74902-0.txt


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74902 ***


[Illustration: IN A HALF WHISPER SOME ONE CALLED, “MADDY!
MADDY!”—_Madeline, Page 326._]




                                MADELINE


                                   BY

                             MARY J. HOLMES

[Illustration: [Logo]]

                        G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
                        PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK




                            COPYRIGHT, 1881,
                             DANIEL HOLMES.
                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.




                               CONTENTS.


             CHAPTER                                  PAGE
                  I. The Examining Committee             7
                 II. Madeline Clyde                     23
                III. The Examination                    35
                 IV. Grandpa Markham                    53
                  V. The Result                         65
                 VI. Convalescence                      86
                VII. The Drive                         106
               VIII. Shadowings of What was to Be      116
                 IX. The Decision                      127
                  X. At Aikenside                      131
                 XI. Guy at Home                       146
                XII. Lucy’s Letter                     173
               XIII. Gossip                            186
                XIV. Maddy and Lucy                    203
                 XV. The Holidays                      225
                XVI. The Doctor and Maddy              256
               XVII. Womanhood                         267
              XVIII. The Burden                        282
                XIX. Life at the Cottage               302
                 XX. The Burden grows Heavier          322
                XXI. The Interval before the Marriage  337
               XXII. Before the Bridal                 342
              XXIII. Lucy                              364
               XXIV. Finale                            369




                               MADELINE.




                               CHAPTER I.
                        THE EXAMINING COMMITTEE.


Twenty-five years ago the people of Devonshire, a little town among the
New England hills, had the reputation of being rather quarrelsome.
Sometimes about meek, gentle Mrs. Tiverton, the minister’s wife, whose
manner of housekeeping, or style of dress, did not exactly suit them;
sometimes about the minister himself, who vainly imagined that if he
preached three sermons a week, attended the Wednesday evening
prayer-meeting, the Thursday evening sewing society, visited all the
sick, and gave to every beggar that called at his door, besides
superintending the Sunday-school, he was earning his salary of six
hundred per year.

Sometimes, and that not rarely, the quarrel crept into the choir, and
then for two or three Sundays it was all in vain that Mr. Tiverton read
the psalm and hymn, and cast troubled glances toward the vacant seats of
his refractory singers. There was no one to respond, except poor Mr.
Hodges, who usually selected something in a minor key, and pitched it so
high that few could follow him; while Mrs. Captain Simpson—whose
daughter was the organist—rolled her eyes at her next neighbor, or
fanned herself furiously in token of her disgust.

Latterly, however, there had arisen a new cause for quarrel, before
which everything else sank into insignificance. Now, though the village
of Devonshire could boast but one public school-house, said house being
divided into two departments, the upper and lower divisions, there were
in the town several district schools; and for the last few years a
committee of three had been annually appointed to examine and decide
upon the merits of the various candidates for teaching, giving to each,
if the decision were favorable, a slip of paper certifying his or her
qualification to teach a common school. It was strange that over such an
office so fierce a feud should have arisen; but when Mr. Tiverton,
Squire Lamb, and Lawyer Whittemore, in the full conviction that they
were doing right, refused a certificate of scholarship to a niece of
Mrs. Judge Tisdale, and awarded it to one whose earnings in a factory
had procured for her a thorough English education, the villagers were
roused as they had never been before—the aristocracy abusing, and the
democracy upholding the dismayed trio, who at last quietly resigned
their office, and Devonshire was without a school committee.

In this emergency something must be done, and as the two belligerent
parties could only unite on a stranger, it seemed a matter of special
providence that only two months before the quarrel began, young Dr.
Holbrook, a native of Boston, had rented the pleasant little office on
the village common, formerly occupied by old Dr. Carey, whose days of
practice were over. Besides being handsome, and skillful, and quite as
familiar with the poor as the rich, the young doctor was descended from
the aristocratic line of Boston Holbrooks, facts which tended to make
him a favorite with both classes; and, greatly to his surprise, he found
himself unanimously elected to the responsible office of sole Inspector
of Common Schools in Devonshire. It was in vain that he remonstrated,
saying he knew nothing whatever of the qualifications requisite for a
teacher; that he could not talk to _girls_ unless they happened to be
sick; that he should make a miserable failure, and be turned out of
office in less than a month. The people would not listen. Somebody must
examine the teachers, and that somebody might as well be Dr. Holbrook as
any one.

“Only be strict with ’em and draw the reins tight; find out to your
satisfaction whether a gal knows her P’s and Q’s before you give her a
stifficut: we’ve had enough of your ignoramuses,” said Colonel Lewis,
the democratic potentate to whom Dr. Holbrook was expressing his fears
that he should not give satisfaction. Then, as a bright idea suggested
itself to the old gentleman, he added: “I tell you what, just _cut_ one
or two at first; that’ll give you a name for being particular, which is
just the thing.”

Accordingly, with no definite idea as to what was expected of him,
except that he was to find out “whether a gal knew her P’s and Q’s,” and
was also to “cut one or two of the first candidates,” Dr. Holbrook
accepted the situation, and then waited rather nervously his initiation.
He was never at his ease in the society of ladies, unless they stood in
need of his professional services, when he lost sight of _them_ at once,
and thought only of their disease. His patient once well, however, he
became nervously shy and embarrassed, retreating as soon as possible
from her presence to the shelter of his friendly office, where, with his
boots upon the table, and his head thrown back in a most comfortable
position, he sat one April morning, in happy oblivion of the bevy of
girls who were ere long to invade his sanctum.

“Something for you, sir. The lady will wait for an answer,” said his
office boy, passing to his master a little note, and nodding toward the
street.

Following the direction indicated, the doctor saw near his door an
old-fashioned one-horse wagon, such as is still occasionally seen in New
England among the farmers who till the barren soil and rarely indulge in
anything new. On this occasion it was a square-boxed dark-green wagon,
drawn by a sorrel horse, sometimes called by the genuine Yankee
“yellow,” and driven by a white-haired man, whose silvery locks, falling
around his wrinkled face, gave him a pleasing, patriarchal appearance,
which interested the doctor far more than did the flutter of the blue
ribbon beside him, even though the bonnet that ribbon tied shaded the
face of a young girl.

The note was from her, and, tearing it open, the doctor read, in a
pretty, girlish handwriting:

“Dr. Holbrook.”

Here it was plainly visible that a “D” had been written as if she would
have said “Dear.” Then, evidently changing her mind, she had with her
finger blotted out the “D,” and made it into an oddly-shaped “S,” so
that it read:


“DR. HOLBROOK—SIR: Will you be at leisure to examine me on Monday
afternoon, at three o’clock?

                                                     “MADELINE A. CLYDE.

“P. S.—For particular reasons I hope you can attend to me as early as
Monday.

                                                               M. A. C.”


Dr. Holbrook knew very little of girls and their peculiarities, but he
thought this note, with its P. S., decidedly girlish. Still he made no
comment, either verbal or mental, so flurried was he with the thought
that the evil he so much dreaded had come upon him at last. Had it been
left to his choice, he would far rather have extracted every one of
Madeline Clyde’s teeth, than have set himself up before her as some
horrid ogre, asking what she knew and what she did not know. But the
choice was not his, and, turning at last to the boy, he said shortly,
“Tell her to come.”

Most men would have sought for a glimpse of the face under the bonnet
tied with blue, but Dr. Holbrook did not care a picayune whether it were
ugly or fair, though it _did_ strike him that the voice was singularly
sweet, which, after the boy had delivered the message, said to the old
man, “Oh, I am so glad; now, grandpa, we’ll go home. I know you must be
tired.”

Very slowly Sorrel trotted down the street, the blue ribbons fluttering
in the wind, and one little ungloved hand carefully adjusting about the
old man’s shoulders the ancient camlet cloak which had done duty for
many a year, and was needed on this chill April day. The doctor saw all
this, and the impression left upon his mind was, that Candidate No. 1
was probably a nice kind of a girl, and very good to her grandfather.
But what should he ask her, and how demean himself towards her, and
would it be well to “cut her,” as Colonel Lewis had advised him to do to
one or two of the first? Monday afternoon was frightfully near, he
thought, as this was only Saturday; and then, feeling that he must be
prepared, he brought out from the trunk, where, since his arrival in
Devonshire, they had been quietly lying, books enough to have frightened
an elder person than poor little Madeline Clyde, riding slowly home, and
wishing so much that she’d had a glimpse of Dr. Holbrook, so as to know
what he was like, and hoping he would give her a chance to repeat some
of the many pages of Geography and History which she knew by heart. How
she would have trembled could she have seen the formidable volumes
heaped upon the doctor’s table and waiting for her. There were French
and Latin grammars, Hamilton’s Metaphysics, Olmstead’s Philosophy, Day’s
Algebra, Butler’s Analogy, and many other books, into which poor
Madeline had never so much as looked. Arranging them in a row, and half
wishing himself back again in the days when he had studied them, the
doctor went out to visit his patients, of which there were so many that
Madeline Clyde entirely escaped his mind, nor did she trouble him again
until the dreaded Monday came, and the hands of his watch pointed to
two.

“One hour more,” he said to himself, just as the roll of wheels and a
cloud of dust announced the arrival of some one.

“Can it be Sorrel and the square wagon?” Dr. Holbrook thought. But far
different from Grandfather Clyde’s turnout was the stylish carriage and
the spirited bays which the colored coachman stopped in front of the
white cottage in the same yard with the office, the house where Dr.
Holbrook boarded, and where, if he married while in Devonshire, he would
most likely bring his wife.

“Guy Remington, the very chap of all others whom I’d rather see, and, as
I live, there’s Agnes with Jessie. Who knew _she_ was in these parts?”
was the doctor’s mental exclamation, as, running his fingers through his
hair and making a feint of pulling up the corners of his rather limp
collar, he hurried out to the carriage, from which a dashing-looking
lady of thirty, or thereabouts, was alighting.

“Why, Agnes—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Remington—when did you come?” he
asked, offering his hand to the lady, who, coquettishly shaking back
from her pretty, dollish face a profusion of light brown curls, gave him
the tips of her lavender kids, while she told him she had come to
Aikenside the Saturday before; and hearing from Guy that the lady with
whom he boarded was an old friend of hers, she had driven over to call,
and brought Jessie with her. “Here, Jessie, speak to the doctor. He was
poor dear papa’s friend,” and something which was intended as a sigh of
regret for “poor, dear papa,” escaped Agnes Remington’s lips as she
pushed a little curly-haired girl toward Dr. Holbrook.

Mrs. Conner, the lady of the house, had seen them by this time, and came
running down the walk to meet her distinguished visitor, wondering a
little to what she was indebted for this call from one who, since her
marriage with the aristocratic Dr. Remington, had somewhat ignored her
former acquaintances. Agnes was delighted to see her, and as Guy
declined entering the cottage just then, the two friends disappeared
within the door, while the doctor and Guy repaired to the office, the
latter sitting down in the chair intended for Madeline Clyde. This
reminded the doctor of his perplexity, and also brought the comforting
thought that Guy, who had never failed him yet, could surely offer some
suggestions. But he would not speak of it just now, he had other matters
to talk about; and so, jamming his pen-knife into a pine table covered
with similar jams, he said, “Agnes, it seems, has come to Aikenside,
notwithstanding she declared she never would, when she found that the
whole of the Remington property belonged to your mother, and not your
father.”

“Oh, yes. She recovered from her pique as soon as I settled a handsome
little income on Jessie, and, in fact, on her too, until she is foolish
enough to marry again, when it will cease, of course, as I do not feel
it my duty to support any man’s wife, unless it be my own,” was Guy
Remington’s reply; whereupon the pen-knife went again into the table,
and this time with so much force that the point was broken off; but the
doctor did not mind it, and with the jagged end continued to make jagged
marks, while he said: “She’ll hardly marry again, though she may. She’s
young—not over twenty-six—”

“Thirty, if the family Bible does not lie,” said Guy; “but she’d never
forgive me if she knew I told you that. So let it pass that she’s
twenty-eight. She certainly is not more than two years your senior, a
mere nothing, if you wish to make her Mrs. Holbrook;” and Guy’s dark
eyes scanned curiously the doctor’s face, as if seeking there for the
secret of his proud young step-mother’s anxiety to visit plain Mrs.
Conner the moment she heard that Dr. Holbrook was her boarder. But the
doctor only laughed merrily at the idea of his being father to Guy, who
was his college chum and long-tried friend.

Agnes Remington, who was reclining languidly in Mrs. Conner’s
easy-chair, and overwhelming her former friend with descriptions of the
gay parties she had attended in Boston, and the fine sights she saw in
Europe, whither her gray-haired husband had taken her for a wedding
tour—would not have felt particularly flattered, could she have seen
that smile, or heard how easily, from talking of her, Dr. Holbrook
turned to Madeline Clyde, whom he expected every moment. There was a
merry laugh on Guy’s part, as he listened to the doctor’s story; and
when it was finished, he said: “Why, I see nothing so very distasteful
in examining a pretty girl, and puzzling her, to see her blush. I half
wish I were in your place. I should enjoy the novelty of the thing.”

“Oh, take it, then; take my place, Guy,” the doctor exclaimed, eagerly.
“She does not know me from Adam. She never saw me in her life. Here are
books, all you will need. You went to a district school a whole week
that summer when you were staying in the country, with your grandmother.
You surely have some idea what they do there, while I have not the
slightest. Will you, Guy?” he persisted more earnestly, as he heard
wheels in the street, and was sure old Sorrel had come again.

Guy Remington liked anything savoring of a frolic, but in his mind there
were certain conscientious scruples touching the justice of the thing,
and so at first he demurred; while the doctor still insisted, until at
last he laughingly consented to _commence_ the examination, provided the
doctor would sit by, and occasionally come to his aid.

“You must write the certificate, of course,” he said, “testifying that
she is qualified to teach.”

“Yes, certainly, Guy, if she is; but maybe she won’t be, and my orders
are, to be strict—very strict at first, and cut one or two. You have no
idea what a row the town is in.”

“How did the girl look?” Guy asked, and the doctor replied: “Saw nothing
but her bonnet and a blue ribbon. Came in a queer old go-giggle of a
wagon, such as your country farmers drive. There was an old man with her
in a camlet cloak. Guess she won’t be likely to impress either of us,
particularly as I am bullet-proof, and you have been engaged for years.
By the way, when do you cross the sea again for the fair Lucy? Rumor
says, this summer.”

“Rumor is wrong, as usual, then,” was Guy’s reply, a soft light stealing
into his handsome eyes. Then, after a moment, he added: “Miss
Atherstone’s health is far too delicate for her to incur the risk of a
climate like ours. If she were here I should be glad, for it is terribly
lonely up at Aikenside, and I must stay there, you know. It would be a
shame to let the place run down.”

“And do you really think a wife would make it pleasanter?” Dr. Holbrook
asked, the tone of his voice indicating a little doubt as to a man’s
being happier for having a helpmate to share his joys and sorrows.

But no such doubts dwelt in the mind of Guy Remington. Eminently fitted
for domestic happiness, he looked forward anxiously to the time when
Lucy Atherstone, the fair English girl to whom he had become engaged
when he visited Europe, four years ago, should be strong enough to bear
transplanting to American soil. Twice since his engagement he had
visited her, finding her always loving and sweet, but never quite ready
to come with him to his home in America. He must wait a little longer;
and he was waiting, satisfied that the girl was worth the sacrifice, as
indeed she was, for a fairer, sweeter flower never bloomed than Lucy
Atherstone, his affianced bride. Guy loved to think of her, and as the
doctor’s remarks brought her to his mind, he went off into a reverie
concerning her, becoming so lost in thought, that until the doctor’s
hand was laid upon his shoulder, by way of rousing him, he did not see
that what his friend had designated as a _go-giggle_ was stopping in
front of the office, and that from it a young lady was alighting.

Naturally polite, Guy’s first impulse was to go to her assistance, but
she did not need it, as was proven by the light spring with which she
reached the ground. The white-haired man was with her again, but he
evidently did not intend to stop, and a close observer might have
detected a shade of sadness and anxiety upon his face as Madeline called
cheerily out to him, “Good-bye, grandpa. Don’t fear for me, and I hope
you will have good luck;” then, as he drove away, she ran a step after
him and said, “Don’t look so sorry, please, for if Mr. Remington won’t
let you have the money, there’s my pony, Beauty. I am willing to give
him up.”

“Never, Maddy. It’s all the little fortin’ you’ve got. I’ll let the old
place go first;” and chirruping to Sorrel, the old man drove on, while
Madeline walked, with a beating heart, to the office door where she
knocked timidly.

Glancing involuntarily at each other, the young men exchanged meaning
smiles, while the doctor whispered softly, “Verdant—that’s sure.”

As Guy sat nearest the door, it was he who opened it, while Madeline
came in, her soft brown eyes glistening with something like a tear, and
her cheeks burning with excitement as she took the chair indicated by
Guy Remington, who unconsciously found himself master of ceremonies, and
whom she naturally mistook for Dr. Holbrook, whom she had never seen.




                              CHAPTER II.
                            MADELINE CLYDE.


Maddy, her grandfather and grandmother called her, and there was a world
of unutterable tenderness in the voices of the old couple when they
spoke that name, while their dim eyes lighted up with pride and joy
whenever they rested upon the young girl who made the sunlight of their
home. She was the child of their only daughter, and had lived with them
since her mother’s death, for her father was a sea captain, who never
returned from his last voyage to China, made two months before she was
born.

For forty years the aged couple had lived in the old red farm-house,
tilling the barren soil of the rocky homestead, and, save on the sad
night when they heard that Richard Clyde was lost at sea, and the far
sadder morning when their daughter died, they had been tolerably free
from sorrow; and, truly thankful for the blessings so long vouchsafed
them, they had retired each night in peace with God and man, and risen
each morning to pray. But a change was coming over them. In an evil hour
Grandpa Markham had signed a note for a neighbor and friend, who failed
to pay, and so it all fell upon Mr. Markham, who, to meet the demand,
had been compelled to mortgage his homestead; the recreant neighbor
still insisting that long before the mortgage was due he should be able
himself to meet it. This, however, he had not done, and, after twice
begging off a foreclosure, poor old Grandfather Markham found himself at
the mercy of a grasping, remorseless man, into whose hands the mortgage
had passed. It was vain to hope for mercy from a man like Silas Slocum.
The money must either be forthcoming, or the red farm-house be sold,
with its few acres of land; and as among his neighbors there was not one
who had the money to spare, even if they had been willing to do so, he
must look for it among strangers.

“If I could only help,” Madeline said one evening when they sat talking
over their troubles; “but there’s nothing I can do, unless I apply for
our school this summer. Mr. Green is the committee-man; he likes us, and
I don’t believe but what he’ll let me have it. I mean to go and see;”
and, before the old people had recovered from their astonishment,
Madeline had caught her bonnet and shawl and was flying down the road.

Madeline was a favorite with all, especially with Mr. Green, and as the
school would be small that summer, the plan struck him favorably. Her
age, however, was an objection, and he must take time to inquire what
others thought of a child like her becoming a school-mistress. The
people thought well of it, and before the close of the next day it was
generally known through Honedale, as the southern part of Devonshire was
called, that pretty little Maddy Clyde had been engaged as teacher, and
was to receive three dollars a week, with the understanding that she
must board herself. It did not take Madeline long to calculate that
twelve times three dollars were thirty-six dollars, more than a tenth of
what her grandfather must borrow. It seemed like a little fortune, and
blithe as a singing bird she flitted about the house, now stopping a
moment to fondle her pet kitten, while she whispered the good news in
its very appreciative ear, and then stroking her grandfather’s silvery
hair, as she said:

“You can tell them that you are sure of paying thirty-six dollars in the
fall, and if I do well, maybe they’ll hire me longer. I mean to try my
very best. I wonder if ever anybody before me taught a school when they
were only fourteen and a half. Do I look as young as that?” and for an
instant the bright, childish face scanned itself eagerly in the
old-fashioned mirror, with the figure of an eagle on the top.

She _did_ look very young, and yet there was something womanly too in
the expression of the face, something which said that life’s realities
were already beginning to be understood by her.

“If my hair were not short I should do better. What a pity I cut it the
last time. It would have been so long and splendid now,” she continued,
giving a kind of contemptuous pull at the thick, beautiful brown hair,
on which there was in certain lights a reddish tinge, which added to its
richness and beauty.

“Never mind the hair, Maddy,” the old man said, gazing fondly at her
with a half sigh as he remembered another brown head, pillowed now
beneath the graveyard-turf. “Maybe you won’t pass muster, and then the
hair will make no differ. There’s a new committee-man, that Dr.
Holbrook, from Boston, and new ones are apt to be mighty strict, and
especially young ones like him. They say he is mighty larned, and can
speak in furrin tongues.”

Instantly Maddy’s face flushed with nervous dread, as she thought, “What
if I should fail?” fancying that to do so would be an eternal disgrace.
But she should not fail. She was called by everybody the very best
scholar in the Honedale school, the one whom the teachers always put
forward when desirous of showing off, the one whom Mr. Tiverton, and
Squire Lamb, and Lawyer Whittemore always noticed and praised so much.
Of course she should not fail, though she _did_ dread Dr. Holbrook,
wondering much what he would ask her first, and hoping it would be
something in arithmetic, provided he did not stumble upon decimals,
where she was apt to get bewildered. She had no fears of grammar. She
could pick out the most obscure sentence and dissect a double relative
with perfect ease; then, as to geography, she could repeat whole pages
of that; while in the spelling-book, the foundation of a thorough
education, as she had been taught, she had no superiors, and but few
equals. Still, she would be very glad when it was over, and she
appointed Monday, both because it was close at hand, and because that
was the day her grandfather had set in which to ride to Aikenside, in an
adjoining town, and ask its young master for the loan of three hundred
dollars.

He could hardly tell why he had thought of applying to Guy Remington for
help, unless it were that he once had saved the life of Guy’s father,
who, as long as he lived, had evinced a great regard for his benefactor,
frequently asserting that he meant to do something for him. But the
something was never done, the father was dead, and in his strait the old
man turned to the son, whom he knew to be very rich, and who, he had
been told, was exceedingly generous.

“How I wish I could go with you clear up to Aikenside! They say it’s so
beautiful,” Madeline had said, as on Saturday evening they sat
discussing the expected events of the following Monday. “Mrs. Noah, the
housekeeper, had Sarah Jones there once, to sew, and she told me all
about it. There are graveled walks, and nice green lawns, and big, tall
trees, and flowers—oh! so many!—and marble fountains, with gold fishes
in the basin; and statues, big as folks, all over the yard, with two
brass lions on the gate-posts. But the house is finest of all. There’s a
drawing-room bigger than a ball-room, with carpets that let your feet
sink in so far; pictures and mirrors clear to the floor—think of that,
grandpa! a looking-glass so tall that one can see the very bottom of her
dress and know just how it hangs. Oh, I do so wish I could have a peep
at it! There are two in one room, and the windows are like doors, with
lace curtains; but what is queerest of all, the chairs and sofas are
covered with real silk, just like that funny gored gown of grandma’s up
in the oak chest. Dear me! I wonder if I’ll ever live in such a place as
Aikenside?”

“No, no, Maddy, no. Be satisfied with the lot where God has put you, and
don’t be longing after something higher. Our Father in Heaven knows just
what is best for us; as He didn’t see fit to put you up at Aikenside,
’tain’t no ways likely you’ll ever live in the like of it.”

“Not unless I should happen to marry a rich man. Poor girls like me have
sometimes done that, haven’t they?” was Maddy’s demure reply.

Grandpa Markham shook his head.

“They have, but it’s mostly their ruination; so don’t build castles in
the air about this Guy Remington.”

“_Me!_ oh, grandpa, I never dreamed of Mr. Guy!” and Madeline blushed
half indignantly. “He’s too rich, too aristocratic, though Sarah said he
didn’t act one bit proud, and is so pleasant that the servants all
worship him, and Mrs. Noah thinks him good enough for the Queen of
England. I shall think so, too, if he lets you have the money. How I
wish it was Monday night, so we could know for sure!”

“Perhaps we both shall be terribly disappointed,” suggested grandpa, but
Maddy was more hopeful.

_She_, at least, should not fail; while what she had heard of Guy
Remington, the master of Aikenside, made her believe that he would
accede at once to her grandfather’s request.

All that night in her dreams she was working to pay the debt, giving the
money herself into the hands of Guy Remington, whom she had never seen,
but who came up before her the tall, handsome-looking man she had so
often heard described by Sarah Jones after her return from Aikenside,
where she had once done some plain sewing for the housekeeper. Even the
next day, when, by her grandparent’s side, Maddy knelt reverently in the
small church at Honedale, her thoughts were more intent upon the
to-morrow and Aikenside than the sacred words her lips were uttering.
She knew it was wrong, and with a nervous start tried to bring her mind
back from decimal fractions to what the minister was saying; but Maddy
was mortal, and right in the midst of the Collect, Aikenside and its
owner would rise before her, together with the wonder how she and her
grandfather would feel one week from that day. Would the desired
certificate be hers? or would she be disgraced forever and ever by a
rejection? Would the mortgage be paid and her grandfather at ease, or
would his heart be breaking with the knowing he must leave what had been
his home for so many years?

But no such thoughts troubled the aged disciple beside her—the good old
man, whose white locks swept the large-lettered book over which his
wrinkled face was bent, as he joined in the responses, or said the
prayers whose words had so soothing an influence upon him, carrying his
thoughts upward to the house not made with hands, which he felt assured
would one day be his. Once or twice, it is true, the possibility of
losing the dear old red cottage flitted across his mind with a keen,
sudden pang, but he put it quickly aside, remembering at the same
instant how the Father he loved doeth all things well to such as are his
children. Grandpa Markham was old in the Christian course, while Maddy
could hardly be said to have commenced it as yet, and so to her that
April Sunday was long and wearisome. How she did wish she might just
look over the geography, by way of refreshing her memory, and see
exactly how the rule for extracting the cubic root did read, but Maddy
forbore, and read only the Pilgrim’s Progress, the Bible, and the book
brought from the Sunday-school, vainly imagining that by so doing she
was earning the good she so much desired.

With the earliest dawn of day she was up, and her grandmother heard her
repeating to herself much of what she fancied Dr. Holbrook might
question her upon. Even when bending over the wash-tub, for there were
no servants at the red cottage, a book was arranged before her so that
she could study with her eyes, while her fat hands and dimpled arms were
busy in the suds. Before ten o’clock everything was done, the clothes,
white as snow-drops in the garden beds, were swinging upon the line, the
kitchen floor was scrubbed, the windows washed, the best room swept, the
vegetables cleaned for dinner, and then Maddy’s work was finished.
Grandma could do all the rest, and Madeline was free to pore over her
books until called to dinner; she could not eat so great was her
excitement.

Swiftly the hours flew until it was time to be getting ready, when again
the short hair was deplored, as before her looking-glass Madeline
brushed and arranged her shining, beautiful locks. Would Dr. Holbrook
think of her age? Suppose he should ask it. But no, he wouldn’t. Only
census-takers did that. If Mr. Green thought her old enough, surely it
was not a matter with which the doctor need trouble himself; and,
somewhat at ease on that point, Madeline donned her longest frock, and,
standing on a chair, tried to discover how much of her pantalet was
visible.

“I could see splendidly in Mr. Remington’s mirrors. Sarah Jones says
they come to the floor,” she said to herself, with a half sigh of regret
that her lot had not been cast in some such place as Aikenside, instead
of there beneath the hill in that wee bit of a cottage, whose roof
slanted back until it almost touched the ground. “After all, I guess I’m
happier here,” she thought. “Everybody likes me, while if I were Mr.
Guy’s sister and lived at Aikenside, I might be proud and wicked, and——”

She did not finish the sentence, but somehow the story of Dives and
Lazarus, read by her grandfather that morning, recurred to her mind, and
feeling how much rather she would rest in Abraham’s bosom than share the
fate of him who once was clothed in purple and fine linen, she pinned on
her little neat plaid shawl, and, tying the blue ribbons of her coarse
straw hat under her chin, glanced once more at the rule for the
formidable cube root, and then hurried down to where her grandfather and
old Sorrel were waiting for her.

“I shall be so happy when I come back, because it will then be over,
just like having a tooth out, you know,” she said to her grandmother,
who bent down for the good-bye kiss, without which Maddy never left her.
“Now, grandpa, drive on; I was to be there at three,” and chirruping
herself to Sorrel, the impatient Maddy went riding from the cottage
door, chatting cheerily until the village of Devonshire was reached;
then, with a farewell to her grandfather, who never dreamed that the man
he was seeking was so near, she tripped up the walk, and soon stood in
the presence of not only Dr. Holbrook, but also of Guy Remington.




                              CHAPTER III.
                            THE EXAMINATION.


It was Guy who received her, Guy who pointed to a chair, Guy who seemed
perfectly at home, and, naturally enough she took him for Dr. Holbrook,
wondering who the other black-haired man could be, and if he meant to
stay in there all the while. It would be very dreadful if he did, and in
her agitation and excitement the cube root was in danger of being
altogether forgotten. Half guessing the cause of her uneasiness, and
feeling more averse than ever to taking part in the matter, the doctor,
after a hasty survey of her person, withdrew into the background, and
sat where he could not be seen. This brought the short dress into full
view, together with the dainty little foot nervously beating the floor.

“She’s very young,” he thought; “too young, by far;” and Maddy’s chances
of success were beginning to decline even before a word had been spoken.

How terribly still it was for the time during which telegraphic
communications were silently passing between Guy and the doctor, the
latter shaking his head decidedly, while the former insisted that he
should do his duty. Madeline could almost hear the beatings of her
heart, and only by counting and recounting the poplar trees growing
across the street could she keep back the tears. What was he waiting
for, she wondered, and, at last, summoning all her courage, she lifted
her great brown eyes to Guy, and said, pleadingly:

“Would you be so kind, sir, as to begin? I am afraid I shall forget.”

“Yes, certainly,” and electrified by that young, bird-like voice, the
sweetest save one he had ever heard, Guy took from the pile of books
which the doctor had arranged upon the table, the only one at all
appropriate to the occasion, the others being as far beyond what was
taught in district schools as his classical education was beyond
Madeline’s common one.

When a boy of ten, or thereabouts, Guy had spent a part of a summer with
his grandmother in the country, and for a week had attended a district
school. But he was so utterly regardless of rules and restrictions,
talking aloud and walking about whenever the fancy took him, that he was
ignominiously dismissed at the end of the week, and that was all the
experience he had ever had in the kind of school Madeline was to teach.
But even this helped him a little, for remembering that the teacher in
Farmingham had commenced her operations by sharpening a lead pencil, so
he now sharpened a similar one, determining as far as he could to follow
Miss Burr’s example. Maddy counted every fragment as it fell upon the
floor, wishing so much that he would commence, and fancying that it
would not be half so bad to have him approach her with some one of the
terrible dental instruments lying before her, as it was to sit and wait
as she was waiting. Had Guy Remington reflected a little, he would never
have consented to do the doctor’s work; but, unaccustomed to country
usages, especially those pertaining to schools and teachers, he did not
consider that it mattered in the least which examined that young girl,
Dr. Holbrook or himself. Viewing it somewhat in the light of a joke, he
rather enjoyed it; and as the Farmingham teacher had first asked her
pupils their names and ages, so he, when the pencil was sharpened
sufficiently, startled Madeline by asking her name.

“Madeline Amelia Clyde,” was the meek reply, which Guy recorded with a
flourish.

Now, Guy Remington intended no irreverence; indeed, he could not tell
what he did intend, or what it was which prompted his next query:

“Who gave you this name?”

Perhaps he fancied himself a boy again in the Sunday-school, and
standing before the railing of the altar, where, with others of his age,
he had been asked the question propounded to Madeline Clyde, who did not
hear the doctor’s smothered laugh as he retreated into the adjoining
room.

In all her preconceived ideas of this examination, she had never dreamed
of being _catechised_, and with a feeling of terror as she thought of
that long answer to the question, “What is thy duty to thy neighbor?”
and doubted her ability to repeat it, she said, “My sponsors, in
baptism, gave me the first name of Madeline Amelia, sir,” adding, as she
caught and misconstrued the strange gleam in the dark eyes bent upon
her, “I am afraid I have forgotten some of the catechism; I knew it
once, but I did not know it was necessary in order to teach school.”

“Certainly, no; I do not think it is. I beg your pardon,” were Guy
Remington’s ejaculatory replies, as he glanced from Madeline to the open
door of the adjoining room, where was visible a _slate_, on which, in
large letters, the amused doctor had written “Blockhead.”

There was something in Madeline’s quiet, womanly, earnest manner which
commanded Guy’s respect, or he would have given vent to the laughter
which was choking him, and thrown off his disguise. But he could not
bear now to undeceive her, and resolutely turning his back upon the
doctor, he sat down by the pile of books and commenced the examination
in earnest, asking first her age.

“Going on fifteen,” sounded older to Madeline than “fourteen and a
half,” so “Going on fifteen,” was her reply, to which Guy responded,
“That is very young, Miss Clyde.”

“Yes, but Mr. Green did not mind. He’s the committee-man. He knew how
young I was. He did not care,” Madeline said, eagerly, her great brown
eyes growing large with the look of fear which came so suddenly into
them.

Guy noticed the eyes then, and thought them very bright and handsome for
brown, but not as handsome as if they had been blue, for Lucy
Atherstone’s were blue; and as he thought of her he was glad she was not
obliged to sit there in that doctor’s office, and be questioned by him
or any other man. “Of course, of course,” he said, “if your employers
are satisfied it is nothing to me, only I had associated teaching with
women much older than yourself. What is logic, Miss Clyde?”

The abruptness with which he put the question startled Madeline to such
a degree that she could not positively tell whether she had ever heard
that word before, much less could she recall its meaning, and so she
answered frankly, “I don’t know.”

A girl who did not know what logic was did not know much, in Guy’s
estimation, but it would not do to stop here, and so he asked her next
how many cases there were in Latin!

Maddy felt the hot blood tingling to her very finger tips, for the
examination had taken a course widely different from her ideas of what
it would probably be. She had never looked inside a Latin grammar, and
again her truthful “I don’t know, sir,” fell on Guy’s ear, but this time
there was a half despairing tone in the young voice, usually so hopeful.

“Perhaps then you can conjugate the verb _amo_,” Guy said, his manner
indicating the doubt he was beginning to feel as to her qualifications.

Maddy knew what _conjugate_ meant, but that verb _amo_, what could it
mean? and had she ever heard it before? Mr. Remington was waiting for
her, she _must_ say something, and with a gasp she began: “_I amo, thou
amoest, he amoes. Plural: We amo, ye or you amo, they amo._”

Guy looked at her aghast for a single moment, and then a comical smile
broke all over his face, telling poor Maddy plainer than words could
have done, that she had made a most ridiculous mistake.

“Oh, sir,” she cried, her eyes wearing the look of the frightened hare,
“it is not right. I don’t know what it means. Tell me, teach me. What
does _amo_ mean?”

To most men it would not have seemed a very disagreeable task, teaching
young Madeline Clyde what _amo_ meant, and some such idea flitted across
Guy’s mind, as he thought how pretty and bright was the eager face
upturned to his, the pure white forehead, suffused with a faint flush,
the cheeks a crimson hue, and the pale lips parted slightly as Maddy
appealed to him for the definition of _amo_.

“It is a Latin verb, and means to _love_,” Guy said, with an emphasis on
the last word, which would have made Maddy blush had she been less
anxious and frightened.

