somewhat in awe, Maddy soon arose to leave, but Guy bade her stay; he should be lonely without her, he said, and so bringing her work she sat down to sew, while Jessie looked over a book of prints, and Guy upon the lounge studied the face which, it seemed to him, grew each day more and more beautiful. Then he talked with her of books, and the lessons which were to be resumed on the morrow, watching Maddy as her bright face sparkled and glowed with excitement. Then he questioned her of her father’s family, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction in knowing that the Clydes were not a race of whose blood any one need be ashamed; and Maddy was more like them he was sure than like the Markhams, and Guy shivered a little as he recalled the peculiar dialect of Mr. and Mrs. Markham, and remembered that they were Maddy’s grandparents. Not that it was anything to him. Oh, no, only as an inmate of his family he felt interested in her, more so perhaps than young men were apt to be interested in their sister’s governess.
Had Guy then been asked the question, he would, in all probability, have acknowledged that in his heart there was a feeling of superiority to Maddy Clyde; that she was not quite the equal of Aikenside’s heir, nor yet of Lucy Atherstone. It was natural; he had been educated to feel the difference, but any haughty arrogance of which he might have been guilty was kept down by his extreme good sense and generous, impulsive nature. He liked Maddy; he liked to look at her as, in the becoming crimson merino which he really and Jessie nominally had given her, she sat before him, with the firelight falling on her beautiful hair, and making shadows on her sunny face.
Guy was luxurious in his tastes, and it seemed to him that Maddy was just the picture to set off that room, or in fact all the rooms at Aikenside. She would disgrace none of them, and he found himself wishing that Providence had made her something to him–sister or cousin, or anything that would make her one of the Remington line.
And now, my reader, do not fall to abusing Guy, or accuse him of forgetting Lucy Atherstone, for he did not. He thought of her many times that evening, and in his dreams that night Lucy and Maddy shared pretty equally, but the latter was associated with the lessons of the morrow, while Lucy was the bright daystar for which he lived and hoped.
It did not take long for the people of Sommerville to hear that Guy Remington had actually turned schoolmaster, having in his library for two hours or more each day Jessie’s little girl-governess, about whose brilliant beauty there was so much said–people wondering, as people will, where it would end, and if it could be possible that the haughty Guy had forgotten his English Lucy and gone to educating a wife.
The doctor, to whom these remarks were sometimes made, silently gnashed his teeth, then said savagely that “if Guy chose to teach Maddy Clyde, he did not see whose business it was,” and then rode over to Aikenside to see the teacher and pupil, half hoping that Guy would soom tire of his project and give it up. But Guy grew more and more pleased with his employment, until, at last, from giving Maddy two hours of his time, he came to give her four, esteeming them the pleasantest of the whole twenty-four. Guy was proud of Maddy’s improvement, praising her often to the doctor, who also marveled at the rapid development of her mind and the progress she made, grasping a knotty point almost before it was explained, and retaining with wonderful tenacity what she learned.
It mattered nothing to Guy that neighbors gossiped there were none familiar enough to tell him what was said, except the doctor or Mrs. Noah; and so he heard few of the remarks made so frequently, As in Honedale, so in Sommerville Maddy was a favorite, and those who interested themselves most in the matter never said anything worse of her and Mr. Guy than that he might perhaps be educating his own wife, and insinuating that it would be a great “come up” for Grandfather Markham’s child. But Maddy never dreamed of such a thing, and kept on her pleasant way, reciting every day to Guy and going every Wednesday to the red cottage, whither, after the first visit to Uncle Joseph, Guy never accompanied her. Jessie, on the contrary, went often to Honedale, where one at least always greeted her coming, stealing up closely to her, and whispering softly: “My Daisy is come again.”
From the first Uncle Joseph had taken to Jessie, calling her Sarah for a while, and then changing the name to “Daisy”–“Daisy Mortimer, his little girl,” he persisted in calling her, watching from his window for her coming, and crying whenever Maddy appeared without her. At first Agnes, from her city home, forbade Jessie’s going so often to see a lunatic; but when Jessie described the poor, crazy man’s delight at sight of her, telling how quiet and happy he seemed if he could but lay his hand on her head, or touch her hair, she withdrew her restrictions, and, as if moved to an unwonted burst of tenderness, wrote to her daughter: “Comfort that crazy man all you can; he needs it so much.”
A few weeks after there came another letter from Agnes, but this time it was to Guy, and its contents darkened his handsome face with anger and vexation. Incidentally Agnes had heard the gossip, and written it to Guy, adding in conclusion: “Of course I know it is not true, for ever if there were no Lucy Atherstone, you, of all men, would not stoop to Maddy Clyde. I do not presume to advise, but I will say this, that now she is growing a young lady, folks will keep on talking so long as you keep her there in the house; and it’s hardly fair toward Lucy.”
This was what knotted up Guy’s forehead and made him, as Jessie said, “real cross for once.” Somehow, he fancied, latterly, that the doctor did not like Maddy’s being there, while even Mrs. Noah managed to keep her out of his way as soon as the lessons were ended. What did they mean? what were they afraid of, and why did they presume to interfere with him? he’d know, at all events; and summoning Mrs. Noah to his presence, he read that part of Agnes’ letter, pertaining to Maddy, and then asked what it meant.
“It means this, that folks are in a constant worry, for fear you’ll fall in love with Maddy Clyde.”
“I fall in love with that child!” Guy repeated, laughing at the idea, and forgetting that he had long since, accused the doctor of doing that very thing.
“Yes, you,” returned Mrs. Noah, “and ‘taint strange they do; Maddy is not a child: she’s nearer sixteen than fifteen, is almost a young lady; and if you’ll excuse my boldness, I must say, I ain’t any too well pleased with the goin’s on myself; not that I don’t like the girl, for I do, and I don’t blame her an atom. She’s as innocent as a new-born babe, and I hope she’ll always stay so; but you, Mr. Guy, you–now tell me honest–do you think as much of Lucy Atherstone, as you used to, before you took up school-keepin’?”
Guy did not like to be interfered with, and naturally high-spirited, he at first flew into a passion, declaring that he would not have folks meddling with him, that he thought of Lucy Atherstone all the time, and he did not know what more he could do; that ’twas a pity if a man could not enjoy himself in his own way, provided that way were harmless, that he’d never, in all his life, spent so happy a winter as the last; that—
Here Mrs. Noah interrupted him with: “That’s it, the very _it_; you want nothing better than to have that girl sit close to you when she recites, as she does; and once when she was workin’ out some of them plusses and minuses, and things, her slate rested on your knee; it did, I saw it with my own eyes; and then, let me ask, when Jessie is drummin’ on the piano, why don’t you bend over her, and turn the leaves, and count the time, as you do when Maddy plays; and how does it happen that lately Jessie is one too many, when you hear Maddy’s lessons. She has no suspicions, but I know she ain’t sent off for nothin’; I know you’d rather be alone with Maddy Clyde than to have anybody present, isn’t it so?”
Guy began to wince. There was much truth in what Mrs. Noah had said. He did devise various methods of getting rid of Jessie, when Maddy was in his library, but it had never looked to him in just the light it did when presented by Mrs. Noah, and he doggedly asked what Mrs. Noah would have him do.
“First and foremost, then, I’d have you tell Maddy yourself that you are engaged to Lucy Atherstone; second, I’d have you write to Lucy all about it, and if you honestly can, tell her that you only care for Maddy as a friend; third, I’d have you send the girl—“
“Not away from Aikenside! I never will!” and Guy sprang to his feet.
The mine had exploded, and for an instant the young man reeled, as he caught a glimpse of where he stood; still he would not believe it, or confess to himself how strong a place in his affections was held by the beautiful girl now no longer a child. It was almost a year since that April afternoon when he first met Maddy Clyde, and from a timid, bashful child, of fourteen and a half, she had grown to the rather tall, and rather self-possessed maiden of fifteen and a half, almost sixteen, as Mrs. Noah said, “almost a woman;” and as if to verify the latter fact, she herself appeared at that very moment, asking permission to come in and find a book, which had been mislaid, and which she needed in hearing Jessie’s lessons.
“Certainly, come in,” Guy said, and folding his arms he leaned against the mantel, watching her as she hunted for the missing book.
There was no pretense about Maddy Clyde, nothing put on for effect, and yet in every movement she showed marks of great improvement, both in manner and style. Of one hundred people who might glance at her, ninety-nine would look a second time, asking who she was. Naturally graceful and utterly forgetful of herself, she always appeared to good advantage, and never to better than now, when two pairs of eyes were watching her, as standing on tiptoe, or kneeling upon the floor to look under the secretary, she hunted for the book. Not the remotest suspicion had Maddy of what was occupying the thoughts of her companions, though as she left the room and glanced brightly up at Guy, it struck her that his face was dark and moody, and a painful sensation flitted through her mind that in some way she had intruded.
“Well,” was Mrs. Noah’s first comment, as the door closed on Maddy, but as Guy made no response to that, she continued: “She is pretty. That you won’t deny.”
“Yes, more than pretty. She’ll make a most beautiful woman.”
Guy seemed to talk more to himself than to Mrs. Noah, while his foot kicked the fender, and he mentally compared Lucy and Maddy with each other, and tried to think that it was not the result of that comparison, but rather Mrs. Noah’s next remark, which affected him unpleasantly. The remark or remarks were as follows:
“Of course she’ll make a splendid woman. Everybody notices her now for her beauty, and that’s why you’ve no business to keep her here where you see her every day. It’s a wrong to her, lettin’ yourself alone.”
Guy looked up inquiringly, and Mrs. Noah continued:
“I’ve been a girl myself, and I know that Maddy can’t be treated as you treat her without its having an effect. I’ve no idea that it’s entered her head yet, but it will by-and-by, and then good-by to her happiness.”
“For pity’s sake, what do you mean? Do explain, and not talk to me in riddles. What have I done to Maddy, or what am I going to do?”
Gay spoke savagely, and his boots were in great danger of being burned as he kicked vigorously against the fender. Coming nearer to him, and lowering her voice, Mrs. Noah replied:
“You are going to teach her to love you, Guy Remington, just as sure as my name is Noah.”
“And is that anything so very bad, I’d like to know. Most girls do not find love distasteful,” and Guy walked hastily to the window, where he stood for a moment gazing out upon the soft April snow, which was falling, and feeling anything but satisfied either with the weather or himself; then walking back, and taking a seat before the fire, he said: “I understand you now. You would save Maddy Clyde from sorrow, and you are right. You know more of girls than I do. She might in time get to–to–think of me as she ought not. I never looked upon it in this light before. I’ve been so happy with her;” here Guy’s voice faltered a little, but he recovered himself and went on: “I will tell her about Lucy tonight, but the sending her away, I can’t do that. Neither will she be happy to go back where I took her from, for though the best of people, they are not like Maddy, and you know it.”
Yes, Mrs. Noah did know it, and pleased that her boy, as she called Guy, had shown some signs of penitence and amendment, she said she did not think it necessary to send Maddy home; she did not advise it either. She liked the girl, and what she advised was this, that Guy should send Maddy and Jessie both to boarding school. Agnes, she knew, would be willing, and it was the best thing he could do. Maddy would thus learn what was expected of a teacher, and as soon as she graduated, she could procure some eligible situation, or if Lucy were there, and desired it, she could come and stay forever for all what sue cared,
“And during the vacations, where must she go then?” Guy asked.
