[Written for The Flag of our Union]

The Fonthill Tragedy

by Mrs. R. B. Edson

The hall door was open, as I was just coming down the broad stairway, with its carved banisters, and rich, heavy mouldings, and a faint scent of sweet-brier floated in. It was one of those delicious June days that always sets me wondering what heaven can be, when earth is so lovely.

I had been at Fonthill House nearly all of my vacations—partly as seamstress and partly as friend—for five years. The family consisted of Mrs. Fonthill, Alice Crofton, an orphan niece, and Harry Fonthill, the adopted son, and heir prospective to the great Fonthill property. My mother whom I scarcely remember, was an early and intimate friend of Mrs. Fonthill; and so, when five years ago my father died, also, leaving me homeless and portionless, Mrs. Fonthill insisted on my making my home there—which I did; teaching, however, a greater portion of the time in a neighboring town. She had been very tender with me for my dead mother’s sake, and I had grown to love her very dearly.

But I am wandering. I was about half-way down the stairs when the sound of a raised voice—an unmistakably angry one—reached me from the dining-room. I paused, undecided whether to go on or return, but finally walked slowly on, until I stood in the dining-room door. How well I remember how everything looked that morning! I have thought of it all a hundred times since. The sunshine streaming down the long dining-room; the table with its… Read More