University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE MILKMAN'S HEIRESS.

Mr. De Vere had been gone four weeks. Louis had
entirely recovered from his illness, and had made the acquaintance
of J. C., with whom he was on the best of
terms. Almost every bright day did the young man
draw the little covered wagon through the village, and
away to some lovely spot, where the boy artist could indulge
in his favorite occupation—that of sketching the
familiar objects around him. At first Nellie accompanied
them in these excursions; but when one day her aunt,
who still remained at Laurel Hill, pointed out to her a
patch of sun burn and a dozen freckles—the result of her
out door exercise, she declared her intention of remaining
at home thereafter—a resolution not altogether unpleasant
to J. C., as by this means Maude was more frequently his
companion.

If our readers suppose that to a man of J. C.'s nature
there was any thing particularly agreeable in thus devoting
himself to a cripple boy, they are mistaken, for Louis
Kennedy might have remained in doors for ever, had it
not been for the sunny smile and look of gratitude which
Maude Remington always gave to J. C. De Vere, when
he came for or returned with her darling brother. Insensibly
the domestic virtues and quiet ways of the black
haired Maude were winning a strong hold upon J. C.'s
affections, and still he had never seriously thought of

making her his wife. He only knew that he liked her,
that he felt very comfortable where she was, and very
uncomfortable where she was not—that the sound of her
voice singing in the choir was the only music he heard on
the Sabbath day, and though Nellie, in her character of
soprano, ofttimes warbled like a bird, filling the old church
with melody, he did not heed it, so intent was he in listening
to the deeper, richer notes, of her who sang the alto,
and whose fingers swept the organ keys with so much
grace and beauty.

And Maude! within her bosom was there no interest
awakened for one who thought so much of her? Yes, but
it was an interest of a different nature from his. She liked
him, because he was so much more polite to her than she
had expected him to be, and more than all, she liked him
for his kindness to her brother, never dreaming that for
her sake alone those kindly acts were done. Of James
De Vere she often thought, repeating sometimes to herself
the name of Cousin Maude, which had sounded so
sweetly to her ear, when he had spoken it. His promise
she remembered, too, and as often as the mail came in,
bringing her no letter, she sighed involuntarily to think
she was forgotten. Not forgotten, Maude, no, not forgotten,
and when one afternoon, five weeks after James's
departure, J. C., stood at her side, he had good reason for
turning his eyes away from her truthful glance, for he
knew of a secret wrong done to her that day. There had
come to him that morning, a letter from James, containing
a note for Maude, and the request that he would hand it
to her.

“I should have written to her sooner,” James wrote,
“but mother's illness and an unusual amount of business

prevented me from doing so. `Better late than never,'
is, however, a good motto at times, and I entrust the letter
to you, because I would save her from any gossip which
an open correspondence with me might create.”

For James De Vere to write to a young girl was an unheard-of
circumstance, and the sight of that note aroused
in J. C.'s bosom a feeling of jealousy lest the prize he now
knew he coveted should be taken from him. No one but
himself should write to Maude Remington, for she was
his, or rather she should be his. The contents of that note
might be of the most ordinary kind, but for some reason
undefinable to himself he would rather she should not see
it yet, and though it cost him a struggle to deal thus falsely
with both, he resolved to keep it from her until she had
promised to be his wife. He never dreamed it possible
that she could tell him no; he had been so flattered and
admired by the city belles, and the only point which
troubled him was what his fashionable friends would say
when in place of the Nellie, whose name had been so long
associated with his, he brought to them a Maude fresh
from the rural districts, with naught in her disposition
save goodness, purity, and truth. They would be surprised,
he knew, but she was worth a thousand of them
all, and then, with a glow of pride, he thought how his
tender love and care would shield her from all unkind
remarks, and how he would make himself worthy of such
a treasure.

