The Grove of Doom

CHAPTER II. THE WANDERER RETURNS

THE morning sun, high in the cloudless sky, showed a different scene upon that section of shore beside Long Island Sound. Where thick fog had added to the gloom of night, this new day revealed as beautiful a sight as the eye could desire.

Upon a rocky height stood a large, picturesque mansion. The hill sloped gradually as it paralleled the Sound, and gave way to sandy shore. In back of the stretch of beach lay a wide expanse of smooth, verdant grass that formed a huge lawn leading to a rolling terrain. Flags marked this as an extension of a golf course.

Continuing along the shore, the beach now but a thin strip of white sand, with occasional rocks, formed frontage for a grove of trees that stood in regular formation. This mass of woods, covering several acres, made a pretty sight from the Sound.

The trees were all of one species — the copper beech — and their uniformity of height was a tribute to the perfection of nature. Burnished leaves, glistening in the early summer sun, caught the eye and held it there in admiration.

Farther along the shore — just past the attractive grove — stood a picturesque dwelling with a lawn that came to the water’s edge. Here, rocks replaced sand, and the shore turned to make a cove. Thus both the front and the side of the house were within a few hundred feet of the Sound.

There were signs of activity at this house. Men were working on a construction job, finishing a garage that stood in the rear of the building. On the porch, a middle-aged man was reclining in an easy chair; contentedly smoking a pipe as he stared out toward the blue waters of the Sound.

So engrossed was he that he did not notice the approach of another man who entered the grounds between the side of the house and the grove. When the visitor’s footsteps sounded on the steps of the porch, the man in the chair leaped up to look at the stranger.

There was something quizzical in the glances that they exchanged. The middle-aged man, brawny and of tanned complexion, surveyed the visitor with a keen, friendly gaze that seemed to carry inquiry.

The visitor, an elderly gentleman clad in white knickers, white shirt, and white cap, stared steadily through his gold-rimmed spectacles, then smiled in meditative recognition. He stretched forth his hand in greeting as he came up the steps.

“Harvey Chittenden!” he exclaimed. “I can hardly believe that it is you. I am Walter Pearson — the old family attorney—”

The tanned man laughed as he accepted the lawyer’s hand. He shook his head slowly, to indicate that a mistake had been made.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I’m not Harvey Chittenden. My name is Craig Ware. I came here to put the place in order, and I’m expecting Harvey at any moment now.”

“Well, well,” remarked the lawyer in an apologetic tone. “The error is mine, Mr. Ware. Of course — of course” — he was nodding thoughtfully — “Harvey is a younger man than you. Strange, what imagination will do. Of course, I have not seen Harvey since he was a boy — but I know the Chittendens, and I fancied that you were he.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Pearson,” said Ware cordially. “I’d never object to being mistaken for Harvey Chittenden. A wonderful young man, Harvey. I’ve known him for years, while he was knocking around. It’s good to see him settle down, now that he’s married. Let me tell you, too, Mr. Pearson, Harvey made no mistake in the girl he married. Wait until you see her—”

Ware broke off his conversation as an automobile rolled in the driveway from along the cove. The car came to a stop in front of the house. A young man and a young woman alighted. Walter Pearson recognized at once that these must be Harvey Chittenden and his wife.

THE two came up the steps and shook hands with Ware, who introduced them to Walter Pearson.

Harvey Chittenden eyed the lawyer dubiously, and Pearson noted the expression. Harvey was a tall young man, whose expression was one of maturity. Like Ware, he was swarthy in complexion.

The girl beside him gained Pearson’s instant admiration. Tall, slender, and graceful, Mildred Chittenden — for Harvey had mentioned her name in introducing her — was a young woman of the modern type. Her brown eyes formed a pleasing contrast to her raven-hued hair, and Pearson was glad to note that Mildred accepted him as a welcome guest despite her husband’s rather cold reception of the lawyer.

Harvey Chittenden had a rather abrupt manner. He displayed it now, as he turned to Pearson. It was obvious that he desired to know the purpose of the lawyer’s visit.

“What brings you here, Mr. Pearson?” he asked. “Some idea of a family reconciliation?”