“Go where she pleases, of course. As Jessie is so fond of her, and they are much like sisters, it will not be improper for her to come here, as I see, provided Agnes is here. Her presence, of course, would make a difference,” Mrs. Noah replied, while Guy continued:
“I know you are right; that is, I do not wish to do Maddy a harm by placing temptation in her way, neither will I have everybody meddling with my business. I tell you I won’t. I don’t mean you, for you have a right to say what no one else has,” and he glanced half angrily at Mrs. Noah. “Pity if I can’t take an interest in a girl, because I once wronged her, without every old woman in Christendom thinking she needs to fall in love with me, and so be ruined for life. Maddy Clyde has too good sense for that, or will have when I tell her about Lucy.”
“And you will do so?” Mrs. Noah said coaxingly.
“Of course I will, and write to Lucy, too, telling her how you talked, and how I care no more for Maddy than I do for Jessie.”
“And will that be true?” Mrs. Noah asked.
Guy could not look her fully in the face then, so he kicked the grate until the concussion sent the red-hot coals out upon the carpet as he replied:
“True? Yes, every word of it.”
Mrs. Noah noted all this, and thinking within herself:
“I orto have took him in hand long ago,” she came up to him and said kindly, soothingly: “We shall all miss Maddy; I as much as any one, but I do think it best for her to go to school; and so, after tea, I’ll manage to keep Jessie with me, and send Maddy to you, while you tell her about Lucy and the plan.”
Guy nodded a little jerking kind of a nod, in token of his assent, and then with that perversity which prompts women particularly to press a subject after enough has been said upon it, Mrs. Noah, as she turned to leave the room, gave vent to the following:
“You know, Guy, as well as I, that pretty and smart as she is, Maddy is really beneath you, and no kind of a match, even if you wan’t as good as married, which you be;” and the good lady left the room in time to escape seeing the sparks fly up the chimney, as Guy now made a most vigorous use of the poker, and so did not finish the scorching process commenced on the end of his boot.
Mrs. Noah’s last remark awakened in Guy a Singular train of thought. Yes, Maddy was his inferior as the world saw matters, and settling himself in the chair he tried to fancy what that same world would say if he should make Maddy his wife. Of course he had no such intention, he was just imagining something which never could possibly happen, because in the first place he wouldn’t marry Maddy Clyde if he could, and he couldn’t if he would! Still, it was not an unpleasant occupation fancying what folks, and especially Agnes, would say if he did, and so he sat dreaming about it until the bell rang for supper, when with a nervous start he woke from the reverie, and wishing the whole was over, started for the supper.
CHAPTER XIV.
MADDY AND LUCY.
Supper was over, and Guy was back again in his library. He had not stopped as he usually did, to romp with Jessie or talk to Maddy Clyde, until it was so dark that he could not see her sparkling face, but had come directly back, dropping the heavy curtains and piling fresh coal upon the fire. Mrs. Noah had lighted the lamps and then gone after Maddy, explaining to Jessie how she must stay with her while Maddy went to Mr. Guy, who wanted to talk with her.
“Is he angry with me, Mrs. Noah?” and remembering his moody looks when she went in quest of the book, Maddy felt her heart misgive her as to what might be the result of an interview with Guy.
Mrs. Noah, however, reassured her, and Maddy stole for a moment to her own room to see how she was looking. The crimson dress, with its soft edge of lace about the slender throat, became her well, and smoothing the folds of her black silk apron, whose jaunty shoulder pieces gave her a very girlish appearance, she went down to where Guy was waiting for her. He heard her coming, and involuntarily drew nearer to him the chair where he intended she should sit. But Maddy took instead a stool, and leaning her elbow on the chair, turned her face fully toward him, waiting for him to speak.
“Maddy,” he began, “are you happy here at Aikenside?”
“Oh, yes, very, very happy,” and Maddy’s soft eyes shone with the happiness she tried to express.
It was at least a minute before he spoke again, and when he did, it came out how he had concluded it best to send her and Jessie to school, for a year or two at least; not that he was tired of teaching her, but it would be better for her, he thought, to mingle with other girls and learn the ways of the world. Aikenside would still be her home, still the place where her vacations would be spent with Jessie if she chose, and then he spoke of New York as the place he had in view, and asked her what she thought of it.
Maddy was too much stunned to think of anything at first. That the good she had coveted most should be placed within her grasp, and by Guy Remington too, was almost too much to credit. She was happy at Aikenside, but she had never expected her life there to continue very long, and had often wished that when it ended she might devise some means of entering a seminary as other young ladies did. But she had never dreamed of being sent to school by Guy, nor could she conceive of his motive. He hardly knew himself, only he liked her, and wished to do something for her. This was his reply to her tearful question:
“Oh, Mr. Remington, you are so good to me; what makes you?”
He liked her, and all over Maddy’s face there spread a beautiful flush as the words rang in her ears. And then she told Guy how much she wished to be a teacher, and so take care of her grandparents and her poor Uncle Joseph. It seemed almost cruel for that young creature to be burdened with the care of those three half-helpless people, and Guy shuddered just as he usually did when he associated Maddy with them, but when he listened while she told him of all the castles she had built, and in every one of which there was a place for “our folks,” as she termed them, it was more in the form of a blessing than a caress that his hand rested on her shining hair.
“You are a good girl, Maddy,” he said, “and I am glad now that I have concluded to send you where you can be better fitted for the office you mean to fill than you could be here, but I shall miss you sadly. I like little girls, and though you can hardly be classed there now, you seem to me much like Jessie, and I take pleasure in doing for you as I would for her. Maddy—“
Guy stopped, uncertain what to say next, while Maddy’s eyes again looked up inquiringly.
He was going now to tell “the little girl much like Jessie” of Lucy Atherstone, and the words would not come at first.
“Maddy,” he said, again blushing guiltily, “I have said I liked you, and so I hope will some one else. I have written of you to her.”
Up to this point Maddy had a vague idea that he meant the doctor, but the “her” dispelled that thought, and a most inexplicable feeling of numbness crept over her as she asked faintly:
“Written to whom?”
Guy did not look at Maddy. He only knew that her head moved out from beneath his hand as he replied:
“To Miss Atherstone–Miss Lucy Atherstone. Have you never heard of her?”
No, Maddy never had, and with that same numbness she could not understand, she listened while Guy told her who Lucy Atherstone was, and why she was not at that moment the mistress of Aikenside. There was no reason why Guy should be excited, but he was, and he talked very rapidly, never once glancing at Maddy until he had finished speaking. She was looking at him intently, wondering if he could hear as she did the beatings of her heart. Had her life depended upon it, she could not at first have spoken, for the numbness which, like bands of steel, seemed to press all the feeling out of it. She did not know why it was that hearing of Lucy Atherstone should affect her so. Surely she ought to be glad for Guy that he possessed the love of so sweet a creature as he described her to be. He was glad, she knew, he talked so energetically–so much as if it were a pleasure to talk; and she was glad, too, only it had taken her so by surprise to know that Mr. Guy, whom she had rather considered as exclusively her own and Jessie’s was engaged, and that some time, before long it might be, Aikenside would really have a mistress. She did not quite understand Guy’s last words, although she was looking at him, and he asked her twice if she would like to see Lucy’s picture ere she comprehended what he meant.
“Yes,” came faintly from the parted lips, about which there was a slight quiver as she put up her hand to take the case Guy drew from his bosom.
Turning it to the light she gazed silently upon the sweet young face, which seemed to return her gaze with a look as earnest and lifelike as her own.
“What do you think of her–of my Lucy? Is she not pretty?” Guy asked, bending down so that his dark hair swept against Maddy’s, while his warm breath touched her burning cheeks.
“Yes, she’s beautiful, oh! so beautiful, and happy, too. I wish I had been like her. I wish–” and Maddy burst into a most uncontrollable fit of weeping, her tears dropping like rain upon the inanimate features of Lucy Atherstone.
Guy looked at her amazed, his own heart throbbing with a keen pang of something undefinable as he listened to her stormy weeping. What did ail her? he wondered. Could it be that the evil against which he was providing had really come upon her? Was Maddy more interested in him than he supposed? He hoped not, though with a man’s vanity he felt a slight thrill of satisfaction in thinking that it might be so. Guy knew this feeling was not worthy of him, and he struggled to cast it off, while he asked Maddy why she cried.
Child as she was, the real cause of her tears never entered her brain, and she answered:
“I can’t tell why, unless I was thinking how different Miss Atherstone is from me. She’s rich and handsome. I am poor and homely, and–“
“No, Maddy, you are not;” and Guy interrupted her.
Gently lifting up her head, he smoothed back her hair, and keeping a hand on each side of her face, said, pleasantly:
“You are not homely. I think you quite as pretty as Lucy; I do, really,” he continued, as her eyes kindled at the compliment. “I am going to write to her to-night, and shall tell her more about you. I want you to like each other very much when she comes, so that you may live with us. Aikenside would not be Aikenside without you, Maddy.”
In all his wooings of Lucy Atherstone, Guy’s voice had never been tenderer in its tone than when he said this to Maddy, whose lip quivered again, and who involuntarily laid her head now upon his knee as she cried a second time, not noisily, but quietly, softly, as if this crying did her good. For several minutes they sat there thus, the nature of their thoughts known only to each other, for neither spoke, until Maddy, half ashamed of her emotions, lifted up her head, and said:
“I do not know what made me cry, only I’d been so happy here that I guess I’d come to think that you only liked Jessie and me. Of course I knew that some time you would see and think all the world of somebody else, but I did not expect it so soon. I am afraid Miss Atherstone will not fancy me, and I know most I shall not feel as free here, after she comes, as I do now. Then your being so good, sending me to school, helped me to cry more, and so I was very foolish. Don’t tell Miss Atherstone that I cried. Tell her, though, how beautiful she is, and how glad I am that she loves you, and is going to be your wife.”
Maddy’s voice was very steady in its tone. She evidently meant what she said, but Guy, the bad man, did not feel as graciously as he ought to have felt in knowing that Maddy Clyde was glad “Lucy loved him, and was to be his wife,”
Guy was rather uncomfortable, and as Maddy was in some way associated with his discomfort, he did not oppose her when she arose to leave him.
Had Maddy been more a woman, or less a child, she would have seen that it was well for her to know of Lucy Atherstone before her feelings for Guy Remington had assumed a definite form. As it was, she never dreamed how near she was to loving Aikenside’s young heir; and while talking with Jessie of the grand times they should have at school, she marveled at that little round spot of pain which was burning at her heart, or why she should wish that Guy would not speak of her in his letter to Lucy Atherstone.
But Guy did speak of her, frankly confessing the interest he felt in her, telling just how people were beginning to talk, and asking Lucy if she cared, declaring that if she did, he would not see Maddy Clyde any more than was necessary. In a little less than four weeks there came an answer from Lucy, who, with health somewhat improved, had returned to England, and wrote to Guy from Brighton, where she expected to spend the summer, half hoping Guy might join her there, though she could not urge it, as mamma still insisted that she was not able to take upon herself the duties of a wife. Then she spoke of Maddy Clyde, saying “She was not one bit jealous of her dear Guy, Of course ignorant, meddling people, of whom she feared there were a great many in America, would gossip, but he was not to mind them.” Then she said that if Maddy were willing, she would so much like her picture, as she had a curiosity to know just how she looked, and if Maddy pleased, “would she write a few lines, so as not to seem so much a stranger?”