Thus far she had answered nothing correctly, and feeling puzzled to know
how to proceed, Guy stepped into the adjoining room to consult with the
doctor, but he was gone. So returning again to Madeline, Guy resumed the
examination by asking her how “_minus_ into _minus_ could produce
_plus_.”

Again Maddy was at fault, and her low-spoken “I don’t know” sounded like
a wail of despair. Did she know anything? Guy wondered, and feeling some
curiosity now to ascertain that fact, he plied her with questions
philosophical, questions algebraical, and questions geometrical, until
in an agony of distress Maddy raised her hands deprecatingly, as if she
would ward off any similar questions, and sobbed out:

“Oh, sir, no more of this. It makes my head so dizzy. They don’t teach
that in common schools. Ask me something I do know.”

Suddenly it occurred to Guy that he had gone entirely wrong, and
mentally cursing himself for the blockhead the doctor had called him, he
asked, kindly:

“What do they teach? Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

“Geography, arithmetic, grammar, history, and spelling-book,” Madeline
replied, untying and throwing off her bonnet, in the vain hope that it
might bring relief to her poor, giddy head, which throbbed so fearfully
that all her ideas seemed for the time to have left her.

This was a natural consequence of the high excitement under which she
was laboring, and so, when Guy did ask her concerning the books
designated, she answered but little better than before, and he was
wondering what he should do next, when the doctor’s welcome step was
heard, and leaving Madeline again, he repaired to the next room to
report his ill success.

“She does not seem to know anything. The veriest child ought to do
better than she has done. Why, she has scarcely answered half a dozen
questions correctly.”

This was what poor Maddy heard, though it was spoken in a low whisper;
but every word was distinctly understood, and burned into her heart’s
core, drying her tears and hardening her into a block of marble. She
knew that Guy had not done her justice, and this helped to increase the
torpor stealing over her. Still she did not lose a syllable of what was
said in the back office, and her lip curled scornfully when she heard
Guy remark, “I pity her; she is so young, and evidently takes it so
hard. Maybe she’s as good as they average. Suppose we give her the
certificate, anyway?”

Then Dr. Holbrook spoke, but to poor, bewildered Maddy his words were
all a riddle. It was nothing to _him_, whether she knew anything or
not,—who was _he_ that he should be dictating thus? There seemed to be a
difference of opinion between the young men, Guy insisting that out of
pity she should not be rejected; and the doctor demurring on the ground
that he ought to be more strict, especially with the _first_ one. As
usual, Guy overruled, and seating himself at the table, the doctor was
just commencing, “I hereby certify——” while Guy was bending over him,
when the latter was startled by a hand laid firmly on his arm, and,
turning quickly, he confronted Madeline Clyde, who, with her short hair
pushed back from her blue-veined forehead, her face as pale as ashes,
save where a round spot of purplish red burned upon her cheeks, and her
eyes gleaming like coals of fire, stood before him.

“He need not write that,” she said, huskily, pointing to the doctor. “It
would be a lie, and I could not take it. You do not think me qualified.
I heard you say so. I do not want to be pitied. I do not want a
certificate because I am so young, and you think I’ll feel badly. I do
not want——”

Here her voice failed her, her bosom heaved, and the choking sobs came
thick and fast, but still she shed no tear, and in her bright, dry eyes
there was a look which made both those young men turn away
involuntarily. Once Guy tried to excuse her failure, saying she no doubt
was frightened. She would probably do better again, and might as well
accept the certificate; but Madeline still said no, so decidedly that
further remonstrance was useless. “She would not take what she had no
right to,” she said, “but if they pleased she would wait there in the
back office until her grandfather came back; it would not be long, and
she should not trouble them.”

Guy brought her the easy-chair from the front room and placed it for her
by the window. With a faint smile she thanked him and said: “You are
very kind,” but the smile hurt Guy cruelly, it was so sad, so full of
unintentional reproach, while the eyes she lifted to his looked so
grieved and weary that he insensibly murmured to himself, “Poor child!”
as he left her, and with the doctor repaired to the house, where Agnes
was impatiently waiting for them, and where, in the light badinage which
followed, they forgot poor little Maddy.

It was the first keen disappointment she had ever known, and it crushed
her as completely as many an older person has been crushed by heavier
calamities.

“Disgraced forever and ever,” she kept repeating to herself, as she
tried to shake off the horrid nightmare stealing over her. “How can I
hold up my head again at home, where nobody will understand just how it
was, except grandpa and grandma? The people will say I do not know
anything, and I _do_! I _do_! Oh, grandpa, I can’t earn that thirty-six
dollars now. I most wish I was dead, and I am—I am dying.
Somebody—come—quick!”

There was a low cry for help, succeeded by a fall, and while in Mrs.
Conner’s parlor Guy Remington and Dr. Holbrook were chatting gayly with
Agnes, Madeline was lying upon the office floor, white and insensible.

Little Jessie Remington, tired of sitting still and listening to what
her mamma and Mrs. Conner were saying, had strayed off into the garden,
and after filling her hands with daffodils and early violets, made her
way at last to the office, the door of which was partially open. Peering
curiously in she saw the crumpled bonnet, with its ribbons of blue, and
attracted by this advanced into the room, until she came where Madeline
was lying. With a feeling that something was wrong, Jessie bent over the
girl, asking if she were asleep, while she lifted the long, fringed
lashes drooping on the colorless cheek. The dull, dead expression of the
eyes sent a chill through Jessie’s heart, and hurrying to the house she
cried, “Oh, brother Guy, somebody’s dead in the office, and her bonnet
is all jammed!”

Scarcely were the words uttered before Guy and the doctor both were with
Madeline, the former holding her in his arms, while he smoothed the
short hair, thinking how soft and luxuriant it was, and how fair was the
face which never moved a muscle beneath his scrutiny. The doctor was
wholly self-possessed; Maddy had no terrors for him now. She needed his
services, and he rendered them willingly, applying restoratives which
soon brought back signs of life in the rigid form. With a shiver and a
moan Madeline whispered, “Oh, grandma, I’m so tired, and so sorry, but I
could not help it. I forgot everything.”

By this time Mrs. Conner and Agnes had come into the office, asking in
much surprise who the stranger was, and what was the cause of her
illness. As if there had been a previous understanding between them, the
doctor and Guy were silent with regard to the recent farce enacted
between them, and simply said it was some one who had come for medical
advice, and it was possible she was in the habit of fainting; many
people were. Very daintily, Agnes held back the skirt of her rich silk
as if fearful that it might come in contact with Madeline’s plain
delaine; then, as the scene was not very interesting, she returned to
the house, bidding Jessie do the same. But Jessie refused, choosing to
stay by Madeline, who by this time had been placed upon the comfortable
lounge, where she preferred to remain rather than be taken to the house,
as Guy proposed.

“I’m better now, much better,” she said. “Leave me, please. I’d rather
be alone.”

So they left her with Jessie, who, fascinated by the sweet young face,
knelt by the lounge, and, laying her curly head caressingly against
Madeline’s arm, aid to her, “Poor girl, you’re sick, and I’m so sorry.
What makes you sick?”

There was genuine sympathy in that little voice, and with a cry as of
sudden pain, Maddy clasped the child in her arms and burst into a wild
fit of weeping, which did her a great deal of good. Forgetting that
Jessie could not understand, and feeling it a relief to tell her grief
to some one, she said, in reply to Jessie’s repeated inquiries as to
what was the matter, “I did not get a certificate, and I wanted it so
much, for we are poor, and our house is mortgaged, and I was going to
help grandpa pay it; and now I never can, and the house must be sold.”

“It’s dreadful to be poor!” sighed little Jessie, as her fingers
threaded the soft, nut-brown hair resting in her lap, where Maddy had
laid her aching head.

Maddy did not know who this beautiful child was, but her sympathy was
very sweet, and they talked together confidingly, as children will,
until Mrs. Agnes’ voice was heard calling to her little girl that it was
time to go.

“I love you, Maddy, and I mean to tell brother Guy all about it,” Jessie
said, as she wound her arms round Madeline’s neck and kissed her at
parting.

It never occurred to Maddy to ask her name, she felt so stupefied and
bewildered, and with a responsive kiss she sent her away. Then leaning
her head upon the table, she forgot everything but her own wretchedness,
and so did not see the gayly-dressed, haughty-looking lady who swept
past the door, accompanied by Guy and Dr. Holbrook. Neither did she
hear, or notice, if she did, the hum of their voices, as they talked
together for a moment, Agnes asking the doctor very prettily to come up
to Aikenside while she was there, and enliven her a little. Engaged
young men like Guy were so stupid, she said, as with a merry laugh she
sprang into the carriage; and, bowing gracefully to the doctor, was
driven rapidly toward Aikenside.

Rather slowly the doctor returned to the office, and after fidgeting for
a time among the powders and phials, summoned courage to ask Madeline
how she felt, and if any of the fainting symptoms had returned.

“No, sir,” was all the reply she gave him, never lifting up her head, or
even thinking which of the two young men it was speaking to her.

There was a call just then for Dr. Holbrook; and leaving his office in
charge of Tom, he went away, feeling slightly uncomfortable whenever he
thought of the girl, to whom he knew that justice had not been done.

“I half wish I had examined her myself,” he said. “Of course she was
excited, and could not answer; beside, hanged if I don’t believe it was
all humbug tormenting her with Greek and Latin and logic. Guy is such a
stupid; I’ll question her myself when I get back, and if she’ll possibly
pass, give her the certificate. Poor child! how white she was, and what
a queer look there was in those great eyes, when she said, ‘I shall not
take it.’”

Never in his life before had Dr. Holbrook been as much interested in any
woman who was not sick as he was in Madeline, and determining to make
his call on Mrs. Briggs as brief as possible, he alighted at her gate,
and knocked impatiently at her door. He found her pretty sick, while
both her children needed a prescription, and he was detained so long
that his heart misgave him on his homeward route, lest Maddy should be
gone, and with her the chance to remedy the wrong he might have done
her.

Maddy was gone, and the wheel-ruts of the square-boxed wagon were fresh
before the door when he came back. Grandpa Markham had returned, and
Madeline, who recognized old Sorrel’s step, had gathered her shawl
around her, and gone sadly out to meet him. One look at her face was
sufficient.

“You failed, Maddy?” the old man said, fixing about her feet the warm
buffalo robe, for the night wind was blowing cool.

“Yes, grandpa, I failed.”

They were out of the village and more than a mile on their way home
before Madeline found voice to say so much, and they were nearer home by
half a mile before the old man answered back:

“And, Maddy, I failed, too.”




                              CHAPTER IV.
                            GRANDPA MARKHAM.


Mrs. Noah, the housekeeper, at Aikenside, was slicing vegetable oysters
for the nice little dish intended for her own supper, when the head of
Sorrel came around the corner of the building, followed by the
square-boxed wagon, containing Grandpa Markham, who, bewildered by the
beauty and spaciousness of the grounds, and wholly uncertain as to where
he ought to stop, had driven over the smooth-gravelled road round to the
side kitchen door, Mrs. Noah’s special domain, and as sacred to her as
Betsey Trotwood’s patch of green.

“In the name of wonder, what codger is that? and what is he doing here?”
was Mrs. Noah’s exclamation, as she dropped the bit of salsify she was
scraping, and hurrying to the door, she called out, “I say, you, sir,
what made you drive up here, when I’ve said over and over again, that I
wouldn’t have wheels tearing up my turf and gravel?”

“I—I beg your pardon. I lost my way, I guess, there was so many
turnin’s. I’m sorry, but a little rain will fetch it right,” grandpa
said, glancing ruefully at the ruts in the gravel and the marks on the
turf.

Mrs. Noah was not at heart an unkind woman, and something in the
benignant expression of the old man’s face, or in the apologetic tone of
his voice, mollified her somewhat, and without further comment she stood
waiting for his next remark. It was a most unfortunate one, for though
as free from weaknesses as most of her sex, Mrs. Noah was terribly
sensitive as to her age, and the same census-taker would never venture
twice within her precincts. Glancing at her dress, which this afternoon
was much smarter than usual, grandpa thought she could not be a servant;
and as she seemed to have a right to say where he should drive and where
he should not, the meek old man concluded she was a near relation of
Guy—mother, perhaps; but no, Guy’s mother was dead, as grandpa well
knew, for all Devonshire had heard of the young bride Agnes, who had
married Guy’s father for money and rank. To have been mistaken for Guy’s
mother would not have offended Mrs. Noah particularly; but she was
fearfully shocked when Grandpa Markham said:

“I come on business with Squire Guy. Are you his gran’marm?”

“His gran’marm!” screamed Mrs. Noah fearfully. “Bless you, man, Squire
Guy, as you call him, is twenty-five years old.”

As Grandpa Markham was rather blind he failed to see the point, but knew
that in some way he had given offense.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I was sure you was some kin—maybe an _a’nt_.”

No, she was not even that, but, willing enough to let the old man
believe her a Remington—she did not explain that she was only the
housekeeper—but she simply said:

“If it’s Mr. Guy you want, I can tell you he is not at home, which will
save you getting out.”

“Not at home, and I’ve come so far to see him!” grandpa exclaimed, and
in his voice there was so much genuine disappointment that Mrs. Noah
rejoined quite kindly:

“He’s gone over to Devonshire with the young lady, his step-mother.
Perhaps you might tell your business to me; I know all Mr. Guy’s
affairs.”

“If I might come in, ma’am, and warm me,” grandpa answered, meekly, as
through the open door he caught glimpses of a cheerful fire. “It’s
mighty chilly for such as me.”

He did look cold and blue, Mrs. Noah thought, and she bade him come in,
feeling a very little contempt for the old-fashioned camlet cloak in
which his feet became entangled, and smiling inwardly at the shrunken,
faded pantaloons, betokening poverty.

“As you know all Squire Guy’s affairs,” grandpa said, when he was seated
before the fire, “maybe you could tell whether he would be likely to
lend a stranger three hundred dollars, and that stranger me?”

Mrs. Noah stared at him aghast. Was he crazy, or did he mean to insult
her master? Evidently neither. He seemed as sane as herself, while no
one could associate an insult with him. He did not know anything. That
was the solution of his audacity, and pityingly, as she would have
addressed a half idiot, Mrs. Noah made him understand how impossible it
was for him to think her master would lend money to a stranger like him.

“You say he’s gone to Devonshire,” grandpa said, softly, with a quiver
on his lip, when she had finished. “I wish I’d knew it; I left my
granddarter there to be examined. Maybe I’ll meet him going back, and
can ask him.”

“I tell you it won’t be any use. Mr. Guy has no three hundred dollars to
throw away,” was Mrs. Noah’s sharp rejoinder.

“Wall, wall, we won’t quarrel about it,” the old man replied in his most
conciliatory manner, as he turned his head away to hide the starting
tear.

Grandfather Markham’s heart was very sore, and Mrs. Noah’s harshness
troubled him. He could not bear to think that she really was cross with
him; besides that, he wanted something to take to Maddy besides
disappointment, so by way of testing Mrs. Noah’s amiability and pleasing
Maddy too, he said as he arose, “I’m an old man, lady, old enough to be
your father.” Here Mrs. Noah’s face grew brighter, and she listened
attentively while he continued. “You won’t take what I say amiss, I’m
sure. I have a little girl at home, a grandchild, who has heard big
stories of the fine things at Aikenside. She has a hankerin’ after such
vanities, and it would please her mightily to have me tell her what I
saw up here, so maybe you wouldn’t mind lettin’ me go into that big room
where the silk fixin’s are and the tall lookin’ glass. I’ll take off my
shoes, if you say so.”

“Your shoes won’t hurt an atom; come right along,” Mrs. Noah replied,
now in the best of moods, for except her cup of green tea with raspberry
jam and cream, she enjoyed nothing more than showing her master’s
handsome house, in which she had lived so long that, in a way, she
considered it her own.

Conducting him through the wide hall, she ushered him into the
drawing-room, where for a time he stood perfectly bewildered. It was his
first introduction to rosewood, velvet, and brocatelle, and it seemed to
him as if he had suddenly been transported to fairy-land.

“Maddy would like this—it’s her nature,” he whispered, advancing a step
or two, and setting down his feet as softly as if stepping on eggs.

Happening to lift his eyes before one of the long mirrors, he spied
himself, wondering much what that “queer looking chap” was doing there
in the midst of such elegance, and why Mrs. Noah did not turn him out!
Then mentally asking forgiveness for this flash of pride, and determined
to make amends, he bowed low to the figure in the glass, which bowed as
low in return, but did not reply to the good-natured remark, “How d’ye
do—pretty well to-day?”

There was a familiar look about the cape of the camlet cloak worn by the
man in the glass, and Grandpa Markham’s face turned crimson as the truth
burst upon him.

“How ’shamed of me Maddy would be,” he thought, glancing sidewise at
Mrs. Noah, who had witnessed the blunder, and was now looking from the
window to hide her laughter.

Grandpa believed she did not see him, and comforted with that assurance
he began to remark upon the mirror, saying, “it made it appear as if
there was two of you,” a remark which Mrs. Noah fully appreciated. He
saw the silk chairs next, and slyly touched one to see if it did feel
like the gored, peach-blossom dress worn by his wife forty-two years ago
that very spring. Then he tried one of them, examined the rare ornaments
in the room and the grand piano, and came near bowing again to the
portrait of the first Mrs. Remington, which hung upon the wall.

“This will last Maddy a week. I thank you, ma’am. You have added some
considerable to the happiness of a young girl, who wouldn’t disgrace
even such a room as this,” he said, as he passed into the hall.

Mrs. Noah received his thanks graciously and led him to the yard, where
Sorrel stood waiting for him.

“Odd, but clever as the day is long,” was Mrs. Noah’s comment, as, after
seeing him safe out of the yard, she went back to her vegetable oysters,
which were in danger of being overdone.

Driving at a brisk trot through the grounds, Sorrel was soon out upon
the highway; and with spirits exhilarated by thoughts of going home, he
kept up the trot until, turning a sudden corner, his master saw the
carriage from Aikenside approaching at a rapid rate. The driver, Paul,
saw him too, but scorning to give half the road to such as Sorrel and
the square-boxed wagon, he kept steadily on, while Grandpa Markham,
determining to speak to Guy, reined his horse a little nearer, raising
his hand in token that the negro should stop. As a natural consequence,
the wheels of the two vehicles became interlocked, and as the powerful
grays were more than a match for Sorrel, the front wheel of Grandpa
Markham’s wagon was wrenched off, and the old man precipitated to the
ground, which, fortunately for him, was in that locality covered with
sand banks, so that he was only stunned for an instant, and failed to
hear the insolent negro’s remark: “Served you right, old cove, might
have turned out for a gentleman;” neither did he see the sudden flashing
of Guy Remington’s eye, as, leaping from his carriage, he seized the
astonished African by the collar, and demanded “What he meant by serving
an old man so shameful a trick, and then insulting him?”

All apology and regret, the cringing driver tried to make some excuse,
but Guy stopped him short, telling him to see how much the wagon was
damaged, while he ran to the old man, who had recovered from the first
shock, and was trying to extricate himself from the folds of the camlet
cloak. Near by was a blacksmith’s shop, and thither Guy ordered his
driver to take the broken-down wagon with a view to getting it repaired.

“Tell him _I_ want it done at once,” he said, authoritatively, as if he
knew his name carried weight with it; then turning to grandpa, he asked
again if he were hurt.

“No, not specially—jolted my old bones some. You are very kind, sir,”
grandpa replied, brushing the dust from his pantaloons and then
involuntarily grasping Guy’s arm for support, as his weak knees began to
tremble from the effects of excitement and fright.

“That darkey shall rue this job,” Guy said, savagely, as he gazed
pityingly upon the shaky old creature beside him. “I’ll discharge him
to-morrow.”

“No, young man. Don’t be rash. He’ll never do’t again; and sprigs like
him think they’ve a right to make fun of old codgers like me,” was
grandpa’s meek expostulation.

“Do, pray, Guy, how long must we wait here?” Agnes asked, impatiently,
leaning out of the carriage and partially drawing her veil over her face
as she glanced at Grandpa Markham, but a look from Guy silenced her; and
turning again to grandpa, he asked:

“What did you say? You have been to Aikenside to see me?”

“Yes, and I was sorry to miss you. I—I—it makes me feel awkward to tell
you, but I wanted to borrow some money, and I didn’t know nobody as
likely to have it as you. That woman up to your house said she knowed
you wouldn’t let me have it, ’cause you hadn’t it to spare. Mebby you
haven’t,” and grandpa waited anxiously for Guy’s reply.

Now Mrs. Noah had a singular influence over her young master, who was in
the habit of consulting her with regard to his affairs, and nothing
could have been more unpropitious to the success of grandpa’s suit than
knowing she disapproved. Beside this, Guy had only the previous week
lost a small amount loaned under similar circumstances. Standing silent
for a moment, while he buried and reburied his shining boots in the
hills of sand, he said at last, “Candidly, sir, I don’t believe I can
accommodate you. I am about to make repairs at Aikenside, and have
partially promised to loan money on good security to a Mr. Silas Slocum,
who, ‘if things work right,’ as he expresses it, intends building a mill
on some property which has come, or is coming, into his hands.”

“That’s mine—that’s mine, my homestead,” gasped grandpa, turning white
almost as his hair blowing in the April wind. “There’s a stream of water
on it, and he says if he forecloses and gets it he shall build a mill,
and tear our old house down.”

Guy was in a dilemma. He had not asked how much Mr. Markham wanted, and
as the latter had not told him, he naturally concluded it a much larger
sum than it really was, and did not care just then to lend it.

“I tell you what I’ll do,” he said, after a little. “I’ll drop Slocum a
note to-night saying I’ve changed my mind, and shall not let him have
the money. Perhaps, then, he won’t be so anxious to foreclose, and will
give you time to look among your _friends_.”

Guy laid a little emphasis on that last word, and looking up quickly
grandpa was about to say, “I am not so much a stranger as you think. I
knew your father well;” but he checked himself with the thought, “No,
that will be too much like begging pay for a deed of mercy done years
ago.” So Guy never suspected that the old man before him had once laid
his father under a debt of gratitude. The more he reflected the less
inclined he was to lend the money, and as grandpa was too timid to urge
his needs, the result was, that when at last the wheel was replaced, and
Sorrel again trotted on toward Devonshire, he drew after him a sad,
heavy heart, and not once until the village was reached did he hear the
cheery chuckle with which his kind master was wont to encourage him.

“Poor Maddy! I dread tellin’ her the most, she was so sure,” grandpa
whispered, as he stopped before the office, where Maddy waited for him.

But Maddy’s disappointment was keener than his own, and so, after the
sorrowful words, “And I failed, too,” he tried to comfort the poor
child, who, leaning her throbbing head against his shoulder, sobbed
bitterly, as in the soft spring twilight they drove back to the low red
cottage where grandma waited for them.




                               CHAPTER V.
                              THE RESULT.


It was Farmer Green’s new buggy and Farmer Green’s bay colt which, three
days later, stopped before Dr. Holbrook’s office, and not the
square-boxed wagon, with old Sorrel attached, for the former was
standing quietly in the chip-yard, behind the low red house, while the
latter, with his nose over the barn-yard fence, was neighing
occasionally, as if he missed the little hands which had daily fed him
the oatmeal he liked so much, and which now lay hot and parched and
helpless upon the white counterpane which Grandma Markham had spun and
woven herself.

Maddy might have been just as sick as she was if the examination had
never occurred, but it was natural for those who loved her to impute it
all to the effects of excitement and cruel disappointment, so there was
something like indignation mingling with the sorrow gnawing at the
hearts of the old couple as they watched by their fever-stricken
darling. Farmer Green, too, shared the feeling, and numerous at first
were his animadversions against that _prig of a Holbrook_, who was not
fit to doctor a _cat_, much less “examine a _school-marm_.” But when
Maddy grew so sick as not to know him or his wife, he laid aside his
prejudices, and suggested to Grandpa Markham that Dr. Holbrook be sent
for.

“He’s great on fevers,” he said, “and is good on curin’ sick folks, I
s’pose;” so, though he would have preferred some one else should have
been called, confidence in the young doctor’s skill won the day, and
grandpa consented, and Farmer Green was sent for the physician, to whom
he said, with his usual bluntness:

“Well, you nigh about killed our little Maddy t’other day, when you
refused the stifficut, and now we want you to cure her.”

The doctor looked up in surprise, but Farmer Green soon explained his
meaning, making out a most aggravated case, and representing Maddy as
wild with delirium.

“Keeps talkin’ about the big books, the Latin and the Hebrew, and even
Catechism, as if such like was ’lowed in our school. I s’pose you didn’t
know no better; but if Maddy dies, you’ll have it to answer for, I
reckon.”

The doctor did not try to excuse himself, but hastily took down the
medicines he thought he might need, and stowed them carefully away.

He had expected to hear from that examination, but not in this way, and
rather nervously he made some inquiries, as to how long she had been
ill, and so forth.

Maddy’s case lost nothing by Mr. Green’s account, and by the time the
doctor’s horse was ready, and he on his way to the cottage, he had
arrived at the conclusion that of all the villainous men outside the
walls of the State’s Prison he was the most villainous, and Guy
Remington next.

                  *       *       *       *       *

What a cozy little chamber it was where Maddy lay,—just such a room as a
girl like her might be supposed to occupy, and the young doctor felt
like treading upon forbidden ground as he entered the room which told so
plainly of girlish habits, from the fairy slippers hung on a peg, to the
fanciful little work-box made of cones and acorns. Maddy was asleep, and
sitting down beside her the doctor asked that the shawl which had been
pinned before the window to exclude the light might be removed, so that
he could see her, and thus judge better of her condition. They took the
shawl away, and the sunlight came streaming in, disclosing to the
doctor’s view the face never before seen distinctly, or thought much
about, if seen. It was ghastly pale now, save where the hot blood seemed
bursting through the cheeks, while the beautiful brown hair was brushed
back from the brow where the veins were swollen and full. The lips were
slightly apart, and the hot breath came in quick, panting gasps, while
occasionally a faint moan escaped them, and once the doctor heard, or
thought he heard, the sound of his own name. One little hand lay upon
the bed-spread, but the doctor did not touch it. Ordinarily he would
have grasped it as readily as if it had been a piece of marble, but the
sight of Maddy, lying there so sick, and the fear that he had helped to
bring her where she was, awoke to life a curious state of feeling with
regard to her, making him almost as nervous as on the day when she
appeared before him as candidate No. 1.

“Feel her pulse, doctor; it is faster most than you can count,” Grandma
Markham whispered; and thus entreated, the doctor took the hot, soft
hand in his own, its touch sending through his frame a thrill such as
the touch of no other hand had ever sent.

But somehow the act reassured him. All fear of Maddy vanished, leaving
behind only an intense desire to help, if possible, the young girl whose
fingers seemed to cling round his own as he felt for and found the rapid
pulse.

“If she would waken,” he said, laying the hand softly down and placing
his other upon her burning forehead.

And, after a time, Maddy did awaken, but in the eyes fixed, for a
moment, so intently on him, there was no look of recognition, and the
doctor was half glad that it was so. He did not wish her to associate
him with her late disastrous failure; he would rather she should think
of him as some one come to cure her, for cure her he would, he said to
himself, as he gazed into her childish face and thought how sad it was
for such as she to die. When he first entered the cottage he had been
struck with the extreme plainness of the furniture, betokening the
poverty of its inmates; but now he forgot everything except the sick
girl, who grew more and more restless, and kept talking of him and the
Latin verb which meant _to love_, and which was not in the grammar.

“Guy was a fool and I was a brute,” the doctor mattered, as he folded up
the bits of paper whose contents he hoped might do much toward saving
Maddy’s life.

Then, promising to come again, he rode rapidly away, to visit other
patients, who that afternoon were in danger of being sadly neglected, so
constantly was their physician’s mind dwelling upon the little, low
chamber where Maddy Clyde was lying. As night closed in she awoke to
partial consciousness, and heard that Dr. Holbrook had been there
prescribing for her. Turning her face to the wall, she seemed to be
thinking; then calling her grandmother to her she asked “Did he smooth
my hair and say, ‘poor child?’”

Her grandmother hardly thought he did, though she was not in the room
all the time. “He had staid a long while and was greatly interested,”
she said.

Maddy had a vague remembrance of such an incident, and in her heart
forgave the doctor for his rejection, and thought only how handsome he
had looked, even while tormenting her with such unheard-of questions,
and how kind he was to her now. The sight of her grandfather, who came
in to see her, awoke a new train of ideas, and bidding him to sit beside
her, she asked if their home must be sold. Maddy was not to be put off
with an evasion, and so grandpa told her honestly at last that Slocum
would probably foreclose and the place be sold.

“But never you mind, Maddy,” he said, cheerily, when he saw how excited
she seemed; “we shall manage somehow. I can rent two or three rooms
cheap of Mr. Green—he told me so—and with old Sorrel I can work on the
road, and fetch things from the depot, and in the winter I can shovel
snow, and clean roofs. We shall not starve—not a bit of it—so don’t you
worry, it will make you wus, and I’d rather lose the old homestead a
thousand times over than lose you.”

Maddy did not reply, but the great tears poured down her flushed cheeks,
as she thought of her feeble old grandfather working on the road and
shoveling snow to earn his bread; and the fever, which had seemed to be
abating, returned with double force, and when next morning the doctor
came, there was a look of deep anxiety upon his face as he watched the
alarming symptoms of his delirious patient, who talked incessantly, not
of the examination now, but of the mortgage and the foreclosure, begging
him to see that the house was not sold; to tell them she was earning
thirty-six dollars by teaching school; that _Beauty_ should be sold to
save their dear old home. All this was strange at first to the doctor,
but the rather voluble Mrs. Green, who had come to Grandma Markham’s
relief, enlightened him, dwelling with a kind of malicious pleasure upon
the fact that Maddy’s earnings, had she been permitted to get a
“stifficut,” were to be appropriated toward paying the debt.

If the doctor had hated himself the previous day when he rode from the
red cottage gate, he hated himself doubly now as he went dashing down
the road, determined to resign his office of school inspector that very
day. And he did.

Summoning around him those who had been most active in electing him, he
refused to officiate again, assuring them that if any more candidates
came he should either turn them from his door or give them a certificate
without asking a question.

“Put anybody you like in my place,” he said; “anybody but Guy Remington.
Don’t, _for thunder’s sake_, take him.”

There was no probability of this, as Guy lived in another town, and
could not have officiated had he wished. But the doctor was too much
excited to reason clearly about anything, save Madeline Clyde’s case;
and during the next few weeks his other patients waited many times in
vain for his coming, while he sat by Maddy’s side, watching every
change, whether for the worse or better. Even Agnes Remington was
totally neglected; and so one day she sent Guy to Devonshire to say that
as _Jessie_ seemed more than usually delicate, she wished the doctor to
take her under his charge and visit her at least once a week. The doctor
was not at home, but Tom said he expected him every moment. So, seating
himself in the arm-chair, Guy waited until he came.

“Well, Hal,” he began, jocosely, but the joking words he would have
uttered next died on his lips as he noticed the strange look of
excitement and anxiety on the doctor’s face. “What is it?” he asked.
“Are all your patients dead?”

“Guy,” and the doctor came closely to him, whispering huskily, “you and
I are murderers in the first degree, and both deserve to be hung. Do you
remember that Madeline Clyde whom you insulted with your logic, and the
Catechism, and Latin verbs? She’d set her heart on that certificate. She
wanted the money, not for new gowns and fooleries, mind, but to help her
old grandfather pay his debts. His place is mortgaged. I don’t
understand it; but he asked some old hunks to lend him the money, and
the miserly rascal, whoever he was, refused. I wish I had it. I’d give
it to him out and out. But there’s nothing to do with the girl—Maddy,
they call her. The disappointment killed her, and she’s dying—is raving
crazy—and keeps talking of that confounded examination. I tell you, Guy,
I get terribly mixed up when I hear her talk, and my heart thumps like a
triphammer. That’s the reason I have not been up to Aikenside. I
wouldn’t leave Maddy so long as there was hope, but there is none now. I
did not tell them this morning. I couldn’t make that poor couple feel
worse than they were feeling; but when I looked at her, tossing from
side to side, and picking at the bedclothes, I knew it would soon be
over—that when I saw her again the poor little arms would be still
enough, and the bright eyes shut forever. Guy, I couldn’t see _her_
die—I don’t like to see anybody die, but _her_, Maddy, of all others—and
so I came away. If you stay long enough, you’ll hear the bell toll, I
reckon. There is none at Honedale Church, which they attend. They are
Episcopalians, you see, and so they’ll come up here, maybe. I hope I
shall be deafer than an adder.”

Here the doctor stopped, wholly out of breath, while Guy for a moment
sat without speaking a word. Jessie, in his hearing, had told her mother
what the sick girl in the doctor’s office had said about being poor and
wanting the money for grandpa; while Mrs. Noah had given him a rather
exaggerated account of Mr. Markham’s visit; but he had not associated
the two together until now, when he saw the matter as it was, and almost
as much as the doctor himself regretted the part he had had in Maddy’s
illness and her grandfather’s distress.

“Doc,” he said, laying his hand on the doctor’s arm, “I am the _old
hunks_, the miserly rascal who refused the money. I met the old man
going home that day, and he asked me for help. You say the place must be
sold. It never shall, never. I’ll see to that, and you must save the
girl.”

“I can’t, Guy. I’ve done all I can, and now, if she lives, it will be
wholly owing to the prayers that old saint of a grandfather says for
her. I never thought much of these things until I heard him pray; not
that she should live _any way_, but that if it were right Maddy might
not die. Guy, there’s something in such a prayer as that. It’s more
powerful than all my medicine swallowed at one grand gulp.”

Guy didn’t know very much experimentally about praying, and so he did
not respond, but he thought of Lucy Atherstone, whose life was one act
of prayer and praise, and he wished _she_ could know of Maddy, and join
her petitions with those of the grandfather. Starting suddenly from his
chair, he exclaimed, “I’m going down there. I cannot endure to sit here
doing nothing to make amends. It will look queer, too, to go alone. Ah,
I have it! I’ll drive back to Aikenside for Jessie, who has talked so
much of the girl that her mother, forgetting that _she_ was once a
teacher, is disgusted. Yes, I’ll take Jessie with me, but _you_ must
order it; you must say it is good for her to ride, and, Hal, give me
some medicine for her, just to quiet Agnes, no matter what, provided it
is not _strychnine_.”

Contrary to Guy’s expectations, Agnes did not refuse to let Jessie go
for a ride, and the little girl was soon seated by her brother’s side,
chatting merrily of the different things they passed upon the road. But
when Guy told her where they were going, and why they were going there,
the tears came at once into her eyes, and hiding her face in Guy’s lap
she sobbed bitterly.

“I did like her so much that day,” she said, “and one looked so sorry,
too. It’s terrible to die!”

Then she plied Guy with questions, concerning Maddy’s probable future.
“Would she go to heaven, _sure_?” and when Guy answered at random,
“_Yes_,” she asked, “_How_ did he _know_? Had he heard that Maddy was
that kind of _good_ which lets people in heaven? Because, brother Guy,”
and the little preacher nestled closely to the young man, fingering his
coat buttons as she talked, “because, brother Guy, folks can be
good—that is, not do naughty things—and still God won’t love them unless
they—I don’t exactly know what, I wish I did.”

Guy drew her closer to him, but to that childish yearning for knowledge
he could not respond, so he said:

“Who taught you all this, little one?—not your mother, surely.”

“No, not mamma, but Miriam, the waiting-maid we left in Boston. She told
me about it, and taught me to pray different from mamma, who sometimes
keeps her eyes open in church when she is on her knees, and looks at the
bonnets near us. Do you pray, brother Guy?”

