University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
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:

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 fiture. 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.”

Mande 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.