Lucy Atherstone had been educated to think a great deal of birth, and blood, and family, and Guy never did a wiser thing than when he told her that according to English views, Maddy was a lady. It went far toward reconciling Lucy to his interest in one whom her haughtier and more sanguine mother called a rival, advising her mother to ignore her altogether. But Lucy’s was a different nature, and though it cost her pride a pang, she asked for a line from Maddy, partly to mortify that pride, and partly to prove to Guy how free she was from jealousy.
“Darling little Lucy, I do love her very dearly,” was Guy’s comment, as he finished reading her letter, feeling somewhat as if her mother were a kind of cruel ogress, bent on preventing him from being happy. Then, as he remembered Lucy’s hope that he might join her, and thought how much easier of access New York was than Brighton, he said, half petulantly:
“I’ve been to England for nothing times enough. When that mother of hers says I may have Lucy, I’ll go again, but not before. It don’t pay.”
And crushing the letter into his pocket, he went out upon the piazza where were assembled Maddy, Jessie and Mrs. Agnes, the latter of whom had come to Aikenside the day before.
At first she had objected to the boarding-school arrangement, saying Jessie was too young, but Guy as usual had overruled her objections, as he had those of Grandpa Markham, and it was now a settled thing that Maddy and Jessie both should go to New York, Mrs. Agnes to accompany them if she chose, and having a general supervision of her child. This was Guy’s plan, the one which had prevailed with the fashionable woman, who, tired of Boston, was well pleased with the prospect of a life in New York. Guy’s interest in Maddy was wholly inexplicable to her, unless she explained it on the principal that in the Remington nature there was a fondness for governesses, as had been exemplified in her own history. That Guy would ever marry Maddy she doubted, but the mere possibility of it made her set her teeth firmly together as she thought how embarrassing it would be to acknowledge as the mistress of Aikenside the little girl whom she had sought to banish from her table. Since her return she had had no opportunity of judging for herself how matters stood, and was consequently much relieved when, as Guy joined them, he began at once to speak of Lucy, telling of the letter, and her request for Maddy’s picture.
“Me? Mine? You cannot mean that?” Maddy exclaimed, her eyes opening wide with wonder, but Guy did mean it, and began to plan a drive on the morrow to Devonshire, where there was at that time a tolerably fair artist.
Accordingly the next day the four went down to Devonshire, calling first upon the doctor, whose face brightened when he heard why they had come. During the weeks that had passed, the doctor had not been blind to at that was passing at Aikenside, and the fear that Guy was more interested in Maddy than he ought to be, had grown almost to a certainty. Now, however, he was not so sure. Indeed, the fact that Guy had told her of Lucy Atherstone would indicate that his suspicions were groundless, and he entered heartily into the picture plan, saying laughingly that if he supposed Miss Lucy would like his face he’d sit himself, and bidding Guy be sure to ask her. The doctor’s gay spirits helped raise those of Maddy, and as that little burning spot in her heart was fast wearing away, she was in just the mood for a most admirable likeness. Indeed, the artist’s delight at his achievement was unbounded, as he declared it the very best picture he had ever taken. It was beautiful, even Agnes acknowledged to herself, while Jessie wait into raptures, and Maddy blushed to hear her own praises. Guy said nothing, except to ask that Maddy should sit again; this was good, but a second might be better. So Maddy sat again, succeeding quite as well as at first, but as the artist’s preference was for the former, it was left to be finished up, with the understanding that Guy would call for it. As the ladies passed down the stairs, Guy lingered behind, and when sure they were out of hearing, said in a low voice:
“You may as well finish both; they are too good to be lost.”
The artist bowed, and Guy, with a half guilty blush, hurried down into the street, where Agues was waiting for him. Two hours later, Guy, in Mrs. Conner’s parlor, was exhibiting the finished picture, which in its handsome casing, was more beautiful than ever, and more natural, if possible.
“I think I might have one of Maddy’s,” Jessie said, half poutingly; then, as she remembered the second sitting, she begged of Guy to get it for her, “that was a dear brother.”
But the “dear brother” did not seem inclined to comply with her request, putting her off, until, despairing of success, Jessie, when alone with the doctor, tried her powers of persuasion on him, coaxing until in self-defense he crossed the street, and entering the daguerrean gallery asked for the remaining picture of Miss Clyde, saying that he wished it for little Miss Remington.
“Mr. Remington took them both,” the artist replied, commencing a dissertation on the style and beauty of the young girl, all of which was lost upon the doctor, who, in a kind of maze, quitted the room, and returning to Jessie, said to her carelessly: “He hasn’t it. You know they rub out those they do not use. So you’ll have to do without; and, Jessie, I wouldn’t tell Guy I tried to get it for you.”
Jessie wondered why she must not tell Guy, but the fact that the doctor requested her not was sufficient. Consequently Guy little guessed that the doctor knew what it was he carried so carefully in his coat pocket, looking at it earnestly when at home and alone in his own room, admiring its soft, girlish beauty, half shrinking from the lifelike expression of the large, bright eyes, and trying to convince himself that his sole object in getting it was to give it to the doctor after Maddy was gone! It would be such a surprise, and the doctor would be so glad, that Guy finally made himself believe that he had done a most generous thing!
“I am going to send Lucy your picture to-day, and as she asked that you should write her a few lines, suppose you do it now,” Guy said to Maddy next morning, as they were leaving the breakfast table.
It was a sore trial to Maddy to write to Lucy Atherstone, but she offered no remonstrance, and so accompanying the picture was a little note, filled mostly with praises of Mr. Guy, and which would be very gratifying to the unsuspecting Lucy.
Now that it was fully decided for Jessie to go with Maddy, her lessons were suspended, and Aikenside for the time being was turned into a vast dressmaking and millinery establishment. With his usual generosity, Guy had given Agnes permission to draw upon his purse for whatever was needed, either for herself or Jessie, with the definite understanding that Maddy should have an equal share of dress and attention.
“It will not be necessary,” he said, “for you to enlighten the citizens of New York with regard to Maddy’s position. She goes there as Jessie’s equal, and as such her wardrobe must be suitable.”
No one could live long with Maddy Clyde without becoming interested in her, and in spite of herself Agnes’ dislike was wearing away, particularly as of late she had seen no signs of special attention on the doctor’s part. He had gotten over his weakness, she thought, and so was very gracious toward Maddy, who, naturally forgiving, began to like her better than she had ever dreamed it possible for her to like so proud and haughty a woman. Down at the cottage in Honedale there were many consultations held and many fears expressed by the aged couple as to what would be the result of all Guy was doing for their child. Womanlike, Grandma Markham felt a flutter of pride in thinking that Maddy was going to school in a big city like New York. It gave her something to talk about with her less fortunate neighbors, who wondered, and gossiped, and envied, but could not bring themselves to feel unkindly toward the girl Maddy, who had grown up in their midst, and who as yet was wholly unchanged by prosperity. Grandpa Markham, on the contrary, though pleased that Maddy should have every opportunity for acquiring the education she so much desired, was fearful of the result–fearful that there might come a time when his darling would shrink from the relations to whom she was as sunshine to the flowers. He knew that the difference between Aikenside and the cottage must strike her unpleasantly every time she came home, and he did not blame her for her always apparent readiness to go back. That was natural, he thought, but a life in New York, that great city which to the simple- hearted old man seemed a very Babylon of iniquity, was different, and for a time he demurred to sending her there. But Guy persuaded him, and when he heard that Agnes was going, too, he consented, for he had faith in Agnes as a protector. Maddy had never told him of the scene which followed that lady’s return from Saratoga. Indeed, Maddy never told anything but good of Aikenside or its inmates, and so Mrs. Agnes came in for a share of the old people’s gratitude, while even Uncle Joseph, hearing daily a prayer for the “young madam,” as grandpa termed her, learned to pray for her himself, coupling her name with that of Sarah, and asking in his crazy way that God would “forgive Sarah” first, and then “bless the madam–the madam–the madam.”
A few days before Maddy’s departure, grandpa went up to see “the madam;” anxious to know something more than hearsay about a person to whose care his child was to be partially intrusted. Agnes was in her room when told who wanted to see her. Starting quickly, she turned so deadly white that Maddy, who brought the message, flew to her side, asking in much alarm, what was the matter.
“Only a little faint. It will soon pass off,” Agnes said, and then, dismissing Maddy, she tried to compose herself sufficiently to pass the ordeal she so much dreaded, and from which there was no possible escape.
Thirteen years! Had they changed her past recognition? She hoped, she believed so, and yet, never in her life had Agnes Remington’s heart beaten with so much terror and apprehension as when she entered the reception room where Guy sat talking with the infirm old man she remembered so well. He had grown older, thinner, poorer looking, than when she saw him last, but in his wrinkled face there was the same benignant, heavenly expression which, when she was better than she was now, used to remind her of the angels. His snowy hair was parted just the same as ever, but the mild blue eye was dimmer, and it rested on her with no suspicious glance as, partially reassured, she glided across the threshold, and bowed civilly when Guy presented her.
A little anxious as to how her grandfather would acquit herself, Maddy sat by, wondering why Agnes appeared so ill at ease, and why her grandsire started sometimes at the sound of her voice, and looked earnestly at her.
“We’ve never met before to my knowledge, young woman,” he said once to Agnes, “but you are mighty like somebody, and your voice when you talk low keeps makin’ me jump as if I’d heard it summers or other.”
After that Agnes spoke in elevated tones, as if she thought him deaf, and the mystified look of wonder did not return to his face. Numerous were the charges he gave to Agnes concerning Maddy, bidding her be watchful of his child, and see that she did not “get too much drinked in with the wicked things on Broadway!” then, as he arose to go, he laid his trembling hand on her head and said solemnly: “You are young yet, lady, and there may be a long life before you. God bless you, then, and prosper you in proportion as you are kind to Maddy. I’ve nothing to give you nor Mr. Guy for your goodness only my prayers, and them you have every day. We all pray for you, lady, Joseph and all, though I doubt me he knows much the meaning of what he says.” “Who, sir? What did you say?” and Agnes’ face was scarlet, as grandpa replied: “Joseph, our unfortunate boy; Maddy must have told you, the one who’s taken such a shine to Jessie. He’s crazy-like, and from the corner where he sits so much, I can hear him whispering by the hour, sometimes of folks he used to know, and then of you, who we call madam. He says for ten minutes on the stretch: “God bless the madam–the madam–the madam!” You’re sick, lady; talkin’ about crazy folks makes you faint,” grandpa added, hastily, as Agnes turned white, like the dress she wore. “No–oh, no, I’m better now,” Agnes gasped, bowing him to the door with a feeling that she could not breathe a moment longer in his presence. He did not hear her faint cry of bitter, bitter remorse, as he walked through the hall, nor know she watched him as he went slowly down the walk, stopping often to admire the fair blossoms which Maddy did not feel at liberty to pick. “He loved flowers,” Agnes whispered, as her better nature prevailed over every other feeling, and, starting eagerly forward, she ran after the old man, who, surprised at her evident haste, waited a little anxiously for her to speak. It was rather difficult to do so with Maddy’s inquiring eyes upon her, but Agnes managed at last to say: “Does that crazy man like flowers–the one who prays for the madam?” “Yes, he used to years ago,” grandpa replied; and, bending down, Agnes began to pick and arrange into a most tasteful bouquet the blossoms and buds of May, growing so profusely within the borders.