The question startled the young man, who did not know what to answer,
and who was glad that his coachman spoke to him just then, asking if he
should drive through Devonshire village, or go direct to Honedale by a
shorter route.

They would go to the village, Guy said, hoping that the doctor might be
persuaded to accompany them. They found the doctor at home and willing
to go with them. Indeed, so impatient had he become listening for the
first stroke of the bell which was to herald the death he deemed so
sure, that he was the point of mounting his horse and galloping off
alone, when Guy drove up with Jessie. It was five miles from Devonshire
to Honedale, and when they reached a hill which lay half way between,
they stopped for a few moments to rest the tired horses. Suddenly, as
they sat waiting, a sharp, ringing sound fell on their ears, and
grasping Guy’s knee, the doctor said, “I told you so; Madeline Clyde is
dead.”

It was the Devonshire bell, and its twice three strokes betokened that
it tolled for somebody youthful, somebody young, like Maddy Clyde.
Jessie wept silently, but there were no tears in the eyes of the young
men, as with beating hearts they sat listening to the slow, solemn
sounds which came echoing up the hill. There was a pause; the sexton’s
task was nearly done, and it only remained for him to strike the age,
and tell how many years the departed one had numbered.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten;” Jessie
counted aloud, while every stroke fell like a heavy blow upon the hearts
of the young men, who a few weeks ago did not know that Maddy Clyde had
ever had existence.

How long it seemed before another stroke, and Guy was beginning to hope
they had heard the last when again the sound came floating on the air,
and Dr. Holbrook’s lip quivered as _he_ now counted aloud, “one, two,
three, four, five.”

That was all; the bell stopped; and vain were all their listenings to
catch another sound. Fifteen years only had passed over the form now
forever still.

“She was fifteen,” Guy whispered, remembering distinctly to have heard
that number from Maddy herself.

“I thought they told me fourteen, but of course it’s she,” the doctor
rejoined. “Poor child, I would have given much to have saved her.”

Jessie did not speak but once, when she asked Guy “If it was very far to
heaven, and if he supposed Maddy had got there by this time?”

“Hush, Jessie; don’t ask such questions,” Guy said; then turning to his
companion, he continued: “We’ll go just the same. I will do what I can
for the old man;” and so the carriage drove on, down the hill, across
the meadow land, and passed a low-roofed house, whose walls inclosed the
stiffened form of the boy for whom the bell had tolled, and who had been
the patient of another than Dr. Holbrook.

Maddy was not dead, but the paroxysm of restlessness had passed, and she
lay now in a heavy sleep so nearly resembling death that those who
watched by her waited expectantly to see the going out of her last
breath. Never before had a carriage like that from Aikenside stopped at
that humble cottage, but the neighbors thought it came merely to bring
the doctor, whom they welcomed with a glad smile, making way for him to
pass to Maddy’s bedside. Guy preferred waiting outside until such time
as Grandpa Markham could speak with him, but Jessie went with the doctor
into the sick-room, startling even the grandmother, and causing her to
wonder who the richly-dressed child could be.

“She is dying, doctor,” said one of the women; but the doctor shook his
head, and holding in one hand his watch, he counted the faint
pulse-beats, as with his eye he measured off the minutes.

“There are too many here,” he said. “She needs the air you are
breathing,” and in his authoritative way he cleared the crowded room of
the mistaken friends who were unwittingly breathing up Maddy’s very
life.

The grandparents and Jessie he suffered to remain, and sitting down by
Maddy he watched till the long sleep was ended. Silently and earnestly
the aged couple prayed for their darling, asking that if possible she
might be spared, and God heard their prayers, lifting, at last, the
heavy lethargy from Maddy’s brain, and waking her to partial
consciousness. It was Jessie who first caught the expression of the
opening eyes, and darting forward, she exclaimed, “She’s waked up, Dr.
Holbrook. She will live.”

Wonderingly Maddy looked at her, and then, as a confused recollection of
where they had met before crossed her mind, she smiled faintly, and
said:

“Where am I now? Have I never come home, and is this Dr. Holbrook’s
office?”

“No, no; it’s home, your home, and you are getting well,” Jessie cried,
bending over the bewildered girl. “Dr. Holbrook has cursed you, and Guy
is here, and I, and——”

“Hush, you disturb her,” the doctor said, gently pushing Jessie away,
and himself asking Maddy how she felt.

She did not recognize him. She only had a vague idea that he might be
_some_ doctor, but not Dr. Holbrook; not the one who had so puzzled and
tortured her on a day which seemed now so far behind. From the
white-haired man kneeling by the bedside there was a burst of
thanksgiving for the life restored, and then Grandpa Markham tottered
from the room, out into the open air, which had never fallen so
refreshingly on his tried frame as it fell now, when he first knew that
Maddy would live. He did not care for his homestead; that might go, and
he still be happy with Maddy left. But He who had marked that aged
disciple’s every sigh, had another good in store for him, ordering it so
that both should come together, just as the two disappointments had come
hand in hand.

From the soft cushions of his carriage, where he sat reclining, Guy
Remington saw the old man as he came out, and alighting at once, he
accosted him pleasantly, and then walked with him to the garden, where,
on a rustic bench, built for Maddy beneath the cherry-trees, Grandpa
Markham sat down to rest. From speaking of Madeline it was easy to go
back to the day Guy had first met grandpa, and refused his application
for money.

“I have thought better of it since,” he said, “and am sorry I did not
accede to your proposal. One object of my coming here to-day was to say
that my purse is at your disposal. You can have as much as you wish,
paying me whenever you like, and the house shall _not_ be sold.”

Guy spoke rapidly, determined to make a clean breast of it, but grandpa
understood him, and bowing his white head upon his bosom, the big tears
dropped like rain upon the turf, while his lips quivered, first with
thanks to the Providence who had truly done all things well, and next
with thanks to his benefactor.

“Blessings on your head, young man, for making me so happy. You are
worthy of your father, and he was the best of men.”

“My father—did you know him?” Guy asked, in some surprise, and then the
story came out, how, years before, when a city hotel was on fire, and
one of its guests in imminent danger from the locality of his room, and
his own nervous fear, which made him powerless to act, another guest had
braved the hissing flame, and scaling the tottering wall, had dragged
out one who, until that hour, was to him an utter stranger.

Pushing back his snowy hair, Grandfather Markham showed upon his temple
a long white scar of a wound received the night when he periled his own
life to save that of another. There was a doubly warm pressure now of
the old man’s hand, as Guy replied, “I’ve heard that story from father
himself, but the name of his preserver had escaped me. Why didn’t you
tell me who you were?”

“I thought ’twould look too much like demanding it as a right—too much
like begging, and I s’pose I felt too proud. Pride is my besetting
sin—the one I pray most against.”

Guy looked keenly now at the man whose besetting sin was pride, and as
he saw the cheapness of his attire, his pantaloons faded and short, his
coat worn threadbare and shabby, his shoes both patched at the toes, his
cotton shirt minus a bosom, and then thought of the humble cottage, with
its few rocky acres, he wondered of what he could be proud.

Meantime for Maddy Dr. Holbrook had prescribed perfect quiet, bidding
them darken the windows from which the shade had been removed, and
ordering all save the grandmother to leave the room and let the patient
sleep, if possible. Even Jessie was not permitted to stay, though Maddy
clung to her as to a dear friend. In a few whispered words Jessie had
told her name, saying she came from Aikenside, and that her brother Guy
was there too, in the carriage. “He heard how sick you were at
Devonshire, this morning, and drove right home for me to come to see
you. I told him of you that day in the office, and that’s why he brought
me, I guess. You’ll like _Guy_, I know—he’s so good.”

Sick and weary as she was, and unable as yet to comprehend the entire
meaning of all she heard, Maddy was conscious of a thrill of pleasure in
knowing that Guy Remington from Aikenside was interested in her, and had
brought his sister to see her. Winding her arms around Jessie’s neck,
she kissed the soft, warm cheek, and said, “You’ll come again, I hope.”

“Yes, every day, if mamma will let me. I don’t mind it a bit, if you are
poor.”

“Come, come,” and Dr. Holbrook, who had all the while been standing
near, took Jessie by the arm and led her out to where Guy was waiting
for her.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                             CONVALESCENCE.


Had it not been for the presence of Dr. Holbrook, who, accepting Guy’s
invitation to tea, rode back with him to Aikenside, Mrs. Agnes would
have flown into a passion when told that Jessie had been exposed to
fever, of which she had a great dread.

“There’s no telling what one will catch among the very poor,” she said
to Dr. Holbrook, as she clasped and unclasped the heavy gold bracelets
on her white, round arm.

“I’ll be answerable for any disease Jessie caught at Mr. Markham’s,” the
doctor replied:

“At Mr. Who’s? What did you call him?” Agnes asked quickly, the bright
color on her cheek fading as the doctor replied:

“Markham—an old man who lives in Honedale. You never knew him, of
course.”

“Certainly not—how could I?” Agnes replied, as she took her seat at the
tea-table. But her white fingers trembled as she handled the china and
silver, and for once she was glad when the doctor took his leave, and
she was alone with Jessie.

“What was the girl’s name?” she asked; “the one you went to see?”

“Maddy, mother—Madeline Clyde. She’s so pretty. I’m going to see her
again. May I?”

Agnes did not reply directly, but continued to question the child with
regard to the cottage which Jessie thought so funny, slanting way back,
she said, so that the roof on one side almost touched the ground. The
window panes, too, were so very tiny, and the room where Maddy lay sick
was small and low.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Agnes said at last, impatiently, for she was tired
of hearing of the cottage whose humble exterior and interior she knew so
much better than Jessie herself.

But this was not to be divulged; for surely the haughty Agnes Remington,
who, in Aikenside was looked upon with envy, could have nothing in
common with the red cottage or its inmates. So when Jessie asked again
if she could not visit Maddy on the morrow, she answered decidedly, “No,
daughter, I do not wish you to associate with such people;” and when
Jessie insisted on knowing why she must not associate with such people
as Maddy Clyde, the answer was, “Because you are a Remington;” and as if
this of itself were an unanswerable objection, Agnes sent her child from
her, refusing to talk longer on a subject so disagreeable to her and so
suggestive of the past. It was in vain that Jessie, and even Guy
himself, tried to revoke the decision. Jessie should not be permitted to
come in contact with that kind of people, she said, or incur the risk of
catching that dreadful fever.

So day after day, while life and health were slowly throbbing through
her veins, Maddy waited and longed for the little girl whose one visit
to her sick-room seemed so much like a dream. From her grandfather she
had heard the good news of Guy Remington’s generosity, and that, quite
as much as Dr. Holbrook’s medicines, helped to bring the color back to
her cheek, and the brightness to her eyes.

She had been asleep the first time the doctor came after the occasion of
Jessie’s visit, and as sleep, he said, would do her more good than
anything he might prescribe, he did not waken her; but for a long time,
as it seemed to Grandma Markham, who stood a very little in awe of the
Boston doctor, he watched her as she slept, now clasping the blue-veined
wrist as he felt for the pulse, and now wiping from her forehead the
drops of sweat, or pushing back her soft, damp hair. It would be three
days before he could see her again, for a sick father in Cambridge
needed his attention, and after numerous directions as to the
administering of sundry powders and pills, he left her, feeling that the
next three days would be long ones to him. Dr. Holbrook did not stop to
analyze the nature of his interest in Maddy Clyde—an interest so
different from any he had ever felt before for his patients; and even if
he had sought to solve the riddle, he would have said that the knowing
how he had wronged her was the sole cause of his thinking far more of
her and of her case than of all the other patients on his list. Dr.
Holbrook was a handsome man, a thorough scholar, and a most skillful
physician; but he was no ladies’ man, and his language and manners were
oftentimes abrupt, even when both were prompted by the utmost kindness
of heart. In his organization, too, there was not a quick perception of
what would be exactly appropriate, and when, on his return from
Cambridge, he was about starting to visit Maddy again, he puzzled his
brains until they ached with wondering what he could do to give her a
pleasant surprise and show that he was not so formidable a personage as
her past experience might lead her to think.

“If I could only take her something,” he said, glancing ruefully around
his office. “Now, if she were Jessie, nuts and raisins might answer—but
she must not eat such trash as that;” and he set himself to think again,
just as Guy Remington drove up, bearing in his hand a most exquisite
bouquet, whose fragrance filled the office at once, and whose beauty
elicited an exclamation of delight even from the matter-of-fact Dr.
Holbrook.

“I thought you might be going down to Honedale as I knew you returned
last night, so I brought these flowers for your patient, with my
compliments; or if you prefer I will give them to you, and you can
present them as if coming from yourself.”

“As if I would do that,” the doctor answered, taking the bouquet in his
hand the better to examine and admire it. “Did you arrange it, or your
gardener?” he asked, and when Guy replied that the merit of arrangement,
if merit there were, belonged to himself, he began to deprecate his own
awkwardness and want of tact. “Here I have been cudgeling my head this
half hour trying to think what I could take her as a peace-offering, and
could think of nothing, while you—well, you and I are different
entirely. You know just what is proper—just what to say, and when to say
it—while I am a perfect bore, and without doubt shall make some
ludicrous blunder in delivering the flowers. To-day will be the first
time really that we meet, as she was sleeping when I was there last,
while on all other occasions she has paid no attention whatever to me.”

For a moment Guy regarded his friend attentively, noticing that extra
care had been taken with his toilet, that the collar was fresh from the
laundry, and the new cravat tied in a most unexceptionable manner,
instead of being twisted in a hard knot, with the ends looking as if
they had been chewed.

“Doc,” he said, when his survey was completed, “how old are
you—twenty-six or twenty-seven?”

“Just your age;—why?” and the doctor looked up with an expression so
wholly innocent of Guy’s real meaning, that the latter, instead of
telling why, replied:

“Oh! nothing; only I was wondering if you would do to be my father.
Agnes, I verily believe is more than half in love with you; but, on the
whole, I should not like to be your son; so I guess you’d better take
some one younger—say _Jessie_. You are only eighteen years her senior.”

The doctor stared at him amazed, and when he had finished, said, with
the utmost candor: “What has that to do with Madeline? I thought we were
talking of her.”

“Innocent as the new-born babe,” was Guy’s mental comment, as he
congratulated himself on his larger and more varied experience.

And truly Dr. Holbrook _was_ as simple-hearted as a child, and never
dreamed of Guy’s meaning, or that any emotion save a perfectly proper
one had a lodgment in his breast as he drove down to Honedale, guarding
carefully Guy’s bouquet, and wishing he knew just what he ought to say
when he presented it.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Maddy had gained rapidly during the last three days. Good nursing and
the doctor’s medicines were working miracles, and on the morning when
the doctor, with Guy’s bouquet, was riding rapidly toward Honedale, she
was feeling so much better that in view of his coming she asked if she
could not be permitted to receive him in the rocking-chair, instead of
lying there in bed; and when this plan was vetoed as utterly impossible,
she asked anxiously:

“And must I see him in this night-gown! Can’t I have on my pink gingham
wrapper?”

Hitherto Maddy had been too sick to care at all about her personal
appearance, but it was different now; and thoughts of meeting again the
handsome, stylish-looking man, whom she fully believed to be Dr.
Holbrook, made her rather nervous. Dim remembrances she had of some one
gliding in and about the room, and when the pain and noise in her head
was in its highest, a hand large and cool had been laid upon her
temples, quieting the throbbing, and making the blood course less madly
through the swollen veins. They had told her how kind, how attentive he
had been, and to herself she had said: “He’s sorry about that
certificate. He wishes to show me that he did not wish to be unkind.
Yes, I forgive him; for I really was very stupid that afternoon.”

And so, in a most forgiving frame of mind, Maddy submitted to the night
dress which grandma brought in place of the gingham wrapper, and which
became her well, with its daintily-crimped ruffles about the neck and
wrists, which had grown so small that Maddy sighed to see how loose they
were as her grandmother buttoned together the wristbands.

“I have been very sick,” she said. “Are my cheeks as thin as my arms?”

They were not, though they had lost some of their symmetrical roundness.
Still there was much of childish beauty in the young, eager face, and
the hair had lost comparatively none of its glossy brightness.

“That’s him,” grandma said, as the sound of a horse’s gallop was heard,
and in a moment the doctor reined up before the gate.

From Mrs. Markham, who met him in the door, he learned how much better
Maddy was; and also how, as grandma expressed it, “She had been
reckoning on this visit, making herself all a sweat about it.”

Suddenly the doctor felt all his old dread of Maddy Clyde returning. Why
should she worry herself into a sweat? What was there in that visit
different from any other? Nothing, he said to himself, nothing; and yet
he, too, had been more anxious about it than any he had ever paid.
Depositing his hat and gloves upon the table, he followed Mrs. Markham
up the stairs, vaguely conscious of wishing she would stay out of the
room, and very conscious of feeling glad when just at Maddy’s door and
opposite a little window, she espied the hens busily engaged in
devouring the yeast cakes, with which she had taken so much pains, and
which she had placed in the hot sun to dry. Finding that they paid no
heed to her loud “shoo, shoos,” she started herself to drive them away,
telling the doctor to go right in by himself.

The perspiration was standing under Maddy’s hair by this time, and when
the doctor stepped across the threshold, and she knew he really was
coming near her, it oozed out upon her forehead in big, round drops,
while her cheeks glowed with a feverish heat. Thinking he should get
along better if he treated her just as he would Jessie, the doctor
confronted her at once, and asked:

“How is my little patient to-day?”

A faint scream broke from Maddy’s lips, and she involuntarily raised her
hands to thrust the stranger away. This black-eyed, black-haired,
thick-set man was not Dr. Holbrook; he was taller, and more slight,
while she had not been deceived in the dark, brown eyes, which, even
while they seemed to be mocking her, had worn a strange fascination for
the maiden of fourteen and a half. The doctor fancied her delirious
again, and this reassured him at once. Dropping the bouquet upon the
bed, he clasped one of her hands in his, and without the slightest idea
that she comprehended him, said soothingly:

“Poor child, are you afraid of me—the doctor,—Dr. Holbrook?”

Maddy did not try to withdraw her hand, but, raising her eyes, swimming
in tears, to his face, she stammered out:

“What does it mean, and where is he—the one who—asked me—those dreadful
questions? I thought that was Dr. Holbrook.”

Here was a dilemma—something for which the doctor was not prepared, and
with a feeling that he would not betray Guy, he said:

“No; that was some one else—a friend of mine—but I was there in the back
office. Don’t you remember me? Please don’t grow excited. Compose
yourself, and I will explain all by and by. This is wrong. ’Twill never
do,” and talking thus rapidly he wiped away the sweat, about which
grandma had told him.

Maddy was disappointed, and it took her some time to rally sufficiently
to convince the doctor that she was not delirious, as he termed it; but
composing herself at last, she answered all his questions, and then, as
he saw her eyes wandering toward the bouquet, he suddenly remembered
that it was not yet presented, and placing it in her hands he said:

“You like flowers, I know, and these are for you. I——”

“Oh! thank you, thank you, doctor: I am so glad. I love them so much,
and you _are_ so kind. What made you think to bring them? I’ve wanted
flowers so badly; but I could not have them, because I was sick and did
not work in the garden. It was so good in you;” and in her delight
Maddy’s tears dropped upon the fair blossoms.

For a moment the doctor was sorely tempted to keep the credit thus
enthusiastically given; but he was too truthful for that, and so,
watching her as her eyes glistened with pleased excitement, he said:

“I am glad you like them, Miss Clyde, and Mr. Remington will be glad
too. _He_ sent them to you from his conservatory.”

“Not Mr. Remington from Aikenside—not Jessie’s brother?” and Maddy’s
eyes now fairly danced as they sought the doctor’s face.

“Yes, Jessie’s brother. He came here with her once. He is interested in
you, and brought these down this morning to my office.”

“It was Jessie, I guess, who sent them,” Maddy suggested, but the doctor
persisted that it was Guy.

“He wished me to present them with his compliments. He thought they
might please you.”

“Oh! they do, they do!” Maddy replied. “They almost make me well. Tell
him how much I thank him, and like him, too, though I never saw him.”

The doctor opened his lips to tell her she had seen him, but changed his
mind before the words were uttered. She might not think so well of Guy,
he thought, and there was no harm in withholding the truth.

So Maddy had no suspicion that the face she had thought of so much
belonged to Guy Remington. She had never seen him, of course; but she
hoped she should some time, so as to thank him for his generosity to her
grandfather and his kindness to herself. Then, as she remembered the
message she had sent him, she began to think that it sounded too
familiar, and said to the doctor:

“If you please, don’t tell Mr. Remington that I said I liked him—only
that I thank him. He would think it queer for a poor girl like me to
send such word to him. He is very rich, and handsome, and splendid,
isn’t he?”

“Yes, Guy’s rich and handsome, and everybody likes him. We were in
college together.”

“You were!” Maddy exclaimed. “Then you know him well, and Jessie, and
you’ve been to Aikenside often? There’s nothing in the world I want so
much as to go to Aikenside. They say it is so beautiful.”

“Perhaps I’ll take you up there some day when you are strong enough to
ride,” the doctor answered, thinking of his light buggy at home, and
wondering he had not used it more, instead of always riding on
horseback.

Dr. Holbrook looked much older than he was, and to Maddy he seemed quite
fatherly, so that the idea of riding with him, aside from the honor it
might be to her, struck her much as riding with Farmer Green would have
done. The doctor, too, imagined that his proposition was prompted solely
from disinterested motives, but he found himself wondering how long it
would be before Maddy would be able to ride a little distance, just over
the hill and back. He was tiring her, he knew, by talking to her so
much; but somehow it was very delightful there in that sick-room, with
the summer sunshine stealing through the window and falling upon the
brown head resting on the pillows. Once he fixed the pillows, arranging
them so nicely that grandma, who had come in from her hens and yeast
cakes, declared “he was as handy as a woman,” and, after receiving a few
general directions with regard to the future, “guessed, if he wan’t in a
hurry, she’d leave him with Maddy a spell, as there were a few chores
she must do.”

The doctor knew that at least a dozen people were waiting for him; but
still he was in no hurry, he said, and so for half an hour longer he sat
there talking of _Guy_, and _Jessie_, and _Aikenside_, and wondering he
had never before observed how very becoming a white wrapper was to sick
girls like Maddy Clyde. Had he been asked the question, he could not
have told whether his other patients wore buff, or brown, or tan color;
but he knew all about Maddy’s dress, and thought the dainty frill around
her slender throat the prettiest thing that he had ever seen. At last he
really must go, and, bidding Maddy good-bye, he started on his daily
round of visits.

The Aikenside carriage was standing at Mrs. Conner’s gate when he
returned, and Jessie came running out to meet him, followed by Guy,
while Agnes, in most becoming attire, sat by the window, looking as
unconcerned at his arrival as if it were not the very event for which
she had been impatiently waiting. Jessie was a great pet with the
doctor, and, lifting her lightly in his arms, he kissed her forehead
where the golden curls were clustering, and said to her:

“I have seen Maddy Clyde. She asked for you, and why you do not come to
see her, as you promised.”

“Mother won’t let me,” Jessie answered. “She says they are not fit
associates for a Remington.”

There was a sudden flash of contempt on the doctor’s face, and a gleam
of wrath in Agnes’ eyes as she motioned Jessie to be silent, and then
gracefully received the doctor, who by this time was in the room. As if
determined to monopolize the conversation, and keep it from turning on
the Markhams, Agnes rattled on for nearly fifteen minutes, scarcely
allowing Guy a chance for uttering a word. But Guy bided his time, and
seized the first favorable opportunity to inquire after Madeline.

She was improving rapidly, the doctor said, adding, “You ought to have
seen her delight when I gave her the bouquet. She wished me to thank you
for her.”

“Indeed,” and Agnes bridled haughtily; “I did not know that Guy was in
the habit of sending bouquets to such as this Clyde girl. I really must
report him to Miss Atherstone.”

Guy’s seat was very near to Agnes, and, while a cloud overspread his
fine features, he said to her in an aside:

“Please say in your report that the worst thing about this _Clyde girl_
is that she aspires to be a teacher, and possibly a _governess_.”

There was an emphasis on the last word which silenced Agnes and set her
to beating her French boot on the carpet; while Guy, turning back to the
doctor, replied to his remark:

“She was pleased, then?”

“Yes; she must be vastly fond of flowers, though I sometimes fancied
that the fact of being noticed by you afforded almost as much
satisfaction as the bouquet itself. She evidently regards you as a
superior being, and Aikenside a second Paradise, and asked innumerable
questions about you and Jessie, too.”

“Did she honor _me_ with an inquiry?” Agnes asked, her tone indicative
of sarcasm, though she was greatly interested as well as relieved by the
reply.

“Yes; she said she had heard that Jessie’s mother was a beautiful woman,
and asked if you were not born in England.”

“She’s mixed me up with Lucy. Guy, you must go down and enlighten her,”
Agnes said, laughing merrily and appearing more at ease than she had
before since Maddy Clyde had been the subject of conversation.

Guy did not go down to Honedale—but fruit and flowers, and a bottle of
rare old wine, found their way to the old red cottage, always brought by
Guy’s man, Duncan, and always accompanied with Mr. Remington’s
compliments. Once, hidden among the rosebuds, was a childish note from
Jessie, some of it printed and some in the uneven hand of a child just
commencing to write.

It was as follows:


  “DEAR MADDY:

“I think you have such a pretty name, and so does Guy, and so does the
doctor, too. I want to come see you, but mamma won’t let me. I think of
you ever so much, and so does Guy, I guess, for he sends you lots of
things. Guy is a nice brother, and is most as old as mamma. Ain’t that
funny? You know my _first_ ma is dead. She was Guy’s mother, and my papa
was ever so old. The doctor tells us about you when he comes to
Aikenside. I wish he’d come oftener, for I love him a bushel—don’t you?

                                        “Yours, respectfully,
                                                “JESSIE AGNES REMINGTON.

“P. S.—I am going to put this in just for fun, right among the buds,
where you must look for it.”


This note Maddy read and re-read until she knew it by heart, especially
the part relating to Guy. Hitherto she had not particularly liked her
name, greatly preferring that it should have been Eliza Ann, or Sarah
Jane; but the knowing that Guy Remington fancied it made a vast
difference, and did much toward reconciling her. She did not even notice
the clause, “and the doctor too.” His attentions and likings she took as
a matter of course, so quietly and so constantly had they been given.
The day was very long now which did not bring him to the cottage; but
she missed him much as she would have missed her brother, if she had had
one, though her pulse always quickened and her cheeks glowed when she
heard him at the gate. The motive-power did not lie deeper than a great
friendliness for one who had been instrumental in saving her life. They
had talked over the matter of her examination more than once, the doctor
blaming himself more than was necessary for his ignorance as to what was
required of a teacher; but when she asked _who_ was his proxy, he always
answered evasively:

“A friend from Boston.”

And this he did to shield Guy, who he knew was enshrined in the little
maiden’s heart as a paragon of all excellence.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                               THE DRIVE.


Latterly the doctor had taken to driving in his buggy, and when Maddy
was strong enough he took her with him one day, and with his own hands
adjusted the shawl which grandma wrapped around her, and tied the white
sun-bonnet which shaded the sweet, pale face, where the roses were just
beginning to bloom again. The doctor was very happy that morning, and so
too was Maddy, talking to him upon the theme of which she never
tired—Guy Remington, Jessie, and Aikenside. Was it as beautiful a place
as she had heard it was, and didn’t he think it would be delightful to
live there?

“I suppose Mr. Guy will be bringing a wife there some day when he finds
one,” and leaning back in the buggy Maddy heaved a little sigh, not at
thoughts of Guy Remington’s wife, but because she began to feel tired,
and thus gave vent to her weariness.

The doctor, however, did not so construe it. He heard the sigh, and for
the first time when listening to her as she talked of Guy, a keen throb
of pain shot through his heart, a something as near akin to jealousy as
it was possible for him then to feel. But all unused as he was to the
workings of love he did not at that moment dream of such an emotion in
connection with Madeline Clyde. He only knew that something affected him
unpleasantly, prompting him to tell Maddy Clyde about Lucy Atherstone,
who, in all probability, would one day come to Aikenside as its
mistress.

“Yes, Guy will undoubtedly marry,” he began, as just as over the top of
the hill they were ascending horses’ heads were visible, and the
Aikenside carriage appeared in view. “There he is now,” he exclaimed,
adding quickly, “No, I am mistaken, there’s only a lady inside. It must
be Agnes.”

It was Agnes driving out alone, for the sole purpose of passing a place
which had a singular attraction for her, the old, red cottage in
Honedale. She recognized the doctor, and guessed whom he had with him.
Putting up her glass, for which she had no more need than Jessie, she
scrutinized the little figure bundled up in shawls, while she smiled her
sweetest smile upon the doctor, and shook back her wealth of curls with
the air and manner of a young, coquettish girl.

“Oh, what a handsome lady! Who is she?” Maddy asked, turning to look
after the carriage now swiftly descending the hill.

“That is Jessie’s mother, Mrs. Agnes Remington,” the doctor replied.
“She’ll feel flattered with your compliment.”

“I did not mean to flatter. I said what I thought. She is handsome,
beautiful, and so young, too. Was that a gold bracelet which flashed so
on her arm?”

The doctor presumed it was, though he had not noticed. Gold bracelets
were not new to him as they were to Maddy, who continued:

“I wonder if I’ll ever wear a bracelet like that?”

“Would you like to?” the doctor asked, glancing at the small white
wrist, around which the dark calico sleeve was closely buttoned, and
thinking how much prettier and modest-looking it was than Agnes’ half
bare arms, where the ornaments were flashing.

“Y-e-s,” came hesitatingly from Maddy, who had a strong passion for
jewelry. “I guess I would, though grandpa classes all such things with
the pomps and vanities which I must renounce when I get to be good.”

“And when will that be?” the doctor asked.

Again Maddy sighed, as she replied, “I cannot tell. I thought so much
about it while I was sick, that is, when I could think; but now I’m
better, it goes away from me some. I know it is wrong, but I cannot help
it. I’ve seen only a bit of pomp and vanity, but I must say that I like
what I have seen, and I wish to see more. It’s very wicked, I know,” she
kept on, as she met the queer expression of the doctor’s face; “and I
know you think me so bad. You are good—a Christian, I suppose.”

There was a strange light in the doctor’s eye as he answered, half
sadly, “No, Maddy, I am not what you call a Christian. I have not
renounced the pomps and vanities yet.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” and Maddy’s eyes expressed all the sorrow she
professed to feel. “You ought to be, now you are so old.”

The doctor colored crimson, and stopping his horse under the dim shadow
of a maple in a little hollow, he said:

“I’m not so very old, Maddy; only twelve years older than yourself; and
Agnes’s husband was more than twenty-five years _her_ senior.”

The doctor did not know why he dragged that last in, when it had nothing
whatever to do with their conversation; but as the most trivial thing
often leads to great results, so from the pang caused by Maddy’s
thinking him so old, was born the first real consciousness he had ever
had that the little girl beside him was very dear, and that the twelve
years’ difference between them might prove a most impassable gulf. With
this feeling, it was exceedingly painful for him to hear Maddy’s sudden
exclamation:

“Oh, oh! over twenty-five years—that’s dreadful! She must be glad he’s
dead. I could never marry a man more than five years older than I am.”

“Not if you loved him, and he loved you very, very dearly?” the doctor
asked, his voice low and tender in its tone.

Wholly unsuspicious of the wild storm beating in his heart, Maddy untied
her white sun-bonnet, and, taking it in her lap, smoothed back her soft
hair, saying with a long breath: “Oh! I’m so hot;” and then, as if just
remembering his question, she replied: “I shouldn’t love him—I couldn’t.
Grandma is five years younger than grandpa, mother was five years
younger than father, Mrs. Green is five years younger than Mr. Green,
and, oh! ever so many. You are warm, too; ain’t you?” and she turned her
innocent eyes full upon the doctor, who was wiping from his lips the
great drops of water, induced not so much by heat as by the apparent
hopelessness of the love he now knew was growing in his heart for Maddy
Clyde. Recurring again to Agnes, Maddy said: “I wonder why she married
that old man. It is worse than if you were to marry Jessie.”

“Money and position were the attractions, I imagine,” the doctor said.
“Agnes was poor, and esteemed it a great honor to be made Mrs.
Remington.”

“Poor, was she?” Maddy rejoined. “Then maybe Mr. Guy will some day marry
a poor girl.”

Again the doctor thought to tell her of Lucy Atherstone, but he did not,
and as he saw that Maddy was growing tired and needed to be at home, he
turned his horse in the direction of the cottage.

“Perhaps you’ll sometimes change your mind about people so much older,
and if you do you’ll remember our talk this morning,” he said, as he
drove up at last before the gate.

Oh, yes! Maddy would never forget that morning or the nice ride they’d
had. She had enjoyed it so much, and she thanked him many times for his
kindness, as she stood waiting for him to drive away, feeling no tremor
whatever when at parting he took and held her hand, smoothing it gently,
and telling her it was growing fat and plump again. He was a very nice
doctor, much better than she had imagined, she thought, as she went
slowly to the house and entered the neat kitchen, where her grandmother
sat shelling peas for dinner, and her grandfather in his arm-chair was
whispering over his weekly paper.

“Did you meet a grand lady in a carriage?” grandma asked, as Maddy sat
down beside her.

“Yes; and Dr. Holbrook said it was Mrs. Remington, from Aikenside, Mr.
Guy’s step-mother, and that she was more than twenty-five years younger
than her husband—isn’t it dreadful! I thought so; but the doctor didn’t
seem to,” and in a perfectly artless manner Maddy repeated much of the
conversation which had passed between the doctor and herself, appealing
to her grandma to know if she had not taken the right side of the
argument.

“Yes, child, you did,” and grandma’s hands lingered among the light
green peas in her pan, as if she were thinking of an entirely foreign
subject. “I knows nothing about this Mrs. Remington, only that she
stared a good deal at the house as she went by, even looking at us
through a glass, and lifting her spotted veil after she got by. She may
have been as happy as a queen with her man, but as a general thing these
unequal matches don’t work, and had better not be thought on. S’posin’
you should think you was in love with somebody, and in a few years, when
you got older, be sick of him. It might do him a sight of harm. That’s
what spoilt your poor uncle Joseph, who’s been in the hospital at
Worcester goin’ on nine years.”

“It _was_!” and Maddy’s face was all aglow with the interest she always
evinced whenever mention was made of the one great living sorrow of her
grandmother’s life—the shattered intellect and isolation from the world
of her youngest brother, who, as she said, had for nearly nine years
been an inmate of a mad-house.

“Tell me about it,” Maddy continued, bringing a pillow, and lying down
upon the faded lounge beneath the window.

“There is no great to tell, only he was many years younger than I. He’s
only forty-one now, and was several years older than the girl he wanted.
Joseph was smart and handsome, and a lawyer, and folks said a sight too
good for the girl, whose folks were just nothing, but she had a pretty
face, and her long curls bewitched him. She couldn’t have been older
than you when he first saw her, and she was only sixteen when they got
engaged. Joseph’s life was bound up in her, he worshiped the very air
she breathed, and when she mittened him, it almost took his life. He was
too old for her, she said, and then right on top of that we heard after
a little that she married some big bug, I never knew who, plenty old
enough to be her father. That settled it with Joseph; he went into a
kind of melancholy, grew worse and worse, till we put him in the
hospital, usin’ his little property to pay the bill until it was all
gone, and now he’s on charity, you know, exceptin’ the little we do.
That’s what ’tis about your uncle Joseph, and I warn all young girls not
to think too much of nobody. They are bound to get sick of ’em, and it
makes dreadful work.”

