at her long pearl
earrings, shaped like bunches of grapes, seeming to regard her as a new
and improved species of doll, Gilbert's hand closed on Miss Emmy's arm
with a grip that was by no means gentle.
"Hush!" he said almost roughly in her ear, "we don't speak about her
being deserted and talk of that sort any more. None can tell when she
will begin to understand. As for her being adopted by you or any one
else, that's not to be. She was not left on Quality Hill; no lights were
there that stormy night; there were no folks awake! She was as good as
born to me. There's just three of us in this, God and her and me, and
we've got to work it out between us, stand or fall."
"I could do so much more for her," Miss Emmy murmured apologetically;
then stopped, checked by the expression of his face, though she did not
understand it.
"Yes, ma'am, you could and would as far as boughten things would carry,
but I've held Marygold in my arms, her little fingers clasped around my
neck, so I _know_, and time out of mind it's come to me that with women
folks and children the _knowing_ and _feeling sure_ is more than the
_having_."
"Miss Emmy, what is a parrotpet?" Satira Pegrim had been on pins and
needles during this interview, and in seeking to cut it short, jerked
out a sentence quite as irrelevant as those two that have become
famous,--"There's milestones on the Dover road," and "Barneses goose was
stole by tinkers."
"A paroquet is a bird, a small parrot. Don't you remember that I kept a
pair until one died and the other one grew moody and bit Willy--I mean
Mr. Esterbrook?" said Miss Emmy, also glad of the break in a strained
situation.
"No, it isn't a bird, it's something to do with bricks. They've been
carting them from sloops in Westboro Harbor up to John Angus's place
this week past, and this morning, when I was raking up the leaves in the
garden down beyond the apple trees, making ready to sow early radishes
and lettuce, I climbed up the bank to Angus's boundary to take a look,
and if the old fence wasn't gone! Half a dozen men were filling out the
bank even with dirt from what was the old flower garden; the old shrubs
was uptore and lying roots in air, and right at the end of what was the
long path was a mountain of bricks.
"Peter Nichols, the overseer, was there, so I called out and asked him
what became of the fence and said I wished I could have had some of the
piney roots and garden stuff that was just tossed out for filling. He
says, 'There's going to be a fine brick parrotpet instead of the fence,
'cause this here's to be a rose garden, and as for the posy roots and
things, I daresn't give 'em, but later on I reckon that some of 'em'll
root and sprout on the filled bank your side of the parrotpet."
"Oh, it's a parapet you mean!" exclaimed Miss Emmy; "a wall something
like a fort. That proves the reports that John Angus is anxious to
please his bride and let her carry out her tastes, for she has a
charming rose garden at their estate on the Hudson that ends in a stone
parapet overlooking the river."
"Only this one overlooks the post-office and me, though I believe they
_can_ see over the trees to salt water," said Gilbert, dryly; and then
his frown changed to a smile, as the lady baby, tiring of her fingering
inspection of Miss Emmy's ribbons, crawled to his knee with the
sidewheel motion she used when she wished to hurry, and holding her head
on one side like an inquisitive bird, stretched out her arms and called
"Daddy!" with unmistakable clearness.
"Mr. Gilbert, did I understand you to say that the child is to be
baptized this afternoon?" asked Miss Emmy, presently, not a trace of
annoyance at his rebuff remaining in her manner or voice. "Who is going
to do it, and will it be here or at one of the churches? I should like
to send the lady baby some of our roses; I know she will love flowers by
the way her eyes follow my hat."
"Mr. Latimer is going to do it; he's coming here, Miss Emmy, and we'd be
grateful for a few posies to trick out the foreroom. I reckoned to get a
new paper on it before this, but it doesn't seem any season to spend
for ornaments."
"Mr. Latimer, an Episcopalian? Why, I thought that you were a
Congregationalist, and your wife was certainly the daughter of Mr.
Moore, who used to be Methodist preacher in Bridgeton."
"That's all so, Miss Emmy; but what I'm striving at in regards to the
bringing up of lady baby is to be fair and unbiassed in all things where
I can. Now, Mary belonging to one of the sects in town and me to
another, it seems fair to divide 'round and give this child whatever
benefit there is in the third. Then, too, they've got an organ down to
the 'Piscopal Church and we've only got a tuning-fork, 'cause whenever
an organ is brought up, John Angus votes it down as sinful."
