University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
JAMES AND J. C.

James and J. C. DeVere were cousins, and also cousins
of Mrs. Kelsey's husband; and hence the intimacy between
that lady and themselves, or rather between that
lady and J. C., who was undeniably the favorite, partly
because he was much like herself, and partly because of
his name, which she thought so exclusive—so different
from any one's else. His romantic young mother, who
liked any thing savoring at all of Waverly, had inflicted
upon him the cognomen of Jedediah Cleishbotham, and
repenting of her act when too late, had dubbed him “J.
C.,” by which name he was now generally known. The
ladies called him “a love of a man,” and so he was, if a
faultless form, a wicked black eye, a superb set of teeth,
an unexceptionable moustache, a tiny foot, the finest of
broadcloth, reported wealth, and perfect good humor
constitute the ingredients which make up “a love of a
man.” Added to this, he really did possess a good share
of common sense, and with the right kind of influence,
would have made a far different man from what he was.
Self-love was the bane of his life, and as he liked dearly
to be flattered, so he in turn became a most consummate
flatterer; always, however, adapting his remarks to the
nature of the person with whom he was conversing. Thus
to Nellie Kennedy, he said a thousand foolish things, just
because he knew he gratified her vanity by doing so. Although

possessing the reputation of a wealthy man, J. C.
was far from being one, and his great object was to secure
a wife, who, while not distasteful to him, still had money
enough to cover many faults, and such an one he fancied
Nelly Kennedy to be. From Mrs. Kelsey he had received
the impression that the Doctor was very rich, and as
Nellie was the only daughter, her fortune would necessarily
be large. To be sure, he would rather she had been
a little more sensible, but as she was not, he resolved to
make the best of it, and although claiming to be something
of an invalid in quest of health, it was really with
the view of asking her to be his wife that he had come to
Laurel Hill. He had first objected to his cousin accompanying
him—not for fear of rivalry, but because he disliked
what he might say of Nellie, for if there was a person in
the world whose opinion he respected, and whose judgment
he honored, it was his cousin James.

Wholly unlike J. C., was James, and yet he was quite
as popular, for one word from him was more highly prized
by scheming mothers and artful young girls, than the
most complimentary speech that J. C. ever made. He
meant what he said; and to the kindest, noblest of hearts,
he added a fine commanding person, a finished education,
and a quiet, gentlemanly manner, to say nothing of his
unbounded wealth, and musical voice, whose low, deep
tones had stirred the heart-strings of more than one fair
maiden in her teens, but stirred them in vain, for James
De Vere had never seen the woman he wished to call his
wife; and now, at the age of twenty-six, he was looked
upon as a confirmed old bachelor, whom almost any one
would marry, but whom no one ever could. He had
come to Laurel Hill because Mrs. Kelsey had asked him

so to do, and because he thought it would be pleasant to
spend a few weeks in that part of the country.

Of Maude's existence he knew nothing, and when at
last supper was announced, and he followed his cousin to
the dining-room, he started in surprise, as his eye fell on
the dark-eyed girl, who, with a heightened bloom upon
her cheek, presided at the table with so much grace and
dignity. Whether intentionally or not, we cannot say,
but Nellie failed to introduce her step-sister, and as Mrs.
Kelsey was too much absorbed in looking at her pretty
niece, and in talking to her brother, to notice the omission,
Maude's position would have been peculiarly embarrassing,
but for the gentlemanly demeanor of James, who,
always courteous, particularly to those whom he thought
neglected, bowed politely, and made to her several remarks
concerning the fineness of the day, and the delightful
view which Laurel Hill commanded of the surrounding
country. She was no menial, he knew, and looking in her
bright, black eyes, he saw that she had far more mind
than the dollish Nellie, who, as usual, was provoking
J. C. to say all manner of foolish things.

As they were returning to the parlor, J. C. said to
Nellie: “By the way, Nell, who is that young girl in
white, and what is she doing here?”

“Why, that's Maude Remington, my step-sister,” answered
Nellie. “I'm sure you've heard me speak of her.”

J. C. was sure he hadn't; but he did not contradict the
little lady, whose manner plainly indicated that any attention
paid by him to the said Maude, would be resented as
an insult to herself. Just then, Mrs. Kelsey went up-stairs,
taking her niece with her; and, as Dr. Kennedy
had a patient to visit, he, too, asked to be excused, and

the young men were left alone. The day was warm, and
sauntering out beneath the trees, they sat down upon a
rustic seat, which commanded a view of the dining-room,
the doors and windows of which were open, disclosing to
view all that was transpiring within.

