CHAPTER XVI. — YOUNG QUINCY
It had been arranged while Aunt Ella and Maude were at Ellersleigh that Florence and her husband should come to Fernborough Hall and make a visit before their departure for the United States. Owing to Harry's presence at the Hall it became necessary, when they arrived, to divulge the well-kept secret of Maude's unconventional marriage.
Aunt Ella managed the introduction with her usual straightforwardness, treating it as a matter of course. Florence and her husband were naturally surprised, but both of them liked Harry Merry. Had Florence been married at home, with the usual family friends and accessories, she would have looked with less tolerance on Maude's elopement. To be sure she had not eloped, but when she looked into her own heart she had to confess to herself that she would have married Reginald even if her parents had refused their consent. So, as the intent makes the offence, she forgave Maude for her escapade, and during their stay at the Hall they manifested more sisterly regard for each other than they had ever before shown.
Reginald and Harry “hitched horses” at once. Men who marry sisters are united by a stronger tie than the usual brother-in-law bond, and the Englishman and the American felicitated themselves upon their capture of the Sawyer sisters. They played billiards on a table where the balls had not clicked for a generation. They smoked in a room which had been free from the odour of tobacco for a score of years. They rode horseback upon steeds whose principal duty, as Harry expressed it, had been to “heat their 'eads horff.” They even fished in the miniature lake and gave their catch to dogs who knew so little about real sport that they thought the fish were game. They took long walks together and knew by name every man, woman, and child on the estate. The conservative Englishman, if alone, would not have gone so far, but the democratic American took the lead, and politeness, if not inclination, forced his companion to follow.
They often passed an evening with Sir Stuart in his library. The Captain related incidents in his military life, while Harry, who had been a great reader, drew on both memory and imagination for tales of the Great West, with an occasional ghost story, supported by irrefutable witnesses. The day before their departure, Aunt Ella took Florence to her boudoir and told her what she had written to her sister, Nathaniel's wife, about her children's marriages.
“I hope Sarah will let your father read my letter. I said just what I thought, and I shall stand by Maude and her husband come what may.”
“And so will I,” cried Florence. “You helped Reginald by solving the mystery of that check, and I will do all I can to help Maude and Harry. I think he is a fine fellow, and Reggie says they have become like two brothers.”
“I am glad to hear,” said Aunt Ella, “that they are bound by love as well as by law.”
In about a month there came a long letter from Maude.
“DEAR AUNT ELLA AND SISTER ALICE:—I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin. We had a fine trip—no storms—and none of us missed a meal, which was bad for the company. But they made up their loss on others who ate a supper on leaving England and a breakfast on reaching America.
“Mother was delighted to see us and father was so nice to us all that I came near fainting. He is a changed man. I wonder what drug he has been taking.”
* * * * * * *
“Didn't you tell Maude about your letter to her mother?” asked Alice.
“No, I told Florence, but thought Maude would appreciate the change now, if it took place, if she was ignorant of what influence had been brought to bear on her father.”
Aunt Ella continued the reading.
* * * * * * *
“Harry and I have been to Fernborough. Alice's brother sent us word that Uncle Isaac Pettingill was dead and we went to the funeral. He had no complaint. He was tired out, so Mrs. Maxwell told us, and went to sleep. He left each of Mrs. Maxwell's boys five thousand dollars, and the same amount to Quincy Adams Pettingill. The remainder of his fortune, I don't know how much, is bequeathed to build a free hospital in Fernborough.
“There's another good man dead—Deacon Mason,—and his wife has gone to live with her daughter, Mrs. Pettingill. That funny little man, Mr. Stiles, has gone there too.
“I saw Mrs. Hawkins, and she said: 'I mos' cried my eyes out when I heerd 'bout that collision at sea, an' what it did. I can't see no sense in them captains bein' so careless and reckless. Tell Miss Alice I wish she'd come home and bring that boy. I want ter see ef he looks like his father.'
“I came near forgetting what to me is the most important part of my letter. Harry has been appointed as Quincy's executor in place of Dr. Culver, and, this is the wonderful thing, father has induced Harry to leave Mr. Carter's office and go into his office. He told Harry that they were all getting old and they needed young blood in the firm—but Harry's not in the firm yet. No more this time from your loving,
“MAUDE MERRY.”
“My letter to Sarah did do some good,” said Aunt Ella triumphantly.
“Poor Uncle Ike, I wish I could have been with him. I wonder if I shall ever see Fernborough again?”
Aunt Ella did not answer the question as she would have liked to, and Alice went to her room to recall those former happy days which would never come again.
Nearly nine years had passed since young Quincy's birth, and Alice was still at Fernborough Hall. She could not leave it now, for Aunt Ella was again a widow. Her mind was troubled about her boy. He had recurrent attacks of throat trouble, and was not strong as she wished him to be.
“It's the damp, foggy weather,” said Aunt Ella. “We're too near the water, and this country, beautiful as it is, is not like our bright America.”
Dr. Parshefield suggested a trip to the South of France, but Alice declared that was impossible.
“Something must be done—now what shall it be?” was Aunt Ella's declaration and inquiry. Then Alice remembered what Maude had said in one of her letters—that young Quincy should be brought up as an American. She spoke to Aunt Ella about the matter, repeating what Maude had written.
“Where could we send him?”
“The where is not so important” Aunt Ella remarked, “as the to whom. Florence and Maude are both out of the question for they have young children of their own who might, or might not, take to an outsider. Quincy's mother would be delighted to have him for he is her son's son, but Boston, with its east winds would be no better than here. Besides, his grandfather would say that he'd raised one family of disobedient children and he wanted a quiet life.”
The question remained unsettled that day, but the next morning Aunt Ella burst into Alice's room with a loud cry—
“Eureka! I have it! Why didn't we think of it before?”
“You say you have it,” said Alice, “but what is it? That pattern that you were looking for?”
“No, a happy home for this youngster,” as she patted his curly head lovingly.
“Now, can't you guess?”
Alice shook her head.
“Well, I must say, you are not a very thoughtful sister,” and the last word was strongly emphasized.
“What, do you mean—'Zekiel?” cried Alice.
“The very man, and Fernborough is the place. You must write to your brother at once.”
As Alice was writing the thought came to her, “Perhaps if my boy goes to Fernborough, some day I may go to see him, and the old town, and the people there, once more.”
In due time a reply came from 'Zekiel. It was short, but to the point. “Huldy will be delighted to have him. Our boy Quincy is nearly fourteen years old now and he'll take good care of his little cousin. I'll try and be a father to him until you come for him.”
The important question, “How was the boy to reach America?” was answered by one of those happy coincidences which happen often in books and occasionally in real life, such as is being depicted. The Rev. Mr. Gay, who had been a constant visitor to Uncle Ike during his last days, paid a visit to Fernborough Hall on his return from a trip to the Holy Land.
“Heaven must have sent you,” said Alice, and she told him of her desire to have her boy go to Fernborough.
Mr. Gay consented to take charge of young Quincy. In a few days the parting came. The mother's heart was sorely tried. But mother-love is unselfish, and Alice's only consolation came from the conviction that her temporary loss was for her son's permanent good.
Her nights were sleepless, filled with thoughts of accidents, and storms and collisions at sea, until a welcome letter dispelled her imaginings, for it brought the intelligence that young Quincy was safe with his father's friends.