This was the nobler, better part of J. C.'s nature, but
anon a more sordid feeling crept in, and he blushed to
find himself wondering how large her fortune really was!
No one knew, save the lawyers and the trustee to whose
care it had been committed, and since he had become interested

in her, he dared not question them, lest they
should accuse him of mercenary motives. Was it as
large as Nellie's? He wished he knew, while, at the same
time, he declared to himself that it should make no difference.
The heart which had withstood so many charms
was really interested at last, and though he knew both
Mrs. Kelsey and her niece would array themselves against
him, he was prepared to withstand the indignation of the
one and the opposition of the other.

So perfectly secure was Nellie in J. C.'s admiration for
herself, that she failed to see his growing preference for
Maude, whom she frequently ridiculed in his presence, just
because she thought he would laugh at it, and think her
witty. But in this she was mistaken, for her ridicule
raised Maude higher in his estimation, and he was glad
when at last an opportunity occurred for him to declare
his intentions.

For a week or more, Nellie, and a few of the young
people of the village, had been planning a pic-nic to the
lake and the day was finally decided upon. Nellie did
not ask J. C. if he were going; she expected it as a matter
of course, just as she expected that Maude would stay at
home to look after Louis and the house. But J. C. had
his own opinion of the matter, and when the morning
came he found it very convenient to be suffering from a
severe headache, which would not permit him to leave his
bed, much less to join the pleasure-party.

“Give my compliments to Miss Kennedy,” he said to
the young man who came to his door, “and tell her I
cannot possibly go this morning, but will perhaps come
down this afternoon.”

“Mr. DeVere not going! I can't believe it!” and the

angry tears glittered in Nellie's blue eyes, when she heard
the message he had sent her.

“Not going!” exclaimed Mrs. Kelsey, while even
Maude sympathized in the general sorrow, for her hands
had prepared the repast, and she had taken especial pains
with the pies which Mr. DeVere liked the best, and which,
notwithstanding his dislike to kitchen odors, he had seen
her make, standing at her elbow, and complimenting her
skill.

Nellie was in favor of deferring the ride, but others of
the party, who did not care so much for Mr. DeVere's
society, objected, and poutingly tying on her flat, the
young lady took her seat beside her aunt, who was scarcely
less chagrined than herself at their disappointment.

Meanwhile, from behind his paper curtains, J. C. looked
after the party as they rode away, feeling somewhat relieved
when the blue ribbons of Nellie's flat disappeared
from view. For appearance's sake, he felt obliged to
keep his room for an hour or more, but at the end of that
time he ventured to feel better, and dressing himself with
unusual care, he started for Dr. Kennedy's, walking very
slowly, as became one suffering from a nervous headache,
as he was supposed to be. Maude had finished her domestic
duties, and in tasteful gingham morning-gown, with
the whitest of linen collars upon her neck, she sat reading
alone at the foot of the garden, beneath a tall cherry tree,
where John had built her a rough seat of boards. This
was her favorite resort, and here J. C. found her, so intent
upon her book as not to observe his approach until he
stood before her. She seemed surprised to see him, and
made anxious inquiries concerning his headache, which he
told her was much better.

“And even if it were not,” said he, seating himself at
her feet; “Even if it were not, the sight of you, looking
so bright, so fresh and so neat, would dissipate it entirely,”
and his eyes, from which the saucy, wicked look was for
the moment gone, rested admiringly upon her face.

His manner was even more pointed than his words,
and coloring crimson, Maude replied, “You are disposed
to be complimentary, Mr. De Vere.”

“I am disposed for once to tell the truth,” he answered.
“All my life long I have acted a part, saying and doing a
thousand foolish things I did not mean, just because I
thought it would please the senseless bubbles with whom
I have been associated. But you, Maude Remington,
have brought me to my senses, and determined me to be
a man instead of a fool. Will you help me, Maude, in
this resolution? and seizing both her hands, he poured
into her astonished ear his declaration of love, speaking
so rapidly and so vehemently as almost to take her breath
away, for she had never expected a scene like this.