Grandma had an object in telling this to Maddy, for she was not blind to
the nature of the doctor’s interest in her child, and though it
gratified her pride, she felt that it must not be, both for his sake and
Maddy’s, so she told the sad story of uncle Joseph as a warning to
Maddy, who could scarcely be said to need it. Still it made an
impression on her, and all that afternoon she was thinking of the
unfortunate man, whom she had seen but once, and that in his prison
home, where she had been with her grandfather the only time she had ever
ridden in the cars. He had taken her in his arms then, she remembered,
and called her his little _Sarah_. Perhaps that was the name of his
treacherous betrothed. And she asked her grandmother if it were not so.

“Yes, Sarah Morris was her name, and her face was handsome as a doll,”
grandma replied; and, wondering if she was as beautiful as Jessie, or
Jessie’s mother, Maddy went back to her reveries of the poor maniac in
the asylum, whom Sarah Morris had wronged so cruelly.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                     SHADOWINGS OF WHAT WAS TO BE.


It was very pleasant at Aikenside that afternoon, and the cool breeze
blowing from the miniature fish-pond in one corner of the grounds, came
stealing into the handsome parlors, where Agnes Remington, in becoming
toilet, reclined languidly upon the sofa, bending her graceful head to
suit the height of Jessie, who was twining some flowers among her curls,
and occasionally appealing to Guy to know “if it was not pretty.”

In his favorite seat in the pleasant bay-window, opening into the
garden, Guy was sitting, apparently reading a book, though his eyes did
not move very rapidly down the page, for his thoughts were on some other
subject. When his pretty step-mother first came to Aikenside, three
months before, he had been half sorry, for he knew just how his quiet
would be disturbed, but as the weeks went by, and he became accustomed
to Jessie’s childish prattle and frolicsome ways, while even Agnes
herself was not a bad picture for his handsome home, he began to feel
how he should miss them when they were gone, Jessie particularly, who
made so much sunshine wherever she went, and who was very dear to the
heart of the half brother. He knew, too, that Agnes would rather stay
there, for her income did not warrant as luxurious a home as he could
give her, and by remaining at Aikenside during the warmer season she
could afford to pass the winter in Boston, where her personal
attractions secured her quite as much attention as was good for her. Had
she been more agreeable to him he would not have hesitated to offer her
a home as long as she chose to remain, but, as it was, he felt that Lucy
Atherstone would be much happier alone with him. Lucy, however, was not
coming yet, and until she did come Agnes perhaps might stay. It
certainly would be better for Jessie, who could have a teacher in the
house, and it was upon these matters that he was reflecting.

As if divining his thoughts Agnes said to him rather abruptly:

“Guy, Ellen Laurie writes me that they are all going to Saratoga for a
time, and then to Newport, and she wishes I would join then. Do you
think I can afford it?”

“Oh, yes, that’s splendid, and I’ll stay here while you are gone; I like
Aikenside so much better than Boston. Mamma can afford it, can’t she,
Guy?” Jessie exclaimed, dropping her flowers and springing upon her
brother’s knee.

Smoothing her bright hair and pinching her soft cheek, Guy replied:

“That means, I suppose, that I can afford it, don’t it? but I, too, was
thinking just now about your staying here, where you really do improve.”

Then turning to Agnes he made some inquiries as to the plans proposed by
the Lauries, ascertaining that Agnes’s plan was that he should invite
her to go with him to Saratoga, or Newport, or both, and that Jessie
meantime should remain at Aikenside, just as she wished to do.

Guy could not find much pleasure in escorting Agnes to a fashionable
watering-place, particularly as he was expected to pay the bills; but he
sometimes did unselfish things, and as he had not been very gracious to
her on the occasion of her last visit to Aikenside, he decided to martyr
himself and go to Saratoga. But who would care for Jessie? She must not
be left wholly with the servants. A governess of some kind must be
provided, and he was about speaking of this to Agnes, when the doctor
was announced, and the conversation turned into another channel. Agnes
Remington would not have confessed how much she was interested in Dr.
Holbrook. Indeed, only that morning, in reply to a joking remark made to
her by Guy, she had petulantly exclaimed:

“The idea of my caring for him, except as a friend and physician. Why,
he must be younger than I am, or at most about my age. A mere boy, as it
were.”

And yet, in making her toilet that afternoon, she had arranged every
part of her dress with direct reference to the “mere boy,” her heart
beating faster every time she remembered the white sun-bonnet and the
Scotch plaid shawl she had seen beside him when driving that morning.
Little Maddy Clyde would hardly have credited the story had she been
told that the beautiful lady from Aikenside was positively jealous of
Dr. Holbrook’s attentions to herself; yet it was so, and the jealousy
was all the more bitter when she remembered who Madeline was, and how
startled that aged couple of the red cottage would be, could they know
who _she_ was. But they did not; she was quite sure of that; and so she
had ventured to pass their door, her heart throbbing with a strange
sensation as the old way-marks came in view, way-marks which she
remembered so well, and around which so many sad memories were
clustering. Agnes was not all bad. Indeed, she was scarcely worse than
most vain, selfish fashionable women; and all that day, since her return
from riding, haunting, remorseful thoughts of the long ago had been
clinging to her, making her more anxious to leave that neighborhood for
a time at least, and in scenes of gayety forget, if possible, that such
things as broken vows or broken hearts existed.

The arrival of the doctor dissipated her sadness in a measure, and after
greeting him with her usual expressions of welcome, she said, half
playfully, half spitefully: “By the way, doctor, who was that old lady,
all bent up double in shawls and things, whom you were taking out for an
airing?”

Guy looked up quickly, wondering where Agnes could have seen the doctor,
who, conscious of a sudden pang, answered naturally:

“That old lady, bent double and bundled in shawls, was young Maddy
Clyde, to whom I thought a short ride might do good.”

“Oh, yes; that patient about whom Jessie has gone mad. I am glad to have
seen her.”

There was unmistakable irony in her voice now, and turning from her to
Guy, the doctor continued:

“The old man was telling me to-day of your kindness in saving his house
from being sold. It was like you, Guy; and I wish I, too, had the means
to be generous, for they are so very poor.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Jessie, who had stolen to the doctor’s side, and
lain her fat, bare arm upon his shoulder, as if he had been Guy. “You
might give Maddy the doctor’s bill. I remember how mamma cried, and said
she never could pay papa’s bill when it was sent in.”

“Jessie!” said Agnes and Guy, simultaneously, while the doctor
laughingly pulled one of her long, black curls.

“Yes, I could do that. I have thought of it, but they might not accept
it, as they are proud as well as poor.”

“Mr. Markham has no one to care for but his wife and this Madeline, has
he?” Agnes asked; and the doctor replied:

“I did not suppose so until a few days since, when I learned from a Mr.
Green that Mrs. Markham’s youngest and only brother has been an inmate
of a lunatic asylum for years; and that though they cannot pay his
expenses, they do what they can toward providing him with comforts.”

“What is a lunatic asylum, mother? What does he mean?” Jessie asked; but
it was the doctor, not Agnes, who explained to the child what a lunatic
asylum was.

“Is insanity hereditary in this family?” Guy asked.

Agnes’s cheek was very white, though her face was turned away, as the
doctor answered, “I do not know; I did not ask the cause. I only heard
the fact that such a man as Joseph Mortimer existed.”

For a moment there was silence in the room, and then Guy told the doctor
of what Agnes and himself were speaking when he arrived.

“I suppose it’s of no use asking you to join us for a week or so.”

“There was not,” the doctor said. “His patients needed him and he must
stay at home.”

“Doctor, how would this Maddy Clyde do to stay here with Jessie while we
are gone, partly as companion and partly as her teacher?” was Guy’s next
question, which awoke Mrs. Agnes at once from her reverie.

“Guy,” she exclaimed, “are you crazy? That child Jessie’s governess! No,
indeed! I shall have a teacher from Boston—one whose manners and style
are unexceptionable.”

Guy had a will of his own, and few could provoke it into action as
effectually as Agnes, who, in thus opposing him, was working directly
against herself. Paying her no attention, except to bow in token that he
heard, Guy asked Jessie her opinion.

“Oh, it will be splendid! Can she come to-morrow? I sha’n’t care how
long you are gone if I can have Maddy here, and doctor will come up
every day, will you not?” and the soft eyes looked up pleadingly into
the doctor’s face.

“It is not settled yet that Maddy comes,” the doctor replied; adding, as
an answer to Guy’s question: “If Agnes were willing, I do not think you
could do better than secure Miss Clyde’s services. Two children will
thus be happy, for Maddy, as I have told you, thinks Aikenside must be a
little lower than Paradise. I shall be happy to open negotiations, if
you say so.”

“I’ll ride down and let you know to-morrow,” Guy said. “These domestic
matters, where there is a difference of opinion, are better discussed
alone,” and he turned good-humoredly toward Agnes, who knew it was
useless to oppose him then.

But she did oppose him that night, after the doctor had gone, taking at
first the high stand that sooner than have a country girl like Maddy
Clyde associated daily with her daughter, whether as teacher or
companion, she would give up Saratoga and stay at home. Guy could not
explain why it was that opposition from Agnes always aroused all his
powers of antagonism. Yet so it was, and now he was as fully determined
that Maddy Clyde should come to Aikenside as Agnes was that she should
not. He knew, too, how to attain his end without further altercation.

“Very well,” was his quiet reply, “you can remain at home if you choose,
of course. I had intended taking you myself, wherever you wished to go;
and not only that, but I was about to ask how much was needed for the
necessary additions to your wardrobe, but if you prefer remaining here
to giving up a most unfounded prejudice against a girl who never harmed
you, and whom Jessie already loves, you can do so;” and Guy walked from
the room, leaving Agnes first to cry, then to pout, then to think it all
over, and finally to decide that going to Saratoga and Newport under the
protection of Guy was better than carrying out a whim, which, after all,
was nothing but a whim.

Accordingly, next morning, as Guy was in his library reading his papers,
she went to him, and folding her white hands upon his shoulder, said
very prettily:

“I was real cross last night, and let my foolish pride get the
ascendency. But I have reconsidered the matter, and am willing for this
Miss Clyde to come, provided you still think it best.”

Guy’s mustache hid the mischievous smile lurking about his mouth, and he
received the concession as graciously as if he did not know perfectly
the motive which impelled it. As she had commenced being amiable, she
seemed determined to continue it, and offered herself to write a note
soliciting Maddy’s services.

“As I am Jessie’s mother, it will be perfectly proper for me to hire and
manage her,” she said, and as Guy acquiesced in this suggestion, she sat
down at the writing-desk, and commenced a very pleasantly-worded note,
in which Miss Clyde was informed that she had been recommended as a
suitable person with whom to leave Jessie during the summer and part of
the autumn, and that she, Jessie’s mother, wrote to ask if for the sum
of one dollar per week she was willing to come to Aikenside as
governess, or waiting-maid.

“Or _what_?” Guy asked, as she read to him what she had written. “Maddy
Clyde will not be waiting-maid in this house, neither will she come for
one dollar per week, as you propose. I hire her myself. I have taken a
fancy to the girl. Write another note; substitute companion for
waiting-maid, and offer her three dollars per week, instead of one.”

As long as Guy paid the bill, Agnes could not demur to the price,
although, remembering a time when she had taught a district school for
one dollar per week and boarded ‘round besides, she thought three
dollars far too much. But Guy had commanded, and she generally obeyed
him, so she wrote another note, which he approved, and, sealing it up,
sent it by a servant to Madeline.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                             THE DECISION.


The reception of Agnes’s note produced quite a commotion at the red
cottage, where various opinions were expressed as to the prime mover of
the plan; grandpa thinking that as Mrs. Agnes wrote the note, and was
most interested in it, she of course had suggested it; grandma insisting
that it was Jessie’s doings, while Maddy, when she said anything, agreed
with her grandmother, though away down in her heart was a half belief
that Mr. Guy himself had first thought of having her at Aikenside, where
she would rather go than to any other spot in the wide world; to
Aikenside, with its beautiful lawn almost large enough to be called a
park, with its shaded paths and winding walks, its flowers and vines,
its fountains and statuary, its fish-pond and grove, its airy rooms, its
wide hall, its winding stairs, with banisters of rosewood, its cupola at
the top, from which so many miles of hill and meadow land could be
discerned, its bay-windows and long piazzas, its sweet-faced,
dark-haired Jessie, and its manly, noble Guy. Only the image of Agnes,
flashing in silk and diamonds, was a flaw in the picture. From thoughts
of her Maddy had insensibly shrank, until she met her in the carriage,
and then received the note asking her services. These events wrought in
her a change, and dread of Mrs. Agnes passed away. She should like her,
and she should be so happy at Aikenside, for of course she was going,
and she began to wish the doctor would come, so as to tell her how long
before she would be strong enough to enter upon her duties as teacher to
little Jessie.

At first Grandpa Markham hesitated. It might do Maddy a deal of hurt to
go to Aikenside, he said; her humble home would look mean to her after
all that finery, while the temptations to vanity and ambition would be
greater there than at home; but Maddy put all his objections aside, and
long before the doctor came she had written to Mrs. Agnes that she would
go. The doctor could not understand why it was that in Maddy’s home he
did not think as well of her going to Aikenside as he had done the
evening previous. She looked so bright, so pure, so artless, sitting by
her grandfather’s knee, that it seemed a pity to transplant her to
another soil, while, hidden in his heart, was a fear of what might be
the effect of daily intercourse with Guy. Still he said it was the best
thing for her to do, and laughingly remarked that it was far better than
teaching the district school; and then he asked if she would ride again
that day, but to this Mrs. Markham objected. It was too soon, she said,
Maddy had hardly recovered from yesterday’s fatigue—suggesting that as
the doctor was desirous of doing good to his convalescent patients, he
should take poor old deaf Mary Barnes, who complained that he staid so
long with the child at “Gran’ther Markham’s” as to have but a moment to
spare for her.

Instantly the eyes of Mrs. Markham and the doctor met, the latter
feeling very uncomfortable, while the former was confirmed in the
suspicion raised by what Maddy told her the day before.

It was the doctor who carried Maddy’s answer to Agnes, the doctor who
made all the succeeding arrangements, deciding that Maddy would not be
wholly strong until the very day fixed upon by Agnes for her departure
for Saratoga. For this Guy was sorry. It would have been an easy matter
for him to have ridden down to the cottage and seen the girl in whom he
was beginning to feel so much interested that in his last letter to Lucy
he had mentioned her as about to become his sister’s governess; but he
did not care to see her there. It seemed to him that the surroundings of
the slanting-roofed house did not belong to her, and he would rather
meet her in his own more luxurious home. But the doctor’s word was law,
and so, on the first day of August he followed Agnes and her three huge
traveling trunks to the carriage, and was driven from the house to which
Maddy was coming that afternoon.




                               CHAPTER X.
                             AT AIKENSIDE.


It was a long, tiresome ride for grandpa, from Honedale to Aikenside,
and he accepted thankfully the doctor’s offer to take Maddy there
himself. With this arrangement Maddy was well pleased, as it would thus
afford her the opportunity she had so much desired, of talking with the
doctor about his bill, and asking him to wait until she had earned
enough to pay it.

To the aged couple, parting for the first time with their darling, the
day was very sad; but they would not intrude their grief upon the young
girl looking so eagerly forward to the new life opening before her; only
grandpa’s voice faltered a little when, in the morning prayer, he
commended his child to God, asking that she might be kept from
temptation, and that the new sights and scenes to which she was going
might not beget in her a love of the world’s vanities, or a disgust for
her old home; but that she might come back to it the same loving, happy
child as she was then, and never be ashamed of the parents to whom she
was so dear. There was an answering sob from the chair where Maddy
knelt, and after the devotions were ended, she wound her arm around her
grandfather’s neck, and parting his silvery locks, said to him
earnestly:

“Grandpa, do you think I could ever be ashamed of you and grandma?”

“I hope not, darling; it would break our hearts; but finery and things
is mighty apt to set folks up, and after you’ve walked a spell on them
velvet carpets, you’ll no doubt think your feet make a big noise on our
bare kitchen floor.”

“That may be, but I shan’t be ashamed of _you_. No, not if I were Mrs.
Guy Remington herself.” And Maddy emphasized her words with a kiss, as
she thought how nice it would be, provided she were a widow, to be Mrs.
Guy Remington, and have her grandparents live at Aikenside with her.

“But, pshaw! I’ll never be Mrs. Anybody; and if I am, I’ll have to have
a husband, which would be such a bother!” was her next mental comment,
as, leaving her grandfather, she went to help her grandmother with the
breakfast dishes, wondering when she would wipe those blue cups again,
and how she should probably feel when she did.

Quickly the morning passed, and just as the clock struck two the
doctor’s buggy appeared over the hill. Up to this moment Maddy had only
been happy in anticipation; but when, with her shawl and bonnet on, she
stood waiting while the doctor fastened her little trunk, and when she
saw a tear on the wrinkled faces of both her grandparents, her fortitude
gave way; and mid a storm of sobs she said her good-byes and received
her grandfather’s blessing.

It was very pleasant that afternoon, for the summer breeze was blowing
cool across the fields, where the laborers were busy; and with the
elasticity of youth, Maddy’s tears stopped flowing, but not until the
dear old home had disappeared, and she was some distance on the road to
Aikenside.

“I wonder how I shall like Mrs. Remington and Mr. Guy?” was the first
remark she made.

“You’ll not see them immediately. They left this morning for Saratoga,”
the doctor replied.

“Left! Mr. Guy gone?” Maddy repeated, in a disappointed tone.

“Are you very sorry?” the doctor asked, and Maddy replied:

“I did want to see him once; you know I never have.”

It would be such a surprise to find that Guy was no other than the
terrible inspector, that he would not undeceive her, the doctor thought;
and so he relapsed into a thoughtful mood, from which Maddy roused him
by broaching the subject of the unpaid bill, asking if he’d please not
trouble grandpa, but wait until she could pay it.

“Perhaps it’s wrong asking it when you were so good, but if you will
only take me for payment,” and Maddy’s soft brown eyes were lifted to
his face.

“Yes, Maddy, I’ll take _you_ for payment,” the doctor said, smiling,
half seriously, as his eyes rested fondly upon her.

Maddy did not understand him, but began to calculate out loud how long
it would take to earn the money. She’d heard people say that the doctor
charged a dollar a visit to Honedale, and he’d been so many, many times,
that it would take a great many weeks to pay him; besides, there was the
debt to Mr. Guy. She wanted to help pay that, but did not see how she
could, unless he waited too. Did the doctor think he would? It seemed
terrible to the doctor that one so young as Maddy should be harassed
with the payment of debts, and he felt a most intense desire for the
right to shield her from all such care, but he must not speak of it
then. She was too young, and he would rather she should remain a little
longer an artless child, confiding all her troubles to him as if he had
been her brother.

“There’s Aikenside,” he said at last, and it was not long before they
passed through the gate, guarded by the great bronze lions, and struck
into the graveled road leading to the house.

“It’s grander, finer, than I ever dreamed. Oh! if I could some time have
just such a home! and, doctor, look! What does make that water go up in
the air so? Is it what they call a fountain?”

In her excitement Maddy had risen, and with one band resting on the
doctor’s shoulder, was looking round her eagerly. Guy Remington would
have laughed, and been gratified, too, could he have heard the
enthusiastic praises heaped upon his home by the little school-girl as
she drove up to his door. But Guy was away in the dusty cars, and only
Jessie stood on the piazza to receive her teacher. There were warm words
of welcome, kisses and hugs; and then Jessie led her friend to the
chamber she was to occupy.

“Mother wanted you to sleep the other side of the house, but brother Guy
said no, you should have a pleasant room; and when Guy says a thing,
it’s so. It’s nice in here, and close to me. See, I’m right here,” and
Jessie opened a door leading directly to her own sleeping-room. “Here’s
one trunk,” she continued, as a servant brought up and set down, a
little contemptuously, the small hair-cloth box containing Maddy’s
wardrobe. “Here’s one: where’s the rest?” and she was flying after Tom,
when Muddy stopped her, saying:

“I have but one;—that’s all.”

“Only that little, teenty thing? How funny! Why, mamma carried three
most as big as my bed to Saratoga. You can’t have many dresses. What are
you going to wear to dinner?”

“I’ve been to dinner.” And Maddy looked up in some surprise.

“You have! We never have it till five, when Guy is at home; but now they
are gone, Mrs. Noah says we will have it at one, as folks ought to do.
To-day I coaxed her to wait till you came, and the table is all set out
so nicely for two. Can you carve, and do you like green turtle soup?”

Maddy was bewildered, but managed to reply that she could not carve,
that she never saw any green turtle soup, and that she supposed she
should wear to dinner the dress she had on.

“Why, we always change, even Mrs. Noah,” Jessie exclaimed, bending over
the open trunk, and examining its contents.

Two calicoes, a blue muslin, a gingham, and a delaine, beside the one
she had on—that was the sum total of Maddy’s wardrobe, and Jessie
glanced at it a little ruefully as Maddy carefully shook out the
nicely-folded dresses and laid them upon the bed. Here Mrs. Noah was
heard calling Jessie, who ran away, leaving Maddy alone for a moment.

Maddy had seen the look Jessie gave the dresses, and for the first time
there dawned upon her mind the possibility that her plain apparel, and
ignorance of the ways of Aikenside, might be to her the cause of much
mortification.

“And grandma said they were so nice, too, and did them up so carefully,”
she said, her lip beginning to quiver, and her eyes filling with tears,
thoughts of home came rushing over her.

She could not force them back, and laying her head upon the top of the
despised hair trunk, she sobbed aloud. Guy Remington’s private room was
in the hall, and as the doctor knew a book was to have been left there
for him, he took the liberty of getting it; passing Maddy’s door he
heard the low sound of weeping, and looking in, saw her where she sat or
rather knelt upon the floor.

“Homesick so soon?” he said, advancing to her side, and then, amid a
torrent of tears, the whole came out.

Maddy never could do as they did there, and everybody would laugh at her
so for an awkward thing; she never knew that folks ate dinner at five
instead of twelve—she should surely starve to death; she couldn’t
_carve_—she could _not_ eat _mud-turtle_ soup, and she did not know
which dress to wear for dinner—would the doctor tell her? There they
were, and she pointed to the bed, only five, and she knew Jessie thought
it so mean.

Such was the substance of Maddy’s passionate outpouring of her griefs to
the highly-perplexed doctor, who, after quieting her somewhat,
ascertained that the greatest present trouble was the deciding what
dress was suitable to the occasion. The doctor had never made dress his
study, but as it happened he liked blue, and so suggested it, as the one
most likely to be becoming.

“That!” and Maddy looked confounded. “Why grandma never lets me wear
that, except Sunday; that’s my very best dress.”

“Poor child; I’m not sure it was right for you to come here where the
life is so different from the quiet, unpretentious one you have led,”
the doctor thought, but he merely said, “it’s my impression they wear
their best dresses here all the time.”

“But what shall I do when that’s worn out! Oh, dear, dear, I wish I had
not come!” and another impetuous fit of weeping ensued, in the midst of
which Jessie came back, greatly disturbed on Maddy’s account, and
asking, eagerly, what was the matter.

Very adroitly the doctor managed to draw Jessie aside, while as well as
he was able he gave her a few hints with regard to her intercourse with
Maddy, and Jessie, who seemed intuitively to understand him, went back
to the weeping girl, soothing her much as a little mother would have
soothed her child. They would have such nice times, when Maddy got used
to their ways, which would not take long, and nobody would laugh at her,
she said, when Maddy expressed her fears on that point. “You are too
pretty even if you do make mistakes!” and then she went into ecstacies
over the blue muslin, which was becoming to Maddy and greatly enhanced
her girlish beauty. The tear-stains were all washed away, Jessie using
very freely her mother’s _eau-de-cologne_, and making Maddy’s cheeks
very red with rubbing, the nut-brown hair was brushed until it shone
like satin, a little narrow band of black velvet ribbon was pinned about
Maddy’s neck, and then she was ready for that terrible ordeal, her first
dinner at Aikenside. The doctor was going to stay, and this revived her
somewhat.

“You must come to the housekeeper’s room and see her first,” Jessie
said, and with a beating heart and brain bewildered by the elegant
furniture which met her at every turn, Maddy followed to where the
dreaded Mrs. Noah, in rustling black silk and a thread lace collar, sat
sewing, and greatly enjoying the leisure she had in her master’s
absence.

Mrs. Noah knew who Maddy was, and remembered that the old man had said
she would not disgrace a drawing-room as fine as that at Aikenside. She
had discovered, too, that Mrs. Agnes was opposed to her coming, and that
only Guy’s determined will had brought her there; and this, if nothing
else, had disposed her to feel kindly toward the little governess. She
had supposed her rather pretty, but was not prepared to find her what
she was. Maddy’s was a singular type of beauty—a beauty untarnished by
any selfish, uncharitable, or suspicious feeling. Clear and truthful as
a mirror, her brown eyes looked into Mrs. Noah’s, while her low
courtesy, so full of deference, found its way straight to that motherly
heart.

“I am glad to see you, Miss Clyde,” she said; “very glad.”

Maddy’s lip quivered a little and her voice shook as she replied:

“Please call me Maddy. They do at home, and I sha’n’t be quite so—so——”

She could not say “homesick,” lest she should break out again into a fit
of crying, but Mrs. Noah understood her, and remembering her own
experience when first she went from home, she involuntarily stooped to
kiss the pure, white forehead of the girl, who henceforth was sure of
one champion, at least, at Aikenside.

The dinner was a success, so far as Maddy was concerned. Not a single
mistake did she make, though her cheeks burned painfully as she felt the
eyes of the polite waiter fixed so often upon her face, and fancied he
might be laughing at her. But he was not, and thanks to the kind-hearted
Guy, he thought of her only with respect, as one who was his superior
and must be treated accordingly. Knowing how different everything was at
Aikenside from that to which she had been accustomed, Guy, with the
thoughtfulness natural to him, had taken the precaution of speaking to
each of the servants concerning Miss Clyde, Jessie’s teacher. As he
could not be there himself when she first came, it would devolve upon
them more or less to make it pleasant for her by kind, civil attentions,
he said, hinting at the dire displeasure sure to fall on any one who
should be guilty of a misdemeanor in that direction. To Paul, the
coachman, he had been particular in his charges, telling him who Maddy
was, and arguing that from the insolence once given to the grandfather
the offender was bound to be more polite to the grandchild. The carriage
was to be at her and Jessie’s command, and Paul was never to refuse a
reasonable request to drive the young ladies when and where they wished
to go, while a pretty little black pony, recently broken to the saddle
for Agnes, was to be at Miss Clyde’s service, if she chose to have it.
As Guy’s slightest wish was always obeyed, Maddy’s chances for happiness
were not small, notwithstanding that she felt so desolate and lonely
when the doctor left her, and watched him with a swelling heart until he
was lost to view in the deepening twilight.

Feeling that she must be homesick, Mrs. Noah suggested that she try the
fine piano in the little music room.

“Maybe you can’t play, but you can drum ‘Days of Absence,’ as most girls
do,” and opening the piano she bade Maddy “thump as long as she liked.”

Music was a delight to Maddy, who coveted nothing so much as a knowledge
of it, and sitting down upon the stool, she touched the soft-toned
instrument, ascertaining by her ear several sweet chords, and greatly
astonishing Jessie, who wondered at her skill. Twice each week a teacher
came up from Devonshire to give lessons to Jessie, but as yet she could
only play one scale and a few simple bars. These she attempted to teach
to Maddy, who caught at them so quickly and executed them so well that
Jessie was delighted. Maddy ought to take lessons, she said, and some
time during the next day she took to Mrs. Noah a letter which she had
written to Guy. After going into ecstasies over Maddy, saying she was
the nicest kind of a girl, that she prayed in the morning as well as at
night, and looked so sweet in blue, she asked if she couldn’t take music
lessons too, advancing many reasons why she should, one of which was
that she could play now a great deal better than herself.

It was several days before an answer came to this letter, and when it
did it brought Guy’s consent for Maddy to take lessons, together with a
note for Mr. Simons, requesting him to consider Miss Clyde his pupil on
the same terms as Jessie.

Though greatly pleased with Aikenside, and greatly attached to Jessie,
Maddy had had many hours of loneliness when her heart was back in the
humble cottage where she knew they were missing her so much, but now a
new world was suddenly opened before her, and the homesickness all
disappeared. It had been arranged with Mrs. Noah, by Agnes, that Jessie
should only study for two hours each day, consequently Maddy had nearly
all the time to herself, and she improved it well, making so rapid
progress that Simons looked on amazed, declaring her case to be without
a parallel, while Jessie was left far behind. Indeed, after a short time
Maddy might have been her teacher, and was of much service to her in
practicing her lessons.

Meanwhile, the doctor came often to Aikenside, praising Maddy’s progress
in music, and though he did not know a single note, compelling himself
to listen while with childish satisfaction she played him her last
lesson. She was very happy now at Aikenside, where all were so kind to
her, and half wished that the family would always remain as it was then,
that Agnes and Guy would not come home, for with their coming she felt
there would be a change. It was nearly time now to expect them. Indeed,
Guy had written on one Saturday, that they should probably be home the
next, and during the ensuing week Aikenside presented that most
uncomfortable phase of a house being cleaned. Everything must be in
order for Mr. Guy, Mrs. Noah said, taking more pains with his rooms than
with the remaining portion of the building. Guy was her idol; nothing
was too good for him, few things quite good enough, and she said so much
in his praise that Maddy began to shrink from meeting him. What would he
think of her? Perhaps he might not notice her in the least, and that
would be terrible. But, no, a man as kind as he had shown himself to
her, would at least pay her some attention, and so at last she began to
anticipate his coming home, wondering what their first meeting would be,
what she should say to _him_, and what he would think of _her_.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                              GUY AT HOME.


Saturday came at last, a balmy September day, when all nature seemed
conspiring to welcome the travelers for whom so extensive preparations
had been made at Aikenside. They were expected at about six in the
afternoon, and just before that hour the doctor rode up to be in
readiness to meet them. In the dining-room the table was set as Maddy
had never seen it set before, making, with its silver, its china, and
cut-glass, a glittering display. There was Guy’s seat as carver, with
Agnes at the urn, while Maddy felt sure that the two plates between
Agnes and Guy were intended for Jessie and herself, the doctor occupying
the other side. Jessie would sit next to her mother, which would leave
her next to Guy, where he could see every movement she made. Would he
think her awkward, or would he, as he hoped, be so much absorbed with
the doctor as not to notice her? Suppose she should drop her fork, or
upset one of those queer looking goblets on the sideboard, which looked
more like bowls than anything else. It would be terrible, and Maddy’s
cheeks tingled at the very thought of such a catastrophe. Were they
really goblets, those funny colored things, and if they were not, what
were they? Summoning all her courage, she asked the doctor, her prime
counselor, and learned that they were the finger-glasses, of which she
had read, but which she had never seen before.

“Oh, must _I_ use them?” she asked, in so evident distress that the
doctor could not forbear a laugh as he told her it was not of the
slightest consequence whether she used them or not, advising her to
watch Mrs. Agnes, who was _au fait_ in all such matters.

Six o’clock came, but no travelers. Then an hour went by, and there came
a telegram that the cars had run off the track, and Guy would not
probably arrive until late in the night, if indeed he did till morning.
Greatly disappointed, the doctor after dinner took his leave, telling
the girls they better not sit up. Consequently, at a late hour they both
retired, sleeping so soundly as not to hear the noise outside the house;
the banging of doors, the setting down of trunks, the tramp of feet,
Mrs. Noah’s words of welcome, one pleasant voice which responded, and
another more impatient one which sounded as if its owner were tired and
cross.

Agnes and Guy had come. As a whole, Agnes’s season at Saratoga had been
rather disagreeable. Guy, it is true, had been exceedingly kind. She had
been flattered by brainless fops. She had heard herself called “that
beautiful Mrs. Remington,” and “that charming young widow,” but no
serious attentions had been paid, no millionaire had asked to be her
second husband. If there had, she would have said yes, for Agnes was not
averse to changing her state of widowhood. She liked the doctor, but if
he did not propose, and some one else did, she should accept that other
one, of course. This was her intention when she left Aikenside, and when
she came back it was with the determination to raise the siege at once,
and compel the doctor to surrender. She knew he was not wealthy as she
could wish, but his family was good, and as she positively liked him,
she was prepared to waive the matter of money. In this state of mind it
is not surprising that on the morning of her return home she should
listen with a troubled mind to Jessie’s rather exaggerated account of
the number of times the doctor had been there, and the nice things he
had said to her and Maddy.

“He has visited us ever so much, staying ever so long. I know Maddy
likes him; _I_ do, anyway,” Jessie said, never dreaming of the passion
she was exciting, jealousy of Maddy, hatred of Maddy, and a desire to be
revenged on a girl whom Dr. Holbrook visited “ever so much.”

What was she that he should care for her? A mere nothing—a child, whom
Guy had taken up. Pity there was a Lucy Atherstone in the way of his
making her mistress of Aikenside. It would be a pretty romance, Guy
Remington and Grandpa Markham’s grandchild. Agnes was nervous and tired,
and this helped to increase her anger toward the innocent girl. She
would take immediate measures, she thought, to put the upstart down, and
the sight of Flora laying the cloth for breakfast suggested to her the
first step in teaching Maddy her place.

“Flora,” she said, “I see you are arranging the table for four. Have we
company?”

“Why, no, ma’am; there’s Mr. Guy, yourself, Miss Jessie, and Miss
Clyde,” was Flora’s reply, while Agnes continued haughtily, “Remove Miss
Clyde’s plate. No one allows their governess to eat with them.”

“But, ma’am,” and Flora hesitated, “she’s very pretty and ladylike, and
young; she has always eaten with Miss Jessie and Dr. Holbrook when he
was here. He treats her as if she was as good as anybody.”

In her eagerness to serve Maddy and save her from insult, Flora was
growing bold, but she only hurt the cause by mentioning the doctor.
Agnes was determined now, and she replied:

“It was quite right when we were gone, but it is different now, and Mr.
Remington, I am sure, will not suffer it.”

“May I ask him,” Flora persisted, her hand still on the plate.

“No,” Agnes would attend to that, and also see Miss Clyde. All Flora had
to do was to remove the plate, which she finally did, muttering to
herself. “Such airs! but I know Mr. Guy won’t stand it.”

Meantime, Maddy had put on her prettiest delaine, tied her little dainty
white apron, Mrs. Noah’s gift, and with the feeling that she was looking
unusually well, started for the parlor to meet her employer, Mrs. Agnes.
Jessie had gone in quest of her brother, and thus Agnes was alone when
Maddy Clyde first presented herself before her. She had not expected to
find Maddy so pretty, and for a moment the hot blood crimsoned her
cheek, while her heart throbbed wildly beneath the rich morning-dress.
Doctor Holbrook had cause for being attracted by that fresh, bright
face, she thought, and so she steeled herself against the better
impulses of her nature, impulses which pleaded that for the sake of the
past she should be kind to Maddy Clyde.

“Ah, good morning. You are Jessie’s governess, I presume,” she said,
bowing distantly, and pretending not to notice the hand which Maddy
involuntarily extended toward her. “Jessie speaks well of you, and I am
very glad you suit her. You have had a pleasant time, I trust?”