“I must confess that I have such in mind,” laughed Pearson, “but actually this first visit is scarcely more than a friendly call. In a sense, I have represented you legally — and I was, therefore, anxious to meet you.”

“I have no desire for a reconciliation,” stated Harvey coldly. “Outside of that, Mr. Pearson, I am glad to see you.”

“Harvey” — Mildred’s voice made the interruption — “I think you should be fair to Mr. Pearson. Whatever he may have to say, it is only right to listen to—”

“All right,” said Harvey abruptly, “let’s get it over with. I handle matters directly. Tell me what’s on your mind, Mr. Pearson.”

“If we were alone — ” began Pearson.

“We do not need to be alone,” objected Harvey. “Mildred is my wife. Ware has my full confidence. I rely upon their judgment; they already know my story as I have told it. Let us have your version, then hear what they have to say.”

The four were seated about the porch. Ware looked at Pearson and smiled. This was encouraging to the lawyer. He cleared his throat in dignified fashion, and began to speak. He addressed his remarks directly to Harvey, while the others listened.

“HARVEY,” said Pearson, “the Chittenden family has been subject to many unfortunate misunderstandings. I have witnessed them, and they have grieved me. I fail to see why they should continue, even though they may be considered justifiable to members of the Chittenden family.

“Your grandfather had two sons: Sidney, the elder; Galbraith, the younger. Your grandfather possessed two houses — Upper Beechview, yonder on the large hill; and Lower Beechview — this residence. By the terms of his will, he intended to leave Upper Beechview to Sidney, and Lower Beechview to Galbraith.

“Then came misunderstanding. Sidney, against your grandfather’s wishes, married an actress. Sidney was disinherited. He went away, experienced a stormy career, and died abroad a year after his marriage.”

“What has this to do with me?” now questioned Harvey Chittenden. “I know the story you have told; it belongs to the past.”

“To the past, yes,” declared Pearson, in a kindly tone. “Nevertheless, it has a bearing on the present. Your grandfather made Galbraith his sole heir, for he considered Galbraith to be his only son. Galbraith married, and you were born. Your grandfather was delighted. He said that he had two sons again: Galbraith and Harvey. So to Galbraith he willed Upper Beechview; to you he willed Lower Beechview.

“Now comes the present misunderstanding. Your grandfather died, and the terms of his will were carried out. You did not occupy Lower Beechview, because you were still a minor. But you were now the eldest of three brothers. The other two, Wilbur and Zachary, were naturally piqued because they were not considered in the will. They made it unpleasant for you; and when you came of age, you went away. Thus the misunderstanding has continued. Now that you have returned, I should like to see a reconciliation.”

There was a momentary pause. Harvey Chittenden, resting back in his chair, was staring off into the distance. Far beyond the grove of copper beeches he could see the turrets of Upper Beechview. An expression of grim antagonism crept over his features. Still staring in the distance, Harvey spoke in a firm, steady voice.

“Your story, Mr. Pearson,” he said, “does not include the most important facts. You did not put up with the misery that I experienced. For years, my younger brothers tormented me with their insane jealousy. They tried to poison my father’s mind against me. While still in their teens, they plotted to find some way in which I could be deprived of the estate given me by my grandfather. Now that they have come of age, I do not believe any scheme could be too vicious for them to attempt — if they felt that they could gain the possessions which are rightfully mine.

“I left home when I was twenty-one. For twelve years I have been a wanderer. Why? Because I knew the evil natures of Wilbur and Zachary, knew that they hated me. I went away, because I had become my own master, and realized that if those cowards did not know where I was, they could not harm me. I made every provision to protect my property, but I left it abandoned because I did not want to live here. That is my story, Mr. Pearson — one of perpetual persecution.”

“I understand,” said Pearson. “Nevertheless, you have returned, after all. That is why I felt that perhaps old feuds could be forgotten—”

“The feud,” interrupted Harvey, “was instituted by my jealous brothers. You mistake my purpose in reopening this estate. I did not come here to please Wilbur and Zachary; I came here to spite them. I am married; I own this property; I am independent. I shall live my own life, and if they attempt to interfere — if anyone attempts to interfere—”

HARVEY CHITTENDEN’S voice broke off. Mildred looked toward her husband with alarm. Craig Ware seemed troubled. An expression of intense hatred now clouded Harvey’s face.