“Take them to him, will you?” and her hand shook as she passed to Grandpa Markham the gift which would thrill poor crazy Joseph with a strange delight, making him hold converse a while with the unseen presence which he called “she,” and then whisper blessings on the madam’s head. Three days after this, a party of four left Aikenside, which presented a most forlorn and cheerless appearance to the passers-by, who were glad almost as the servants when, at the expiration of a week, Guy came back and took up his olden life of solitude and loneliness, with nothing in particular to interest him, except his books the letters he wrote to Lucy; unless, indeed, it were those he was going to write to Maddy, who, with Jessie, had promised to become his correspondents. Nothing but these and the picture–the doctor’s picture–the one designed expressly for him, and which troubled him greatly. Believing that he had fully intended it for the doctor, Guy felt as if it were, in a measure, stolen property, and this made him prize it all the more.
Now that Maddy was away, Guy missed her terribly, wondering how he had ever lived without her, and sometimes working himself into a violent passion against the meddlesome neighbors who would not let her remain with him in peace, and who, now that she was gone, did not stop their talking one whit. Of this last, however, he was ignorant, as there was no one to tell him how people marveled more than ever, feeling confident now that he was educating his own wife, and making sundry hateful remarks as to what he intended doing with her relations. Guy only knew that he was very lonely, that Lucy’s letters seemed insipid, that even the doctor failed to interest him, as of old, and that his greatest comfort was in looking at the bright young face which seemed to smile so trustfully upon him from the tiny casing, just as Maddy had smiled upon him when, in Madam —–‘s parlor, he bade her good-by. The doctor could not have that picture, he finally decided. Hal ought to be satisfied with getting Maddy, as of course he would, for wasn’t he educating her for that very purpose? Certainly he was, and, as a kind of atonement for what he deemed treachery to his friend, he talked with him often of her, always taking it for granted that when she was old enough, the doctor would woo and win the little girl who had come to him in his capacity of inspector, as candidate number one.
At first, the doctor suspected him of acting a part in order to cover up some design of his own with regard to Maddy, and affected an indifference he did not feel; but, as time passed on, Guy, who really believed himself sincere, managed to make the doctor believe so, too. Consequently, the latter abandoned his suspicions, and gave himself up to blissful dreams of what might possibly be when Maddy should have become the brilliant woman she was sure one day to be. Alas! for the doctor’s dreams.
CHAPTER XV.
THE HOLIDAYS.
The summer vacation had been spent by the Remington’s and Maddy at the seaside, the latter coming to the cottage for a week before returning to her school in New York, and as the doctor was then absent from home, she did not meet him at all. Consequently he had not seen her since she left Aikenside for New York. But she was at home now for the Christmas holidays–was down at the cottage, too; and unusually nervous for him, the doctor stood before the little square glass in his back office, trying to make himself look as well as possible, for he was going that very afternoon to call upon Miss Clyde. He was glad she was not at Aikenside; he would rather meet her where Guy was not, and he hoped he might be fortunate enough to find her alone.
The doctor was seriously in love. He acknowledged that now to himself, confessing, too, that with his love was mingled a spice of jealousy, lest Guy Remington should be expending more thought on Maddy Clyde than was consistent with the promised husband of Lucy Atherstone. He wished so much to talk with Guy about her, and yet he dreaded it; for if the talk should confirm his suspicious there would be no hope for him. No girl in her right mind would prefer him to Guy Remington, and with a little sigh the doctor was turning away from the glass, when, as if to verify a familiar proverb, Guy himself drove up in a most dashing equipage, the silver-tipped harness of his high-mettled steed flashing in the wintry sunlight, and the bright-hued lining of his fanciful robes presenting a very gay appearance.
Guy was in the best of spirits. For an entire half day he had tried to devise some means to getting Maddy up to Aikenside. It was quite too bad for her to spend the whole vacation at the cottage, as she seemed likely to do. He knew she was lonely there; that the bare floor and low, dark walls affected her unpleasantly. He had seen that in her face when he bade her good-by, for he had carried her down to the cottage himself, and now he was going after her. There was to be a party at Aikenside; the very first since Guy was its master. The neighbors had said he was too proud to invite them, but they should say so no more. The house was to be thrown open in honor of Guy’s twenty-sixth birthday, and all who were at all desirable as guests were to be bidden to the festival. First on the list was the doctor, who, remembering how averse Guy was to large parties, wondered at the proceedings. But Guy was all engaged in the matter, and after telling who were to be invited, added rather indifferently: “I’m going now down to Honedale after Maddy. It’s better for her to be with us a day or two beforehand. You’ve seen her, of course.”
No, the doctor had not; he was just going there, he said, in a tone so full of sad disappointment, that Guy detected it at once, and asked if anything was the matter.
“Guy,” the doctor continued, sitting down by his friend, “I remember once your making me your confidant about Lucy. You remember it, too?”
“Yes, why? well?” Guy replied, beginning to feel strangely uncomfortable as he half divined what was coming next.
Latterly Guy had stopped telling the doctor that he was educating Maddy for him. Indeed, he did not talk of her at all, and the doctor might have fancied her out of his mind but for the frequent visits to New York, which Guy found it absolutely necessary to make. Guy did not himself understand the state of his own feelings with regard to Maddy, but if compelled to explain them they would have been something as follows: He fully expected to marry Lucy Atherstone; the possibility that he should not had never occurred to him, but that was no reason why Maddy Clyde need be married for these many years. She was very young yet; there was time enough for her to think of marrying when she was twenty-five, and in the meanwhile it would be splendid to have her at Aikenside as Lucy’s and his friend. Nothing could be nicer, and Guy did not care to have this little arrangement spoiled. But that the doctor had an idea of spoiling it, he had not a doubt, particularly after the doctor’s next remark.
“I have not seen Maddy since last spring, you know. Is she very much improved?”
“Yes, very much. There is no more stylish-looking girl to be seen on Broadway than Maddy Clyde,” and Guy shook down his pantaloons a little awkwardly.
“Well, is she as handsome as she used to be, and as childish in her manner?” the doctor asked; and Guy replied:
“I took her to the opera once, last month, and the many admiring glances cast at our box proved pretty positively that Maddy’s beauty was not of the ordinary kind.”
“The opera!” the doctor exclaimed; “Maddy Clyde at the opera! What would her grandfather say? He is very puritanical, you know.”
“Yes, I know; and so is Maddy, too. She wrote and obtained his consent before she’d go with me. He won’t let her go to a theatre anyhow.”
Here an interval of silence ensued, and then the doctor began again,
“Guy, you told me once you were educating Maddy Clyde for me, and I tried then to make you think I didn’t care; but I did, oh, so much. Guy, laugh at me, if you please. I cannot blame you if you do; but the fact is, I believe I’ve loved Maddy Clyde ever since that time she was so sick. At all events, I love her now, and I was going down there this very afternoon to tell her so. She’s old enough. She was sixteen last October, the–the—-“
“Tenth day,” Guy responded, thus showing that he, too, was keeping Maddy’s age, even to a day.
“Yes, the tenth day,” resumed the doctor. “There’s ‘most eleven years’ difference between us, but if she feels at all as I do, she will not care, Guy;” and the doctor began to talk earnestly: “I’ll be candid with you, and say that you have sometimes made my heart ache a little.”
“Me!” and Guy’s face was crimson, while the doctor continued:
“Yes, and I beg your pardon for it; but let me ask you one question, and upon its answer will depend my future course with regard to Maddy: You are true to Lucy?”
Guy felt the blood trickling at the roots of his hair, but he answered truthfully as he believed:
“Yes, true as steel;” while the generous thought came over him that he would further the doctor’s plans all he possibly could.
“Then I am satisfied,” the doctor rejoined; “and as you have rather assumed the position of her guardian or brother, I ask your permission to offer her the love which whether she accepts it or not, is hers.”
Guy had never felt a sharper pang than that which now thrilled through every nerve, but he would not prove false to the friend confiding in him, and he answered calmly:
“You have my consent; but, Doc, better put it off till you see her at Aikenside. There’s no chance at the cottage, with those three old people. I wonder she don’t go wild. I’m sure I should.”
Guy was growing rather savage about something, but the doctor did not mind; and grasping his arm as he arose, he said:
“And you’ll manage it for me, Guy? You know how. I don’t. You’ll contrive for me to see her alone, and maybe say a word beforehand in my favor.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll manage it. I’ll fix it right. Don’t forget, day after to-morrow night. The Cutlers’ will be there, and, by the way, Marcia has got to be a splendid girl. She fancied you once, you know. Old Cutler is worth half a million.” And Guy tore himself away from the doctor, who, now that the ice was broken, would like to have talked of Maddy forever.
But Guy was not thus inclined, and in a mood not extremely amiable, he threw himself into his sleigh and went dashing down toward Honedale. For some unaccountable reason he was not now one bit interested in the party, and, were it not that a few of the invitations were issued, he would have been tempted to give it up. Guy did not know what ailed him. He only felt as if somebody had been meddling with his plans, and had he been in the habit of swearing, he would probably have sworn; but as he was not, he contented himself with driving like a second Jehu he reached Honedale, where a pair of soft, brown eyes smiled up into his face, and a little, fat, warm hand was clasped in his, as Maddy came even to the gate to meet him.
She was very glad to see him. The cottage with its humble adornings did seem lonely, almost dreary, after the life and bustle of New York, and Maddy had cried more than once to think how hard and wicked she must be growing when her home had ceased to be the dear old home she once loved so well. She had been there five days now, and notwithstanding the efforts of her grandparents to entertain her, each day had seemed a week in its duration. Neither the doctor nor Guy had been near her, and capricious little Maddy had made herself believe that the former was sadly remiss in his duty, inasmuch as he had not seen her for so long. He had been in the habit of calling every week, her grandmother said, and this did not tend to increase her amiability. Why didn’t he come now when he knew she was at home? Didn’t he want to see her? Well, she could be indifferent, too, and when they did meet, she’d show how little she cared!