She had looked upon him as one who would undoubtedly
be her sister's husband, and the uniform kindness
with which he had treated her, she attributed to his exceeding
good nature; but to be loved by him; by J. C.
De Vere, who had been sought after by the fairest ladies
in the land, she could not believe it possible, and with
mingled feelings of pleasure, pain and gratified vanity,
she burst into tears.

Very gently J. C. wiped her tears away, and sitting
down beside her, he said, “The first time I ever saw you,
Maude, you told me `I did not look as if I meant for certain,'
and you were right, for all my life has been a humbug;
but I mean `for certain' now. I love you, Maude,

love you for the very virtues which I have so often affected
to despise, and you must make me what J. C. De
Vere ought to be. Will you, Maude? Will you be my
wife?”

To say Maude was not gratified that this man of fashion
should prefer her to all the world, would be an untruth,
but she could not then say “Yes,” for another, and a more
melodious voice was still ringing in her ear, and she saw
in fancy a taller, nobler form than that of him who was
pressing her to answer.

“Not yet, Mr. De Vere,” she said. “Not yet. I must
have time to think. It has come upon me so suddenly, so
unexpectedly, for I have always thought of you as Nellie's
future husband, and my manners are so different from
what you profess to admire.”

“'Twas only profession, Maude,” he said, and then, still
holding her closely to him, he frankly and ingenuously
gave her a truthful history of his life up to the time of his
first acquaintance with Nellie, of whom he spoke kindly,
saying she pleased him better than most of his city friends,
and as he began really to want a wife, he had followed
her to Laurel Hill, fully intending to offer her the heart
which, ere he was aware of it, was given to another.
“And now, I cannot live without you,” he said. “You
must be mine. Wont you, Maude? I will be a good
husband. I will take lessons of Cousin James, who is
called a pattern man.”

The mention of that name was unfortunate, and rising
to her feet Maude replied: “I cannot answer you now,
Mr. De Vere. I should say No, if I did, I am sure, and I
would rather think of it awhile.”

He knew by her voice that she was in earnest, and kissing

her hand he walked rapidly away, his love increasing
in intensity with each step he took. He had not expected
any thing like hesitancy. Every one else had met his advances
at least half-way, and Maude's indecision made him
feel more ardent than he otherwise might have been.

“What if she should refuse me?” he said, as he paced
up and down his room, working himself up to such a pitch
of feeling, that when that afternoon Nellie on the Lake
shore was waiting impatiently his coming, he on his pillow
was really suffering all the pangs of a racking headache,
brought on by strong nervous excitement. “What if she
should say, No?” he kept repeating to himself, and at
last, maddened by the thought, he arose, and dashing off
a wild rambling letter, was about sending it by a servant,
when he received a note from her, for an explanation of
which, we will go back an hour or so in our story.

In a state of great perplexity Maude returned to the
house, and seeking out her brother, the only person to
whom she could go for counsel, she told him of the offer
she had received, and asked him what he thought. In
most respects Louis was far older than his years, and he
entered at once into the feelings of his sister.

“J. C. De Vere propose to you!” he exclaimed.
“What will Nellie say?”

“If I refuse, she never need to know of it,” answered
Maude, and Louis continued: “They say he is a great
catch, and wouldn't it be nice to get him away from every
body else. But what of the other De Vere? Don't you
like him the best?”

Maude's heart beat rapidly, and the color on her cheek
deepened to a brighter hue, as she replied, “What made
you think of him?”

“I don't know,” was Louis' answer, “only when he
was here, I fancied you were pleased with him, and that
he would suit you better than J. C.”

“But he don't like me,” said Maude. “He don't like
any woman well enough to make her his wife,” and she
sighed deeply as she thought of his broken promise, and
the letter looked for so long.

“Maude,” said Louis suddenly, “men like J. C. De
Vere sometimes marry for money, and maybe he thinks
your fortune larger than it is. Most every body does.

That Maude was more interested in J. C. De Vere than
she supposed, was proved by the earnestness with which
she defended him from all mercenary motives.