"Aye, aye! he still holds to Kirk o' Scotland; he's vairy serious and
canty," interposed Miss Emmy, with a well-feigned accent, "for his
housekeeper told that last winter, when the cook asked higher wages, he
couldn't give an answer until he'd pondered it on communion sabbath,
which put off the evil day four weeks."
"The child likes music," continued Gilbert, "for only yesterday, when a
fiddler with a dancing bear came past and I had him in to play, she'd a
crept off after him in a twinkling while Satira's back was turned, if
the pup there hadn't barked and tugged her by the skirt.
"Well, I asked Mr. Latimer and explained to him, and he said, 'Why not
bring her to the church after service Sunday morning,' but when I told
him Marygold was named in the foreroom, then he said he'd come up. I'm
not asking a company,--Satira couldn't see her way to manage,--so
there'll only be jest two or three, but I'd be pleased to see you, Miss
Emmy, if you're interested that far to take the trouble."
"What is the news?" asked Miss Emmy, as she joined Mr. Esterbrook, who
was walking to and fro under the maples that lined the walk opposite the
post-office, a goodly quantity of their scarlet catkins decorating the
wide brim of his hat.
"News? There isn't any, except that McClellan is still on his way to
Richmond and there are some war bonds, 5-20's and 6-20's, going on the
market that I think we should all subscribe to as far as we are able. I
must speak to Elizabeth about them to-night."
Then as he raised the parasol in which there were several holes not in
the original pattern and held it between her and the now really hot sun,
he glanced at her face and saw, not only that it was flushed, but that
it wore a wholly new expression, while the strings of her bonnet, that
had been tied with a graceful precision, hung loose and bore the
unmistakable print of moist fingers. Her face held Esterbrook's eyes
until, unconsciously drawn, she looked up and in her turn was amazed at
the sudden intensity of his usually placid countenance and the flash of
his eyes as he shifted them.
"What is it? What has happened?" he said. "Has the child been temperish
and vexed you, or did she pull your ribbons awry in play?"
"No, she was lovely, far too lovable;" then she paused to look over the
neat picket-fence into one of the many gardens that filled the spaces
between street and white-pillared porches, where tufts of golden
daffodils shone like prisoned sunbeams on the lawn and single white
violets, short stemmed and fragrant, huddled timidly about the roots of
leafless rose-bushes in the long borders. "What has happened is that in
this last hour I've been away, Willy," she said, as she made a
wide-sweeping gesture, "so far away from you and Elizabeth that I almost
forgot how you looked. So far that I saw quite back to things that might
have been."
Emeline Felton had always been, within fixed boundaries, of a romantic
and emotional disposition, but with that gesture, suggestive of the
breaking of bonds, Esterbrook felt that she swept these boundaries
aside.
"Was I other than I am now in those far-away days? Have I not always
been the same to you? Do I not always study your interests?" Esterbrook
said, again meeting her eyes that did not turn away.
"Yes, but you were different once, though not for long; since then, as
you say, you've been always the same, and that's part of the matter."
"I wish that in those other days I'd had the courage to go away far
enough to see if you would miss me and then haunt you until I'd made you
marry me, Emeline."
"And I--I wish you had!"
Esterbrook caught his breath: "Is it too late? Am I too old to change
the might have been?"
"Ah, yes; if I married, after to-day, it must be a younger man than you.
Besides you could not stand the shock of telling Elizabeth, and if I
told her, she might send me to bed without my supper!
"Then at our age we must consider our obligations to society; as
Elizabeth puts it, how disappointed it would be if the institution known
as the _Misses Felton and Mr. Esterbrook_ should disintegrate! How we
should be missed, we nice _safe_ people! Ah, no, Willy, don't look so
serious; it's only some left-over mad March Hare that has bewitched me,"
and Miss Emmy laughed with the same ripple in her voice as that of the
bluebird on the roof of its box in the garden.
"We must not forget to be patriotic; we must hurry home to consult
Elizabeth about those 6-20's you spoke of, and please, Willy, ask
Wheeler to make me a nice little bouquet of roses with lace paper around
it by three o'clock to-day, and tie up a box of loose flowers also. I'm
going to the christening of Oliver Gilbert's lady baby."
The bonnet strings were tied as usual and the flush on her cheek had
faded to its normal tint when Esterbrook next glanced at his companion,
but in those few minutes he too had looked back and travelled afar, and
his face changed as though he had been a ghost of himself.