“In the name of wonder, what's that?” exclaimed J. C.,
as he saw a curiously shaped chair wheeling itself, as it
were, into the room.

“It must be Dr. Kennedy's crippled boy,” answered
James, as Louis skipped across the floor on crutches, and
climbed into the chair which Maude carefully held for
him.

Louis did not wish to eat with the strangers until
somewhat acquainted, consequently he waited until they
were gone, and then came to the table, where Maude
stood by his side, carefully ministering to his wants, and
assisting him into his chair when he was through. Then,
pushing back her curls, and donning the check apron
which Nellie so much abhorred, she removed the dishes
herself, for old Hannah she knew was very tired, having
done an unusual amount of work that day.

“I tell you what, Jim, I wouldn't wonder if that's the
very one for you,” said J. C., puffing leisurely at his cigar,
and still keeping his eyes fixed upon the figure in white,
as if to one of his fastidious taste there was nothing very
revolting in seeing Maude Remington wash the supper
dishes, even though her hands were brown and her arms
a little red.

James did not answer immediately, and when he did,
he said: “Do you remember a little girl we met in the
cars between Springfield and Albany several years ago
when we were returning from school? She was a funny

little black-eyed creature, and amused us very much with
her remarks.”

“I wouldn't wonder if I remembered her,” returned J.
C., “for didn't she say I looked as if I didn't mean for
certain? I tell you what it is, Jim, I've thought of the
speech more than a thousand times when I've been saying
things I did not mean to foolish girls and their mammas.
But what reminded you of her?”

“If I mistake not, that child and the young lady yonder
are one and the same. You know she told us her
name was Maude Remington, and that the naughty man
behind us wasn't her father, and she didn't like him a bit,
or something like that.”

“And I honor her judgment both in his case and mine,”
interrupted J. C., continuing, after a moment; “The old
fellow looks as that man did. I guess you are right. I
mean to question Cuffee on the subject,” and he beckoned
to John, who was passing at no great distance.

“Sambo,” said he, as the negro approached, “who is
that young lady using the broom-handle so vigorously?”
and he pointed to Maude, who was finishing her domestic
duties, by brushing the crumbs from the carpet.

“If you please, sar, my name is John,” answered the
African, assuming a dignity of manner which even J. C.
respected.

“Be it John, then,” returned the young man, “but tell
us how long has she lived here, and where did she come
from?”

Nothing pleased John better than a chance to talk of
Maude, and he replied: “She came here twelve years ago
this very month with that little blue-eyed mother of hern,
who is lyin' under them willers in the grave-yard. We

couldn't live without Miss Maude. She's all the sunshine
thar is about the lonesome old place. Why, she does
everything, from takin' care of her crippled half-brother to
mendin' t'other ones gownd.”

“And who is t'other one?” asked J. C., beginning to
feel greatly interested in the negro's remarks.

“T'other one,” said John, “is Miss Nellie, who wont
work for fear of silin' her hands, which some fool of a city
chap has made her b'lieve are so white and handsome,”
and a row of ivory was just visible, as, leaning against a
tree, John watched the effect of his words upon “the
fool of a city chap.”

J. C. was exceedingly good natured, and tossing his
cigar into the grass, he replied, “You don't mean me, of
course; but tell us more of this Maude, who mops the
floor and mends Nellie's dresses.”

“She don't mop the floor,” muttered John. “This
nigger wouldn't let her do that—but she does mend Nellie's
gownds, which I wouldn't do, if I's worth as much
money as she is!”

If J. C. had been interested before, he was doubly interested
now, and coming nearer to John, he said: “Money,
my good fellow! is Maude an heiress?”

“She ain't nothin' else,” returned John, who proceeded
to speak of Janet and her generous gift, the amount of
which he greatly exaggerated. “Nobody knows how
much 'tis,” said he; “but every body s'poses that will
and all it must be thirty or forty thousand,” and as the
Doctor was just then seen riding into the yard, John
walked away to attend to his master's horse.

“Those butter and cheese men do accumulate money
fast,” said J. C., more to himself than to his companion,

who laughingly replied, “It would be funny if you should
make this Maude my cousin instead of Nellie. Let me
see—cousin Nellie—cousin Maude. I like the sound of the
latter the best, though I am inclined to think she is altogether
too good for a mercenary dog like you.”

