Two years later, and again the Christmas chimes were ringing from many a tower, and the words, “Peace on earth, good-will to men,” were sung by many a voice, while many a welcome greeting was given to returning friends, and to none a warmer or more welcome one than was extended to Jack and Maude, who came from their home in Jersey to keep Christmas at Leighton, where Edna presided as mistress, with no shadow on her bright face, or sorrow in her heart. Hers had been a happy life since the day Roy called her his wife; and no ripple, however small, had broken the smooth surface of the matrimonial sea on which she sailed so pleasantly. All in all to each other, neither she nor Roy had cared to leave their pleasant home; but had remained there all the time, with the exception of an occasional trip to New York, and a visit of a few days to Rocky Point and Allen’s Hill.
“Oh, I am so happy that I sometimes tremble lest I should wake some morning and find it all a dream,” Edna said to Maude, as she led the way to the suite of rooms which had been prepared for Mrs. Jack, with her nurse and babies, for Maude had reached that honor, and the cares of maternity sat very gracefully upon her.
“Edna Browning” she had named the expected stranger, and had held all sorts of consultations with Mrs. Roy concerning the christening robes and the christening dinner, and had talked quite confidently of what her daughter would and would not do. How, then, was she amazed and confounded when the result proved to be twins, and boys at that! Two great, red-faced, sturdy boys, at whom she looked askance, and from whom she shrunk at first as from something appalling, and of which she was ashamed.
Edna Browning was a Betsy Trotwood affair now, and they named the babies John and Roy, but the father always called them Jack and Gill. And they were spending their first Christmas at Leighton; and Mr. and Mrs. Freeman Burton were there also, the latter still in black for her darling Georgie, whom she talked about a great deal, wishing so much that she could be with them as she used to be.
“Not that I want you away, my dear,” she would add, laying her hand on Edna’s shoulder, “or wish that things with you and Roy were otherwise, only I miss poor Georgie so much, but Maude is a great comfort to me.”
And this is true, for to some degree Maude has taken Georgie’s place in her aunt’s affections. She spends a good deal of time at Oakwood with her boys, to whom Mr. Burton calls himself grandpa, while his wife is the grandma; and it is said that in his private drawer there is a will giving all his worldly possessions to his beloved niece, Mrs. John Heyford, and her heirs forever; so Jack is doing well in a worldly point of view, and is talking of building a handsome country seat, where Maude can keep her ponies, and her children, and be what she desires to be, a farmer’s wife in comfortable circumstances. Uncle Phil is also at Leighton keeping the Christmas holidays, and playing with the twins, and rallying Edna on Maude’s surprising success. But Aunt Jerry is not there. “Got the rheumatism in her hip, and is crosser than four bears,” Uncle Phil said, and then Edna knew that he had been to Allen’s Hill, and looked at him so inquiringly, that he replied, “No use, no use,—and I may as well tell you that I’ve made a prodigious fool of myself, and been after that snap-dragon again. She looked so trim and neat when you were married, that my heart kept thumpin’ under my jacket; and I was so lonesome with you and Maude both gone for good, that I—yes—well—I—yes, yes—asked her again, and said I was ’Piscopal now, and told her I’d build a Gothic cottage, and we might take comfort yet, for it was lonesome and awful cold winter nights, and she called me an old fool, and told me to let her alone, and I did, but kept thinkin’, and hankerin’, and rememberin’ how slim and straight she looked, and I’ve begun the Gothic house, you know, and it will be finished in the spring, and—and—yes, yes—the upshot is, I went out there two weeks ago and found her on crutches, and tried her again with the ’Piscopal and the Gothic, but no go. She didn’t dislike me, she said, and she was lonesome at times, but she wouldn’t be a laughing-stock for nobody; and she gave me the mitten the third time, and I’ve give it up for good.”
Edna tried to console him, and told him her aunt might change her mind yet, but he did not think she would, and said he could stand it if she didn’t; and was the merriest of them all at the dinner, where Maude and Edna appeared in evening dress, looking as young and beautiful as in their girlish days, while Roy and Jack seemed and were perfectly happy and altogether satisfied in the choice they had made.
And now, saying good-by to Leighton, we glance for a moment at poor Aunt Jerry, who ate her dinner alone and let one single tear roll down her cheeks as she thought of the party at Leighton, and of herself, so lonely and forlorn. As the night deepened without, and the shadows crept into every corner of the room, she tried, by caressing her tabby-cat, and watching the fire-light flickering on the wall, to get up a little enthusiasm for her surroundings, and believe that she was happy and content. But it would not do; there was a craving in her heart for other companionship than that of cat and cow, and putting the former from her lap she hobbled to the window and looking out into the night, thought of the Gothic cottage, and the man who had offered it to her acceptance, and called her Jerry as he did so.
“It might be better than living here alone, and it might be worse,” she soliloquized. “There’s nothing bad about him, and I do believe, that as far as he knows, he is a good churchman now, but he is short, and fat, and stumpy, and if you’d let him, would be silly enough to keep your stomach riled the most of the time. No, Tabby and I’ll try it a spell longer anyway, and then if he is fool enough to ask again, I—don’t—know—; it’s about an even thing;” and the good woman went back to her chair by the fire, and Tabby crept again into her lap, and purred her content with things as they were, and the kettle from which Aunt Jerry was to have a cup of tea when the clock struck eight, sang upon the hearth, and made, with the snapping of the wood, a pleasant, cheery sound which lulled Aunt Jerry to sleep at last, and there we will leave her, not knowing any better than the reader, whether that Gothic cottage at Rocky Point will ever have a mistress or not, though we have a suspicion that it will!
THE END.