Maddy was getting to be a woman with womanly freaks, as the reader will readily see. At Guy she was not particularly piqued. She did not take his attentions, as a matter of course; still she thought more of him, if possible, than of the doctor, during those five days, saying to herself each morning: “He’ll surely come to-day,” and to herself each night: “He will be here to-morrow.” She had something to show him at last–a letter from Lucy Atherstone, who had gradually come to be her regular correspondent, and whom Maddy had learned to love with all the intensity of her girlhood. To her ardent imagination Lucy Atherstone was but a little lower than the angels, and the pure, sweet thoughts contained in every letter were doing almost as much toward molding her character as Grandpa Markham’s prayers and constant teachings. Maddy did not know it, but it was these letters from Lucy which kept her from loving Guy Remington. She could not for a moment associate him with herself when she so constantly thought of him as the husband of another, and that other Lucy Atherstone. Not for worlds would Maddy have wronged the gentle creature who wrote to her so confidingly of Guy, envying her in that she could so often see his face and hear his voice, while his betrothed was separated from him by many thousand miles. Little by little it had come out that Lucy’s mother was averse to the match, that she had in her mind the case of an English lord, who would make her daughter “My Lady;” and this was the secret of her deferring so long her daughter’s marriage. In her last letter to Maddy, however, Lucy had written with more than her usual spirit that she would come in possession of her property on her twenty-fifth birthday. She should then feel at liberty to act for herself, and she launched out into joyful anticipations of the time when she should come to Aikenside and meet her dear Maddy Clyde. Feeling that Guy, if he did not already know it, would be glad to hear it, Maddy had all the morning been wishing he would come; and when she saw him at the gate she ran out to meet him, her eyes and face sparkling with eager joy as she suffered him to retain her hand while she said: “I am so glad to see you, Mr. Remington. I almost thought you had forgotten me at Aikenside, Jessie and all.”
Guy began to exclaim against any one’s forgetting her, and also to express his pleasure at finding her so glad to see him, when Maddy interrupted him with, “Oh, it’s not that; I’ve something to show you– something which will make you very happy. I had a letter from Lucy last night. When she is twenty-five she will be her own mistress, you know, and she means to be married in spite of her mother–she says–let me see–” and drawing from her bosom Lucy’s letter, Maddy read, “‘I do not intend to fail in filial obedience, but I have tired dear Guy’s patience long enough, and as soon as I can I shall marry him.’ Isn’t it nice?” and returning the letter to its hiding place, Maddy scooped up in her hand and ate a quantity of the snow beside the path.
“Yes, it was very nice,” Guy admitted, but there was a shadow on his brow as he followed Maddy into the cottage, where the lunatic, who had been watching them from the window, shook his head doubtfully and said, “Too young, too young for you, young man. You can’t have our Sunshine if you want her.”
“Hush, Uncle Joseph,” Maddy whispered, softly, taking his arm and laying it around her neck. “Mr. Remington don’t want me. He is engaged to a beautiful English girl across the sea.”
Low as Maddy’s words were, Guy heard them, as well as the crazy man’s reply, “Engagements have been broken.”
That was the first time the possibility had ever entered Guy’s brain that his engagement might be broken, provided he wished it, which he did not, he said to himself positively. Lucy loved him, he loved Lucy, and that was enough, so in a kind of abstracted manner arising from the fact that he was calculating how long it would be before Lucy was twenty-five, he began to talk with Maddy, asking how she had spent her time, and so forth. This reminded Maddy of the doctor, who, she said, had not been to see her at all.
“He was coming this morning,” Guy rejoined, “but I persuaded him to defer his call until you were at Aikenside. I have come to take you back with me, as we are to have a party day after to-morrow evening, and I wish you to be present.”
A party, a big party, such as Maddy had never in her life attended! How her eyes sparkled from mere anticipation as she looked appealingly to her grandfather, who, though classing parties with the pomps and vanities from which he would shield his child, still remembered that he once was young, that fifty years ago he, too, like Maddy, wanted “to see the folly of it,” and not take the mere word of older people that in every festive scene there was a pitfall, strewn over so thickly with roses that it was ofttimes hard to tell just where its boundary line commenced. Besides that, grandpa had faith in Guy, and so his consent was granted, and Maddy was soon on her way to Aikenside, which presented a gayer, busier appearance than she had ever known before. Jessie was wild with delight, dragging forth at once the pink dress which she was to wear, and whispering to Maddy that Guy had bought a dark blue silk for her, and that Sarah Jones was at that moment fashioning it after a dress left there by Maddy the previous summer.
“Mother said plain white muslin was more appropriate for a young girl, but Brother Guy said no; fee blue would be useful after the party; it was what you needed, and so he bought it and paid a dollar and three- quarters a yard, but it’s a secret until you are called to try it on. Isn’t Guy splendid?”
He was indeed splendid, Maddy thought, wondering why he was so kind to her, and if it would be so when Lucy came. The dress fitted admirably, only Maddy thought grandpa would say it was too low in the neck, but Sarah overruled her objections, assisted by Guy, who, when the dress was completed and tried on for the last time, was called in by Jessie to see if “Maddy’s neck didn’t look just like cheese curd,” and if “she shouldn’t have a piece sewed on as she suggested.” The neck was _au fait_, Guy said, laughing as Maddy for blushing so, and saying when he saw how really distressed she seemed that he would provide her with something to relieve the bareness of which she complained. “Oh, I know, I saw, I peeked in the box,” Jessie began, but Guy put his hand over the little tattler’s mouth, bidding her keep the result of her peeking to herself.
And for once Jessie succeeded in doing so, although she several times set Maddy to guessing what it was Guy had for her in a box! As the size of the box was not mentioned, Maddy had fully made up her mind to a shawl or scarf, and was proportionately disappointed when, as she was dressing for the party, there was sent up to her room a small round box, scarcely large enough to hold an apple, much less a small scarf. The present proved to be a pair of plain but heavy bracelets, and a most exquisitely wrought chain of gold, to which was appended a beautiful pearl cross, the whole accompanied with the words, “From Guy.” Jessie was in ecstasies again. Clasping the ornaments on Maddy’s neck and arms, she danced around her, declaring there never was anything more beautiful, or anybody as pretty as Maddy was in her rich party dress. Maddy was fond of jewelry–as what young girl is not?– and felt a flush of gratified pride, or vanity, or satisfaction, whichever one chooses to call it, as she glanced at herself in the mirror and remembered the time when, riding with the doctor, she had met Mrs. Agnes, with golden bracelets flashing on her arms, and wished she might one day wear something like them. The day had come sooner than she then anticipated, but Maddy was not as happy in possession of the coveted ornaments as she had thought she should be. Somehow, it seemed to her that Guy ought not to have given them to her, that it was improper for her to keep them, and that both Mrs. Noah and Agnes thought so, too. She wished she knew exactly what was right, and then, remembering that Guy had said the doctor was expected early, she decided to ask his opinion on the subject and abide by it.
At first Agnes had cared but little about the party, affecting to despise the people in their immediate neighborhood; but when Guy gave her permission to invite from the adjoining towns, and even from Worcester if she liked, her spirits arose; and when her toilet was completed, she shone resplendent in lace and diamonds and curls, managing to retain through all a certain simplicity of dress appropriate to the hostess. But beautiful as Agnes was, she felt in her jealous heart that there was about Maddy Clyde an attraction she did not possess. Guy saw it, too, and while complimenting his pretty mother-in-law, kept his eyes fixed admiringly on Maddy, who started him into certain unpleasant remembrances by asking if the doctor had come yet.
“No–yes–there he was now,” and Guy looked into the hall, where the doctor’s voice was heard inquiring for him.
“I want to see him a minute, alone, please. There’s something I want to ask him.” And, unmindful of Agnes’ darkening frown, or Guy’s look of wonder, Maddy darted from the room, and ran hastily down the hall to where the doctor stood, waiting for Guy, not for her.
He had not expected to meet her thus, or to see her thus, and the sight of her, grown so tall, so womanly, so stylish and so beautiful, almost took his breath away. And yet, as he stood with her soft hand in his, and surveyed her from head to foot, he felt that he would rather have had her as she was when a dainty frill shaded her pale, wasted face, when the snowy ruffle was fastened high about her throat, and the cotton bands were buttoned about her wrists, where gold ones now were shining. The doctor had never forgotten Maddy as she was then, the very embodiment, he thought, of helpless purity. The little sick girl, so dear to him then, was growing away from him now; and these adornings, which marked the budding woman, seemed to remove her from him and place her nearer to Guy, whose bride should wear silk and jewels, just as Maddy did.
She was very glad to see him, she said, asking in the same breath why he had not been to the cottage, if she had not grown tall, and if he thought her one bit improved with living in a city?
“One question at a time, if you please,” he said, drawing her a little more into the shadow of the door where they would be less observed by any one passing through.
Maddy did not wait for him to answer, so eager was she to unburden her mind and know if she ought to keep the costly presents, at which she knew he was looking.
“If he remembers his unpaid bill, he must consider me mighty mean,” she thought: and then, with her usual frankness, she told him of the perplexity and asked his opinion.
“It would displease Mr. Guy very much if I were to give them back,” she said: “but it hardly is right for me to accept them, is it?”
The doctor did not say she ought not to wear the ornaments, though he longed to tear them from her arms and neck and throw them anywhere, he cared not where, so they freed her wholly from Guy.
They were very becoming, he said. She would not look as well without them; so she had better wear them to-night, and to-morrow, if she would grant him an interview, he would talk with her further.
Dissembling doctor! He said all this to gain the desired interview with Maddy, the interview for which Guy was to prepare her. That he had not done so he felt assured, but he could not be angry with him, as he came smilingly toward them, asking if they had talked privacy long enough, and glancing rather curiously at Maddy’s face. There was nothing in its expression to disturb him, and, offering her his arm, he led her back to the drawing-rooms where Agnes was smoothing down the folds of her dress, preparatory to receiving the guests just descending the stairs. It was a brilliant scene which Aikenside presented that night, and amid it all Agnes bore herself like a queen, while Jessie, with her sunny face and golden hair, came in for a full share of attention. But amid the gay throng there was none so fair or so beautiful as Maddy, who deported herself with as much ease and grace as if she had all her life long been accustomed to just such occasions as this. At a distance the doctor watched her, telling several who she was, and once resenting by both look and manner a remark made by Maria Cutler to the effect that she was nobody but Mrs. Remington’s governess, a poor girl whom Guy had taken a fancy to educate out of charity.
“He seems very fond of his charity pupil, upon my word. He scarcely leaves her neighborhood at all,” whispered old Mrs. Cutler, the mother of Maria, who, Guy said, once fancied Dr. Holbrook, and who had no particular objections to fancying him now, provided it could be reciprocal.
But the doctor was only intent on Maddy, knowing always just where she was standing, just who was talking to her; and just how far from her Guy was. He knew, too, when the latter was urging her to sing; and, managing to get nearer, heard her object that no one cared to hear her.
“But I do; I wish it,” Guy replied in that tone which people generally obeyed; and casting a half-frightened look at the sea of faces around her, Maddy suffered him to lead her to the piano, sitting quite still while he found what he wished her to play.
It was his favorite song, and one which brought out Maddy’s voice in its various modulations.
“Oh, please, Mr. Remington, anything but a song. I cannot sing,” Maddy whispered pleadingly; but Guy answered resolutely, “You can.”
There was no appeal after this, but a resigned, obedient look, which made the doctor gnash his teeth as he leaned upon the instrument. What right had Guy to command Maddy Clyde, and why should she obey? and yet, as the doctor glanced at Guy, he felt that were he in Maddy’s place, he should do the same.
“No girl can resist Guy Remington,” he thought. “I’m glad there’s a Lucy Atherstone over the sea.” And with a smile of encouragement for Maddy, who was pale with nervous timidity, he listened while her sweet, birdlike voice trembled for a moment with fear; and then, gaining from its own sound, filled the room with melody, and made those who had wandered off to other parts of the building hasten back to see who was singing.