Her voice was so cold and her manner so distant, that Maddy’s eyes for
an instant filled with tears, but she answered civilly that she had been
very happy, and everybody was very kind. It was harder work to _put
down_ Maddy Clyde than Agnes had expected, and after a little further
conversation there ensued a silence, which neither was inclined to
break. At last, summoning all her courage, Agnes began:

“Excuse me, Miss Clyde, but your own good sense, of which I am sure you
have an abundance, must tell you that now Mr. Remington and myself are
at home, your intercourse with our family must be rather limited—that
is—ahem—that is, neither Mr. Remington nor myself are accustomed to
having our governess very much with us. I suppose you have had the range
of the parlors, sitting there when you liked, and all this was perfectly
proper. Mind, I am finding no fault with you. It is all quite right,”
she continued, as she saw the strange look of terror and surprise
visible on Maddy’s face. “The past is right, but in future it will be a
little different. I am willing to accord to a governess all the
privileges possible. They are human as well as myself, but society makes
a difference. Don’t you know it does?”

“Yes—no—I don’t know. Oh, pray tell me what you mean, what I am to do!”
Maddy gasped her face white as ashes, and her eyes wearing as yet only a
scared, uncertain look.

With little, graceful tosses of the head, which set in motion every one
of the brown curls, Mrs. Agnes replied:

“You are not, of course, to go to Mr. Remington. It is my matter, and
does not concern him. What I wish is this: You are to come to the parlor
only when invited, and are not to intrude upon us at any time,
particularly when company is here, such as—well, such as Dr. Holbrook,
if you please. As you cannot be with Jessie all the while, you will,
when your duties as governess are over, sit in your own room, or the
school-room, or walk in the back yard, just as the higher servants
do—such as Mrs. Noah and the seamstress, Sarah. Occasionally we shall
have you in to dine with us, but usually you will take your meals with
Mrs. Noah and Sarah. By following these directions you will, I think,
give entire satisfaction.”

When Mrs. Agnes had finished, Maddy began to understand her position,
and into her white face the hot blood poured indignantly. Wholly
inexperienced, she had never dreamed that a governess was not worthy to
sit at the same table with her employer, that she must never enter the
parlors unbidden, or intrude herself in any way, and her cheeks burned
at the degradation, and for an instant she felt like defying the proud
woman to her face. But the angry words trembling on her tongue were
repressed as she remembered her grandfather’s teachings; and with a bow
as haughty as any Mrs. Agnes could have made, and a look on her face
which could not easily be forgotten, she left the room, and in a kind of
stunned bewilderment sought the garden, where she could, unseen, give
way to her feelings.

Once alone, the torrent burst forth, and burying her face in the soft
grass, she wept bitterly, never hearing the step coming near, and not at
first heeding the voice which asked what was the matter. Guy Remington,
too, had come out into the garden, and accidentally wandering that way,
stumbled upon the little figure crying in the grass. He knew it was
Maddy, and greatly surprised to find her thus, asked what was the
matter. Then, as she did not hear him, he laid his hand gently upon her
shoulder, compelling her to look up. In all her imaginings of Guy, she
had never associated him with the man who had so puzzled and confused
her, and now she did not for a time suspect the truth. She only thought
the stranger a guest at Aikenside; some one come with Guy; and her
degradation seemed greater than before. She was not surprised when he
called her by name; of course he remembered her, just as she did him;
but she did wonder a little what Mrs. Agnes would say, could she know
how kindly he spoke to her as he lifted her from the grass and led her
to a rustic seat at no great distance from them.

“Now, tell me why you are crying so?” he said, brushing from her apron
the spot of dirt which had settled upon it. “Are you homesick?” he
continued, and then Maddy burst out crying harder than before.

She forgot that he was a stranger, forgot everything except that he
sympathized with her.

“Oh, sir,” she sobbed, “I was _so_ happy here till they came home, Mrs.
Remington and Mr. Guy. I never thought it was a disgrace to be a
governess; never heard it was so considered, or that I was not good
enough to sit with them and eat with them till she told me so. Oh, dear,
dear!” and choked with tears, Maddy stopped a moment to take breath.

She did not look up at the young man beside her, and it was well she did
not, for the dark expression of his face would have frightened her. Half
guessing the truth, and impatient to hear more, he said to her:

“Go on!” so sternly, that she started, and replied:

“I know you are angry with me and I ought not to have told you.”

“I am not angry—not at you, at least—go on,” was Guy’s reply, and Maddy
continued:

“She told me that now they had come home it would be different, that
only when invited must I come to the parlor, or anywhere, but must stay
in the servants’ part, and eat with Mrs. Noah and Sarah. I’d just as
soon do that. I am no better than they, only, only—the way she told me
made me feel so mean, as if I was not anybody, when I am,” and here
Maddy’s pride began to rise. “I’m just as good as she, if grandpa is
poor, and I won’t stay here to be treated like a _nigger_ by her and Mr.
Guy. I liked him so much too, because he was kind to grandpa and to me
when I was sick. Yes, I did like him so much.”

“And how is it now?” Guy asked, wondering who in the world she thought
he was. “How is it now?”

“I suppose it’s wicked to feel such things on Sunday, but, somehow, what
she said keeps making me so bad that I _know_ I hate _her_, and I
_guess_ I hate Mr. Guy!”

This was Maddy’s answer, spoken deliberately, while she looked up at the
young man, who with a comical expression about his mouth, answered her:

“_I_ am Mr. Guy.”

“YOU, YOU! Oh, I can’t bear it! I shall die!” and Maddy sprang up as
quickly as if feeling an electric shock.

But Guy’s arm was interposed to stop her, and held her back, while he
asked where she was going.

“Anywhere, out of sight, where you can never see me again,” Maddy sobbed
vehemently. “It is bad enough to have you think me a fool as you did
once; but now, oh! what do you think of me?”

“Nothing bad, I assure you,” Guy said, still holding her wrist to keep
her there. “I supposed you knew who I was, but as you did not, I forgive
you for hating me so cordially. If you thought I sanctioned what Mrs.
Remington has said to you, you had cause to dislike me, but Miss Clyde,
I do not, and this is the first intimation I have had that you were to
be treated other than as a lady. I am master of Aikenside, not Mrs.
Agnes, who shall be made to understand it.”

“Oh, please don’t quarrel about me. Let me go home, and then all will be
well,” Maddy cried, feeling at that moment more averse to leaving
Aikenside than she could have thought it possible.

“We shall not quarrel, but I shall have my way; meanwhile go to your
room, and stay there until told that I have sent for you.”

They went to the house together, but separated in the hall; Maddy going
to her room, while Guy sought Mrs. Agnes. The moment she saw his face
she knew a storm was coming, but was not prepared for the biting sarcasm
and bitter reproaches heaped upon her by one who, when roused, was a
perfect hurricane.

“Perhaps you have forgotten that you were once a school teacher
yourself,” he said, “and before that time mercy knows what you were—_a
hired girl_, perhaps; your present airs would seem to warrant as much!”

Guy was in a sad passion by this time, and failed to note the effect his
last words had on Agnes, who turned livid with rage and terror; but
smothering down her wrath, she said, beseechingly:

“Pray, Guy, do not be so angry; I know I am foolish about some things,
and proud people who ‘come up’ always are, I guess; I know that marrying
your father made me what I am, but everybody does not know it, and it is
not necessary they should. I don’t remember exactly what I did say to
this Clyde girl, but I thought it would be pleasanter for you,
pleasanter for us all, not to have her always round; it seems she has
presided at the table when Dr. Holbrook was here to tea, and even you
can’t think that quite right.”

“I don’t know why,” and at mention of Dr. Holbrook Guy’s temper burst
out again. “Agnes, you can’t deceive me; I know the secret of your
abominable treatment of Maddy Clyde is jealousy.”

“Guy—jealousy! I jealous of that child?” and Agnes’s voice was
expressive of the utmost consternation.

“Yes, jealous of that child; you think that because the doctor has been
kind to her, perhaps he wants her sometime for his wife. I hope he does;
I mean to help it on; I’ll tell him to marry her, and if he don’t, I’ll
almost marry her myself!” and Guy paced up and down the parlor, chafing
and foaming like a young lion.

Agnes was conquered, and quite as much bewildered as Maddy had been she
heard only in part how Maddy Clyde was henceforth to be treated.

“Yes, yes,” she gasped at last, as Guy talked on, “stop now, for mercy’s
sake, and I’ll do anything, only not this morning, my head aches so I
cannot go to the breakfast table; I must be excused,” and holding her
temples, which were throbbing with pain, induced by strong excitement,
Agnes hurried to her own room and threw herself upon the bed, angry,
mortified, and subdued.

The breakfast bell had rung twice while Guy was holding that interview
with Agnes, and at last Mrs. Noah came up herself to learn the cause of
the delay; standing in the hall she heard a part of what was transpiring
in the parlor. Mrs. Noah was proud and jealous of her master’s dignity,
and once or twice the thought had crossed her mind that perhaps when he
came home, Maddy would be treated more as some governesses were treated
by their employers, but to have _Agnes_ take the matter up was quite a
different thing, and Mrs. Noah smiled with grim satisfaction as she
heard Guy issuing orders as to how Miss Clyde should be treated.
Standing back to let Agnes pass, she waited a moment, and then, as if
she had just come up, presented herself before Guy, asking if he were
ready for breakfast.

“Yes, call Miss Clyde; tell her I sent for her,” was Guy’s answer, and
Mrs. Noah repaired to Maddy’s room, finding her still sobbing bitterly.

“I cannot go down,” she said; “my face is all stains, and it’s so
dreadful, happening on Sunday, too. What would grandpa say?”

“You can wash off the stains. Come,” Mrs. Noah said, pouring water into
the bowl, and bidding Maddy hurry, “as Mr. Guy was waiting breakfast for
her.”

“But I am not to eat with them,” Maddy began, when Mrs. Noah stopped her
by explaining that Guy ruled that house, and Agnes had been completely
routed.

This did not quiet Maddy particularly, and her heart beat painfully as
she descended to the parlor, where Guy was walking up and down.

“Come, Miss Clyde, Jessie is nearly famished,” he said, pleasantly, as
Maddy appeared, and without the slightest reference to what had passed
he drew Maddy’s arm within his own, and giving a hand to Jessie, who had
just come in, he went to the breakfast room, where Maddy was told to
preside, as Mrs. Remington had a headache.

Guy watched her closely without seeming to do so, mentally deciding that
she was neither vulgar nor awkward. On the contrary, he thought her very
pretty, and very graceful, for one so unaccustomed to society. Nothing
was said to Agnes, who kept her room the entire day, and did not join
the family until evening, when Guy sat upon the piazza with Jessie in
his lap, while Maddy was not very far away. At first there was much
constraint between Agnes and Maddy, but with Guy to manage, it soon wore
away, and Agnes felt herself exceedingly amiable when she reflected how
gracious she had been to the young girl.

But Maddy could not so soon forget. All through the day the conviction
had been settling upon her that she could not stay at Aikenside, and on
the following morning, just after breakfast was over, she summoned
courage to ask Mr. Guy if she might talk with him. Leading the way to
his library, he bade her sit down, while he took the chair opposite, and
then waited for her to commence.

Maddy was afraid of Guy. He did not seem like Dr. Holbrook. He was
haughtier in his manner, while his rather elaborate style of dress, and
polished manners, gave him, in her estimation, a kind of superiority
over all the men she had ever met. Besides that, she remembered how his
dark eyes had flashed when she told him what she did the previous day,
and also that she had said to his face that she hated him. She could not
bear to leave a bad impression on his mind, so the first words she said
to him were:

“Mr. Remington, I can’t stay here after all that has happened. It would
not be pleasant for me or Mrs. Remington, so I am going home, but I want
you to forget what I said about hating you yesterday. I did not then
know who you were. I don’t hate you. I like you, and I wish you to like
me.”

She did not look at him, for her eyelids were cast down, and her lashes
were wet with the tears she could scarcely keep from shedding. Guy had
never known much about girls of Maddy’s age, and there was something
extremely fascinating in the artless simplicity of this half-child,
half-woman, sitting there before him, and asking him so demurely to like
her. She was very pretty, he thought, and would make a beautiful woman.
Then, as he remembered his avowed intention of urging the doctor to make
her his wife some day, the idea flashed upon him that it would be very
generous, very magnanimous in him to educate her expressly for the
doctor, and though he hardly seemed to wait at all ere replying to
Maddy, he had in the brief interval formed a skeleton plan, and seen it
in all its bearings and triumphal result.

“I am much obliged for your liking me,” he said, a little mischievously.
“You surely have not much reason to do so when you recall the incidents
of our first interview. Maddy—Miss Clyde, I mean—I have come to the
conclusion that I knew less than you did, and I beg your pardon for
annoying you so terribly.”

Then Guy explained to her briefly how it all had happened, blaming
himself far more than he did the doctor, who, he said, had repented
bitterly.

“Had you died, Miss Clyde, when you were so sick, I believe he would
have felt it his duty to die also. He was greatly interested in you;
more indeed than in any patient I ever knew him to have,” and Guy’s eyes
glanced curiously at Maddy to witness the effect his words might have
upon her. But Maddy merely answered:

“Yes, I think he was anxious for me to get well. He was very kind, and I
like him very much.”

Mentally chiding himself for trying to find in Maddy’s head an idea
which evidently never was there, Guy began to speak of her proposition
to leave, saying he should not suffer it, Jessie needed her and she must
stay. She was not to mind the disagreeable things Mrs. Remington had
said. She was tired and nervous, and so gave way to some very
preposterous notions, which she had picked up somewhere. She would treat
Maddy better hereafter, and she must stay. It was pleasanter for Jessie
to have a companion so near her own age. Then, as he saw signs of
yielding in Maddy’s face, he continued:

“How would you like to turn scholar for a short time each day; I being
your teacher? Time often hangs heavily upon my hands, and I fancy the
novelty of the thing would suit me. I have books. I will appoint your
lessons and the hour for recitation.”

Guy’s face was scarlet by the time he finished speaking, for suddenly he
remembered to have heard or read of a similar instance which resulted in
the marriage of the teacher and pupil; besides that, it would subject
him to so much remark, when it was known that he was teaching a pretty,
attractive girl like Maddy Clyde, and he sincerely hoped she would
decline. But Maddy had no such intention. Always in earnest herself, she
supposed every one else meant what they said, and without ever
suspecting the peculiar position in which such a proceeding would place
both herself and Guy, her heart leaped up at the idea of knowing what
was in the books, she had never dared hope she might study. With her
beautiful eyes full of tears, which shone like diamonds, as she lifted
them to Guy’s face, she said:

“Oh, I thank you so much. You could not make me happier, and I’ll try so
hard to learn. They don’t teach such things at the district school as
you asked me about that day; and when there was a high school in
Honedale I could not go, for it was three dollars a quarter, and grandpa
had no three dollars for me. Uncle Joseph needed help, and so I staid at
home. It’s dreadful to be poor, but, perhaps, I shall some time be
competent to teach in a seminary, and won’t that be grand? When can I
begin?”

Guy had never met with so much frankness and simplicity in any one,
unless it were in Lucy Atherstone, of whom Maddy reminded him a little,
except that she was more practical, more—he hardly knew what—only there
was a difference, and a thought crossed his mind that if Maddy had had
all Lucy’s advantage and was as old, she would be what the English call
cleverer. There was no disparagement to Lucy in his thoughts, only a
compliment to Maddy, who was waiting for him to answer her question; he
had offered his services; she had accepted; and with the mental comment,
“I dread Doc’s chaff the most so I’ll explain to him that I am educating
her for the future Mrs. Holbrook,” he replied:

“As soon as I am rested from my journey, or sooner, if you like; and now
tell me, please, who is this Uncle Joseph of whom you spoke?”

He remembered what the doctor had said of a crazy uncle, but wishing to
hear Maddy’s version of it, put to her the question he did.

“Uncle Joseph is grandma’s youngest brother,” Maddy answered, “and he
has been in the Lunatic Asylum for years. As long as his little property
lasted, his bills were paid, but now they keep him from charity, only
grandpa helps all he can, and buys some little nice things which he
wants so badly, and sometimes cries for, they say. I picked berries all
last summer, and sold them, to buy him a thin coat and pants. We should
have more to spend than we do, if it were not for Uncle Joseph,” and
Maddy’s face wore a thoughtful expression as she recalled all the shifts
and turns she’d seen made at home that the poor maniac might be more
comfortable.

“What made him crazy?” Guy asked, and after a moment’s hesitancy Maddy
replied:

“I don’t believe grandma would mind my telling you, though she don’t
talk about it much. I only knew it a little while ago. He was
disappointed once. He loved a girl very much, and she made him think
that she loved him. She was many years younger than Uncle Joseph—about
my age at first, and when she grew up she said she was sick of him,
because he was so much older. He wouldn’t have felt so badly, if she had
not gone straight off and married a _rich_ man who was a great deal
older even than Uncle Joseph; that was the hardest part, and he went
crazy at once. It has been so long that he never can be helped, and
sometimes grandma talks of bringing him home, as he is perfectly
harmless. I suppose it’s wicked, but I most hope she won’t, for it would
be terrible to live with a crazy man,” and a chill crept over Maddy, as
if there had fallen upon her a foreshadowing of what might be. “Mr.
Remington,” she continued, suddenly, “if you teach me, I can’t of course
expect three dollars a week. It would not be right.”

“Perfectly right,” he answered. “Your services to Jessie will be worth
just as much as ever, so give yourself no trouble on that score.”

He was the best man that ever lived, Maddy thought, and so she told the
doctor that afternoon when, as he rode up to Aikenside, she met him on
the lawn before he reached the house.

It did strike the doctor a little comically that one of Guy’s habits
should offer to turn school teacher, but Maddy was so glad that he was
glad too, and doubly glad that across the sea there was a Lucy
Atherstone. How he wished that she was there now as Mrs. Guy, and he
must tell Guy so that very day. Seated in Guy’s library, the opportunity
soon occurred, for Guy approached the subject himself by saying:

“Guess, Hal, what crazy project I have just embarked in.”

“I know without guessing; Maddy told me,” and the doctor’s eyebrows were
elevated a little as he crossed his feet upon the window-sill and moved
his chair so as to have a better view of Maddy and Jessie romping in the
grass.

“And so you don’t approve?” was Guy’s next remark, to which the doctor
replied:

“Why yes; it’s a grand thing for her, providing you know enough to teach
her; but, Guy, this is a confounded gossiping neighborhood, and folks
will talk, I’m afraid.”

“Talk about what?” and Guy bridled up as his independent spirit began to
rise. “What harm is there in my doing a generous act to a poor girl like
Maddy Clyde? Isn’t she graceful as a kitten, though?” and Guy nodded
toward the spot where she was playing.

It annoyed the doctor to have Guy praise Maddy, but he would not show
it, and answered calmly:

“It’s all right in you, but just because the poor girl is Maddy Clyde,
folks will talk. She is too handsome for Madam Grundy to let alone. If
_Lucy_ were only here, it would be different. Why, in the name of
wonder, are you two not married, if you are ever going to be?”

“Jealous, as I live!” and Guy’s hand came down playfully on the doctor’s
shoulder. “I did not suppose you had got so far as that. You are afraid
of the effect it may have on me teaching a sweet-faced little girl how
to conjugate _amo_; and to cover up your own interest, you bring Lucy
forward as an argument. Eh, Hal, have I not probed your secret?”

The doctor was in no mood for joking, and only smiled gloomily, while
Guy continued:

“Honestly, doctor, I am doing it for you. I imagine you fancy her, as
well you may. She’ll make a splendid woman, but she needs education, of
course, and I am going to give it to her. You ought to thank me, instead
of looking so like a thunder-cloud,” and Guy laughed merrily.

The doctor was ashamed of his mood, and could not tell what spirit
prompted him to answer:

“I am obliged to you, Guy; but as far as I am concerned, you may spare
yourself the trouble. If my wife needs educating, I can do it myself.”

Guy was puzzled. Could it be that after all he was deceived, and the
doctor did not care for Maddy? It might be, and he hastened to change
the conversation to another topic than Maddy Clyde. The doctor staid to
dinner, and as Guy watched him closely, he made up his mind that he did
care for Maddy Clyde, and this confirmed him in his plan of educating
her for him.

Guy felt himself very good, very generous, very condescending, and very
forgiving, the earlier portion of the afternoon; but later in the day he
began to view Guy Remington in the light of a martyr, said martyrdom
consisting in the scornful toss of the head with which Agnes had
listened to his plan, and the open opposition of Mrs. Noah.

“Was he beside himself, or what?” the latter asked. “She liked Maddy
Clyde herself, but it wasn’t for him to demean himself by turning her
schoolmaster. Folks would talk awfully, and she couldn’t blame ’em;
besides, what would Lucy Atherstone say to his bein’ alone in a room
with a girl as pretty as Maddy? It was a duty he owed _her_ at any rate
to tell her all about it, and if she said ’twas right, why, go it.”

This was the drift of Mrs. Noah’s remarks, and as Guy depended much on
her judgment, he decided to write to Lucy and ask if she had the
slightest objections to his teaching Maddy Clyde. Accordingly he wrote
that very night, telling her frankly all he knew concerning Maddy, and
narrating the circumstances under which he first had met her, being
careful also to repeat what he knew would have weight with an English
girl like Lucy, to wit: that though poor, Maddy’s father and Grandfather
Clyde had been gentlemen, the one a clergyman, the other a sea captain.
Then he told of her desire for learning, and his plan to teach her
himself—of what the doctor and Mrs. Noah said about it, and his final
determination to consult her. Then he described Maddy herself, and told
how pure, how innocent, how artless and beautiful she was, and asked if
Lucy feared aught from his association with her.

“If you do,” he wrote, “you have but to say so, and though I am
committed, I will extricate myself in some way, rather than wound you in
the slightest degree.”

It would be some time ere an answer to this letter could be received,
and until such time Guy could not honorably hear Maddy’s lessons, as he
had agreed to do. But Maddy was not suspicious, and accepting his
trivial excuse, waited patiently, while he too waited for the letter,
wondering what it would contain.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                             LUCY’S LETTER.


At last the answer came, and it was Maddy who brought it to Aikenside.
She had been home that day, and on her return had ridden by the office
as Guy had requested her to do. She saw the letter bore a foreign
post-mark, and that it was in the delicate handwriting of some lady, but
the sight did not affect her in the least. Maddy’s heart was far too
heavy that day to care for a trifle, and placing the letter carefully in
her basket she kept on to Aikenside.

The letter was just like Lucy, and Guy, while reading it, felt how good
she was. Of course, he might teach Maddy Clyde all he wished to teach
her, and it made Lucy love him better to know that he was willing to do
such things. She wished she was there to help him: they would open a
school for all the poor, but she did not know when her mother would let
her come. That pain in her side was not any better, and her cough had
come earlier this season than last. The physician had advised a winter
in Naples, and they were going before very long. It would be pleasant
there, no doubt, only she should be farther away from her Guy, but she
would think of him, oh! so often, teaching that dear little Maddy Clyde,
and she should pray for him, too, just as she always did. Then followed
a few more lines sacred to the lover’s eye, lines which told how pure
was the love which sweet Lucy Atherstone bore for Guy Remington, who, as
he read, felt his heart beat with a throb of pain, for Lucy spoke to him
now for the first time of what might possibly be in store for them.

“I’ve dreamed about it nights,” she said, “I’ve thought about it days,
and tried so hard to be reconciled; to feel that if God will have it so,
I am willing to die before you have ever called me your wife, or I have
ever called you husband. Heaven _is_ better than earth, I know, and I am
sure of going there, I think; but, oh! dear Guy, a life with you looks
so very sweet, that I sometimes shrink from the dark grave, which would
hide me forever from you. Guy, you once said you never prayed, and it
made me feel so badly, but you will, when you get this, won’t you? You
will ask God to make me well, and maybe he will hear _you_. Do, Guy,
please pray for your Lucy, far away over the sea.”

Guy could not resist that touching appeal, and though his lips were all
unused to prayer, he bowed his head upon his hands and asked that she
might live, beseeching the Father to send upon him any calamity save
this one—Lucy must not die. Guy felt better for having prayed. It was
something to tell Lucy, something that would please her, and though his
heart yet was very sad, a part of the load was lifted, and he could
think of Lucy now, without the bitter pain her letter first had cost
him. Was there nothing that would save her, nobody who could cure her?
Her disease was not hereditary; surely it might be made to yield. Had
English physicians no skill? would not an American do better? It was
possible, and if Lucy’s mother would let her come where doctors were
skillful, she might get well; but she was determined that no husband
should be burdened with an ailing wife, and so, if the mountain would
not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain; and Guy fairly
leaped from his chair as he exclaimed, “I have it—there’s _Doc_!—he’s
the most skillful man I ever knew; I’ll send him to England; send him to
the Atherstones; he shall go to Naples with them as their family
physician; he can cure Lucy; I’ll speak to him the very next time he
comes here;” and with another burden lifted from his mind, Guy began to
wonder where Maddy was, and why the day had been so long.

He knew she had returned, for Flora had said she brought the letter, and
he was about going out, in hopes of finding her and Jessie, when he
heard her in the hall, as she answered some question of Mrs. Noah’s;
stepping to the door, he asked her to come in, saying he would, if she
chose, appoint the lessons talked about so long. Ordinarily, Maddy’s
eyes would have flashed with delight, for she had anticipated so much
from these lessons; now, however, there was a sad look upon her face,
and she could scarcely keep from crying as she came at Guy’s bidding,
and sat upon the sofa, near his arm-chair. Somehow it rested Guy to look
at Maddy Clyde, who, having recovered from her illness, seemed the very
embodiment of perfect health, a health which glowed and sparkled all
over her bright face; showing itself as well in the luxuriance of her
glossy hair as in the brilliancy of her complexion, and the flash of her
lustrous eyes. How Guy wished that Lucy could share in what seemed
almost a superfluity of health; and why shouldn’t she? Dr. Holbrook had
cured Maddy; Dr. Holbrook could cure Lucy; and so for the present
dismissing Lucy from his mind, he turned to Maddy, and said the time had
come when he could give those promised lessons, and asked if she would
commence to-morrow, after she was through with Jessie, and what she
would prefer to take up first.

“Oh, Mr. Remington,” and Maddy began to cry, “I am afraid I cannot stay!
they need me at home, or may need me. Grandpa said so, and I don’t want
to go, though I know it’s wicked not to; oh, dear, dear!”

Here Maddy broke down entirely, sobbing so convulsively that Guy became
alarmed, and wondered what he ought to do to quiet her. As she sat the
bowed head was just within his reach, and he very naturally laid his
hand upon it, and, as if it had been Jessie’s, smoothed the silken hair,
while he asked why she must go home? Had anything occurred to make her
presence more necessary than it was at Aikenside?

Controlling her voice as well as she was able, Maddy told him that the
physicians at the asylum had written that as Uncle Joseph would in all
human probability never be perfectly sane, and as a change of scene
would do him good, it might be well for Mr. Markham to take him to
Honedale awhile; that having been spoken with upon the subject, he
seemed as anxious as a little child, even crying when the night came
round and he was not at home, as he expressed it. “They have kept him so
long,” Maddy said, “that grandpa thought it his duty to relieve them,
though he can’t well afford it; and so he’s coming next week, and
grandma will need some one to help, and I must go. I know it’s wrong,
but I do not want to go, try as I will.”

It was a gloomy prospect to exchange Aikenside for the humble home where
poverty had its abode, and it was not very strange that Maddy should
shrink from it at first. She did not stop to ask what was her duty, or
think how much happiness her presence might give her grandparents, or
how much she might cheer and amuse the imbecile, her uncle. She was but
human, and so when Guy began to devise ways of preventing her going, she
listened, while the pain at her heart grew less as her faith in Guy grew
stronger. He would drive down with her to-morrow, he said, and see what
could be done. Meanwhile she must dry her eyes and go to Jessie, who was
calling her.

As Guy had half expected, the doctor came round that evening, and
inviting him into his private room, Guy proceeded at once to unfold his
scheme, asking him first:

“How much he probably received a year for his services as physician.”

The doctor could not tell at once, but after a little thought made an
estimate, and then inquired why Guy had asked the question.

“Because I have a project on foot. Lucy Atherstone is dying with what
they call consumption. I don’t believe those old fogies understand her
disease, and if you will go over to England and undertake her cure, I’ll
give you just double what you’ll get by remaining here. They are going
to Naples for the winter, and, undoubtedly, will spend some time in
Rome. It will be just the thing for you. Lucy and her mother will be
glad of your services when they know I sent you. Lucy likes you now.
Will you go? You can trust Maddy to me. I’ll take good care that she is
worthy of you when you come back.”

At the mention of Maddy’s name, the doctor’s brow darkened. He was sure
that Guy meant kindly, but it grated on his feelings to be thus joked
about what he knew was a stern reality. Guy’s project appeared to him at
first a most insane one, but as he continued to enlarge upon it, and the
advantage it would be to the doctor to travel in the old world, a
feeling of enthusiasm was kindled in his own breast; a desire to visit
Naples and Rome, and the places he had dreamed of as a boy, but never
hoped to see; and Guy’s plan began to look more feasible, and possibly
he might have yielded but for one thought, and that a thought of Maddy
Clyde. He would not leave her alone with Guy, even though Guy was true
to Lucy as steel. He would stay; he would watch; and in time he would
win the young girl, waiting now for him in the hall below to tell him,
amid blushes of shame and tears of regret, how she had intended to pay
him with her very first wages, but now that Uncle Joseph was coming
home, he must wait a little longer.

“Will you be so good?” and unmindful of Guy’s presence Maddy laid her
hand confidingly upon his arm, while her soft eyes looked beseechingly
into his as she explained.

Thinking they would rather be alone, Guy left them together in the
lighted hall, and then, sitting down on the sofa, and making Maddy sit
beside him, the doctor began:

“Maddy, you know I mean what I say, at least to you, and when I tell you
that I never think of that bill except when you speak of it, you will
believe me. I know your grandfather’s circumstances, and I know, too,
that I did much to induce your sickness, consequently if I made one out
at all, it would be a very small one.”

He did not get any further, for Maddy hastily interrupted him, and while
her eyes flashed with pride, exclaimed:

“I will not be a charity patient! I say _I will not_! I’d be a hired
girl before I’d do it!”

It troubled the doctor to see Maddy so disturbed about dollars and
cents—to know that poverty was pressing its iron hand upon her young
heart; and only because she was so young did he refrain from offering
her then and there a resting-place from the ills of life in his
sheltering love. But she was not prepared, and he should only defeat his
object by his rashness, so he restrained himself, though he did pass his
arm partly around her waist as he said to her:

“I tell you, Maddy, honestly, that when I want that bill liquidated I’ll
ask you. I certainly will, and will let you pay it, too. Does that
satisfy you?”

“Yes,” Maddy said, and after a little the doctor continued:

“By the way, Maddy, I have some idea of going to Europe for a few
months, or a year, perhaps. You know it does a physician good to study
awhile in Paris. What do you think of it? Shall I go?”

The doctor had become quite necessary to Maddy’s happiness. It was to
him she confided all her little troubles, and to lose him would be a
terrible loss; and so she answered that if it would be much better for
him she supposed he ought to go, though she should miss him sadly and be
very lonely without him.

“Would you, Maddy? Are you in earnest? Would you be the lonelier for my
being gone?” the doctor asked, eagerly. With her usual truthfulness,
Maddy replied, “Of course I should;” and when, after the conference was
ended, the doctor stood for a moment talking with Guy, ere bidding him
good-night, he said, “I think I shall not accept your European
proposition. Somebody else must cure Lucy.”

The next day, as Guy had proposed, he rode down to Honedale, taking
Maddy with him, and offering so many reasons why she should not be
called home, that the old people began to relent, particularly as they
saw how Maddy’s heart was set on the lessons Guy was going to give her.
She might never have a like opportunity, the young man said, and as a
good education would put her in the way of helping them when they were
older and needed her more, it was their duty to leave her with him. He
knew they objected to her receiving three dollars a week, but he should
pay it just the same, and if they chose they might, with a part of it,
hire a little girl to do the work which Maddy would do were she at home.
All this sounded very well, especially as it was backed by Maddy’s eyes,
full of tears, and fixed pleadingly upon her grandfather. The sight of
them, more than Guy’s arguments, influenced the old man, who decided
that if grandma were willing, Maddy should stay, unless absolutely
needed at the cottage. Then the tears burst forth, and winding her arms
around her grandfather’s neck, Maddy sobbed out her thanks, asking if it
were selfish and wicked and naughty in her to prefer an education.

“Not if that’s your only reason,” grandpa replied. “It’s right to want
learning, quite right; but if my child is biased by the fine things at
Aikenside, and hates to come back to her poor home, because ’tis poor, I
should say it was very natural, but not exactly right.”

Maddy was very happy after it was settled, and chatted gayly with her
grandmother while Guy went out with her grandfather, who wished to speak
with him alone.

“Young man,” he said, “you have taken a deep interest in me and mine
since I first came to know you, and I thank you for it all. I’ve nothing
to give in return except my prayers, and those you have every day; you
and that doctor. I pray for you two just as I do for Maddy. Somehow you
three come in together. You’re uncommon good to Maddy. ’Tain’t every one
like you who would offer and insist on learning her. I don’t know what
you do it for. You seem honest. You can’t, of course, ever dream of
making her your wife, and, if I thought—yes, if I supposed,”—here
grandpa’s voice trembled, and his face became livid with horror at the
idea—“if I supposed that in your heart there was the shadow of an
intention to deceive my child, to ruin my Maddy, I’d throttle you here
on the spot, old as I am, and bitter as I should repent the rashness.”

Guy attempted to speak, but grandpa motioned him to be silent, while he
went on:

“I do not suspect you, and that’s why I trust her with you. My old eyes
are dim, but I can see enough to know that Maddy is beautiful. Her
mother was so before her, and the Clydes were a handsome race. My Alice
was elevated, folks thought, by marrying Captain Clyde, but I don’t
think so. She was pure and good as the angels, and Maddy is much like
her, only she has the ambition of the Clydes; has their taste for
everything a little above her. She wouldn’t make nobody blush if she was
mistress of Aikenside.”

Grandpa felt relieved when he had said all this to Guy, who listened
politely, smiling at the idea of deceiving Maddy, and fully concurring
with grandpa in all he said of her rare beauty and natural gracefulness.
On their return to the house grandpa showed Guy the bed-room intended
for Uncle Joseph, and Guy, as he glanced at the furniture, thought
within himself how he would send down from Aikenside some of the unused
articles piled away on the garret when he refurnished his house.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                                GOSSIP.


In course of time Uncle Joseph came, as was arranged, and on the day
following Maddy and Guy went down to see him, finding him a tall,
powerfully-built man, retaining many vestiges of manly beauty, and fully
warranting all Mrs. Markham had said in his praise. He seemed perfectly
gentle and harmless, though when Guy was announced as _Mr. Remington_,
Maddy noticed that in his keen black eyes there was for an instant a
fiery gleam, but it quickly passed away, as he muttered:

“Much too young; he was older than I, and I am over forty. It’s all
right.”

And the fiery eye grew soft and almost sleepy in its expression, as the
poor lunatic turned next to Maddy, telling her how pretty she was,
asking her if she were engaged, and bidding her be careful that her
_fiancé_ was not more than a dozen years older than herself.