“Pshaw!” returned J. C., pulling at the maple leaves
which grew above his head, “I hope you don't think I'd
marry a rude country girl for her money. No, give me
la charmant Nellie, even though she cannot mend her
dress, and you are welcome to cousin Maude, the milkman's
heiress.”

At that moment Mrs. Kelsey and Nellie appeared upon
the stoop, and as Maude was no longer visible, the young
gentlemen returned to the parlor, where J. C. asked Nellie
to favor him with some music. Nellie liked to play, for
it showed her white hands to advantage, and seating herself
at the piano, she said: “I have learned a new song
since I saw you, but Maude must sing the other part—
maybe, though, I can get along without her.”

This last was said because she did not care to have
Maude in the parlor, and she had inadvertently spoken of
her singing. The young men, however, were not as willing
to excuse her, and Maude was accordingly sent for.
She came readily, and performed her part without the
least embarassment, although she more than once half
paused to listen to the rich, full tones of James's voice, for
he was an unusually fine singer; Maude had never heard
any thing like it before, and when the song was ended, the
bright, sparkling eyes which she turned upon him told of
her delight quite as eloquently as words could have done.

“You play, I am sure, Miss Remington,” he said, as
Nellie arose from the stool.

Maude glanced at her red hands, which J. C. would be
sure to notice, then feeling ashamed to hesitate for a reason
like this, she answered, “Yes, sometimes,” and taking her
seat, she played several pieces, keeping admirable time,
and giving to the music a grace and finish which Nellie
had often tried in vain to imitate.

“Mr. De Vere did not expect you to play all night,”
called out the envious girl, who, not satisfied with having
enticed J. C. from the piano, wished James to join her
also.

“She is merely playing at my request,” said Mr. De
Vere, “but if it is distasteful to Miss Kennedy we will
of course desist,” and bending low he said a few words
of commendation to Maude, whose heart thrilled to the
gentle tones of his voice just as many another maiden's
had done before.

Mr. De Vere was exceedingly agreeable, and so Maude
found him to be, for feeling intuitively that she was somewhat
slighted by the overbearing Nellie, he devoted himself
to her entirely, talking first of books, then of music,
and lastly of his home, which, without any apparent boasting,
he described as a most beautiful spot.

For a long time that night did Louis wait for his sister
in his little bed, and when at last she came to give him
her accustomed kiss, he pushed the thick curls from off
her face and said, “I never saw you look so happy, Maude.
Do you like that Mr. De Vere?”

“Which one,” asked Maude. “There are two, you
know.”

“Yes, I know,” returned Louis, “but I mean the one
with the voice. Forgive me, Maude, but I sat ever so
long at the head of the stairs, listening as he talked. He

is a good man, I am sure. Will you tell me how he
looks?”

Maude could not well describe him. She only knew
that he was taller than J. C., and as she thought much
finer looking, with deep blue eyes, dark brown hair, and
a mouth just fitted to his voice. Farther than this, she
could not tell. “But you will see him in the morning,”
she said. “I have told him how gifted, how good you
are, and to-morrow, he says he shall visit you in your
den.”

“Don't let the other one come,” said Louis hastily, “for
if he can't endure red hands, he'd laugh at my withered
feet, and the bunch upon my back; but the other one
wont, I know.”

Maude knew so too, and somewhat impatiently she
waited for the morrow, when she could introduce her
brother to her friend. The morrow came, but, as was
frequently the case, Louis was suffering from a severe pain
in his back, which kept him confined to his room, so that
Mr. DeVere neither saw him at all nor Maude as much as
he wished to do. He had been greatly interested in her, and
when at dinner he heard that she would not be down, he
was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. She was
not present at supper either, but after it was over she
joined him in the parlor, and, together with J. C. and
Nellie, accompanied him to the grave-yard, where, seating
herself upon her mother's grave, she told him of that
mother, and the desolation which crept into her heart
when first she knew she was an orphan. From talking or
her mother it was an easy matter to speak of her Vernon
home, which she had never seen since she left it twelve
years before, and then Mr. DeVere asked if she had

met two boys in the cars on her way to Albany. At first
Maude could not recall them, and when at last she did so,
her recollections were so vague that Mr. DeVere felt another
pang of disappointment, though wherefore he could
not tell, unless indeed, he thought there would be something
pleasant in being remembered twelve long years by
a girl like Maude Remington. He reminded her of
her remark made to his cousin, and in speaking of him
casually, alluded to his evident liking for Nellie, saying
playfully, “Who knows, Miss Remington, but you may
sometime be related to me—not my cousin exactly, though
Cousin Maude sounds well. I like that name.”