Maria Cutler had presided at the piano earlier in the evening, as had one or two other young ladies, but to none of these had Guy paid half the attention he did to Maddy, staying constantly by her, holding her fan, turning the leaves of music, and dictating what she should play.
“There’s devotion,” tittered a miss in long ringlets; “but she really does play well,” and she appealed to Maria Cutler, who answered, “Yes, she keeps good time, and I should think might play for a dance. I mean to ask her,” and going up to Guy she said, “I wish to speak to–to– well, Jessie’s governess. Introduce me, please.”
Guy waited till Maddy was through, and then gave the desired introduction. In a tone not wholly free from superciliousness, Miss Cutler said:
“Can you play a waltz or polka, Miss Clyde? We are aching to exercise our feet.”
Maddy bowed and struck into a spirited waltz, which set many of the people present to whirling in circles, and produced the result which Maria so much desired, viz: it drove Guy away from the piano, for he could not mistake her evident wish to have him as a partner, and with his arm around her waist he was soon moving rapidly from that part of the room, leaving only the doctor to watch Maddy’s fingers as they flew over the keys. Maddy never thought of being tired. She enjoyed the excitement, and was glad she could do something toward entertaining Guy’s guests. But Guy did not forget her for an instant. Through all the mazes of the giddy dance, he had her before his eye, seeing not the clouds of lace and muslin encircled by his arm, but the little figure in blue sitting so patiently at the piano until he knew she must be tired, and determined to release her. As it chanced, Maria was again his partner, and drawing her nearer to Maddy, he said, “Your fingers ache by this time, I am sure. It is wrong to trouble you longer. Agnes will take your place while you try a quadrille with me.”
“Oh, thank you,” Maddy answered. “I am not tired in the least. I had as lief play till morning, provided they are satisfied with my time and my stock of music holds out.”
“But it is not fair for one to do all the playing; besides, I want you to dance with me–so consider yourself invited in due form to be my next partner.”
Maddy’s face crimsoned for an instant, and then in a low voice she said, “I thank you, but I must decline.”
“Maddy!” Guy exclaimed, in tones more indicative of reproach than expostulation.
There were tears in Maddy’s eyes, and Maria Cutler, watching her, was vexed to see how beautiful was the expression of her face as she answered frankly, “I have never told you that grandpa objected to my taking dancing lessons when I wrote to him about it. He does not like me to dance.”
“A saint!” Maria uttered under her breath, smiling contemptuously as she made a movement to leave the piano, hoping Guy would follow her.
But he did not at once. Standing for a moment irresolute, while he looked curiously at Maddy, he said at last:
“Of course I interfere with no one’s scruples of that kind, but I cannot allow you to wear yourself out for our amusement.”
“I like to play–please let me,” was Maddy’s reply; and, as the set upon the floor were waiting for her, she turned to the instrument, while Guy mechanically offered his arm to Maria, and sauntered toward the green room.
“What a blue old ignoramus that grandfather must be, to object to dancing, don’t you think so?”
Maria laughed a little spitefully, secretly glad that Maddy had refused, and secretly angry at Guy for seeming to care so much.
“Say,” she continued, as Guy did not answer her, “don’t you think it a sign that something is lacking in brains or education, when a person sets up that dancing is wicked?”
Guy would have taken Maddy’s side then, whatever he might have thought, and he replied:
“No lack of brains, certainly; though education and circumstances have much to do with one’s views upon that subject. For my part, I like to see people consistent. Now, that old ignoramus, as you call him, lays great stress on pomp and vanities, and when I asked him once what he meant by them, he mentioned dancing in particular as one of the things which you, church people, promise to renounce;” and Guy bowed toward Maria, who, knowing that she was one of the church people referred to, winced perceptibly.
“But this girl–this Maddy. There’s no reason why she should decline,” she said; and Guy replied: “Respect for her grandfather, in her case, seems to be stronger than respect for a higher power in some other cases.”
“It’s just as wicked to play for dancing as ’tis to dance,” Maria remarked impatiently, while Guy rejoined:
“That is very possible; but I presume Maddy has never seen it in that light, which makes a difference;” and the two retraced their steps to the rooms where the gay revelers were still tripping to Maddy’s stirring music.
After several ineffectual efforts Agnes had succeeded in enticing the doctor away from the piano, and thus there was no one near to see how at last the bright color began to fade from her cheeks as the notes before her ran together, and the keys assumed the form of one huge key which Maddy could not manage. There was a blur before her eyes, a buzzing in her ears, and just as the dancers were entering heart and soul into the merits of a popular polka, there was a sudden pause in the music, a crash among the keys, and a faint cry, which to those nearest to her sounded very much like “Mr. Guy,” as Maddy fell forward with her face upon the piano. It was hard telling which carried her from the room, the doctor or Guy, or which face of the three was the whitest. Guy’s was the most frightened, for the doctor knew she had only fainted, while Guy, struck with the marble rigidity of the face so recently flushed with excitement, said at first, “She’s dead,” while over him there flashed a feeling that life with Maddy dead would be desolate indeed. But Maddy was not dead, and Guy, when he went back to his guests carried the news that she had recovered from her faint, which she kindly ascribed to the heat of the rooms, instead of fatigue from playing so long. The doctor was with her and she was doing as well as could be expected, he said, thinking within himself how he wished they would go home, and wondering what attraction there was there, now that Maddy’s place was vacant. Guy was a vastly miserable man by the time the last guest had bidden him good-night, and he had heard for the hundred-and-fiftieth time what a delightful evening it had been. Politeness required that he should look to the very last as pleasant and unconcerned as if upstairs there were no little sick girl, all alone undoubtedly with Dr. Holbrook, whom he mentally styled a “lucky dog,” in that he was not obliged to appear again in the parlors unless he chose.
The doctor knew Maddy did not require his presence after the first half hour, but he insisted upon her being sent to bed, and then went frequently to her door until assured by Mrs. Noah that she was sleeping soundly, and would, if let alone, be well as ever on the morrow, a prediction which proved true, for when at a late hour next morning the family met at the breakfast table, Maddy’s was the brightest, freshest face of the whole, not even excepting Jessie’s. Maddy, too, was delighted with the party, declaring that nothing but pleasurable excitement and heat had made her faint, and then with all the interest which young girls usually attach to fainting fits, she asked how she looked, how she acted, if she didn’t appear very ridiculous, and how she got out of the room, saying the only thing she remembered after falling was a sensation as if she were being torn in two.
“That’s it,” cried Jessie, who readily volunteered the desired information, “Brother Guy was ‘way off with Maria Cutler, and doctor was with mamma, but both ran, oh, so fast, and both tried to take you up. I think Miss Cutler real hateful, for she said, so meanlike, ‘Do you see them pull her, as if ’twas of the slightest consequence which carried her out?'”
“Jessie,” Guy interposed sternly, while the doctor looked disapprovingly at the little girl, who subsided into silence after saying, in an undertone, “I do think she’s hateful, and that isn’t all she said either about Maddy.”
It was rather uncomfortable at the table after that, and rather quiet, too, as Maddy did not care to ask anything more concerning her faint, while the others were not disposed to talk.
Breakfast over, the two young men repaired to the library, where Guy indulged in his cigar, while the doctor fidgeted for a time, and then broke out abruptly:
“I say, Guy, have you said anything to her about–well, about me, you know?”
“Why, no, I’ve hardly had a chance; and then, again, I concluded it better for each one to speak for himself;” and carelessly knocking the ashes from his half-smoked cigar, Guy leaned back in his chair, with his eyes, and, to all appearance, thoughts, wholly intent upon the curls of smoke rising above his head.
“Guy, if you were not engaged, I should be tempted to think you wanted Maddy Clyde yourself,” the doctor suddenly exclaimed, confronting Guy, who, still watching the rings of smoke, answered with the most provoking coolness, “You should?”
“Yes, I should; and I am not certain but you do as it is, Guy,” and the doctor grew very earnest in his manner, “if you do care for Maddy Clyde, and she for you, pray tell me so before I make a fool of myself.”
“Doctor,” returned Guy, throwing the remains of his cigar into the grate and folding his hands on his head, “you desire that I be frank, and I will. I like Maddy Clyde very much–more indeed than any girl I ever met–except Lucy. Had I never seen her–Lucy, I mean–I cannot tell how I should feel toward Maddy. The chances are, however, that much as I admire her, I should not make her my wife, even if she were willing. But I have seen Lucy. I am engaged to be married. I shall keep that engagement, and if you have feared me at all as a rival, you may fear me no longer. I do not stand between you and Maddy Clyde.”
Guy believed that he was saying the truth, notwithstanding that his heart beat faster than its wont and his voice was a little thick. It was doubtful whether he would marry Maddy Clyde, if he could. By nature and education he was very proud, and the inmates of the red cottage would have been an obstacle to be surmounted by his pride. He knew they were good, far, far better than himself; but, from his earliest remembrance, he had been taught that blood and family and position were all-important; that by virtue of them Remington was a name of which to be proud; that his father’s foolish marriage with a pretty governess was the first misalliance ever known in the family, and that he was not likely to follow that example was a point fully established in his own mind. He might admire Maddy very much, and, perhaps, build castles of what might possibly have been, had she been in his sphere of life; but, should he verily think of making her his wife, the olden pride would certainly come up a barrier between them. Guy could not explain all this to the doctor, who would have been tempted to knock him down, if he had; but he succeeded in quieting his fears, and even suggested bringing Maddy in there, if the doctor wished to know his fate that morning.
“I hear her now–I’ll call her,” he said; and, opening the door, he spoke to Maddy, just passing through the hall. “Dr. Holbrook wishes to see you,” he said, as Maddy came up to him; and, holding the door for her to enter, he saw her take the seat he had just vacated. Then, closing it upon them, he walked away, thinking that last night’s party, or something, had produced a bad effect on him, making him blue and wretched, just as he should suppose a criminal would feel when about to be executed.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE DOCTOR AND MADDY.
Now that they were alone, the doctor’s courage forsook him, and he could only stammer out some commonplace remarks about the party, asking how Maddy Lad enjoyed it, and if she was sure she had entirely recovered from the effects of her fainting fit. He was not getting on at all, and it was impossible for him to say anything as he had meant to say it. Why couldn’t she help him, instead of looking so unsuspiciously at him with those large, bright eyes? Didn’t she know how dear she was to him? He should think she might. She might have divined it ere this; and if so, why didn’t she blush, or something?
At last she came to his aid by saying, “You promised to tell me about the bracelets and necklace, whether I ought to keep them.”
“Yes, oh yes, he believed he did.” And getting up from his chair, the doctor began to walk the floor, the better to hide his confusion. “Yes, the bracelets. You looked very pretty in them, Maddy, very; but you are always pretty–ahem–yes. If you were engaged to Guy, I should say it was proper; but if not, why, I don’t know; the fact is, Maddy, I am not quite certain what I am saying, so you must excuse me. I almost hated you that day you sent the note, telling me you were coming to be examined; but I had not seen you then. I did not know how, after a while–a very little while–I should in all probability– well, I did; I changed my mind, and I–I guess you have not the slightest idea what I mean.” And stopping suddenly, he confronted the astonished Maddy, who replied:
“Not the slightest, unless you are going crazy.”