Uncle Joseph seemed to fancy her from the very first, following her from
room to room, touching her fair soft cheeks, smoothing her silken hair,
telling her Sarah’s used to curl, asking if she knew where Sarah was,
and finally crying for her as a child cries for its mother, when at last
she went away. Much of this Maddy repeated to Jessie, as in the twilight
they sat together in the parlor at Aikenside; and Jessie was not the
only listener, for, with her face resting on her hand, and her head bent
eagerly forward, Agnes sat, so as not to lose a word of what Maddy was
saying of Uncle Joseph. The intelligence that he was coming to the red
cottage had been followed by a series of headaches, so severe and
protracted that Dr. Holbrook had pronounced her really sick, and had
been unusually attentive. Very anxiously she had waited for the result
of Maddy’s visit to the poor lunatic, and her face was white as marble
as she heard him described, while a faint sigh escaped her when Maddy
told what he had said of _Sarah_.

Agnes was changed somewhat of late. She had grown more thoughtful and
quiet, while her manner toward Maddy was not so haughty as formerly. Guy
thought her improved, and thus was not so delighted as he would
otherwise have been, when, one day, about two weeks after Uncle Joseph’s
arrival at Honedale, she startled him by saying she thought it nearly
time for her to return to Boston, if she meant to spend the winter
there, and asked what she should do with Jessie.

Guy was not quite willing for Agnes to leave him there alone, but when
he saw that she was determined he consented to her going, with the
understanding that Jessie was to remain—a plan which Agnes did not
oppose, as a child so large as Jessie might stand in the way of her
being so gay as she meant to be in Boston. Jessie, too, when consulted,
said she would far rather remain at Aikenside; and so one November
morning, Agnes kissed her little daughter, and bidding good-bye to Maddy
and the servants, left a neighborhood which, since Uncle Joseph was so
near, had become so intolerable that not even the hope of winning the
doctor could avail to keep her in it.

Guy accompanied her to the city, wondering why, when he used to like it
so much, it now seemed dull and tiresome, or why the society he had
formerly enjoyed failed to bring back the olden pleasure he had
experienced when a resident of Boston. Guy was very popular there, and
much esteemed by his friends of both sexes, and great were the efforts
made to entertain and keep him as long as possible. But he could not be
prevailed upon to stay there long, and after seeing Agnes settled in one
of the most fashionable boarding-houses he started for Aikenside.

It was dark when he reached home, and as the evening had closed in with
a heavy rain, the house presented rather a cheerless appearance,
particularly as, in consequence of Mrs. Noah’s not expecting him that
day, no fires had been kindled in the parlors, or in any room except the
library. There a bright coal fire was blazing in the grate, and thither
Guy repaired, finding there, as he expected, Jessie and her teacher. Not
liking to intrude on Mr. Guy, of whom she still stood 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 her 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. 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.

It did not take long for the people in the neighborhood to hear that Guy
Remington had turned schoolmaster, and had in his library for two hours
or more each day Jessie’s little girl-governess, about whose 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 _fiancée_ and was 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 soon 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
gave her four, esteeming them the pleasantest of the whole twenty-four.
Guy was proud of Maddy’s improvement, and often praised her 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 had learned.

It mattered nothing to Guy that the 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 “catch” 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 his first visit to Uncle Joseph, Guy
never accompanied her. Jessie, on the contrary, went often to Honedale,
where the lunatic always greeted her coming, stealing up closely to her,
and whispering softly, “My Daisy has come again.”

He had called her _Sarah_ at first, and then changed the name to
“Daisy,” which he persisted in calling her, watching from his window for
her coming, and crying whenever Maddy appeared without her. At first
Agnes, in her letters, 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 this 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
even 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, people will keep on talking so long as
you keep her there in the house; and it’s hardly fair toward Lucy.”

Latterly Guy had fancied that the doctor did not like the educating
process, while even Mrs. Noah managed to keep Maddy 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 would
know, at all events; and summoning Mrs. Noah to his presence, he read
her that part of Agnes’s letter pertaining to Maddy, and 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 often 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-teachin’?”

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 people
meddling with him, that he thought of Lucy Atherstone _all_ the time,
and he did not know what more he could do; that it was 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 in the way, 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 as
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 his real self. Still, he would not believe it, or
confess to himself how strong a place in his affection was held by the
beautiful girl, now no longer a child. It was almost a year since that
April afternoon when he first saw Maddy Clyde, and from a timid, bashful
child, of fourteen and a half, she had grown to the rather tall and
self-possessed maiden of fifteen and a half, almost sixteen, or, 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 was done 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 this comparison,
but rather Mrs. Noah’s next remark, which affected him unpleasantly.

“Of course she’ll make a splendid woman,” Mrs. Noah said. “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, and then good-bye 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?”

Guy 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;” Guy’s voice faltered a little, but
he recovered himself and went on: “I will tell her about Lucy to-night,
but I can’t send her away. Neither will she be happy to go back, for
though the best of people, they are not like Maddy, and you know it.”

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 she cared.

“And during the vacations, where must she go?” Guy asked.

“Go where she pleases, of course. As Jessie is so fond of her, and they
are so 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 anybody 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 must needs 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 thought:

“I ought to have taken him in hand long ago;” then 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 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.
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 intentions, 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 his friends, 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 room.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                            MADDY AND LUCY.


Supper was over, and Guy had returned to his library. He had not
stopped, as he usually did, to romp with Jessie or talk to Maddy Clyde,
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 that she must stay with her while Maddy went
to Mr. Guy, who wanted to talk with her.

“Is he angry with me, Mrs. Noah?” Maddy asked, and, remembering his
moody looks when she went in quest of the book, she 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 muslin 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, he told
her he had concluded 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, where her vacation 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 goal
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 would 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.

“Oh, Mr. Remington, you are so good to me; what makes you?” she cried;
and then she told him how much she wished to be a teacher, so as to help
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 with them now, you
seem to be 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?”

Maddy never had, and with the 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 was engaged, and that some time
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 before 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 curious 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 it
mean? 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 upon the arm of his chair 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 have been so happy here that I
guess I thought it might go on forever. I am afraid Miss Atherstone will
not fancy me, and I know I shall not feel as free here, after she comes,
as I do now. Then your being so good in 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, and it made Guy
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, and less a child, he 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 master; and while talking
with Jessie of the grand times they should have at school, she marveled
at that little 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 Switzerland, where she expected to spend
the summer, half hoping Guy might join her there, though she could not
urge it, as her mother 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 at all 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?”

“Darling little Lucy, I do love her very dearly,” was Guy’s comment, as
he finished reading her letter, feeling for the moment 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 many times he had crossed the sea to no purpose, he said, half
petulantly:

“I’ve been to England for nothing times enough. When that mother of hers
says I may have her daughter, 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 was to accompany
them if she chose, and having a general supervision of her child. This
was Guy’s plan, and it 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 principle 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.

“My picture? 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. This, it must be remembered, was in the day of ambrotypes, and
before the introduction of photographs.

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 all 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 to 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 went into raptures, and Maddy
blushed to hear her own praises. Guy said nothing, except to ask that
Maddy should sit again; the first 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 Agnes was waiting for him. Three 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,” Jessie said, half-poutingly; then, as she
remembered the second sitting, she begged of Guy to get it for her.

But he did not seem inclined to comply with her request, and kept
putting her off, until, despairing of success, Jessie, when alone with
the doctor, tried her powers of persuasion on him, 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 it;
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 to do so was sufficient. Consequently, Guy little
guessed that the doctor knew what it was he carried so carefully in his
coat pocket, looking at it often when alone in his own room, and
admiring its soft, girlish beauty, 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 to New York with Maddy,
her lessons were suspended, and Aikenside for the time being was turned
into a vast dress-making 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’s dislike was wearing away,
particularly as of late she had seen no signs of special attention on
the doctor’s part. He had recovered from his weakness, she thought, and
she was very gracious toward Maddy, who, naturally forgiving, began to
like her better than she had ever deemed 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. Woman-like, 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 lest 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, the great city,
which to the simple-hearted old man seemed a very Babylon of iniquity,
was different, and for a time he objected 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 a daily 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.”

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 had asked for 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 eyes were dimmer, and rested on her
with no suspicious glance, as, partially reassured, she glided across
the threshold, and bowed civilly when Guy presented grandfather to her.

A little anxious as to how her grandfather would acquit himself, Maddy
sat by, wondering why Agnes appeared so ill at ease, and why her
grandfather 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 taken 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 nothin’ 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’s 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, whom he calls _madam_. He
says, for ten minutes on the stretch: ‘God bless the madam—the madam—the
madam!’ that’s because you are good to Maddy. You’re sick, lady; talkin’
about crazy folks makes you faint,” grandpa added hastily, as Agnes
turned white as 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 remorse, as he walked through
the hall, or 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, growing so profusely within the borders.

“Take them to him, will you?” and her hands shook as she passed to
Grandpa Markham the gift which would thrill poor crazy Joseph with a
strange delight, making him hold converse awhile with the unseen
presence which he called “she,” and then to 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 and the letters he wrote to
Lucy. Nothing but these and 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
talk one whit, for the people marveled more than ever, feeling confident
now that he was educating his own wife, and making sundry spiteful
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, just as Maddy had smiled upon him when, in Madam
——’s parlor, he bade her good-bye. The doctor could not have that
picture, he finally decided. “Hal ought to be satisfied with getting
Maddy, as of course he will, for am I not educating her for that very
purpose?” he said to himself; 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 No. 1. 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 to be.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                             THE HOLIDAYS.


The summer vacation had been spent by the Remingtons 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
afternoon to call upon Miss Clyde. He was glad she was not at Aikenside;
he would rather meet her at the cottage, 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 suspicions 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 of 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 this in her face when he
bade her good-bye, 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 birthday, and all who were at all
desirable 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 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?” 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 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 in his notions.”

“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 _theater_ anyhow. He
considers that in the same block with the bottomless pit.”

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 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 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 are many 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.”

“_I!_” 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 prickling 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 Maddy’s guardian or brother, I ask your
permission to offer her the love which, whether she accepts it or not,
is hers.”

Guy had never fell 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, Maria has
grown 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 until he
reached Honedale, where a pair of soft, brown eyes smiled up into his
face, and a little warm hand was clasped in his, as Maddy came out to
the gate to meet him.

She was very glad to see him. The cottage, with its humble adornings,
did seem lonely, and 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 place
she once loved so well. She had been there five days, 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 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 wish to see her? If not, she
could be indifferent too, and when they did meet, she could show him how
little she cared!

At Guy she was not particularly piqued. She did not take his attentions
as a matter of course, and did not think it very strange that since
bringing her there on the night of her return from New York, he had not
once called upon her; still, she thought more of him, if possible, than
of the doctor, during those five days, and was rather anxious to see
him. She had something to show him—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 Maddy had learned that Lucy’s mother
was averse to the match, and had always been; that she had in her mind
an English lord, who would make her daughter “My lady;” and this was the
secret of her so long deferring her daughter’s marriage. In her last
letter to Maddy, however, Lucy had written with more than her usual
spirit that she should come into possession of her property on her
twenty-fifth birthday and be really her own mistress. 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 would be glad to see this letter,
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.”

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 am of age 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 is 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.”

Maddy had never attended a big party in her life, and 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 festival 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 seen there 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 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; the blue silk would be useful after the party;
it was what you needed; and so he bought it and paid two dollars 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,
though Maddy thought her grandfather would say it was too low in the
neck, but Sarah overruled her objections, assisted by Guy, who, when the
dress was complete and tried on for the last time, was called in by
Jessie to see if “Maddy must have a piece sewed on, as she suggested.”
The neck was _au fait_, Guy said, laughing at Maddy for being so
old-maidish, 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 ecstacies again. Clasping the ornaments on Maddy’s neck
and arms, she danced around her, declaring there never was anything more
beautiful, or anybody so pretty as Maddy was in her party dress. Maddy
was fond of jewelry—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 had anticipated, but Maddy was not so happy in
possession of the coveted ornaments as she had thought she should be. 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 her spirits rose
at last; 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 is 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 wish to
ask him.” And, unmindful of Agnes’s darkened frown, or Guy’s look of
wonder, Maddy darted from the room, and ran hastily down to the hall
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 and beautiful, almost took his breath
away. And yet, as he stood with her hand in his, and surveyed her from
head to foot, he felt that he would rather have 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 golden 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 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 hall, where they would be less observed by
any one passing through it.

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 is hardly 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 are very becoming,” he said. “You would not look as well without
them; so you had better wear them to-night, and to-morrow, if you will
grant me an interview, I will talk with you further.”

He said all this to gain the desired 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 flowing hair, came in for
a full share of attention. But amid the gay throng there was none so
fair or beautiful as Maddy, who deported herself with as much ease and
grace as if she had all her life 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 that song. I cannot do it
justice;” 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 have done 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,
bird-like voice trembled for a moment with fear, and then, gaining
confidence 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—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—that is, if Mr. Remington does not object. I dare say old Mr.
and Mrs. Deacon Crane will start for home instanter at the first note of
anything as wicked as Money Musk.”

When the party was first talked about, Agnes had proposed that it be a
regular dancing party, with suitable music provided for it. But Guy, who
knew how such a thing would shock the puritanical prejudices of many of
the people of Sommerville, who held dancing as a sin, said, “No—he
wished all his guests to enjoy themselves. So he would not hire music,
or have dancing as a rule. If any of the young people wished to amuse
themselves that way, they were welcome to do so, and he presumed some
one of their number could play sufficiently well for quadrilles, and
possibly waltzing.” So, when appealed to on the subject by Miss Cutler,
he replied, “Certainly; dance by all means if you wish to, and Maddy is
willing to play.”

Maddy bowed, and struck into a spirited waltz, which set many of the
young people to whirling in circles, and produced the result which Maria
so much desired, viz.: it took 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 towards 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 on his arm, 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—I shall find you a partner.”

“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 shall ask
you to dance with me by-and-bye.”

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, who was waiting for him, 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 said, laughing a little spitefully,
and feeling 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:

“Not lack of brains, certainly. Education and circumstances have much to
do with one’s views upon that subject. For my part, I like to see people
consistent. Now, this 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 members promise to renounce;” and Guy bowed towards Maria,
who, knowing that she was one of the church members 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 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 Maddy’s cheeks as the notes
before her ran together, and the keys assumed the form of one huge key
which she 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 up-stairs 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 and how she acted, and 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 so fast, and both tried to take you up. I think
Miss Cutler real hateful, for she said, mean like, ‘Do you see them pull
her, as if it was of the slightest consequence which carried her out?’”

“Jessie!” Guy interposed sternly; while the doctor, who had spent the
night at Aikenside, looked disapprovingly at the little girl, who
subsided into silence after saying, in an under-tone, “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
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 as 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
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, who was 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 common-place remarks about the party, asking how
Maddy had 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 ought to have divined it ere this; and if
so, why didn’t she blush, or do 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, I believe I 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’m 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 could 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 silenced 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 grow
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 your wife; 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!” 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 in the least, 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 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 Mr. Remington.”

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 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 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. Maddy, as
she listened, felt for him a strange kind of a 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 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 this girl who never could 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 that in time she
should learn to love him. She would try so hard, she would 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, too
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, except
_Guy_. “I must tell him,” the doctor said, “because he knew 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 bye-gones, a thing
never again to be talked about; and offering him her hand, she looked
for an instant earnestly into his face, and 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-bye 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 responsible. Once there came over her the wild impulse to bid
him stay, to say that she would be his wife; but, before 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 mind. 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 will 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 give 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 XVII.
                               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 afterwards, 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 sick bed, 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
come 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
further than that. Neither did she ask Guy a word about her, though she
knew he must have seen her. She did 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 romped 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 Maddy
was up, and, unmindful of the snow falling so rapidly, started on that
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 wintry
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 would 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 wished 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, 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
little feet resting on the stove-hearth the over-shoes, so full of
melting snow. Maddy cared nothing 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 shoulders as she continued her
questionings.

“She is not dead, you say; but do you think—does anybody 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 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 her. At last, as she heard a clock in the adjoining room strike
eight, she started up, exclaiming, “I have staid 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 word to have your room and the parlors
warmed, and a nice hot supper 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
went to John, asking him if it would be possible to get through to
Honedale 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
take a pair of farm horses. They can endure more. Tell Flora to send my
traveling shawl—Miss Clyde may need it—and an extra carriage robe, and a
bottle of wine, and my buckskin gloves, and bring Tom 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 supper of buttered toast, muffins, steak, and hot
coffee, which Guy ordered from the small hotel just in rear of the
depot. Tired, nervous, and almost helpless, she allowed Guy himself to
prepare the 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, however, she never for a moment
forgot her grandmother—though she did forget, in a measure, her anxiety,
and was able to think 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 when John appeared, his crisp wool powdered with snow,
which clung to his outer garments, and literally covered his dark cloth
cap.

“The snow was mighty deep,” he said, bowing to Maddy, “and the wind was
getting colder. It was 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 before 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 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 kind 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 were 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 under gone 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 child-like 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 in that cottage, Maddy’s home, they
recurred to him with tenfold intensity, for 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.

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 gate of Heaven. This tribute to the Saviour 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 so 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.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                              THE BURDEN.


Grandma Markham was dead, and the covered sleigh, which late in the
afternoon plowed its way heavily back to Aikenside carried only Mrs.
Noah, who, with her forehead tied up in knots, sat back among the
cushions, thinking not of the peaceful dead, gone forever to the rest
which remains for the people of God, but of the wayward Guy, who had
resisted all her efforts to persuade him to return with her, instead of
staying where he was not needed, and where his presence was a restraint
to all save one, and that one Maddy, for whose sake he staid.

“She’d be _vummed_,” the indignant old lady said, “if she would not
write to Lucy herself if Guy did not quit such doin’s;” and thus
resolving she kept on her way, while the object of her wrath was, it may
be, more than half repenting of his decision to stay, inasmuch as he
began to have an unpleasant consciousness of being in everybody’s way.

In the first hour of Maddy’s bereavement he had not spoken with her, but
had kept himself aloof from the room where, with her grandfather and
Uncle Joseph, she sat, holding the poor aching head of the latter in her
lap and trying to speak a word of consolation to the old, broken-hearted
man, whose hand was grasped in hers. But Maddy knew he was there. She
could hear his voice each time he spoke to Mrs. Noah, and that made the
desolation easier to bear. She did not look forward to the time when he
would be gone; and when at last he told her he was going, she started
quickly, and with a gush of tears, exclaimed: “No, no! oh, no!”

“Maddy,” Guy whispered, bending over the strange trio, “would you rather
I should stay? Will it be pleasanter for you if I do?”

“Yes—I don’t know. I guess it would not be so lonely. Oh, it’s terrible
to have grandmother dead!” was Maddy’s response; after which Guy would
have staid if a whole regiment of Mrs. Noahs had confronted him instead
of one.

Maddy wished it; that was reason enough for him; and giving a few
directions to John, he staid, thereby disconcerting the neighboring
women who came in to perform the last offices for the dead, and who
wished the young man from Aikenside was anywhere but there, criticising
all their movements, as they vainly fancied he was. But Guy thought only
of Maddy, watching her so carefully that more than one meaning glance
was exchanged between the women, who, even over the inanimate form of
the dead, spoke together of what might possibly occur, and wondering
what would be the effect on Grandpa Markham and Uncle Joseph. Who would
take care of them? And then, in case Maddy should feel it her duty to
stay there, as they half-hoped she would, they fell to pitying the young
girl, who seemed now so wholly unfitted for the burden.

To Maddy there came no definite thought of the future during the two
days that white, rigid form lay in the cottage; but when, at last, the
deep grave made for Grandma Markham was occupied, and the lounge in the
little front room was empty—when the Aikenside carriage, which had been
sent down for the mourners, had driven away, taking both Guy and Mrs.
Noah—when the neighbors, too, had gone, leaving only herself and the
little girl who had been hired as help sitting by the fire, with the
grandfather and the imbecile Uncle Joseph—then it was that she first
began to feel the pressure of the burden—began to ask herself if she
could live thus always, or at least for as long as either of the two
helpless men were spared. Maddy was young, and the world as she had seen
it was very bright and fair, brighter far than a life of laborious toil,
and for a while the idea that the latter alternative must be accepted
made her dizzy and faint.

As if divining her thoughts, the poor old grandfather, in his prayers
that night, asked in trembling tones, which showed how much he felt what
he was saying, that God would guide his darling in all she did, and give
her wisdom to make the proper decision; that if it were best she might
be happy there with them, but if not, “Oh, Father, Father!” he sobbed,
“help me and Joseph to bear it.” He could pray no more aloud, and the
gray head remained bowed down upon his chair, while Uncle Joseph, in his
crazy way, took up the theme, begging like a very child that Maddy might
be inclined to stay—that no young man with curling hair, a diamond
cross, and smell of musk, might be permitted to come near her with
enticing looks, but that she might stay as she was and die an old maid
forever! This was the substance of Uncle Joseph’s prayer, which set the
little hired girl to tittering, and would have wrung a smile from Maddy
herself had she not felt all the strange petition implied.

With the waywardness natural to people in his condition, Uncle Joseph
that night turned to Maddy for the little services his sister had
formerly rendered, and which, since her illness, Grandpa Markham had
done, and would willingly do still. But Joseph refused to let him. Maddy
must untie his cravat, unbutton his vest, and take off his shoes, and
after he was in bed, Maddy must sit by his side holding his hand until
he fell away to sleep. And Maddy did it cheerfully, soothing him into
quiet, and keeping back her own choking sorrow for the sake of
comforting him. Then, when this task was done, she sought her
grandfather, still sitting before the kitchen fire and evidently waiting
for her. The little hired girl had retired, and thus there was no
barrier to free conversation between them.

“Maddy,” the old man said, “come sit close by me, where I can look into
your face, while we talk over what must be done.”

With a half shudder, Maddy drew a stool to her grandfather’s feet, and
resting her head upon his knee, listened while he talked to her of the
future, and told her all her grandmother had done; told of his own
helplessness; of the trial it was to care for Uncle Joseph, and then in
faltering tones asked who was going to look after them now. “We can’t
live here alone, Maddy. We can’t. We’re old and weak, and want some one
to lean on. Oh, why didn’t God take us with her, Joseph and me, and that
would leave you free, to go back to the school, and the life which I
know is pleasanter than to stay here with us. Oh, Maddy! it comforts me
to look at you—to hear your voice, to know that though I don’t see you
every minute, you are somewhere, and by and by you’ll come in. _I_
shan’t live long, and maybe Joseph won’t. God’s promise is to them who
honor father and mother. It’ll be hard for you to stay, harder than it
was once; but, Maddy! stay with me, stay with me!—stay with your old
grandpa!”

In his earnestness he grasped her arm, as if he thus would hold her,
while the tears rained over his wrinkled face. For a moment Maddy made
no response. She had no intention of leaving him, but the burden was
pressing heavily and her tongue refused to move. Maddy then was a
stranger to the religion which was sustaining her grandfather in his
great trouble, but the teachings of her childhood had not been in vain.
She was God’s covenant child. His protecting presence was over and
around her, moving her to the right. New York, with its gay sights; her
school, where in another year she was to graduate; the trip to the
Catskills which Guy had promised Mrs. Agnes, Jessie and herself;
Aikenside, with its luxurious ease—all these must be given up, while,
worse than all the rest, Guy, too, must be given up. He would not come
to Honedale often; the place was not to his taste, and in time he would
cease to care for her as he cared for her now. “Oh, that would be
dreadful!” she groaned aloud, while her thoughts went backward to that
night ride in the snow-storm, and the numberless attentions he had paid
then. She should never ride with him again—never; and Maddy moaned
bitterly, as she began to realize for the first time how much she liked
Guy Remington, and how the giving him up and his society was the hardest
part of all. But Maddy had a brave young heart, and at last, winding her
arms around her grandfather’s neck, she whispered: “I will not leave
you, grandpa. I’ll stay in grandmother’s place.”

Surely Heaven would answer the blessings which the delighted old man
whispered over the young girl, taking so cheerfully the burden from
which many would have shrunk.

With her grandfather’s hand upon her head, Maddy could almost feel that
the blessing was descending; but in her own little room, where she had
lain sick for so many weary weeks, her courage began to give way, and
the burden, magnified tenfold by her nervous weakness, looked heavier
than she could bear. How could she stay there, going through each day
with the same routine of literal drudgery—drudgery which would not end
until the two for whom she made the sacrifice were dead.

“Oh, is there no way to escape, no help?” she moaned, as she tossed from
side to side. “Must my life be wasted here? Surely——”

Maddy did not finish the sentence, for something checked the words of
repining, and she seemed to hear again her grandfather’s voice as it
repeated the promise to those who keep with their whole souls the fifth
commandment.

“I will, I will,” she cried, while into her heart there crept an intense
longing for the love of him who alone could make her task a light one.
“If I were good, like grandma, I could bear everything,” she thought,
and turning upon her pillow, Maddy prayed an earnest, childish prayer,
that God would help her do right; that he would take from her the proud
spirit which rebelled against her lot because of its loneliness, that
pride and love of her own ease and advancement in preference to other’s
good might all be subdued; in short, that she might be God’s child,
walking where he appointed her to walk without a murmur, and doing
cheerfully his will.

Aikenside, and school, and the Catskill mountains were easier to abandon
after that prayer; but when she thought of _Guy_, the fiercest, sharpest
pang she had ever felt shot through her heart, making her cry out so
quickly that the little hired girl who shared her bed moved as if about
to waken; but Maddy lay very quiet until all was still again, when,
turning a second time to God, she tried to pray, tried to give up what
to her was the dearest idol, but she could not say the words, and ere
she knew what she was doing she found herself asking that _Guy_ should
not forsake her. “Let him come,” she sobbed, “let Guy come sometimes to
see me.”

Once the tempter whispered to her, that had she accepted Dr. Holbrook
she would have been spared all this, but Maddy turned a deaf ear to that
suggestion. Dr. Holbrook was too noble a man to have an unloving wife,
and not for a moment did she repent of her decision with regard to him.
She almost knew he would say now that she was right in refusing him, and
right in staying there, as she must. Thoughts of the doctor quieted her,
she believed, not knowing that Heaven was already owning its submissive
child, and breathing upon it a soothing benediction. The moan of the
winter wind and the sound of the snow beating against her little window
ceased to annoy her. Heaven, happiness, Aikenside, and Guy, all seemed
blended into one great good, just within her reach, and when the long
clock below stairs struck three she did not hear it, but with the
tear-stains upon her face she lay nestled among the pillows, dreaming
that her grandmother had come back from the bright world of glory to
bless her darling child.

It was broad noon ere Maddy awoke, and, starting up, she looked about
her in bewilderment, wondering where she was and what agency had been at
work in her room, transforming it from the cold, comfortless apartment
she had entered the previous night, into the cheery-looking chamber,
with a warm fire blazing in the tiny fire-place, a rug spread down upon
the hearth, a rocking-chair drawn up before it, and all traces of the
little hired girl as completely obliterated as if she had never been.
During her grandmother’s illness, Maddy’s room had been left to the care
of the hired girl, Nettie, and it wore a neglected, rude aspect, which
had grated on Maddy’s finer feelings, and made everything so uninviting.
But this morning all was changed. Some skillful hand had been busy there
while she slept, and Maddy was wondering who it could be, when the door
opened cautiously and _Flora’s_ good-humored face looked in—Flora from
Aikenside. Maddy knew now to whom she was indebted for all this comfort,
and with a cry of joy she welcomed the girl, whose very presence brought
back something of the life with which she had parted forever.

“Flora,” she exclaimed, “how came you here, and did you make this fire,
and arrange the room for me?”

“Yes, I made the fire,” Flora replied, “and fixed up the things a
little, hustlin’ that young one’s goods out of here; because it was not
fit for you to be sleeping with her. Mr. Remington was angry enough when
he found it out.”

“Mr. Remington, Flora? How should he know of our sleeping arrangements?”
Maddy asked, but Flora evaded a direct reply, saying, “There were enough
ways for things to get to Aikenside;” then continuing, “How tired you
must be, Miss Maddy, to sleep so sound as never to hear me at all,
though to be sure I tried to be still as a mouse. But let me help you
dress. It’s nearly noon, and you must be hungry. I’ve got your breakfast
all ready.”

“Thank you, Flora, I can dress myself,” Maddy said, stepping out upon
the floor, and feeling that the world was not so dark as it had seemed
to her when last night she came up to her chamber.

God was comforting her already, and as she made her simple toilet, she
tried to thank Him for His goodness, and ask for grace to make her what
she ought to be.

“You have not yet told me why you came here,” she said to Flora, who was
busy making her bed; and who replied, “It’s Mr. Remington’s work. He
thought I’d better come, as you would need help to get things set to
rights, so you could go back to school.”

Maddy felt her heart coming up in her throat, but she answered calmly,
“Mr. Remington is very kind—so are you all; but, Flora, I am not going
back to school.”

“Not going back!” and Flora stopped her bed making, while she stared
blankly at Maddy. “What are you going to do?”

“Stay here and take care of grandpa,” Maddy aid, bathing her face and
neck in the cold water, which could not cool the feverish heat she felt
spreading all over them.

“Stay here! You are crazy, Miss Maddy! ’Tain’t no place for a girl like
you, and Mr. Remington never will suffer it, I know,” Flora rejoined, as
she resumed her work, thinking she “should die to be moped up in that
nutshell of a house.”

With a little sigh as she foresaw the opposition she should probably
meet with from Guy, Maddy went on with her toilet, which was soon
completed, as it did not take long to arrange the dark calico dress and
plain linen collar which she wore. She was not as fresh-looking as usual
that morning, for excitement and fatigue had lent a paleness to her
cheek, and a languor to her whole appearance, but Flora, who glanced
anxiously after her as she went out, muttered to herself, “She was never
more beautiful, and I don’t wonder an atom that Mr. Guy thinks so much
of her.”

The kitchen was in perfect order, for Flora had been busy there as
elsewhere. The kettle was boiling on the stove, while two or three
little covered dishes were ranged upon the hearth, as if waiting for
some one. Grandpa Markham had gone out, but Uncle Joseph sat in his
accustomed corner, rubbing his hands when he saw Maddy, and nodding
mysteriously toward the front room, the door of which was open, so that
Maddy could hear the fire crackling on the hearth.

“Go in, go in,” Uncle Joseph said, waving his hand in that direction.
“My Lord Governor is in there waiting for you. He won’t let me spit on
the floor any more as Martha did, and I’ve swallowed so much that I’m
almost choked.”

Continual spitting was one of Uncle Joseph’s worst habits, and as his
sister had indulged him in it, it had become a source of great annoyance
to every one. Thinking that Uncle Joseph referred to her grandfather,
and feeling glad that the latter had attempted a reform, she entered the
room known at the cottage as the parlor, where the rag carpet and the
six cane-seated chairs and the Boston rocker were kept, and where now
the little round table was nicely laid for two, while, cozily seated in
the rocking-chair, reading last night’s paper, and looking very handsome
and happy, was Guy!

When Maddy prayed that he might come and see her she did not expect an
answer so soon, and she started back in much surprise, while Guy came
easily forward to greet her, asking how she was, and telling her she
looked tired and thin; then making her take the chair he had vacated, he
stood over her, while he continued:

“I have taken some liberties, you see, and have made myself quite at
home. I knew how unaccustomed you were to the duties of a house, and as
I saw that girl was wholly incompetent, I denied myself at least two
hours’ sleep this morning for the sake of getting here early, bringing
Flora with me and a few things which I thought would be for your
comfort. You must excuse me, but Flora looked so cold when she came down
from your chamber, where I sent her to see how you were, that with your
grandfather’s permission I ordered a fire to be kindled there. I hope
you found it comfortable. This house is very cold.”

He kept talking, and Maddy, in a delicious kind of bewilderment,
listened to him, wondering if ever before there was a person so kind and
good as Guy. And Guy was doing great violence to his pride by being
there as he was, but he could do anything for Maddy, and so he had
forced down his pride, trying for her sake to make the cottage as
pleasant as possible. With Flora to assist he had succeeded wonderfully,
and was really enjoying it himself. At first Maddy could not thank him,
her heart was so full, but Guy was satisfied with the expression of her
face, and calling Flora he bade her serve the breakfast.

“You know my habits,” he said, smilingly, as he took a seat at the
table, “and breakfasting at daylight, as I did, has given me an
appetite; so with your permission, I’ll carve this nice bit of steak for
you, while you pour me a cup of coffee, some of Mrs. Noah’s best.
She”—Guy was going to say, “sent it,” but as no stretch of the
imagination could construe her “calling him a fool” into sending Maddy
coffee he added instead, “I brought it from Aikenside, together with
this strawberry jelly, of which I remember you were fond;” and he helped
Maddy lavishly from the fanciful jelly-jar which yesterday was adorning
the sweetmeat closet at Aikenside.

How chatty and social he was, trying to cheer Maddy up and make her
forget that such a thing as death had so lately found entrance there. He
talked of Jessie, of Aikenside, of the pleasant time they would have
during the vacation, and of the next term at school, when Maddy, as one
of the graduating class would not be kept in as strictly as heretofore,
but allowed to see more of the city. Maddy felt as if she should die for
the pain tugging at her heart, while she listened to him and knew that
the pictures he was drawing were not for her. Her place was there; and
after the breakfast was over and Flora had cleared the dishes away, she
shut the door, so that they might be alone, and then standing before
Guy, she told him of her resolution, begging of him to help her and not
make it harder to bear by devising means for her to escape what she felt
to be an imperative duty. Guy had expected something like this and was
prepared, as he thought, to combat all her arguments; so when she had
finished, he replied that of course he did not wish to interfere with
her duty, but there might be a question as to what really was her duty,
and it seemed to him he was better able to judge of that than herself.
It was not right for her to bury herself there, where another could do
as well. Her superior talents were given to her to improve, and how
could she improve them in Honedale? besides, her grandfather did not
expect her to stay. Guy had talked with him while she was asleep, and
the matter was all arranged; a competent woman was to be hired to take
charge of the domestic arrangements, and if it seemed desirable, two
should be procured; anything to leave Maddy free.

“And grandpa consented to this willingly?” Maddy said, feeling a throb
of pleasure at thoughts of release. But Guy could not answer that the
grandfather consented willingly.

“He thinks it best. When he comes back you can ask him yourself,” he
said, just as Uncle Joseph opened the door and brought their interview
to a close by asking very meekly, “If it would please the Lord Governor
to let him _spit_!”

The blood rushed at once to Maddy’s face, and she could not repress a
smile, while Guy laughed aloud, saying to her softly: “For your sake, I
tried my skill to stop what I knew must annoy you. Pardon me if I did
wrong!” then turning to Uncle Joseph, he gave the desired permission,
together with the promise of a handsome spittoon, which should be sent
down on the morrow. With a bow Uncle Joseph turned away, muttering to
himself, “High doings, now Martha’s gone; but new lords, new laws. I
trust he’s not going to live here;” and very slyly he asked Flora if the
Lord Governor had brought his things?

At this point Grandpa Markham came in, and to him Guy appealed at once
to know if he were not willing for Maddy to return to school.

“I said she might if she thought best,” was the reply, spoken so sadly
that Maddy’s arms were at once twined round the old man’s neck, while
she said to him:

“Tell me honestly which you prefer. I’d like so much to go to school,
but I am not sure I should be happy there, knowing how lonely you were
at home. Say, grandpa, which do you prefer?” and Maddy tried to speak
playfully, though her heart-beats were almost audible as she waited for
the answer.

Grandpa could not deceive her. “He wanted his darling sorely, and he
wanted her to be happy,” he said. Perhaps they could get on just as well
without her. When Mr. Guy was talking it looked as if they might, he
made it all so plain, but the sight of Maddy was a comfort. She was all
he had left. Maybe he shouldn’t live long to pester her, and if he
didn’t, wouldn’t she always feel better for having staid with her old
grandpa to the last?