“I like it too,” she said impulsively, “much better than
Miss Remington, which seems so stiff.”

“Then let me call you so. I have no girl cousin in the
world,” and leaning forward, he put back from her forehead
one of her short, glossy curls, which had been displaced
by the evening breeze.

This was a good deal for him to do. Never beforehad he
touched a maiden's tresses, and he had no idea that it would
make his fingers tingle as it did. Still, on the whole, he
liked it, and half-wished the wind would blow those curls
over the upturned face again, but it did not, and he was
about to make some casual remark, when J. C., who was
not far distant, called out, “Making love, I do believe!”

The speech was sudden and grated harshly on James'
ear. Not because the idea of making love to Maude was
utterly distasteful, but because he fancied she might
be annoyed, and over his features there came a shadow,
which Maude did not fail to observe.

“He does not wish to be teased about me,” she thought,
and around the warm spot which the name of “Cousin

Maude” had made within her heart, there crept a nameless
chill—a fear that she had been degraded in his eyes. “I
must go back to Louis,” she said at last, and rising from her
mother's grave, she returned to the house, accompanied
by Mr. DeVere, who walked by her side in silence, wondering
if she really cared for J. C.'s untimely joke.

“James De Vere did not understand the female heart,
and wishing to relieve Maude from all embarrassment in
her future intercourse with himself, he said to her as they
reached the door: “My Cousin Maude must not mind
what J. C. said, for she knows it is not so.”

“Certainly not,” was Maude's answer, as she ran up
stairs, hardly knowing whether she wished it were, or
were not so.

One thing, however, she knew. She liked to have him
call her Cousin Maude; and when Louis asked what Mr.
De Vere had said beneath the willows, she told him of
her new name, and asked if he did not like it.

“Yes,” he answered, “but I'd rather you were his sister,
for then maybe he'd call me brother, even if I am a
cripple. How I wish I could see him, and perhaps I shall
to-morrow.

But on the morrow Louis was so much worse, that, in
attending to him, Maude found but little time to spend
with Mr. De Vere, who was to leave them that evening.
When, however, the carriage which was to take him
away, stood at the gate, she went down to bid him good-bye,
and ask him to visit them again.

“I shall be happy to do so,” he said; and then, as they
were standing alone together, he continued: “Though I
have not seen as much of you as I wished, I shall remember
my visit at Laurel Hill with pleasure. In Hampton,

there are not many ladies for whose acquaintance I particularly
care, and I have often wished that I had some
female friend with whom I could correspond, and thus
while away some of my leisure moments. Will my Cousin
Maude answer me if I should sometime chance to
write her, mere friendly, cousinly letters, of course?”

This last he said because he mistook the deep flush on
Maude's cheek for an unwillingness to do any thing which
looked at all like “making love.”

“I will write,” was all Maude had a chance to say ere
Nellie joined them, accompanied by J. C., who had not
yet terminated his visit at Laurel Hill, and as soon as his
cousin left, he intended removing to the hotel, where
he would be independent of Dr. Kennedy, and at the
same time, devote himself to the daughter or step-daughter,
just as he should feel inclined.

Some such idea might have intruded itself upon the
mind of James, for when, at parting, he took his cousin's
hand, he said, “You have my good wishes for your success
with Nellie, but—”

“But not with t'other one, hey?” laughingly rejoined
J. C., adding that James need have no fears, for there was
not the slightest possibility of his addressing the Milkman's
Heiress!

Alas for J. C.'s honesty! Even while he spoke, there
was treachery in his saucy eyes, for the milkman's heiress,
as he called her, was not to him an object of dislike, and
when, after the carriage drove away, he saw the shadows
on her face, and suspected their cause, he felt a strong
desire that his departure might affect her in a similar manner.
That evening, too, when Nellie sang to him his favorite
song, he kept one ear turned toward the chamber

above, where, in a low, sweet voice, Maude Remington
sang her suffering brother to sleep.

The next morning he removed to the hotel, saying he
should probably remain there during the summer, as the
air of Laurel Hill was highly conducive to his rather delicate
health; but whether he meant the invigorating breeze,
which blew from the surrounding hills, or an heir of a
more substantial kind, time and our story will show.