CHAPTER XV.
September in the Berkshire hills makes Litchfield, Connecticut, an attractive place to people of leisure who like to watch nature as she doffs her summer garb of green and yellow and dons the purple and scarlet raiment that autumn provides for her.
Upon the broad piazza of a hotel commanding a wide view of a hill country unrivalled for beauty in the new world sat several men and women indulging in the idle gossip that falls from the lips of people who have nothing more serious confronting them than a game of golf or a drive through the woods.
“Anything interesting in the Trumpet, Hal?” asked a youth, attired in a most unbecoming golf costume, glancing at a young man who held in his hands a copy of the latest issue of Litchfield’s weekly newspaper.
“Calvin Johnson has put a new coat of paint on his barn,” answered the news-reader solemnly. “Mrs. Rogers spent Sunday with friends in Roxbury.”
“Oh, stop it, Hal,” cried a vivacious young woman, putting up her hand imperiously. “You’ll drive us all away if you keep on.”
“Wait a moment! Let me read you something of more interest,” said the young man with the newspaper impressively. “This is the pièce de résistance of the week’s Trumpet:
“‘We take pleasure in informing our readers that Jonathan Edwards Bennett, an old resident of Litchfield, has returned from a long sojourn in Europe and has reopened the Bennett homestead on Main Street. Mr. Bennett is accompanied by his wife. Rumor has it that Mrs. Bennett is a daughter of one of the oldest and most aristocratic families in central Europe. Mr. and Mrs. Bennett are entertaining their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Eingen, of Germany, who will remain in Litchfield until late in the fall. The Trumpet is informed that Mr. Bennett will take up his residence permanently in Litchfield. It is understood that he will devote much time to politics. We congratulate our fellow-townsmen upon Mr. Bennett’s return to his native heath and take pleasure in bidding him welcome.’”
“That explains it, then!” exclaimed the vivacious young woman excitedly. “That must have been Mrs. Bennett we saw yesterday, Marion. She is really a beautiful woman, with magnificent golden hair and the dearest blue eyes! She’s a perfect love! Isn’t she, Marion?”
“She is, indeed,” answered the girl appealed to.
“Jonathan Edwards Bennett,” repeated one of the men who had listened to the Trumpet’s choice tid-bit. “He was in my class at Yale. A clever fellow, but restless. They used to say of him that he would be famous or a failure before he had been out in the world five years.”
“And has he been a success?” drawled the youth in the golf suit.
“Of course he has,” cried the vivacious young woman, “hasn’t he married a beautiful girl with golden hair and blue eyes? Surely, he could ask nothing better of life than that.”
Could Jonathan Edwards Bennett have heard these words he would have acknowledged that the vivacious young woman spoke the truth.
THE END.