“Your father,” said Pearson softly. “He is an old man, Harvey. Surely you can bear no animosity toward him for—”

“I do not care to make the acquaintance of my father,” said Harvey, in an angry tone. “He still tolerates those leeches. He knows Wilbur and Zachary for what they are. Let him drive them out — send them into the misery that I accepted voluntarily — then I shall be ready to consider his welcome.”

“Your father,” declared Pearson, “longs to meet you, Harvey. You are his eldest son. He knows that you were justified in what you did. In the Chittenden family, the eldest son is the chief heir. You still hold that position; Wilbur and Zachary have failed to weaken it.”

“Although they have tried to do so,” announced Harvey. “Answer that, Pearson! Answer it truthfully!”

“You are right,” admitted the lawyer. “I cannot deny it, Harvey. I have been given the draft of a will that leaves you totally cut off — but I can assure you that your father has never signed such a document. As matters now stand, you will some day own Upper Beechview.”

“Unless Wilbur and Zachary get their dirty work across,” growled Harvey. “Well, let them do it — I was right when I termed them leeches.”

“A friendship between you and your father,” purred Pearson, “would effectively frustrate any actions on the part of your brothers.”

“Yes,” countered Harvey, “and if those two were put where they belong, there could never be a chance of dispute. If my father has sent you here, Mr. Pearson, you can take back my ultimatum. Tell him to get rid of Wilbur and Zachary — any way he chooses — before someone else gives them what they deserve. Then my father and I will be reunited; but not so long as those two remain.”

There was a threatening tone to Harvey Chittenden’s voice that made a marked impression upon Walter Pearson. The old lawyer arose and bowed stiffly. His patience was at an end. He made that fact plain.

“You have spoken very vindictively, Harvey Chittenden,” remarked the attorney. “One might infer that it was you who threatened Wilbur and Zachary — not they who threatened you. I shall remember that fact, if I am ever called upon to disclose the affairs of the Chittenden family.”

Harvey Chittenden sprang to his feet. His fists were clenched as he stared at the gray-haired lawyer.

Then the animosity died away on his face, and a look of cold calculation replaced it. Without another word, Harvey Chittenden turned and entered the house. Mildred, with a word of regret to Walter Pearson, arose and followed her husband.

THE lawyer got up and started toward the steps. Craig Ware, still retaining his composure, walked with him, speaking in a quiet tone.

“You touched his sore spot, Mr. Pearson,” explained Ware. “You can’t blame him — he’s put up with a lot. At the same time, it would be better for him to curb his feelings—”

A voice interrupted from an upstairs window. Harvey Chittenden was delivering a parting thrust to Walter Pearson, while Mildred, in view beside her husband, was trying to quiet him.

“Remember this” — Harvey’s voice was harsh — “I shall have no more to do with anyone who is connected with my father and my brothers. That includes you, Pearson. Bad luck to the lot of you!”

Harvey said no more. Ware continued to the gate with Pearson. There, the lawyer turned to shake hands with the man who had accompanied him.

“Most unfortunate,” declared Pearson. “You have heard but little, Mr. Ware. There are secrets of the Chittenden family which I alone know. Back before Harvey was born; back when Sidney was disinherited, and Galbraith came into the large estate. Well” — he paused and smiled wanly — “today means nothing. The facts that I could reveal might prove amazing.

“The Chittendens are a vindictive race, Mr. Ware. They have always been outspoken — all except Sidney, who gave up his birthright. Well, it’s in the blood. It can’t be helped. Perhaps, some time, Harvey may feel more lenient toward me. I come out frequently to the golf course. I shall look him up again, perhaps.”

With this final statement, Walter Pearson shrugged his shoulders, and walked through the gate. His departing form dwindled to a pygmy shape in the distance, as he wended his way across the links toward the clubhouse that rested upon the rolling inland hill.