“He knows Nellie's fortune is much larger than my
own,” she said, “and by preferring me to her, he shows
that money is not his motive.”

Still Louis's suggestion troubled her, and by way of
testing the matter, she sat down at once and wrote him a
note, telling him frankly how much she had in her own
name, and how much in expectancy. This note she sent
to him by John, who, naturally quick-witted, read a portion
of the truth in her tell-tale face, and giving a loud
whistle in token of his approbation, he exclaimed, “This
nigger'll never quit larfin' if you gets him after all Miss
Nellie's nonsense, and I hopes you will, for he's a heap
better chap than I s'posed, though I b'lieve I like t'other
one the best!”

Poor Maude! That other one seemed destined to be
continually thrust upon her, but resolving to banish him
from her mind, as one who had long since ceased to
think of her, she waited impatiently for a reply to her
letter.

Very hastily J. C. tore it open, hoping, believing that
it contained the much desired answer. “I knew she could
not hold out against me—no one ever did,” he said; but
when he read the few brief lines, he dashed it to the floor
with an impatient “pshaw!” feeling a good deal disappointed
that she had not said Yes, and a very little disappointed
that the figures were not larger!

“Five thousand dollars the twentieth of next June, and
five thousand more when that old Janet dies; ten thousand
in all. Quite a handsome property if Maude could
have it at once. I wonder if she's healthy, this Mrs.
Hopkins,” soliloquized J. C., until at last, a new idea entered
his mind, and striking his fist upon the table, he
exclaimed, “Of course she will. Such people always do,
and that knocks the will in head!” and J. C. De Vere
frowned wrathfully upon the little imaginary Hopkinses
who were to share the milkman's fortune with Maude.

Just then a girlish figure was seen beneath the trees in
Dr. Kennedy's yard, and glancing at the white cape bonnet,
J. C. knew that it was Maude, the sight of whom
drove young Hopkins and the will effectually from his
mind. “He would marry her, any way,” he said, “five
thousand dollars was enough;” and donning his hat, he
started at once for the doctor's. Maude had returned to
the house, and was sitting with her brother, when the
young man was announced. Wholly unmindful of Louis's
presence, he began at once by asking “if she esteemed
him so lightly as to believe that money could make any
difference with him.”

“It influences some men,” answered Maude, “and
though you may like me”—

“Like you, Maude Remington,” he exclaimed, “Like

is a feeble word. I worship you, I love the very air you
breathe, and you must be mine. Will you, Maude?”

J. C. had never before been so much in earnest, for
never before had he met with the least indecision, and he
continued pleading his cause so vehemently, that Louis,
who was wholly unprepared for so stormy a wooing,
stopped his ears, and whispered to his sister, “Tell him
Yes, before he drives me crazy!”

But Maude felt that she must have time for sober,
serious reflection; J. C. was not indifferent to her, and the
thought was very soothing that she who had never aspired
to the honor had been chosen from all others to be his
wife. He was handsome, agreeable, kind-hearted, and, as
she believed, sincere in his love for her. And still there
was something lacking. She could not well tell what,
unless, indeed, she would have him more like James De
Vere.

“Will you answer me?” J. C. said, after there had been
a moment's silence, and in his deep black eyes there was
a truthful, earnest look, wholly unlike the wicked, treacherous
expression usually hidden there.

“Wait awhile,” answered Maude, coming to his side
and laying her hand upon his shoulder. “Wait a few
days, and I most know I shall tell you Yes. I like you,
Mr. De Vere, and if I hesitate, it is because—because—
I really don't know what, but something keeps telling me
that our engagement may be broken, and if so, it had better
not be made.”

There was another storm of words, and then, as Maude
still seemed firm in her resolution to do nothing hastily,
J. C. took his leave. As the door closed after him, Louis
heaved a deep sigh of relief, and, turning to his sister,

said: “I never heard any thing like it; I wonder if James
would act like that!”