He looked very pale and thin, and his hair was as white as snow. He
could not live many years, and, turning resolutely from Guy, who, so
long as he held her eye, controlled her, Maddy said:

“I’ve chosen once for all. I’ll stay with grandpa till he dies,” and
with a convulsive sob she clung tightly to his neck, as if fearful that
without such hold on him her resolution would give way.

It was in vain that Guy strove to change Maddy’s decision, and late in
the afternoon he rode back to Aikenside a disappointed man, with,
however, the feeling that Maddy had done right, and that he respected
her all the more for withstanding the temptation.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                          LIFE AT THE COTTAGE.


It was arranged that Flora should, for the present at least, remain at
the cottage, and Maddy accepted the kindness gratefully. She had become
so much accustomed to being cared for by Guy that she almost looked upon
it as a matter of course, and did not think what others might possibly
say, but when, in as delicate a manner as possible, Guy suggested
furnishing the cottage in better style, even proposing to modernize it
entirely in the spring, Maddy objected at once. They were already
indebted to him for more than they could ever pay, she said, and she
would not suffer it. So Guy submitted, though it grated upon his sense
of the beautiful and refined terribly, to see Maddy amid so humble
surroundings. Twice a week, and sometimes oftener, he rode down to
Honedale, and Maddy felt that without these visits life would hardly
have been endurable.

During the vacation Jessie spent a part of the time with her, but Agnes
resolutely resisted all Guy’s entreaties that she should at least call
on Maddy, who had expressed a wish to see her, and who, on account of
her grandfather’s health, and the childishness with which Uncle Joseph
clung to her, could not well go up to Aikenside. Agnes would not go to
Honedale neither would she give other reasons for the obstinacy than the
apparently foolish one that she did not wish to see a crazy man, as such
things made her nervous. Still, she did not object to Jessie’s going as
often as she liked, and she sent by her many little delicacies from
Aikenside, some for grandpa, but most for Uncle Joseph, who prized
highly everything coming from “the Madam,” and sent back to her more
than one strangely-worded message, which made the proud woman’s eyes
overflow when sure that no one could see her.

But this kind of intercourse came to an end at last. The vacation was
over, Jessie had gone back to school, and Maddy began in sober earnest
the new life before her. Flora, it is true, relieved her of all
household drudgery, but no one could share the burden of care and
anxiety pressing so heavily upon her; anxiety for her grandfather, whose
health seemed failing so fast, and who always looked so disturbed if a
shadow were resting on her bright face, or her voice was less cheerful
in its tone; and care for the imbecile Joseph, who clung to her as a
child clings to its mother, refusing to be cared for by any one else,
and often requiring of her more than her strength could endure for a
great length of time. She gave him his breakfast in the morning, amused
him through the day, and then after he was in bed at night often sat by
his side till a late hour, singing to him old songs, or telling Bible
stories until he fell asleep. Then if he woke, as he frequently did,
there was a cry for Maddy, and the soothing process had to be repeated,
until the tired, pale watcher ceased to wonder that her grandmother had
died so suddenly, wondering rather that she had lived so long and borne
so much.

Those were dark, wearisome hours to Maddy, and when the long, cold
winter was gone from the New England hills, and the early buds of spring
were coming up by the cottage door, the neighbors began to talk of the
change which had come over the young girl, once so full of life and
health, but now so languid and pale. Still, Maddy was not unhappy, nor
was the discipline too severe, for by it she learned at last the great
object of life; learned to take her troubles and cares to one who helped
her bear them so cheerfully, that those who pitied her most never
dreamed how heavy was her burden, so patiently and sweetly she bore it.
Occasionally there came to her letters from the doctor, but latterly
they gave her less pleasure than pain, for as often as she read one of
his kind, friendly messages of sympathy and remembrance, the tempter
whispered to her that though she did not love him as she ought to love
her husband, a life with him would be far preferable to the life she was
living, and a receipt of his letters always gave her a pang which lasted
until _Guy_ came down to see her, when it usually disappeared. Agnes was
now at Aikenside, and thus Maddy frequently had Jessie at the cottage,
but Agnes never came, and Maddy little guessed how often the proud woman
cried herself to sleep after listening to Jessie’s recital of all Maddy
had to do for the crazy man, and how patiently she did it. He had taken
a fancy that Maddy must tell him stories of _Sarah_, describing her as
she was now, and not as she used to be when he knew her. “What is she
now? How does she look? What does she wear? Tell me, tell me!” he would
plead, until Maddy, forced to tell him something, and having distinctly
in her mind but _one_ fashionable woman such as she fancied Sarah might
be, told him of _Agnes Remington_, describing her as she was in her
mature beauty, with her heavy flowing curls, her brilliant color, her
flashing diamonds and costly laces, and Uncle Joseph, listening to her
with parted lips and hushed breath, would whisper softly, “Yes, that’s
Sarah, beautiful Sarah; but tell me—does she ever think of me, or of
that time in the orchard when I wove the apple blossoms in her hair,
where the diamonds are now? She loved me then; she told me so. Does she
know how sick, and sorry, and foolish I am?—how the aching in my poor
simple brain is all for her, and how you, poor Maddy, are doing for me
what it should have been her place to do? Had I a voice,” and the crazy
man would grow excited, as, raising himself in bed, he gesticulated
wildly, “had I a voice to reach her, I’d cry shame on her, to let you do
her work, let you wear your young life and fresh, bright beauty all away
for me, whom she ruined.”

The voice he craved, or the echo of it, did reach her, for Jessie had
been present when the fancy first seized him to hear of Sarah, and in
the shadowy twilight she told her mother all, dwelling most upon the
touching sadness of his face when he said, “Does she know how sick and
sorry I am?”

The pillow which Agnes pressed that night was wet with tears, while in
her heart was planted a germ of gratitude and respect for the young girl
doing her work for her. All that she could do for Maddy without going
directly to her, she did, devising many articles of comfort, sending her
fruit and flowers, the last new book, or whatever else she thought might
please her, and always finding a willing messenger in Guy. He was
miserable, and managed when at home to make others so around him. The
sight of Maddy bearing her burden so uncomplainingly almost maddened
him. Had she fretted or complained he could have borne it better, he
said, but he did not see the necessity for her to lose all her spirit or
interest in everything and everybody. Once when he hinted as much to
Maddy, he had been awed into silence by the subdued expression of her
face as she told him in part what it was which helped her to bear, and
made the rough places so smooth. He had seen something like this in
Lucy, when paroxysms of pain were racking her delicate frame, but he
could not understand it; he only knew it was something he could not
touch—something against which his arguments beat helplessly; and so with
an added respect for Maddy Clyde he smothered his impatience, and
determining to help her all he could, rode down to Honedale every day,
instead of twice a week, as he had done before.

Attentions so marked could not fail to be commented upon; and while
poor, unsuspecting Maddy was deriving so much comfort from his daily
visits, deeming that day very long which did not bring him to her, the
Honedale gossips, of which there were many, were busy with her affairs,
talking them over at their numerous tea-drinkings, discussing them in
the streets, and finally at a quilting, where they met in solemn
conclave, deciding that “for a girl like Maddy Clyde it did not look
well to have so much to do with young Remington, who, everybody knew,
was engaged to somebody in England.”

“Yes, and would have been married long ago, if it wasn’t for this
foolin’ with Maddy,” chimed in Mrs. Joel Spike, throwing the chalk
across the quilt to her sister, Tripheny Marvel, who wondered if Maddy
thought he’d ever have her.

“Of course he won’t. He knows what he is about. He is not green enough
to marry Grandpa Markham’s daughter; and if she don’t look out, she’ll
get herself into a pretty scrape. It don’t look well, anyhow, for her to
be putting on airs, as she has done ever since big folks took her up.”

All this and much more was said, and by the time the patchwork quilt was
done, there remained but little to be said either for or against Guy
Remington and Maddy Clyde, which had not been said by either friend or
foe.

Among the invited guests at that quilting was the wife of Farmer Green,
Maddy’s warmest friend in Honedale, and the one who did her best to
defend her against the attacks of those whose remarks she well knew were
caused more by envy than by any personal dislike to Maddy, who used to
be so much of a pet until her superior advantages separated her in a
measure from them. Good Mrs. Green was sorely tried. Without in the
least blaming Maddy, she, too, had been troubled at the frequency of
Guy’s visits to the cottage. It was not friendship alone which took him
there, she was sure; and knowing that he was engaged, she feared for
Maddy’s happiness at first, and afterward, when people began to talk,
she feared for her good name. Something must be done, and though she
dreaded it greatly, she was the one to do it. Accordingly, next day she
started for the cottage, which Guy had just left, and this in her
opinion accounted for the bright color in Maddy’s cheek and the sparkle
in her eye. Guy had been there, bringing and leaving a world of
sunshine, but, alas, his chances for coming again as he had done were
fearfully small when at the close of Mrs. Green’s well-meant visit Maddy
lay on her bed, her white, frightened face buried in the pillows, and
herself half wishing she had died before the last hour had come, with
the terrible awakening it had brought; awakening to the fact that of all
living beings, Guy Remington was the one she loved the best—the one
without whose presence it seemed to her she could not live, but without
which she now knew she must.

With the best of intentions Mrs. Green had made a bungle of the whole
affair, but had succeeded in giving Maddy a general impression that
“folks were talking awfully about Guy’s coming there, and doing for her
so much like an accepted lover, when everybody knew he was engaged, and
wouldn’t be likely to marry a poor girl if he was not; that unless she
wanted to be ruined _teetotally_, and lose all her friends, she must
contrive to stop his visits, and not see him so much.”

“Yes, I’ll do anything, only please leave me now,” Maddy gasped, her
face as white as ashes and her eyes fixed pleadingly upon Mrs. Green,
who, having been young herself, guessed the truth, and, as she rose to
go, laid her motherly hand on Maddy’s head, saying kindly:

“Poor child, it’s hard to bear now, but you’ll get over it in time.”

“Get over it,” Maddy moaned, as she shut and bolted the door after Mrs.
Green, and then threw herself upon the bed, “I never shall till I die!”

She almost felt that she was dying, so desolate and so dreary the future
looked to her. What was life worth without Guy, and why had she been
thrown so much in his way; why permitted to love him as she knew she
did, if she must lose him now? Maddy could not cry; there was a
tightness about her eyes, and a keen, cutting pain about her heart as
she tried to pray for strength to cast Guy Remington from her heart,
where it was a sin for him to be; and then she asked to be forgiven for
the wrong she had unwittingly done to Lucy Atherstone, who trusted her
implicitly, and who, in her last letter, had said:

“If I had not so much faith in Guy I should be jealous of one who has so
many opportunities for stealing his heart from me, but I trust you,
Maddy Clyde. You would not do a thing to harm me, I am sure, and to lose
Guy now, after these years of cruel waiting, would kill me.”

There was in Lucy’s heart a faint stirring of fear lest Maddy Clyde
might be a shadow in her pathway, else she had never written that to
her. But Lucy’s cause was safe in Maddy’s hands. Always too high-souled
to do a treacherous act, she was now sustained by another and holier
principle, which of itself would have kept her from the wrong. But for a
few moments Maddy abandoned herself to the bliss of fancying what it
would be to be loved by Guy Remington, as she loved him. And as she
thought, there crept into her heart the certainty that in some degree he
did love her; that his friendship was more than a mere liking for the
girl to whom he had been so kind. In Lucy’s absence she was essential to
his happiness, and that was why he sought her society so much.
Remembering everything that had passed, but more particularly the
incidents of that memorable night ride to Honedale, with all that had
followed since, she could not doubt it, and softly to herself she
whispered, “He loves me, he loves me,” while little throbs of joy came
and went in her heart; but only for an instant, and then the note of joy
was changed to sorrow as she thought how she must henceforth seek to
kill that love, both for her own sake and for Lucy’s. Guy must not come
there any more. She could not bear it now, even if the neighbors had
never meddled with her. She could not see him as she had done and not
betray her real feelings toward him. He had been there that day; he
would come again to-morrow, and she could see him just as he would look
coming up the walk, easy and self-possessed, confident of his reception,
his handsome face beaming with kind thoughtfulness for her, and his
voice full of tender concern, as he asked how she was, and bade Flora
see that she did not overtax herself—and all this must cease. She had
seen it, heard it for the last time! No wonder that Maddy’s heart
fainted within her, as she thought how desolate, how dreary would be the
days when Guy no longer came there. But the victory was gained at last,
and strength imparted for the task she had to do.

Going to the table she opened her portfolio, the gift of Guy, and wrote
to him what the neighbors were saying, and that he must come there no
more; at least, only once in a great while, because, if he did, she
could not see him. Then, when this was written she went down to Uncle
Joseph, who was beginning to call for her, and sat by him as usual,
singing to him the songs he loved so well, and which this night pleased
him especially, because the voice which sang them was so plaintive, so
full of woe. Would he never go to sleep, or the hand which held hers so
firmly relax its hold? Never, it seemed to Maddy, who sat and sang,
while the night-bird on a distant tree, awakened by the low song,
uttered a responsive note, and the hours crept on to midnight. Human
nature could endure no more, and when the crazy man said to her, “Now
sing of Him who died on Calvary,” Maddy’s answer was a gaping cry as she
fell fainting on the pillow.

“It was only a nervous headache,” she said to the frightened Flora, who
came at Uncle Joseph’s call, and helped her young mistress up to bed.
“She should be better in the morning, and she would rather be alone.”

So Flora left her, but went often to her door, until assured by the low
breathing sound that Maddy was sleeping at last. It was a heavy sleep,
and when Maddy awoke the pain in her temples was still there; she could
not rise, and was half glad that she could not, inasmuch as her illness
would be a reason why she could not see Guy if he came. She did not know
he was there already, until she heard his voice speaking to her
grandfather. It was later than she imagined, and he had ridden down
early because he could not stay away.

“I can’t see him, Flora,” Maddy said, when the latter came up with the
message that Mr. Remington was there with his buggy, and asked if a
little ride would not do her good. “I can’t see him, but give him this,”
and she placed in Flora’s hand the note, baptized with so many tears and
prayers, and the contents of which made Guy furious; not at her, but at
the neighbors, the inquisitive, ignorant, meddlesome neighbors, who had
dared to talk of him, or to breathe a suspicious word against Maddy
Clyde. He would make them sorry for it; they should take back every
word; and they should beg Maddy’s forgiveness for the pain they had
caused her.

All this, and much more, Guy thought, as, with Maddy’s note in his hand,
he walked up and down the sitting-room, raging like a young lion, and
threatening vengeance upon everybody. This was not the first intimation
Guy had received of the people’s gossip, for only that morning Mrs. Noah
had hinted that his course was not at all calculated to do Maddy any
good, while Agnes had repeated to him some things which she had heard
touching the frequency of his visits to Honedale; but these were nothing
to the calmly-worded message which banished him effectually from Maddy’s
presence. He knew Maddy, and he knew she meant what she wrote, but he
could not have it so. He must see her; he would see her; and so for the
next half hour Flora was the bearer of written messages to and from
Maddy’s room; messages of earnest entreaty on the one hand, and of firm
denial on the other. At last Maddy wrote:

“If you care for me in the least, or for my respect, leave me, and do
not come again until I send for you. I am not insensible to your
kindness. I feel it all; but the world is nearer right than you suppose.
It does not look well for you to come here so much, and I prefer that
you should not. Justice to Lucy requires that you stay away.”

That roused Guy’s pride, and writing back:

“You shall be obeyed. Good-bye!”—he sprang into his buggy, and Maddy
heard him as he drove furiously away.

Those were long, dreary days which followed, and but for her
grandfather’s increasing feebleness Maddy would almost have died.
Anxiety for him, however, kept her from dwelling too much upon herself,
but the excitement and the care wore upon her sadly, robbing her eye of
its luster and her cheek of its remaining bloom, and making Mrs. Noah
cry when she came one day with Jessie to see how they were getting on.
She had heard from Guy of his banishment, and now that he staid away,
she was ready to step in; so she came laden with sympathy and other more
substantial comforts brought from Aikenside.

Maddy was glad to see her, and for a time cried softly on her bosom,
while Mrs. Noah’s tears kept company with hers. Not a word was said of
Guy, except when Jessie told her that “he had gone to Boston, and it was
so stupid at home without him.”

With more than her ordinary discretion, Flora kept to herself what had
passed when Guy was last there, so Mrs. Noah knew nothing except what he
had told her, and what she read in Maddy’s white, suffering face. This
last was enough to excite all her pity, and she treated the young girl
with the most motherly kindness, staying all night, and herself taking
care of grandpa, who was now too ill to sit up. There seemed to be no
disease preying upon him, nothing save old age, and the loss of one who
for more than forty years had shared all his joy and sorrow. He could
not live without her, and one night, three weeks after Guy’s dismissal,
he said to Maddy, as she was about to leave him:

“Sit with me, darling, for a little while, if you are not too tired.
Your grandmother seems near me to-night, and so does Alice, your mother.
Maybe I’ll be with them before another day. I hope I may, if God is
willing, and there’s much I would say to you.”

He was very pale, and the great sweat-drops stood on his forehead and
under his white hair, but Maddy wiped them away, and listened with a
breaking heart while the aged disciple, almost home, told her of the
peace, the joy, that shone around his pathway to the tomb, and of the
everlasting arm bearing him so gently over Jordan. Then he talked of
herself, blessing her for all she had been to him, telling her how happy
she had made his life since she came home to stay, and how for a time he
ached so with fear lest she should choose to go back and leave him to a
stranger. “But my darling staid with her old grandpa. She’ll never be
sorry for it. I’ve tried you sometimes, I know, for old folks ain’t like
young; but I’m sorry, Maddy, and you’ll forget it when I’m gone, darling
Maddy, precious child!” and the trembling hand rested caressingly on her
bowed head as grandpa went on to speak of his little property, which was
hers after the mortgage to Mr. Guy was paid. “I’ve kept up the
interest,” he said, “but I could never get him to take any of the
principal. I don’t know why he is so good to me. Tell him, Maddy, how I
thanked and blessed him just before I died; tell him how I used to pray
for him every day that he might choose the better part. And he will—I’m
sure he will, some day. He hasn’t been here of late, and though my old
eyes are dim, I can see that your step has got slow, and your face
whiter by many shades, since he staid away. Maddy, child, the dead tell
no secrets, and I shall soon be dead. Tell me, then, what it is between
you two. Does my girl love Mr. Guy?”

“Oh, grandpa, grandpa!” Maddy moaned, laying her head beside his own on
the pillow.

It would be a relief to talk with some one of that terrible pain, which
grew worse every day; of that intense longing just for one sight of the
beloved one; of Guy, still absent from Aikenside, wandering nobody knew
where; and so Maddy told the whole story, while the dying man listened
to her, and smoothing her silken hair, tried to comfort her.

“The worst is not over yet,” he said. “Guy will offer to make you his
wife, sacrificing Lucy for you; and if he does, what will my darling
do?”

Maddy’s heart leaped into her throat, and for a moment prevented her
from answering, for the thought of Guy’s really offering to make her his
wife, to shield her from evil, to enfold her in his tender love, made
her giddy with joy. But it could not be, and she answered through her
tears:

“I shall tell him No.”

“God bless my Maddy! You will tell him No for Lucy’s sake, and God will
bring it right at last,” the old man whispered, his voice growing very
faint and tremulous. “She will tell him No,” he kept repeating, until,
rousing up to greater consciousness, he spoke of Uncle Joseph, and asked
what Maddy would do with him; would she send him back to the asylum, or
care for him there? “He will be happier here,” he said, “but it is
asking too much of a young girl like you. He may live for years.”

“I do not know, grandpa. I hope I may do right. I think I shall keep
Uncle Joseph with me,” Maddy replied, a shudder creeping over her as she
thought of living out all her youth, and possibly middle age, with a
lunatic.

But her grandfather’s whispered blessings brought comfort with them, and
a calm quiet fell upon her as she sat listening to the words of prayer,
catching now and then her own name and that of Guy’s.

“I am drowsy, Maddy. Watch while I sleep. Perhaps I’ll never wake
again,” grandpa said, and clasping Maddy’s hands he went to sleep while
Maddy kept her watch beside him, until she too fell into a troubled
sleep, from which she was roused by a clammy hand pressing on her
forehead, and Uncle Joseph’s voice, which said:

“Wake, my child. There’s been a guest here while you slumbered,” and he
pointed to the rigid features of the dead.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                       THE BURDEN GROWS HEAVIER.


Of the days which followed, Maddy had no distinct consciousness. She
only knew that other hands than hers cared for the dead; that in the
little parlor a stiff, white figure lay; that neighboring women stole
in, treading on tiptoe, and speaking in hushed voices as they consulted,
not her, but Mrs. Noah, who had come at once, and cared for her and hers
so kindly. That she lay all day in her own room, where the summer breeze
blew softly through the window, bringing the perfume of summer flowers,
the sound of a tolling bell, of grinding wheels, the notes of a low, sad
hymn, sung in faltering tones and of many feet moving from the door.
Then friendly faces looked in upon her, asking how she felt, and
whispering ominously to each other as she answered:

“Very well; is grandpa getting better?”

Then Mrs. Noah sat with her for a time, fanning her with a palm-leaf fan
and brushing the flies away. Then Flora came up with a man whom they
called “Doctor,” and who gave her sundry little pills and powders, after
which they all went out and left her there with Jessie, who had been
crying, and whose soft little hands felt so cool on her hot head, and
whose kisses on her lips made the tears start, and brought a thought of
Guy, making her ask, “if he was at the funeral.” She did not know whose
funeral she meant, or why she used that word, only it seemed to her that
Jessie had just come back from somebody’s grave, and she asked if Guy
was there.

“No,” Jessie said; “mother wanted to write and tell him, but we don’t
know where he is.”

And this was all Maddy could recall of the days succeeding the night of
her last watch at her grandfather’s side, until one balmy August
afternoon, when on the Honedale hills there lay that smoky haze so like
the autumn time hurrying on apace, and when through her open window
stole the fragrance of the later summer flowers. Then, as if waking from
an ordinary sleep, she woke suddenly to consciousness, and staring about
the room, wondered if it were as late as the western sun would indicate,
and how she came to sleep so long.

For a while she lay thinking, and as she thought, a sad scene came back
to her, a night when her hot hands had been enfolded in those of the
dead, and that dead her grandfather. Was it true, or was she laboring
under some hallucination of the brain? If true, was that white, pallid
face still to be seen in the room below, or had they buried him from her
sight? She would know, and with a strange kind of nervous strength she
rose, and throwing on the wrapper and slippers which lay near, descended
the stairs, wondering to find herself so weak, and half shuddering at
the deep stillness of the house—a stillness broken only by the ticking
of the clock and the purring of the house cat, which at sight of Maddy
arose from its position near the door and came forward, rubbing its
sides against her dress, and trying in various ways to evince its joy at
seeing one whose caresses it had missed so long. The little bed-room off
the kitchen, where grandpa slept and died, was vacant; the old-fashioned
coat was put away, as was every vestige of the old man, save the
broad-rimmed hat which hung upon the wall just where his hands had hung
it, and which looked so much like its owner that with a gush of tears
Maddy sank upon the bed, moaning to herself, “Yes, grandpa is dead. I
remember now. But Uncle Joseph, where is he? Can he too have died
without my knowledge?” and she looked around in vain for the lunatic,
not a trace of whom was to be found.

His room was in perfect order, as was everything about the house,
showing that Flora was still the domestic goddess, while Maddy detected
also various things which she recognized as having come from Aikenside.
Who sent them? Did Guy, and had he been there too while she was sick?
The thought brought a throb of joy to Maddy’s heart, but it soon passed
away as she began again to wonder if Uncle Joseph, too, had died, and
where Flora was. It was not far to the Honedale burying-ground, and
Maddy could see the head-stones gleaming through the August sunlight;
could discern her mother’s, and knew that two fresh mounds at least were
made beside it. But were there three? Was Uncle Joseph there? By
stealing across the meadow in the rear of the house the distance to the
graveyard was shortened more than half, and could not be more than the
eighth part of a mile. She could walk so far, she knew. The fresh air
would do her good, and hunting up her long unused hat, the impatient
girl started, stopping once or twice to rest as a dizzy faintness came
over her, and then continuing on until the spot she sought was reached.
There were three graves, one old and sunken, one made when the last
winter’s snow was on the hills, the other fresh and new. That was all.
Uncle Joseph was not there, and vague terror entered Maddy’s heart lest
he had been taken back to the asylum.

“I will get him out,” she said; “I will take care of him. I should die
with nothing to do; and I promised grandpa——”

She could get no further, for the rush of memories which came over her,
and seating herself upon the ground close to the new grave, she laid her
face upon it, and sobbed piteously:

“Oh, grandpa, I’m so lonely without you all; I almost wish I was lying
here in the quiet yard.”

Then a storm of tears ensued, after which Maddy grew calm, and with her
head still bent down did not hear the rapid step coming down the grassy
road, past the marble tomb-stones, to where she was crouching upon the
ground. There it stopped, and in a half whisper some one called, “Maddy!
Maddy!”

Then she started, and lifting up her head saw before her Guy Remington.
For a moment she regarded him intently, while he said to her, kindly,
pityingly:

“Poor child, you have suffered so much, and I never knew of it till a
few days ago.”

At the sound of that loved voice speaking thus to her, everything else
was forgotten, and with a cry of joy Maddy stretched her hands toward
him, moaning out:

“Oh, Guy, Guy, where have you been, when I wanted you so much?”

Maddy did not know what she was saying, or half comprehend the effect it
had on Guy, who forgot everything save that she had missed him, had
turned to him in her trouble, and it was not in his nature to resist her
appeal. With a spring he was at her side, and lifting her in his arms
seated himself upon her mother’s grave; then straining her tightly to
his bosom, he kissed her again and again. Hot, burning, passionate
kisses they were, which took from Maddy all power of resistance, even
had she wished to resist, which she did not. Too weak to reason, or see
the harm, if harm there were, in being loved by Guy, she abandoned
herself for a brief interval to the bliss of knowing that she was
beloved, and of hearing him tell her so.

“Darling Maddy,” he said, “I went away because you sent me, but now I
have come back, and nothing shall part us again. You are mine, I claim
you here at your mother’s grave. Dear Maddy, I did not know of all this
till three days ago, when Agnes’s letter found me almost at the Rocky
Mountains. Then I traveled day and night, reaching Aikenside this
morning, and coming straight to Honedale. I wish I had come before, now
that I know you wanted me. Say that again, Maddy. Tell me again that you
missed and wanted me.”

He was smoothing her hair, as her head still lay pillowed upon his
breast, so he could not see the spasm of pain which contorted her
features as he thus appealed to her. Half bewildered, Maddy could not at
first make out whether it were a blissful dream or a reality, that she
was there in Guy’s arms, with his kisses on her forehead, lips and
cheek, his words of love in her ear, and the soft summer sky smiling
down upon her. Alas, it was a dream from which she was awakened by the
thought of one across the sea, whoso place she had usurped, and this it
was which brought the grieved expression to her face as she answered
mournfully:

“I did want you, Guy, when I forgot; but now—oh, Guy—Lucy Atherstone!”

With a gesture of impatience Guy was about to answer, when something in
the heavy fall of the little hand from his shoulder alarmed him, and
lifting up the drooping head he saw that Maddy had fainted. Then back
across the meadow Guy bore her to the cottage, where Flora, who had just
returned from a neighbor’s, whither she had gone upon an errand, was
looking for her in much affright, and wondering who had come from
Aikenside with that wet, tired horse, which showed so plainly how hard
it had been driven.

They carried Maddy again into her little chamber, which she never left
until the golden harvest sheaves were gathered in, and the hot September
sun was ripening the fruits of autumn. But now she had a new nurse, a
constant attendant, who during the day seldom left her except to talk
with and amuse Uncle Joseph, mourning below because no one sang to him
or noticed him as Maddy used to do. He had not been sent to the asylum,
as Maddy feared, but by way of relieving Flora had been taken to Farmer
Green’s, where he was so homesick and discontented that at Guy’s
instigation he was suffered to return to the cottage, crying like a
little child when the old familiar spot was reached, kissing his
arm-chair, the cook-stove, the tongs, Mrs. Noah and Flora, and timidly
offering to kiss the Lord Governor himself, as he persisted in calling
Guy, who declined the honor, but listened quietly to the crazy man’s
promise “not to to spit the smallest kind of a spit on the floor, or
anywhere except in its proper place.”

Guy had passed through several states of mind during the interval in
which we have seen so little of him. Furious at one time, and reckless
as to consequences, he had determined to break with Lucy and marry
Maddy, in spite of everybody; then, as a sense of honor came over him,
he resolved to forget Maddy, if possible, and marry Lucy at once. It was
in this last mood, and while roaming over the Western country, whither
after his banishment he had gone, that he wrote Lucy a strange kind of
letter, saying he had waited for her long enough, and sick or well he
should claim her the coming autumn. To this letter Lucy had responded
quickly, sweetly reproving Guy for his impatience, softly hinting that
latterly he had been quite as culpable as herself in the matter of
deferring their union, and appointing the bridal day for the —— of
December. After this was settled Guy felt better, though the old sore
spot in his heart, where Maddy Clyde had been, was very sore still, and
sometimes it required all his powers of self-control to keep from
writing to Lucy and asking to be released from an engagement so irksome
as his had become. He had neglected to answer Agnes’s letters when he
first left home, and she did not know where he was until a short time
before his return, when she wrote apprising him of grandpa’s death and
Maddy’s severe illness. This brought him at once, and Maddy’s
involuntary outburst when she met him in the graveyard, changed the
whole current of his intentions. Let what would come, Maddy Clyde should
be his wife, and as such he watched over her constantly, nursing her
back to life, and by his manner effectually silencing all remark, so
that the neighbors whispered among themselves what Maddy’s prospects
were, and, as was quite natural, were a very little more attentive to
the future lady of Aikenside. Poor Maddy! it was a terrible trial which
awaited her, but it must be met, and so with prayers and tears she
fortified herself to meet it, while Guy hung over her, never guessing of
all that was passing in her mind, or how, when he was out of sight, the
lips he had longed so much to kiss, but never had since that day in the
graveyard, quivered with anguish as they asked for strength to do right;
crying often, “Help me, Father, to do my duty, and give me, too, a
greater inclination to do it than I now possess.”

Maddy’s heart failed her sometimes, and she might have yielded to the
temptation but for a letter from Lucy, full of eager anticipations of
the time when she should see Guy, never to part again.

“Sometimes,” she wrote, “there comes over me a dark foreboding of evil—a
fear that I shall miss the cup now just within my reach; but I pray the
bad feelings away. I am sure there is no living being who will come
between us to break my heart, and as I know God doeth all things well, I
trust him wholly and cease to doubt.”

It was well the letter came when it did, as it helped Maddy to meet the
hour she so much dreaded, and which came at last on an afternoon when
Mrs. Noah had gone to Aikenside, and Flora had gone on an errand to a
neighbor’s two miles away, thus leaving Guy free to tell the story, so
old, yet always new to him who tells it and to her who listens, the
story which, as Guy told it, sitting by Maddy’s side, with her hands in
his, thrilled her through and through, making the sweat-drops start out
around her lips and underneath her hair; the story which made Guy
himself pant nervously and tremble like a leaf, so earnestly he told her
how long he had loved her, of the picture withheld, the jealousy he felt
each time the doctor named her, the selfish joy he experienced when he
heard the doctor was refused; of his growing dissatisfaction with his
engagement, his frequent resolves to break it, his final decision, which
that scene in the graveyard had reversed, and then asked if she would
not be his—not doubtfully, but confidently, eagerly as if sure of her
answer.

Alas for Guy! he could not believe he heard aright when, turning her
head away for a moment while she prayed for strength, Maddy’s answer
came, “I cannot, Guy, I cannot. I acknowledge the love which has stolen
upon me, I know not how, but I cannot do this wrong to Lucy. Away from
me you will love her again. You must. Read this, Guy, then say if you
can desert her.”

She placed Lucy’s letter in his hand, and Guy read it with a heart which
ached to its very core. It was cruel to deceive that gentle, trusting
girl writing so lovingly of him, but to lose Maddy was to his
undisciplined nature more dreadful still, and casting the letter aside
he pleaded again, this time with the energy of despair, for he read his
fate in Maddy’s face, and when her lips a second time confirmed her
first reply, while she appealed to his sense of honor, of justice, of
right, and told him he could and must forget her, he knew there was no
hope, and, man though he was, bowed his head upon Maddy’s hands and wept
stormily, with mighty, choking sobs, which shook his frame, and seemed
to break up the very fountains of his life. Then to Maddy there came a
terrible temptation. Was it right for two who loved as they did to live
their lives apart?—right in her to force on Guy the fulfillment of vows
he could not literally keep? As mental struggles are always the more
severe, so Maddy’s took all her strength away, and for many minutes she
was so white and still that Guy roused himself to care for her, thinking
of nothing then except to make her better.

It was a long time ere that interview ended, but when it did there was
on Maddy’s face a peaceful expression, which only the sense of having
done right at the cost of a fearful sacrifice could give, while Guy’s
bore traces of a great and crushing sorrow, as he went out from Maddy’s
presence and felt that to him she was lost forever. He had promised her
he would do right; had said he would marry Lucy, and be to her what a
husband should be; and he had listened while she talked of another
world, where they neither marry or are given in marriage, and where it
would not be sinful for them to love each other, and as she talked her
face had shone like the face of an angel. He had hold one of her hands
at parting, bending low his head, while she laid the other on it as she
blessed him, letting her fingers thread his soft brown hair for a moment
and linger caressingly among his curly locks. But that was over now.
They had parted forever. She was lying where he left her, cold and
white, and faint with dizzy pain. He was riding swiftly toward
Aikenside, his heart-beats keeping time to the swift tread of his
horse’s feet, and his mind a confused medley of distracted thoughts,
amid which two facts stood out prominent and clear—he had lost Maddy
Clyde, and had promised her to marry Lucy Atherstone.

For many days after that Guy kept his room, saying he was sick, and
refusing to see any one save Jessie and Mrs. Noah, the latter of whom
guessed in part what had happened, and imputing to him far more credit
than he deserved, petted and pitied and cared for him until he grew
weary of it, and said to her, savagely:

“You needn’t think me so good, for I am not. I wanted Maddy Clyde, and
told her so, but she refused me and made me promise to marry Lucy; so
I’m going to do that very thing. I am going to England in a few weeks,
or as soon as Maddy is better, and before the sun of this year sets I
shall be a married man.”

After this all Mrs. Noah’s influence was in favor of Maddy, and the good
lady made more than one pilgrimage to Honedale, where she expended all
her arguments trying to make Maddy revoke her decision; but Maddy was
firm in what she deemed right, and as her health began slowly to
improve, and there was no longer an excuse for Guy to tarry, he started
for England the latter part of October, as unhappy and unwilling a
bridegroom, it may be, as ever went after a bride.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                   THE INTERVAL BEFORE THE MARRIAGE.


Maddy never knew how she lived through those bright, autumnal days, when
the gorgeous beauty of decaying nature seemed so cruelly to mock her
anguish. As long as Guy was there, breathing the same air with herself,
she kept up, vaguely conscious of a shadowy hope that something would
happen without her instrumentality, something to ease the weight
pressing so hard upon her. But when she heard that he had really gone,
that a line had been received from him after he was on board the
steamer, all hope died out of her heart, and had it been right she would
have prayed that she might die, and forget how utterly miserable she
was.