She could in no other way account for his strange conduct, and she sat staring at him while he continued: “I told you once that when I wanted my bill I’d let you know. I’d ask for pay. I want it now. I present my bill.”
With a scared, miserable feeling, Maddy listened to him, wondering where she should get the money, if it were possible for her grandfather to raise it, and how much her entire wardrobe would bring, suppose she should sell it! The bill had not troubled her latterly, for she had fallen into a way of believing that the doctor would wait until she was graduated and could earn it by teaching. Nothing could be more inopportune than for him to present it now; and with a half-stifled sob she began to speak, but he her by a gesture, and sitting down beside her, said, in a voice more natural than the one with which he had at first addressed her:
“Maddy, I know you have no money. It is not that I want, Maddy; I want–I want–you.”
He bent down over her now, for her face was hidden in her hands, all sense of sight shut out, all sense of hearing, too, save the words he was pouring into her ear–words which burned their way into her heart, making It throb for a single moment with gratified pride, and then growing heavy as lead as she knew how impossible it was for her to pay the debt in the way which he desired.
“I can’t, doctor; oh, I can’t!” she sobbed. “I never dreamed of this; never supposed you could want me for your wife. I’m only a little girl–only sixteen last October–but I’m so sorry for you, who have been so kind. If I only could love you as you deserve! I do love you, too; but not the way you mean. I cannot be Maddy Holbrook; no; doctor, I cannot.”
She was sobbing piteously, and in his concern for her the doctor forgot somewhat the stunning blow he had received.
“Don’t, Maddy darling!” he said, drawing her trembling form closely to him, “Don’t be so distressed. I did not much think you’d tell me yes, and I was a fool to ask you. I am too old; but, Maddy, Guy is as old as I am.”
The doctor did not know why he said this, unless in the first keenness of his disappointment there was a satisfaction in telling her that the objection to his age would apply also to Guy. But it did not affect Maddy one whit, or give her the slightest inkling of his meaning. He saw it did not, and the pain was less to bear. Still, he would know certainly if he had a rival, and so he said to her:
“Do you love some one else, Maddy? Is another preferred before me, and is that the reason why you cannot love me?”
“No,” Maddy answered, through her tears. “There is no one else. Whom should I love, unless it were you? I know nobody but Guy.”
That name touched a sore, aching chord in the doctor’s heart, but he gave no sign of the jealousy which had troubled him, and for a moment there was silence in the room; then, as the doctor began faintly to realize that Maddy had refused him, there awoke within him a more intense desire to win her than he had ever felt before. He would not give her up without another effort, and laying her unresisting head upon his bosom, he pleaded again for her love, going over all the past, and telling of the interest awakened when first she came to him that April afternoon, almost two years ago; then of the little sick girl who had grown so into the heart never before affected in the least by womankind, and lastly of the beautiful woman, as he called her, sitting beside him now in all the freshness of her young womanhood. And Maddy, as she listened, felt for him a strange kind of pity, a wish to do his bidding if she only could, and why shouldn’t she? Girls had married those whom they did not love, and been tolerably happy with them, too. Perhaps she could be so with the doctor. There was everything about him to respect, and much which she could love. Should she try? There was a great lump in Maddy’s throat as she tried to speak, but it cleared away and she said very sadly, but very earnestly, too:
“Dr. Holbrook, would you like me to say yes with my lips, when all the time there was something at my heart tugging to answer no?”
This was not at all what Maddy meant to say, but the words were born of her extreme truthfulness, and the doctor thus learned the nature of the struggle which he saw plainly was going on.
“No, Maddy, I would not have you say yes unless your heart was in it,” he answered, while he tried to smile upon the tearful face looking up so sorrowfully at him.
But the smile was a forlorn one, and there came instead a tear as he thought how dear was the fair creature who never would be his. Maddy saw the tear, and as if she were a child wiped it from his cheek; then, in tones which never faltered, she told him it might be in time she’d learn to love him. She would try so hard, she’d think of him always as her promised husband, and by that means should learn at last not to shrink from taking him for such. It might be ever so long, and perhaps she should be twenty or more, but some time in the future she should feel differently. Was he satisfied, and would he wait?
Her little hand was resting on his shoulder, but he did not mind its soft pressure or know that it was there, so strong was the temptation to accept that half-made promise. But the doctor was too noble, to unselfish to bind Maddy to himself unless she were wholly willing, and he said to her that if she did not love him now she probably never would. She could not make a love. She need not try, as it would only result in her own unhappiness. They would be friends just as they always had been, and none need know of what had passed between them, none but Guy. “I must tell him” the doctor said, “because he knows that I was going to ask you.”
Maddy could not explain why it was that she felt glad the doctor would tell Guy. She did not analyze any of her feelings, or stop to ask why she should care to have Guy Remington know the answer she had given Dr. Holbrook. He was going to him now, she was sure, for he arose to leave her, saying he might not see her again before she returned to New York. She did not mention his bill. That was among the bygones, a thing never again to be talked about, and offering him her hand, she looked for an instant earnestly into his face, then without a word, hurried from the room, while the doctor, with a sad, heavy heart, went in quest of Guy.
“Refused you, did you say?” and Guy’s face certainly looked brighter than it had before since he left the doctor with Maddy Clyde.
“Yes, refused me, as I might have known she would,” was the doctor’s reply, spoken so naturally that Guy looked up quickly to see if he really did not care.
But the expression of the face belied the calmness of the voice; and, touched with genuine pity, Guy asked the cause of the refusal– “preference for any one else, or what?”
“No, there was no one whom she preferred. She merely did not like me well enough to be my wife, that was all,” the doctor said, and then he tried to talk of something else; but it would not do. The wound was yet too fresh and sore to be covered up, and in spite of himself the bearded chin quivered and the manly voice shook as he bade good-by to Guy, and then went galloping down the avenue.
Great was the consternation among the doctor’s patients when it was known that their pet physician–the one in whose skill they had so much confidence–was going to Europe, where in Paris he could perfect himself in his profession. Some cried, and among them Agnes; some said he knew enough already; some tried to dissuade him from his purpose; some wondered at the sudden start, while only two knew exactly why he was going–Guy and Maddy; the former approving his decision and lending his influence to make his tour abroad as pleasant as possible; and the latter weeping bitterly as she thought how she had sent him away, and that if aught befell him on the sea or in that distant land, she would be held amenable. Once there came over her the wild impulse to bid him stay, to say that she would be his wife; but, ere the rash act was done, Guy came down to the cottage, and Maddy’s resolution gave way at once.
It would be difficult to tell the exact nature of Maddy’s liking for Guy at that time. Had he offered himself to her she would probably have refused him even more promptly than she did the doctor; for, to all intents and purposes, he was, in her estimation, the husband of Lucy Atherstone. As such, there was no harm in making him her paragon of all male excellence; and Guy would have felt flattered, could he have known how much he was in that young girl’s thoughts. But now for a few days he had a rival, for Maddy’s thoughts were all given to the doctor, who came down to see her once before starting for Europe. She did not cry while he was there, but her voice was strange and hoarse as she gave him messages for Lucy Atherstone; and all that day her face was white and sad, as are the faces of those who come back from burying their dead.
Only once after the party did she go up to Aikenside, and then, summoning all her fortitude, she gave back to Guy the bracelets and the necklace, telling him she ought not to wear them; that ornaments as rich as these were not for her; that her grandmother did not wish her to keep them, and he must take them back. Guy saw she was in earnest, and much against his will he received again the ornaments he had been so happy in purchasing.
“They would do for Jessie when she was older,” Maddy said; but Guy thought it very doubtful whether Jessie would ever have them. They were something he had bought for Maddy, something she had worn, and as such they were too sacred to be given to another. So he laid them away beside the picture guarded so carefully from every one.
Two weeks afterward Aikenside presented again a desolate, shut-up appearance, for Agnes, Maddy and Jessie had returned to New York; Agnes to continue the siege which, in despair of winning the doctor, she had commenced against a rich old bachelor, who had a house on Madison Square; and Maddy to her books, which ere long obliterated, in a measure, the bitter memory of all that had transpired during her winter vacation.
CHAPTER XVIL
WOMANHOOD.
Two years pass quickly, particularly at school, and to Maddy Clyde, talking with her companions of the coming holidays, it seemed hardly possible that two whole years were gone since the eventful vacation when Dr. Holbrook had so startled her by offering her his hand. He was in Europe still, and another name than his was on the little office in Mrs. Conner’s yard. To Maddy he now wrote frequently; friendly, familiar letters, such as a brother might write, never referring to the past, but telling her whatever he thought would interest and please her. Occasionally at first, and more frequently afterward, he spoke of Margaret Atherstone, Lucy’s younger sister, a brilliant, beautiful girl who reminded him, he said, of Maddy, only she was saucier, and more of a tease; not at all like Lucy, whom he described as something perfectly angelic. Her twenty-fifth birthday found her on a sickbed, with Dr. Holbrook in attendance, and this was the reason given why the marriage between herself and Guy was again deferred. There had been many weeks of pain, succeeded by long, weary months of languor, and during all this time the doctor had been with her as the family physician, while Margaret also had been constantly in attendance. But Lucy was much better now. She could sit up all day, and even walk a little distance, assisted by the doctor and Margaret, whose name had become to be almost as familiar to Maddy as was that of Lucy. And Maddy, in thinking of Margaret, sometimes wondered “if—-” but never went any farther than that. Neither did she ask Guy a word about her, though she knew he must have seen her. She not say much to him of Lucy, but she wondered why he did not go for her, and wanted to talk with him about it but he was so changed that she dared not. He was not sociable, as of old, and Agnes did not hesitate to call him cross, while Jessie complained that he never walked or played with her now, but sat all day long in a deep reverie of some kind.
On this account Maddy did not look forward to the coming vacation as joyfully as she would otherwise have done. Still it was, always pleasant going home, and she sat talking with her young friends of all they expected to do, when a servant entered the room and glancing over the group of girls, singled Maddy out saying, as he placed an unsealed envelope in her hand. “A telegram for Miss Clyde.”
There was a blur before Maddy’s eyes, so that at first she could not see clearly, and Jessie, climbing on the bench beside her, read aloud:
“Your grandmother is dying. Come at once. Agnes and Jessie will stay till next week.
“Guy Remington”
It was impossible to go that afternoon but with the earliest dawn she was up, and unmindful of the snow falling so rapidly, started on the sad journey home. It was the first genuine storm of the season, and it seemed resolved on making amends for past neglect, sweeping in furious gusts against the windows sifting down in thick masses from the leaden sky, and so impeding the progress of the train that the chill wintery night had closed gloomily in ere the Sommerville station was reached, and Maddy, weary and dispirited, stepped out upon the platform, glancing anxiously around for the usual omnibus, which she had little hope would be there on such a night. If not, what should she do? This had been the burden of her thoughts for the last few hours, for she could not expect Guy to send out his horses in this fearful storm, much less to be there himself. But Guy was there, and it was his voice which first greeted her as she stood half blinded by the snow, uncertain what she must do next.
