17. CHAPTER XVII.
WHERE EDNA WENT.
TO Canandaigua first, but not to the seminary, nor
yet the jeweller's, as she had once thought of doing.
She had heard from her aunt that Mr. Greenough
was paid, and she shrank from meeting him face to face, or
from seeing any of her old friends. So she sat quietly in
the ladies' room, waiting for the first train going east, and
thinking it would never come. She had bought her ticket
for Albany, but, with her thick black veil drawn closely over
her face, the ticket agent never suspected that she was the
gay, light hearted girl he used sometimes to see at the station,
and who recently had become so noted for the tragic ending
of her marriage.
No one recognized her, for it was not the hour when the
seminary girls were ever at the depot, and when, at last, the
train came and took her away with it, nobody was the wiser
for her having been there.
And where was she going? Have you, my reader, ever
crossed the mountain range between Pittsfield and Albany?
And if you have, do you remember how many little villages
you saw, some to the right, some to the left, and all nestled
among and sheltered by those tall mountains and rocky hills,
with here and there a stream of water, as clear and bright as
crystal, rippling along under the shadow of the willow and
the birch, or dancing headlong down some declivity?
Edna was bound for one of these towns, where Uncle Phil
Overton had lived for many years. He was her great uncle
on her mother's side, though she had never heard of him until
she met her cousin, Mrs. Dana, in Chicago. Mrs. Dana had
known Mr. Overton well, and had lived with him for a few
months while she taught in the little academy which stood
upon the common. He was an eccentric old man, who for
years had lived among the mountains, in the same yellow
farm-house, a mile, or more, from the village, which represented
to him the world, and which we call Rocky Point.
Edna could not tell why her thoughts kept turning to
Uncle Phil as they did. In her utter despair, while listening
to Aunt Jerry's abusive greeting, her heart had cried out:
“Oh, what shall I do?”
“Go to Uncle Phil,” was the answer which came to her
cry, and she had clung to that as a drowning man to a straw.
Mrs. Dana had said he was kind and generous, if you
touched the right chord. He had no wife, or children, but
lived alone with a colored woman, who had been in the family
for years. He was getting to be old,—sixty, if not more,—
and, perhaps, he would be glad of some young creature in
the house, or, at all events, would let her stay till she could
look about and find something to do. Maybe she could
teach in the academy. Mrs. Dana had done so, and Edna felt
that her acquirements were certainly equal to those of her
cousin. And so she was going to Rocky Point, and Albany
lay in her way, and she stopped there until Monday, and
took her watch and coral to a jeweller's, and asked what they
were worth.
It was a beautiful little watch, and the chain was of exquisitely
wrought gold; and, as the jeweller chanced to be
an honest man, he told her frankly what it was worth, but
said, as it was second-hand, he could not dispose of it so
readily, and consequently could not afford to give her quite
so much as if it were new. Edna accepted his offer, and,
with a bitter pang, left the watch and coral lying in the glass
case, and, going back to the hotel, wrote a letter to Roy,
and sent him one hundred dollars.
How near Roy seemed to her there in Albany, which was
not so very far from Leighton Place, and how she was
tempted to take the New York train, and go to Charlie's
home; not into it, but to the town, where she could see it
and visit Charlie's grave. But a few moments' reflection
showed her the inexpediency of such an act. She had no
money to waste in useless trips. She should need it all, and
more, unless Uncle Phil opened his door to her; and so she
put the scheme aside, and took, instead, the Boston train,
which long before noon left her upon the platform at Rocky
Point. Everybody knew Uncle Phil Overton, and half a
dozen or more answered her questions at once, and wondered
who she was, and what the queer old chap would do with
such a dainty bit of femininity as she seemed to be. One
man, a farmer, whose road homeward lay past the Overton
place, offered to take her there, and she was soon riding
along through scenery so wild and romantic, even in early
December, as to elicit from her many an exclamation of surprise
and delight, while her fingers fairly ached to grasp her
pencil and paper and sketch some of the beautiful views with
which the neighborhood abounded. The man was very respectful,
but rather inquisitive; and as his curiosity was in
no wise abated by the sight of her glowing face when, at the
top of a hill, she threw back her veil, and asked him to stop
a moment while she gazed at the scenery around her, he began
to question her, and found that she was Phil Overton's
grand-niece, an orphan without friends, and that she had
come to Rocky Point, hoping to find something to do. Did
he know whether they were in want of a teacher in the
academy, and did any of the scholars take lessons in drawing
or music? She could teach both, though drawing was her
preference.
Mr. Belknap was very sorry to tell her that the old academy
was closed,—“played out,” he said; and the “Deestrict”
School had been commenced for a week, or more.
“But then,” he added, as he saw the look of disappointment
on Edna's face, “maybe we could scare up a s'leck school.
We had one last winter, kep' by a man in a room of the academy;
but he was a poor stick, and the boys raised the very
old Harry with him. They wouldn't with you, a slip of a
girl. Ain't you pretty young to teach?”
“Yes, perhaps so; but I must do something,” Edna replied.
She did not tell him she was a widow; and, seeing her
clothed in so deep mourning, the man naturally concluded
it was for her parents, and he began to feel a deep interest
in her, telling her she might count on his children if she
opened a school; that he would also help her to get scholars,
if needful, and then he asked if she had any idea of the kind
of man Uncle Phil Overton was. Something in Mr. Belknap's
question set Edna's heart to beating rapidly, but before
she could reply, they turned the corner in the road and
came close to the house.
“I wish you success with Uncle Phil,” Mr. Belknap said,
as he handed Edna from the wagon and deposited her trunk
upon the stoop. “Maybe I and the girls will drop in to-night
and see how you get on,” he added, as he climbed
over the wheel, and chirruping to his horse, drove off, leaving
Edna standing by the door, whose huge brass knocker
sent back a dull, heavy echo, but did not for some little time
bring any answering response.