“Louis,” said Maude, but ere Louis could reply, she
had changed her mind, and determined not to tell him
that James De Vere alone stood between her and the decision
J. C. pleaded for so earnestly. So she said: “Shall
I marry J. C. De Vere?”

“Certainly, if you love him,” answered Louis. “He
will take you to Rochester away from this lonesome house.
I shall live with you more than half the time, and”—

Here Louis was interrupted by the sound of wheels.
Mrs. Kelsey and Nellie had returned from the Lake, and
bidding her brother say nothing of what he had heard,
Maude went down to meet them. Nellie was in the worst of
humors. “Her head was aching horridly. She had spent
an awful day—and J. C. was wise in staying at home.”

“How is he?” she asked, “though of course you have
not seen him.”

Maude was about to speak, when Hannah, delighted
with a chance to disturb Nellie, answered for her. “It's
my opinion that headache was all a sham, for you hadn't
been gone an hour, afore he was over here in the garden
with Maude, where he staid ever so long. Then he came
agen this afternoon, and hasn't but jest gone.”

Nellie had not sufficient discernment to read the truth
of this assertion in Maude's crimson cheeks, but Mrs.
Kelsey had, and very sarcastically she said: “Miss Remington,
I think, might be better employed than in trying
to supplant her sister.”

“I have not tried to supplant her, madam,” answered
Maude, her look of embarrassment giving way to one of
indignation at the unjust accusation.

“May I ask, then, if Mr. De Vere has visited you twice
to-day, and if so, what was the object of those visits?”
continued Mrs. Kelsey, who suddenly remembered several
little incidents which had heretofore passed unheeded,
and which, now that she recalled them to mind, proved
that J. C. De Vere was interested in Maude.

“Mr. De Vere can answer for himself, and I refer you
to him,” was Maude's reply, as she walked away.

Nellie began to cry. “Maude had done something,”
she knew, “and it wouldn't be a bit improper for a woman
as old as aunt Kelsey to go over and see how Mr. De
Vere was, particularly as by this means she might find
out why he had been there so long with Maude.”

Mrs. Kelsey was favorably impressed with this idea,
and after changing her dusty dress and drinking a cup
of tea, she started for the hotel. J. C. was sitting near
the window, watching anxiously for a glimpse of Maude,
when his visitor was announced. Seating herself directly
opposite him, Mrs. Kelsey inquired after his headache,
and then asked how he had passed the day.

“Oh, in lounging, generally, he answered, while she
continued, “Hannah says you spent the morning there,
and also a part of the afternoon. Was my brother at
home?”

“He was not. I went to see Maude,” J. C. replied somewhat
stiffly, for he began to see the drift of her remarks.

Mrs. Kelsey hesitated a moment, and then proceeded
to say that “J. C. ought not to pay Miss Remington
much attention, as she was very susceptible and might
fancy him in earnest.”

“And suppose she does?” said J. C., determining to
brave the worst. “Suppose she does?”

Mrs. Kelsey was very uncomfortable, and coughing a
little she replied, “It is wrong to raise hopes which cannot
be realized, for of course you have never entertained
a serious thought of a low country girl like Maude Remington.”

There had been a time when a remark like this from
the fashionable Mrs. Kelsey would have banished any girl
from J. C.'s mind, for he was rather dependent on the
opinion of others, but it made no difference now, and,
warming up in Maude's defence, he replied, “I assure
you, madam, I have entertained serious thoughts toward
Miss Remington, and have this day asked her to be my
wife.”

“Your wife!” almost screamed the high-bred Mrs.
Kelsey. “What will your city friends—what will Nellie
say.”

“Confound them all, I don't care what they say,” and
J. C. drove his knife-blade into the pine table, while he
gave his reasons for having chosen Maude in preference to
Nellie, or any one else he had ever seen. “There's something
to her,” said he, “and with her for my wife, I shall
make a decent man. What would Nellie and I do together—when
neither of us know any thing—about business,
I mean,” he added, while Mrs. Kelsey rejoined, “I
always intended that you would live with me, and I had
that handsome suite of rooms arranged expressly for
Nellie and her future husband. I have no children, and
my niece will inherit my property.”