“Ah, Mr. Remington, I didn’t expect this. I am so glad, and how kind it was of you to wait for me!” she exclaimed, her voice expressing her delight, and amply repaying the young man, who had not been very patient or happy through the six long hours of waiting he had endured.
But he was both happy and patient now with Maddy’s hand in his, and pressing it very gently he led her into the ladies’ room; then making her sit down before the fire he brushed her snowy garments himself, and dashing a few flakes from her disordered hair, told her what she so eagerly asked to know. Her grandmother had had a paralytic stroke, and the only word she had uttered since was “Maddy.” Guy had not been down himself, but had sent Mrs. Noah as soon as Farmer Green had brought the news. She was there yet, he said, the storm having prevented her return.
“And grandma?” Maddy gasped, fixing her eyes wistfully upon him. “You do not think her dead?”
No, Guy did not, and stooping he asked if he should not remove from the dainty little feet resting on the stove hearth the overshoes, so full of melting snow. Maddy cared little for her shoes, or herself just then. She hardly knew that Guy was taking them off, much less that, as he bent beside her, her hand lay lightly upon his shoulder as she continued her questionings.
“She is not dead, you say; but do you think-does any-body think she’ll die? Your telegram said ‘dying.'”
Maddy was not to be deceived, and thinking it best to be frank with her, Guy told her that the physician, whom he had taken pains to see on his way to the depot, had said there was no hope. Old age and an impaired constitution precluded the possibility of recovery, but he trusted she might live till the young lady came.
“She must–she will! Oh, grandma, why did I ever leave her?” and burying her face in her hands. Maddy cried passionately, while the last three years of her Life passed in rapid review before her mind–years which she had spent in luxurious ease, leaving her grandmother to toil in the humble cottage, and die at the last, it might be, without one parting word for her.
The feeling that perhaps she had been guilty of neglect, was the bitterest of all, and Maddy wept on, unmindful of Guy’s attempts to soothe and quiet her. At last, as she heard a clock in the adjoining room strike eight, she started up exclaiming “I have stayed too long. I must go now. Is there any conveyance here?”
“But, Maddy,” Guy rejoined, “you cannot go to-night. The roads between here and Honedale are one unbroken snow bank. It would take hours to break through; besides you are too tired. You need rest, and must come with me to Aikenside, where you are expected, for when I found how late the train would be, I sent back word to have your room and parlors warmed, and a nice hot supper to be ready for us. You’ll surely go with me, if I think best.”
Guy’s manner was more like a lover than a friend, but Maddy was in no state to remark it. She only felt an intense desire to go home, and turning a deaf ear to all he could urge, replied: “You don’t know how dear grandma is to me, or you would not ask me to stay. She’s all the mother I ever knew, and I must go. Think, would you stay if the one you loved best was dying?”
“But the one I love best is not dying, so I can reason clearly, Maddy.”
Here Guy checked himself, and listened while Maddy asked again if there was no conveyance there as usual.
“None but mine,” said Guy, while Maddy continued faintly:
“And you are afraid it will kill your horses?”
“No, it would only fatigue them greatly; it’s for you I fear. You’ve borne enough to-day.”
“Then, Mr. Remington, oh, please send me. I shall die at Aikenside. John will drive me, I know. He used to like me. I’ll ask him,” and Maddy was going in quest of the Aikenside coachman, when Guy held her back, and said:
“John will go if I bid him. But you, Maddy, if I thought it was safe.”
“It is. Oh, let me go,” and Maddy grasped both his hands beseechingly.
If there was a man who could resist the eloquent appeal of Maddy’s eyes at that moment, the man was not Guy Remington, and leaving her alone, he sought out John, asking if it would be possible to get through to Homedale that night.
John shook his head decidedly, but when Guy explained Maddy’s distress and anxiety, the negro began to relent, particularly as he saw his young master, too, was interested.
“It’ll kill them horses,” he said, “but mabby that’s nothin’ to please the girl.”
“If we only had runners now, instead of wheels, John,” Guy said, after a moment’s reflection. “Drive back to Aikenside as fast as possible, and change the carriage for a covered sleigh. Leave the grays at home and drive a pair of farm horses. They can endure more. Tell Flora to send my traveling shawl. Miss Clyde may need it, and an extra buffalo, and a bottle of wine, and my buckskin gloves, and take Tom on with you, and a snow shovel; we may have to dig.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” and tying his muffler about his throat, John started off through the storm, his mind a confused medley of ideas, the main points of which were, bottles of wine, snow shovels, and the fact that his master was either crazy or in love.
Meanwhile, with the prospect of going home, Maddy had grown quiet, and did not refuse the temporary supper of buttered toast, muffins, steak and hot coffee, which Guy ordered from the small hotel just in the rear of the depot. Tired, nervous, and almost helpless, she allowed Guy himself to prepare her coffee, taking it from his hand and drinking it at his bidding as obediently as a child. There was a feeling of delicious rest in being cared for thus, and but for the dying one at Honedale she would have enjoyed it vastly. As it was, though, she never for a moment forgot her grandmother. She did forget, in a measure, her anxiety, and was able to think how kind, how exceedingly kind Guy was. He was like what he used to be, she thought, only kinder, and thinking it was because she was in trouble, she accepted all his little attentions willingly, feeling how pleasant it was to have him there, and thinking once with a half shudder of the long, cold ride before her, when Guy would no longer be present, and also of the dreary home where death might possibly be a guest ere she could reach it.
It was after nine ere John appeared, his crisp wool powdered with snow which clung to his outer garments, and literally covered his dark, cloth cap.
“‘Twas mighty deep,” he said, bowing to Maddy, “and the wind was getting colder. ‘Twas a hard time Miss Clyde would have, and hadn’t she better wait?”
No, Maddy could not wait, and standing up she suffered Guy to wrap her cloak about her, and fasten more securely the long, warm scarf she wore around her neck.
“Drive close to the platform,” he said to John, and the covered sleigh was soon brought to the point designated. “Now then, Maddy, I won’t let you run the risk of covering your feet with snow. I shall carry you myself,” Guy said, and ere Maddy was fully aware of his intentions, he had her in his arms, and was bearing her to the sleigh.
Very carefully he drew the soft, warm robe about her, shielding her as well as he could from the cold; then pulling his own fur collar about his ears, he sprang in beside her, and, closing the door behind him, bade John drive on.
“But, Mr. Remington,” Maddy exclaimed in much surprise, “surely you are not going too? You must not. It is asking too much. It is more than I expected. Please don’t go.” “Would you rather I should not–that is, aside from any inconvenience it may be to me–would you rather go alone?” Guy asked, and Maddy replied:
“Oh, no. I was dreading the long ride, but did not dream of your going. You will shorten it so much.” “Then I shall be paid for going,” was Guy’s response, as he drew still more closely around her the fancy buffalo robe.
The roads, though badly drifted in some places, were not as bad as Guy had feared, and the strong horses kept steadily on; while Maddy, growing more and more fatigued, at last fell away to sleep, and ceased to answer Guy, For a time he watched her drooping head, and then carefully drawing it to him, made it rest upon his shoulder, while he wound his arm around her slight figure, and so supported her. He knew she was sleeping quietly, by her gentle breathings; and once or twice he involuntarily passed his hand caressingly over her soft, round cheek, feeling the blood tingle to his finger tips as he thought of his position there, with Maddy Clyde sleeping in his arms. What would Lucy say, could she see him? And the doctor, with his strict ideas of right and wrong, would he object? Guy did not know, and, with his usual independence, he did not care. At least, he said to himself he did not care; and so, banishing both the doctor and Lucy from his mind, he abandoned himself to the happiness of the moment–a singular land of happiness, inasmuch as it merely consisted in the fact that Maddy Clyde’s young head was pillowed on his bosom, and that, by bending down, he could feel her sweet breath on his face. Occasionally there flitted across Guy’s mind a vague, uneasy consciousness that though the act was, under the circumstances, well enough, the feelings which prompted it were not such as either the doctor or Lucy would approve. But they were far away; they would never know unless he told them, as he probably should, of this ride on that wintry night; this ride, which seemed to him so short that he scarcely believed his senses when, without once having been overturned or called upon to use the shovels so thoughtfully provided, the carriage suddenly came to a halt, and he knew by the dim light shining through the low window that the red cottage was reached.
Grandma Markham was dying, but she knew Maddy, and the palsied lips worked painfully as they attempted to utter the loved name; while her wasted face lighted up with eager joy as Maddy’s arms were twined about her neck, and she felt Maddy’s kisses on her cheek and brow. Could she not speak? Would she never speak again, Maddy asked despairingly, and her grandfather replied: “Never, most likely. The only thing she’s said since the shock was to call your name; She’s missed you despatly this winter back, more than ever before, I think. So have we all, but we would not send for you–Mr. Guy said you was learning so fast.” “Oh, grandpa, why didn’t you? I would have come so willingly,” and for an instant Maddy’s eyes flashed reproachfully upon the recreant Guy, standing aloof from the little group gathered about the bed, his arms folded together, and a moody look upon his face.
He was thinking of what had not yet entered Maddy’s mind, thinking of the future–Maddy’s future, when the aged form upon the bed should be gone, and the two comparatively helpless men be left alone.
“But it shall not be. The sacrifice is far too great. I can prevent it, and I will,” he muttered to himself, as he turned to watch the gray dawn breaking in the east. Guy was a puzzle to himself. He would not admit that during the past year his liking for Maddy Clyde had grown to be something stronger than mere friendship, nor yet that his feelings toward Lucy had undergone a change, prompting him not to go to her when she was sick, and not to be as sorry as he ought that the marriage was again deferred. Lucy had no suspicion of the change and her childlike trust in him was the anchor which held him still true to her in intentions at least, if not in reality. He knew from her letters how much she had learned to like Maddy Clyde, and so, he argued, there was no harm in his liking her too. She was a splendid girl, and it seemed a pity that her lot should have been so humbly cast. This was usually the drift of his thoughts in connection with her; and now, as he stood there its that cottage, Maddy’s home, they recurred to him with tenfold intensity, for well he foresaw that a struggle was before him if he rescued Maddy as he meant to do from her approaching fate.
No such thoughts, however, intruded themselves on Maddy’s mind. She did not look away from the present, except it were at the past, in which she feared she had erred by leaving her grandmother too much alone. But to her passionate appeals for forgiveness, if she ever had neglected the dying one, there came back only loving looks and mute caresses, the aged hand smoothing lovingly the bowed head, or pressing fondly the girlish cheeks where Guy’s hand had been. With the coming of daylight, however, there was a change; and Maddy, listening intently, heard what sounded like her name. The tied tongue was loosed for a little, and in tones scarcely articulate, the disciple who for long years had served her Heavenly Father faithfully, bore testimony to the blessed truth that God’s promises to those who love Him are not mere promises–that He will go with them through the river of death, disarming the fainting soul of every fear, and making the dying bed the very gate of heaven. This tribute to the Savior was her first thought, while the second was a blessing for her darling, a charge to seek the narrow way now in life’s early morning. Disjointed sentences they were, but Maddy understood them all, treasuring up every word even to the last, the words the farther apart and most painfully uttered, “You–will–care–and–comfort—-” She did not say whom, but Maddy knew whom she meant; and without then realizing the magnitude of the act, virtually accepted the burden from which Guy was so anxious to save her.