At last there came to her three letters, one from Lucy, one from the
doctor, and one from Guy himself. She opened Lucy’s first, and read of
the sweet girl’s great happiness in seeing Guy again, of her sorrow to
find him so thin, and pale, and changed, in all save his extreme
kindness to her, his careful study of her wants, and evident anxiety to
please her in every respect. On this Lucy dwelt, until Maddy’s heart
seemed to leap up and almost turn over, so fiercely it throbbed and
ached with anguish. She was out in the woods when she read the letter,
and laying her face in the grass she sobbed as she never sobbed before.

The doctor’s letter was opened next, and Maddy read with blinding tears
that which for a moment increased her pain and sent to her heart an
added pang of disappointment, or a sense of wrong done to her, she could
not tell which. Dr. Holbrook was to be married the same day with Guy,
and to Lucy’s sister Margaret.

“Maggie, I call her,” he wrote, “because that name is so much like my
first love, Maddy, the little girl who thought I was too old to be her
husband, and so made me very wretched for a time, until I met and knew
Margaret Atherstone. I have told her of you, Maddy; I would not marry
her without, and she seems willing to take me as I am. We shall come
home with Guy, who is the mere wreck of what he was when I last saw him.
He has told me everything, and though I doubly respect you now, I cannot
say that I think you did quite right. Better that one should suffer than
two, and Lucy’s is a nature which will forget far sooner than yours or
Guy’s. I pity you all.”

This almost killed Maddy; she did not love the doctor, but the knowledge
that he was to be married added to her misery, while what he said of her
decision was the climax of the whole. Had her sacrifice been for
nothing? Would it have been better if she had not sent Guy away? It was
anguish unspeakable to believe so, and the leafless woods never echoed
to so bitter a cry of pain as that with which she laid her head on the
ground, and for a brief moment wished that she might die. God pitied his
child then, and for the next half hour she hardly knew what she
suffered.

There was Guy’s letter yet to read, and with a listless indifference she
opened it at last and was glad that he made no direct reference to the
past except when he spoke of Lucy, telling how happy she was, and how,
if anything could reconcile him to his fate, it was the knowing how pure
and good and loving was the wife he was getting. Then he wrote of the
doctor and Margaret, whom he described as a dashing, brilliant girl, the
veriest tease and mad-cap in the world, and the exact opposite of Maddy.

“It is strange to me why he chose her after loving you,” he wrote; “but
as they seem fond of each other, their chances of happiness are not
inconsiderable.”

This letter, so calm, so cheerful in its tone, had a quieting effect on
Maddy, who read it twice, and then placing it in her bosom, started for
the cottage, meeting on the way with Flora, who was seeking for her in
great alarm. Uncle Joseph had had a fit, she said, and fallen upon the
floor, cutting his forehead badly against the sharp point of the stove.
Hurrying on Maddy found that what Flora had said was true, and sent
immediately for the physician, who came at once, but shook his head
doubtfully as he examined his patient. The wound was very serious, he
said, and fever might ensue. Nothing in the form of trouble could
particularly affect Maddy now, and perhaps it was wisely ordered that
Uncle Joseph’s illness should take her thoughts from herself. From the
very first he refused to take his medicines from any one save her or
Jessie, who with her mother’s permission staid altogether at the
cottage, and who, as Guy’s sister, was a great comfort to Maddy.

As the fever which the doctor had predicted, increased, and Uncle Joseph
grew more and more delirious, his cries for Sarah were heart-rending,
making Jessie weep bitterly, as she said to Maddy:

“If I knew where this Sarah was I’d go miles on foot to find her and
bring her to him.”

Something like this Jessie said to her mother when she went for a day to
Aikenside, asking her in conclusion if she thought Sarah would go,
supposing she could be found.

“Perhaps,” and Agnes brushed abstractedly her long flowing hair, winding
it around her fingers, and then letting the soft curls fall across her
snowy arms.

“Where do you suppose she is?” was Jessie’s next question, but if Agnes
knew, she did not answer, except by reminding her little daughter that
it was past her bed-time.

The next morning Agnes’s eyes were very red, as if she had been wakeful
the entire night, while her white face fully warranted the headache she
professed to have.

“Jessie,” she said, as they sat together at their breakfast, “I am going
to Honedale to-day to see Maddy, and shall leave you here, as I do not
care to have us both absent.”

Jessie demurred a little at first, but finally yielded, wondering what
had prompted this visit to the cottage. Maddy wondered so, too, as from
the window she saw Agnes instead of Jessie alighting from the carriage,
and was conscious of a thrill of gratification that Agnes should have
come to see her. But Agnes’s business was with the sick man, poor Uncle
Joseph, who was sleeping when she came, and so did not hear her voice as
in the tidy kitchen she talked to Maddy, appearing extremely agitated,
and casting her eyes rapidly from one part of the room to another,
resting now upon the tinware hanging on the wall, and now upon the gourd
swimming in the water-pail which stood in the old-fashioned sink, with
the wooden spout, directly over the pile of stones covering the drain.
These things were familiar to the proud woman; she had seen them before,
and the sight of them brought to her a most remorseful regret for the
past, while her heart ached cruelly as she wished she had never crossed
that threshold, or, crossing it, had never brought ruin to one of its
inmates. Agnes was changed in various ways. All hope of the doctor had
long since been given up, and as Jessie grew older the mother nature was
stronger within her, subduing her selfishness, and making her far more
gentle and considerate for others than she had been before. To Maddy she
was exceedingly kind, and never more so in manner than now, when they
sat talking together in the humble kitchen at the cottage.

“You look tired and sick,” she said. “Your cares have been too much for
you. Let me sit by your uncle till he wakes, and you go up to bed.”

Very gladly Maddy accepted the offered relief, and utterly worn out with
her constant vigils, she was soon sleeping soundly in her own room,
while Flora, in the little back room of the house, was busy with her
ironing. Thus there was no one to see Agnes as she went slowly into the
sick-room where Uncle Joseph lay, his thin face upturned to the light,
and his lips occasionally moving as he muttered in his sleep. There was
a strange contrast between that wasted imbecile and that proud, queenly
woman, but she could remember a time when the superiority was all upon
his side, a time when in her childish estimation he was the embodiment
of every manly beauty, and the knowledge that he loved _her_, his
sister’s little hired girl, filled her with pride and vanity. A great
change had come to them both, since those days, and Agnes, as she
watched him and smothered the cry of pain which rose to her lips at
sight of him, felt that for the fearful change in him she was
answerable. Intellectual, talented, admired, and sought by all he had
been once; he was a mere wreck now, and Agnes’s breath came in short,
quick gasps as, glancing furtively round to see that no one was near,
she laid her hand upon his forehead, and parting his thin hair, said,
pityingly “Poor Joseph.”

The touch awoke him, and starting up he stared wildly at her, while some
memory of the past seemed to be struggling through the misty clouds,
obscuring his mental vision.

“Who are you, lady, with eyes and hair like _hers_?”

“I’m the ‘madam,’ from Aikenside,” Agnes said, quite loud, as Flora
passed the door. Then when she was gone she added, softly, “I’m Sarah.
Don’t you know me? Sarah Agnes Morris.”

The truth seemed for a moment to burst upon him in its full reality, and
to her dying day Agnes would never forget the look upon his face, the
smile of perfect happiness breaking through the rain of tears, the love,
the tenderness mingled with distrust, which that look betokened as he
continued gazing at her without a word. Again her hand rested on his
forehead, and taking it now in his he held it to the light, laughing
insanely at its soft whiteness; then touching the costly diamonds which
flashed upon him the rainbow hues, he said:

“Where’s that little bit of a ring _I_ bought for you?”

She had anticipated this, and took from her pocket a plain gold ring,
kept until that day where no one could find it, and holding it up, she
said:

“Here it is. Do you remember it?”

“Yes, yes;” and his lips began to quiver with a grieved, injured
expression. “He could give you diamonds, and I couldn’t. That’s why you
left me, wasn’t it, Sarah—why you wrote that letter which made my head
into two? It’s ached so ever since, and I’ve missed you so much. They
put me in a cell where crazy people were—oh! so many—and they said that
I was mad, when I was only wanting you. I’m not mad now, am I, darling?”

His arm was round her neck, and he drew her down until his lips touched
hers. And Agnes suffered it. She could not return the kiss, but she did
not turn away from him, and she let him caress her hair, and wind it
around his fingers, whispering:

“This is like Sarah’s, and you are Sarah, are you not?”

“Yes, I am Sarah,” she answered, while the smile so painful to see again
broke over his face as he told how much he had missed her, and asked,
“if she had not come to stay till he died.”

“There’s something wrong,” he said; “somebody is dead, and it seems as
if somebody else wanted to die—as if Maddy died ever since the Lord
Governor went away. Do you know Governor Guy?”

“I am his step-mother,” Agnes replied, whereupon Uncle Joseph laughed so
long and loud that Maddy woke, and, alarmed by the noise, came down to
see what was the matter.

Agnes did not hear her, and as she reached the doorway, she started at
the strange position of the parties—Uncle Joseph still smoothing the
curls which drooped over him, and Agnes saying to him:

“You heard his name was Remington, did you not?—James Remington?”

Like a sudden revelation it came upon Maddy, and she turned to leave,
when Agnes, lifting her head, called her to come in. She did so, and
standing upon the opposite side, said, questioningly:

“You are Sarah Morris?”

For a moment the eyelids quivered, then the neck arched proudly, as if
it were a thing of which she was not ashamed, and Agnes answered:

“Yes, I _was_ Sarah Agnes Morris; once, when a mere child, I was for
three months your grandmother’s hired girl, and afterwards adopted by a
lady who gave me what education I possess, together with that taste for
high life which prompted me to jilt your Uncle Joseph when a richer man
than he offered himself to me.”

That was all she said—all that Maddy ever knew of her history, as it was
never referred to again, except that evening, when Agnes said to her,
pleadingly:

“Neither Guy nor Jessie, nor any one, need know what I have told you.”

“They shall not,” was Maddy’s reply; and from that moment the past, so
far as Agnes was concerned, was a sealed page to both. With this bond of
confidence between them, Agnes felt herself strangely drawn towards
Maddy, while, if it were possible, something of her olden love was
revived for the helpless man who clung to her now instead of Maddy,
refusing to let her go; neither had Agnes any disposition to leave him.
She should stay to the last, she said; and she did, taking Maddy’s
place, and by her faithfulness and care winning golden laurels in the
opinion of the neighbors, who marveled at first to see so gay a lady at
Uncle Joseph’s bedside, attributing it all to her friendship for Maddy,
just as they attributed his calling for Sarah to a crazy freak. She did
resemble Sarah Morris a very little, they said; and in Maddy’s presence
they sometimes wondered where Sarah was, and if she was happy with the
old man whom she married, and who they had heard was not so rich after
all, as most of the money belonged to the son, who inherited it from his
mother; but Maddy kept the secret from every one, so that even Jessie
never suspected why her mother staid day after day at the cottage;
watching and waiting until the last day of Joseph’s life.

She was alone with him when he died, and Maddy never knew what passed
between them. She had left them together for an hour, while she did some
errands; and when she returned, Agnes met her at the door, and with a
blanched cheek whispered:

“He is dead; he died in my arms, blessing you and me. Surely my sin is
now forgiven.”




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                           BEFORE THE BRIDAL.


There was a fresh grave made in the churchyard, and another chair vacant
at the cottage, where Maddy was at last alone. Unfettered by care and
anxiety for sick ones, her aching heart was free to go to the stately
mansion she had heard described so often, and where now two brides were
busy with their preparations for the bridal hurrying on so fast. Since
the letter read in the leafless October woods, Maddy had not heard from
Guy directly, though Lucy had written a few brief lines, telling how
happy she was, how strong she was growing, and how much like himself Guy
was becoming. Maddy had been less than a woman if the last intelligence
had failed to affect her unpleasantly. She did not wish Guy to regret
his decision; but to be forgotten so soon after so strong protestations
of affection was a little mortifying, and Maddy’s heart throbbed
painfully as she read the letter, half hoping it might prove the last
she should receive from Lucy Atherstone.

Guy had left no orders for any changes to be made at Aikenside; but
Agnes, who was largely imbued with a love of bustle and repair, had
insisted that at least the suite of rooms intended for the bride should
be thoroughly renovated with new paper and paint, carpets and furniture.
This plan Mrs. Noah opposed, for she guessed how little Guy would care
for the change; but Agnes was resolved, and as she had great faith in
Maddy’s taste, she insisted that she should go to Aikenside, and pass
her judgment upon the improvements. It would do her good, she
said—little dreaming how much it cost Maddy to comply with her wishes,
or how fearfully the poor, crushed heart ached, as Maddy went through
the handsome rooms intended for Guy’s young bride; but Mrs. Noah guessed
it all, and pitied the white-faced girl, whose deep mourning robes told
the loss of dear ones by death, but gave no token of that great loss,
tenfold worse than death.

“It was wicked in her to fetch you here,” she said to Maddy one day when
in Lucy’s room she found her sitting upon the floor, with her head bowed
down upon the window-sill. “But she’s a triflin’ thing, and didn’t know
’twould kill you, poor child, poor Maddy!” and Mrs. Noah laid her hand
kindly on Maddy’s hair. “Maybe you’d better go home,” she continued, as
Maddy made no reply; “it must be hard, to be here in the rooms, and
among the things which by good rights should be yours.”

“No, Mrs. Noah,” and Maddy’s voice was strangely unnatural, as she
lifted up her head, revealing a face so haggard and white that Mrs. Noah
was frightened, and asked in much alarm if anything new had happened.

“No, nothing; I was going to say that I’d rather stay a little longer
where there are signs and sounds of life. I should die to be alone at
Honedale to-morrow. I may die here, I don’t know. Do you know that
to-morrow will be the bridal?”

Yes, Mrs. Noah knew it; but she hoped it might have escaped Maddy’s
mind.

“Poor child,” she said again, “poor child, I mistrust you did wrong to
tell him No!”

“Oh, Mrs. Noah, don’t say that; don’t make it harder for me to bear. The
tempter has been telling me so, all day, and my heart is so hard and
wicked, I cannot pray as I would. Oh, you don’t knew how wretched I am!”
and Maddy hid her face in the broad, motherly lap, sobbing so wildly
that Mrs. Noah was greatly perplexed how to act, or what to say.

Years ago, she would have spurned the thought that the grandchild of the
old man who had bowed to his own picture, should be mistress of
Aikenside; but now, could she have had her way, she would have stopped
the marriage, and, bringing her boy home, have given him to the young
girl weeping so bitterly in her lap. But Mrs. Noah could not have her
way. The bridal guests were, even then, assembling in that home beyond
the sea. She could not call Guy back, and so she pitied and caressed the
wretched Maddy, saying to her, at last:

“I’ll tell you what is impressed on my mind; this Lucy’s got the
consumption, without any kind of doubt, and if you’ve no objections to a
widower, you may——”

She did not finish the sentence, for Maddy started in horror. To her
there was something murderous in the very idea, and she thrust it
quickly aside. Guy Remington was not for her, she said, and her wish was
to forget him. If she could get through the dreaded to-morrow, she
should do better. There had been a load upon her the whole day, a
nightmare she could not shake off, and she had come to Lucy’s room, in
the hope of leaving her burden there, of praying her pain away. Would
Mrs. Noah leave her awhile, and see that no one came?

The good woman could not refuse, and going out, she left Maddy by the
window, watching the sun as it went down, and then watching the wintry
twilight deepen over the landscape, until all things were blended
together in one great darkness, and Jessie, seeking for her, found her
at last fainting upon the floor.

Maddy was glad of the racking headache which kept her in her bed the
whole of the next day, glad of any excuse to stay away from the family,
talking of Guy, and what was transpiring in England. They had failed to
remember the difference in the longitude of the two places; but Maddy
forgot nothing, and when the clock struck nine she called Mrs. Noah to
her and whispered faintly:

“They were to be married before twelve, you know, so it was over two
hours ago, and Guy is lost forever!”

Mrs. Noah had no consolation to offer, and only pressed the hot,
feverish hands, while Maddy turned her face to the wall, and did not
speak again, except to whisper incoherently, as she half slumbered, half
woke:

“Did Guy think of me, when he promised to love her, and does he, can he
see how miserable I am?”

Maddy was indeed passing through deep waters, and the day and the night
of the fourth of December were the longest, dreariest she ever knew, and
could never be forgotten. Once past, the worst was over, and as the
rarest metal is purified by fire, so Maddy came from the dreadful ordeal
strengthened for what was before her. Both Agnes and Mrs. Noah noticed
the strangely beautiful expression of her face when she came down to the
breakfast room, while Jessie, as she kissed her pale cheek, whispered:

“You look as if you had been with the angels.”

Guy was not expected with his bride for two or three weeks, and as the
days dragged on, Maddy felt that the waiting for him was more
intolerable than the seeing him with Lucy would be. Restless and
impatient, she could not remain quietly at the cottage—and when at
Aikenside, she longed to return again to her own home; and in this way
the time wore on, until the anniversary of that day when she had come
from New York, and found Guy waiting for her at the station. To stay
that day in the house so rife with memories of the dead was impossible,
and Flora was surprised and delighted to hear that both were going up to
Aikenside in the vehicle hired of Farmer Green, whose son officiated as
driver. It was nearly noon when they reached their destination, meeting
at the gate with Flora’s brother Tom, who said to them:

“We’ve heard from Mr. Guy; the ship is in; they’ll be here to-night, and
Mrs. Noah is turnin’ things upside down with the dinner.”

Leaning back in the buggy, Maddy felt for a moment as if she were dying.
Never until then had she realized how, all the while, she had been
clinging to an indefinable hope, a presentiment that something might yet
occur to spare her from a long lifetime of pain, such as lay before her,
if Guy were really lost; but the bubble had burst, leaving her nothing
to hope, nothing to cling to, nothing but black despair; and half
bewildered, she received the noisy greeting of Jessie, who met her at
the door, and dragged her into the drawing-room, decorated with flowers
from the hot-house, and told her to guess who was coming.

“I know; Tom told me; Guy is coming with Lucy,” Maddy answered, and
relieving herself from Jessie, she turned to Agnes, asking where Mrs.
Noah was, and if she might go to her for a moment.

“Oh, Maddy, child, I’m sorry you’ve come to-day,” Mrs. Noah said, as she
chafed Maddy’s cold hands, and leading her to the fire, made her sit
down, while she untied her hood, and removed her cloak and furs.

“I did not know it, or I should not have come,” Maddy replied; “I shall
not stay, as it is. I cannot see them to-day. Charlie will drive me back
before the train is due. But what did he say? And how is Lucy?”

“He did not mention her. There’s the dispatch,” and Mrs. Noah handed to
Maddy the telegram, received that morning, and which was simply as
follows:


“The steamer is in. Shall be at the station at five o’clock P. M.

                                                        “GUY REMINGTON.”


Twice Maddy read it over, experiencing much the same feeling she would
have experienced had it been her death warrant she was reading.

“At five o’clock. I must go before that,” she said, sighing as she
remembered how, one year ago that day, she was traveling over the very
route where Guy was now traveling with his bride. Did he think of it?
think of his long waiting at the depot, or of that memorable ride to
Honedale, the events of which grew more and more distinct in her memory,
making her cheeks burn even now, as she recalled his many acts of
tenderness and care.

Laying the telegram on the table, she went with Mrs. Noah through the
rooms, warmed and made ready for the bride, lingering longest in Lucy’s,
which the bridal decorations, and the bright fire blazing in the grate,
made singularly inviting. As yet, there were no flowers there, and Maddy
claimed the privilege of arranging them for this room herself. Agnes had
almost stripped the conservatory; but Maddy found enough to form a most
tasteful bouquet, which she placed upon a marble dressing table; then
within a slip of paper which she folded across the top, she wrote:

“Welcome to the bride.”

“They both will recognize my handwriting; they’ll know I’ve been here,”
she thought, as with one long, last, sad look at the room, she walked
away.

They were laying the table for dinner now, and with a kind of dizzy,
uncertain feeling, Maddy watched the servants hurrying to and fro,
bringing out the choicest china, and the glittering silver, in honor of
the bride. Comparatively, it was not long since, a little, frightened,
homesick girl, she first sat down with Guy at that table, from which the
proud Agnes would have banished her; but it seemed to her an age, so
much of happiness and pain had come to her since then. There was a place
for her there now, near Guy; but she should not fill it. She could not
stay; and she astonished Agnes and Jessie, just as they were going to
make their dinner toilet, by announcing her intention of going home. She
was not dressed to meet Mrs. Remington, she said, shuddering as for the
first time she pronounced a name which the servants had frequently used,
and which jarred on her ear every time she heard it. She was not dressed
appropriately to meet an English lady. Flora of course would stay, she
said, as it was natural she should, to greet her new mistress; but she
must go; and finding Charlie Green she bade him bring round the buggy.

Agnes was not particularly surprised, for a vague suspicion of something
like the truth had gradually been creeping into her brain, as she noted
Maddy’s pallid face, and the changes which passed over it whenever Guy
was mentioned. Agnes pitied Maddy for in her own heart there was a
little burning spot, when she remembered who was to accompany Dr.
Holbrook. So she did not urge her to remain, and she tried to hush
Jessie’s lamentations when she heard Maddy was going.

One long, sad, wistful look at Guy’s and Lucy’s home, and Maddy followed
Charlie to the buggy waiting for her, and bade him drive rapidly, as
there was every indication of a coming storm.

The gray, wintry afternoon was drawing to a close, and the December
night was shutting down upon the Honedale hills in sleety rain, when the
cottage was reached, and Maddy, passing up the narrow, slippery walk,
entered the cold, dreary room, where there was neither fire nor light,
nor friendly voice to greet her. No sound save the ticking of the clock;
no welcome save the purring of the house cat, who came crawling at her
feet as she knelt before the stove and tried to kindle the fire. Charlie
Green had offered to go in and do this for her, as indeed he had offered
to return and stay all night, but she had declined, preferring to be
alone, and with stiffened fingers she laid the kindlings Flora had
prepared, and then applying the match, watched the blue flame as it
gradually licked up the smoke and burst into a cheerful blaze.

“I shall feel better when it’s warm,” she said, crouching over the fire,
and shivering with more than bodily cold.

There was a kind of nameless terror stealing over her as she sat
thinking of the years ago when the inmates of three graves across the
meadow were there beneath that very roof where she now sat alone.

“I’ll strike a light,” she said, rising to her feet, and trying not to
glance at the shadowy corners filling her with fear.

The lamp was found, and its friendly beams soon dispersed the darkness
from the corners and the fear from Maddy’s heart, but it could not drive
from her mind thoughts of what might at that moment be transpiring at
Aikenside. If the bride and groom came at all that night, she knew they
must have been there for an hour or more, and in fancy she saw the
tired, but happy Lucy, as in her pleasant room she made her toilet for
dinner, with Guy standing by and looking on. Did he smile approvingly
upon his young wife? Did his eye, when it rested on her, light up with
the same expression she had seen so often when it looked at her? Did he
commend her taste and say his little wife was beautiful, as he kissed
her fair white cheek, or was there a cloud upon his handsome face, a
shadow on his heart, heavy with thoughts of her, and would he rather it
were _Maddy_ there in the bridal room? If so, his burden was hard
indeed, but not so hard as hers, and kneeling on the floor, poor Maddy
laid her head in the chair, and, ‘mid piteous moans, asked God, her
Father, to help them both to bear—help her and Guy—making the latter
love as he ought the gentle girl who had left home and friends to live
with him in a far distant land; asked, too, that she might tear from her
heart every sinful thought, loving Guy only as she might love the
husband of another.

The prayer ended, Maddy still sat upon the floor, while over her pale
face the lamplight faintly flickered, showing the dark lines beneath her
eyes and the tear-stains on her cheek. Without, the storm still was
raging, and the wintry rain, mingled with sleet and snow, beat piteously
against the curtained windows, while the wind howled mournfully as it
shook the door, and sweeping past the cottage went screaming over the
hill. But Maddy heard nothing of the tumult. She had brought a pillow
from the bed-room, and placing it upon the chair, sat down again upon
the floor and rested her head upon it. She did not even know that her
pet cat had crept up beside her, purring contentedly, and occasionally
licking her hair, much less did she hear above the storm the swift tread
of horses’ feet as some one came dashing down the road, the rider
pausing an instant as he caught a glimpse of the cottage lamp, and then
hurrying on to the public-house beyond, where the hostler frowned
moodily at being called out to care for the horse of a stranger, who
went back on foot to where the cottage lamp shone a beacon light through
the inky darkness.

The stranger reached the little gate, and undoing the fastening, went
hurrying up the walk, his step upon the crackling snow catching Maddy’s
ear at last and making her wonder who could be coming there on such a
night as this. It was probably Charlie Green, she said, and with a
feeling of impatience at being intruded upon she rose to her feet just
as the door turned upon its hinges, letting in a powerful draught of
wind which extinguished the light, and left her in total darkness.

But it did not matter. Maddy had caught a sound, a peculiar cough, which
froze the blood in her veins and made her quake with terror quite as
much as if the footsteps hurrying towards her had been the footsteps of
the dead, instead of belonging, as she knew they did, to Guy
Remington—who, with garments saturated with rain, felt for her in the
darkness, and found her where from faintness she had crouched again
beside the chair, and drawing her closely to him in a passionate, almost
painful embrace, said, so tenderly, so lovingly:

“Maddy, my darling, my own! We shall never be parted again.”




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                                 LUCY.


Hours went by, and the hands of the clock pointed to twelve, ere Maddy
compelled herself to hear the story Guy had come to tell. She had thrust
him from her at first, speaking to him of _Lucy_, his wife, and Guy had
answered her, “I have no wife—I never had one. Lucy is in Heaven;” and
that was all Maddy knew until the great shock had spent itself in tears
and sobs, which became almost convulsions as she tried to realize the
fact that Lucy Atherstone was dead; that the bridal robe about which she
had written with girlish frankness proved to be her shroud, and that her
head that night was not pillowed on Guy’s arm, but resting under English
turf and beneath an English sky. She could listen at last, but her
breath came in panting gasps; while Guy told her how, on the very
morning of the bridal, Lucy had greeted him with her usual bright smile,
appearing and looking better than he had seen her look since he reached
her mother’s home; how for an hour they sat together alone in a little
room sacred to her, because years before it was there he confessed his
love.

Seated on a low ottoman, with her golden head lying on his lap, she had
this morning told him, in her artless way, how much she loved him, and
how hard it sometimes was to make her love for the creature second to
her love for the Creator; told him she was not faultless, and asked that
when he found how erring and weak she was, he would bear with her
frailties as she would bear with his; talked with him, too, of Maddy
Clyde, confessing, in a soft, low tone, how once or twice a pang of
jealousy had wrung her heart when she read his praises of his pupil. But
she had conquered that; she had prayed it all away, and now, next to her
own sister, she loved Maddy Clyde.

Other words, too, were spoken—words of guileless, pure affection, too
sacred even for Guy to breathe to Maddy; and then Lucy had left him, her
bounding step echoing through the hall and up the winding stairs, down
which she never came again alive, for when Guy next looked upon her, she
was lying white and still, her neck and dress and golden hair stained
with the pale life-blood oozing from her livid lips. A blood-vessel had
been suddenly ruptured, the physician said, adding that it was what he
had been fearing for some time, and now it had come—and there was no
hope. They told her she must die, for the mother would have them tell
her. Once, for a few moments, there was on her face a frightened look,
such as a harmless bird might wear when suddenly caught in a snare. But
that soon passed away as from beneath the closed eyelids the great tears
came gushing, and the stained lips whispered faintly:

“God knows best what is right. Poor Guy!—break it gently to him.”

At this point in the story Guy broke down entirely, sobbing as only
strong men can sob.

“Maddy,” he said, “I felt like a heartless wretch—a most consummate
hypocrite—as, standing by Lucy’s side, I met the fond, pitying glance of
her blue eyes, and suffered the poor little hand to part my hair as she
tried to comfort me, even though every word she uttered was shortening
her life; tried to comfort me, the wretch who was there so unwillingly,
and who at this prospect of release hardly knew at first whether he was
more sorry than glad. You may well start from me in horror, Maddy. I was
just the wretch I describe; but I overcame it, Maddy, and Heaven is my
witness that no thought of you intruded itself upon me afterwards as I
stood by my dying Lucy. I saw how good, how sweet she was, and something
of the old love came back to me, as I held her in my arms, where she
wished to be. I would have saved her if I could: and when I called her
‘my darling Lucy’ they were not idle words. I kissed her many times for
myself, and once, Maddy, for you. She told me to do so. She whispered,
‘Kiss me, Guy, for Maddy Clyde. Tell her I’d rather she should take my
place than anybody else—rather my Guy should call her wife—for I know
she would not be jealous if you sometimes talked of your dead Lucy, and
I know she will help lead you to that blessed home where sorrow never
comes.’ That was the last she ever spoke, and when the sun went down
death had claimed my bride. She died in my arms, Maddy. I felt the last
fluttering of her pulse, the last beat of her heart. I laid her back
upon her pillows. I wiped the blood from her lips and from her golden
curls. I followed her to her early grave. I saw her buried from my
sight, and then, Maddy, I started home; thoughts of you and thoughts of
Lucy blended equally together until Aikenside was reached. I talked with
Mrs. Noah; I heard all of you there was to tell, and then I talked with
Agnes, who was not greatly surprised, and did not oppose my coming here
to-night. I could not remain there, knowing you were here alone, even
though some old fogies might say it was not proper—God knows what is in
my heart. In the bridal chamber I found your bouquet, with its ‘Welcome
to the Bride.’ Maddy, you must be that bride. Lucy sanctioned it, and
the doctor, too, for I told him all. His own wedding was, of course,
deferred, and he did not come home with me, but he said ‘Tell Maddy not
to wait. Life is too short to waste any happiness. She has my blessing.’
And, Maddy, it must be so. Aikenside needs a mistress; you are all
alone. You are mine—mine forever!”

The storm had died away, and the moonbeams stealing through the window
told that morning was breaking, but neither Guy nor Maddy heeded the
lapse of time. Theirs was a sad kind of happiness as they sat talking
together, and could Lucy have listened to them she would have felt
satisfied that she was not forgotten. One long bright curl, cut from her
head by his own hand, was all there was left of her to Guy save the
hallowed memories of her purity and goodness—memories which would yet
mold the proud, impulsive man into the earnest, consistent Christian
which Lucy in her life had desired that he should be and which Maddy
rejoiced to see him.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                                FINALE.


It is the close of a calm September afternoon, and the autumnal sunlight
falls softly upon Aikenside, where a gay party is now assembled. For
four years Maddy Clyde has been mistress there, and in looking back upon
them she wonders how so much happiness as she has known could be
experienced in so short a time. Never but once has the slightest ripple
of sorrow shadowed her heart, and that was when her noble husband, Guy,
said to her, in a voice she knew was earnest and determined, that he
could no longer remain deaf to his country’s call—that where the battle
storm was raging he was needed, and he must not stay at home. Then for a
brief season her bright face was overcast, and her brown eyes dim with
weeping. Giving him to the war seemed like giving him up to death. But
women can be as true heroes as men; and stifling her own grief, Maddy
sent him away with smiles and prayers and cheering words of
encouragement, turning herself for consolation to the source from which
she never sued for peace in vain; and, save that she missed her husband
terribly, she was not lonely, for her beautiful dark-eyed boy, whom they
called Guy, junior, kept her busy, while not many weeks after her
husband’s departure, Guy read with moistened eyes of a little
golden-haired daughter, whom Maddy had named Lucy Atherstone, and gazed
upon a curl of hair she inclosed, asking if it were not like some other
hair now moldering back to dust within an English churchyard. “Maggie
says it is,” she wrote, alluding to the wife of Dr. Holbrook, who had
come to Aikenside to stay, while her husband also did his duty as
surgeon in the army. That little daughter is a year-old baby now, and in
her short white dress and coral bracelets sits neglected on the nursery
floor, while her mother and Jessie and Maggie Holbrook hasten out into
the yard, to welcome the returning soldier, Major Guy whose arm is in a
sling, and whose face is very pale from the effects of wounds received
at Gettysburg, where his daring courage had well-nigh won for Maddy a
widow’s heritage. For the present the arm is disabled, and so he has
been discharged, and has come back to the home where warm words of
welcome greet him, from the lowest servant up to his darling wife, who
can only look her joy as he folds her in his well arm, and kisses her
beautiful face. Only Margaret Holbrook seems a little sad, for she had
hoped her husband would come with Guy, but his humanity would not permit
him to leave the suffering beings who needed his care. Loving messages
he sent to her, and her tears were dried when she heard from Guy how
greatly he was beloved by the pale occupants of the beds of pain, and
how much he was doing to relieve their anguish.

Jessie, grown to be a most beautiful girl of nearly sixteen, is still a
child in actions, and, wild with delight at seeing her brother again,
throws her arms around his neck, telling, in almost the same breath, how
proud she is of him, how much she wished to go to him when she heard he
was wounded, how she wished she was a boy, so she could enlist, how
nicely Flora is married and settled at the cottage in Honedale, and then
asks if he knows anything of the Confederate Colonel to whom just before
the war broke out her mother was married, and whose home was in
Richmond.

Guy knows nothing of _him_, except that he is still fighting for the
Confederacy, but from exchanged prisoners, who had come in from
Richmond, he has heard of a beautiful lady, an officer’s wife, and as
rumor said, a Northern woman, who visited them in prison, speaking kind
words of sympathy to all, and once binding up a drummer boy’s aching
head with a handkerchief, which he still retained as a memento of her,
and on whose corner could be faintly traced the name of “Agnes
Remington.”

Jessie’s eyes are full of tears as she says:

“Dear mamma. It’s months since I heard from her direct. Of course it was
she who was so good to the drummer boy. She cannot be so very bad,” and
Jessie glances triumphantly at Mrs. Noah, who, never having quite
overcome her dislike of Agnes, had sorely tried Jessie by declaring that
her mother “had found her level at last, and was just where she wanted
to be.”

Good Mrs. Noah! The ancient man, whose name she bore, would as soon have
thought of leaving the Ark, as she of turning traitor to her country,
and when she heard of the riotous mob raised against the draft, she
talked seriously of going in person to New York “to give ’em a piece of
her mind,” and for one whole day refused to speak to Flora’s husband,
because he was a “dum dimocrat,” and she presumed wanted the south to
beat. With the exception of Maddy, no one was more pleased to see Guy
than herself. He was _her boy_, the one she brought up, and with a
mother’s fervor she kissed his bronzed cheek, and told him how glad she
was to have him back.

With his boy on his sound arm, Guy disengaged himself from the noisy
group and went with Maddy to where the child he had never seen was just
beginning to show signs of resentment at being left so long alone.

“Lulu, sissy, papa’s come; this is papa,” the little boy cried, assuming
the honor of the introduction.

Lulu, as they called her, was not afraid of the tall soldier, and
stretching out her fat, white hands, went to him readily. Blue-eyed and
golden-haired, she bore but little resemblance to either father or
mother, but there was a sweet, beautiful face, of which Maddy had often
dreamed, but never seen, and whether it were fancy or not, Guy thought
it beamed upon him again in the infantile features of his little girl.
Parting lovingly her yellow curls and kissing her fair cheek, he said to
Maddy softly, just as he always spoke of _that_ dead one:

“Yes, darling, Margaret Holbrook is right—our baby daughter is very much
like our dear lost Lucy Atherstone.”


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74902 ***