This, under some circumstances would have strongly
tempted the young man, nay, it might perchance have
tempted him then, had not the deep tones of the organ at
that moment have reached his ear. It was the night when

Maude usually rehearsed for the coming Sabbath, and
soon after her interview with her sister, she had gone to
the church where she sought to soothe her ruffled spirits,
by playing a most plaintive air. The music was singularly
soft and sweet, and the heart of J. C. DeVere trembled
to the sound, for he knew it was Maude who played—
Maude, who outweighed the tempting bait which Mrs.
Kelsey offered, and with a magnanimity quite astonishing
to himself, he answered, “Poverty with Maude, rather than
riches with another!”

“Be it so, then,” was Mrs. Kelsey's curt reply, “but
when in the city you blush at your bride's awkwardness,
don't expect me to lend a helping hand, for Maude Remington
cannot by me be recognized as an equal,” and the
proud lady swept from the room, wearing a deeply injured
look, as if she herself had been refused, instead of her
niece.

“Let me off easier than I supposed,” muttered J. C., as
he watched her cross the street, and enter Dr. Kennedy's
gate. “It will be mighty mean, though, if she does array
herself against my wife, for Madam Kelsey is quoted everywhere,
and even Mrs. Lane, who lives just opposite, dare
not open her parlor blinds until assured by ocular demonstration
that Mrs. Kelsey's are open too. Oh, fashion,
fashion, what fools you make of your votaries! I am
glad that I for one dare break your chain, and marry
whom I please,” and feeling more amiably disposed
toward J. C. DeVere, than he had felt for many a day,
the young man started for the church, where to his great
joy he found Maude alone.

She was not surprised to see him, nay, she was half
expecting him, and the flush which deepened on her

cheek as he came to her side, showed that his presence
was not unwelcome. Human nature is the same everywhere,
and though Maude was perhaps as free from its
weaknesses as almost any one, the fact that her lover was
so greatly coveted by others, increased rather than diminished
her regard for him, and when he told her what had
passed between himself and Mrs. Kelsey, and urged her
to give him a right to defend her against that haughty
woman's attacks by engaging herself to him at once, she
was more willing to tell him Yes, than she had been in
the morning. Thoughts of James DeVere did not trouble
her now—he had ceased to remember her ere this—had
never been more interested in her than in any ordinary
acquaintance, and so, though she knew she could be happier
with him than with the one who with his arm around
her waist, was pleading for her love, she yielded at last,
and in that dim old church, with the summer moonlight
stealing up the dusky aisles, she promised to be the wife
of J. C. DeVere on her eighteenth birthday.

Very pleasant now it seemed sitting there alone with
him in the silent church. Very pleasant walking with
him down the quiet street, and when her chamber was
reached, and Louis, to whom she told her story, whispered
in her ear, “I am glad that is so,” she thought it very
nice to be engaged, and was conscious of a happier, more
independent feeling than she had ever known before. It
seemed so strange that she, an unpretending country girl,
had won the heart that many a city maiden had tried in
vain to win, and then with a pang she thought of Nellie,
wondering what excuse she could render her for having
stolen J. C. away.

“But he will stand between us,” she said, “he will

shield me from her anger,” and grateful for so potent a
protector, she fell asleep, dreaming alas, not of J. C., but
of him who called her Cousin Maude, and whose cousin
she really was to be.

J. C. De Vere, too, had dreams of a dark-eyed girl,
who, in the shadowy church, with the music she had made
still vibrating on the ear, had promised to be his. Dreams,
too, he had of a giddy throng who scoffed at the dark-eyed
girl, calling her by the name which he himself had
given her. It was not meet, they said, that he should
wed the “Milkman's Heiress,” but with a nobleness of
soul unusual in him, he paid no heed to their remarks,
and folded the closer to his heart the bride which he had
chosen.

Alas! that dreams so often prove untrue.