University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE ENGAGEMENT, REAL AND PROSPECTIVE.

To her niece Mrs. Kelsey had communicated the result
of her interview with J. C., and that young lady had fallen
into a violent passion, which merged itself at last into a
flood of tears, and ended finally in strong hysteries.
While in this latter condition, Mrs. Kelsey deemed it necessary
to summon her brother, to whom she narrated the
circumstances of Nellie's illness. To say that the doctor
was angry would but feebly express the nature of his
feelings. He had fully expected that Nellie would be
taken off his hands, and he had latterly a very good reason
for wishing that it might be so.

Grown-up daughters, he knew, were apt to look askance
at step-mothers, and if he should wish to bring another
there, he would rather that Nellie should be out of the
way. So he railed at the innocent Maude, and after exhausting
all the maxims which would at all apply to that
occasion, he suggested sending for Mr. De Vere, and demanding
an explanation. But this Mrs. Kelsey would not
suffer.

“It will do no good,” she said, “and may make the
matter worse by hastening the marriage. I shall return
home to-morrow, and if you do not object shall take your
daughter with me, to stay at least six months, as she needs
a change of scene. I can, if necessary, intimate to my
friends that she has refused J. C., who, in a fit of pique,

has offered himself to Maude, and that will save Nellie
from all embarrassment. He will soon tire of his new
choice, and then”—

“I won't have him if he does,” gasped Nellie, interrupting
her aunt—“I won't have any body who has first proposed
to Maude. I wish she'd never come here, and if
pa hadn't brought that woman”—

“Helen!” and the doctor's voice was very stern, for
time had not erased from his heart all love for the blue-eyed
Matty, the gentle mother of the offending Maude,
and more than all, the mother of his boy—“Helen, that
woman was my wife, and you must not speak disrespectfully
of her.”

Nellie answered by a fresh burst of tears, for her own
conscience smote her for having spoken thus lightly of one
who had ever been kind to her.

After a moment, Mrs. Kelsey resumed the conversation
by suggesting that, as the matter could not now be helped,
they had better say nothing, but go off on the morrow
as quietly as possible, leaving J. C. to awake from his
hallucination, which she was sure he would do soon, and
follow them to the city. This arrangement seemed wholly
satisfactory to all parties, and though Nellie declared she'd
never again speak to Jed De Vere, she dried her tears, and
retiring to rest, slept quite as soundly as she had ever done
in her life.

The next morning when Maude as usual went down to
superintend the breakfast, she was surprised to hear from
Hannah that Mrs. Kelsey was going that day to Rochester,
and that Nellie was to accompany her.

“Nobody can 'cuse me,” said Hannah, “of not 'fillin'
scriptur' oncet, whar it says `them as has ears to hear, let

'em hear,' for I did hear 'em a talkin' last night of you and
Mr. DeVere, and I tell you they're ravin' mad to think
you'd cotched him; but I'm glad on't. You desarves him
if anybody. I suppose that t'other chap ain't none of
your marryin' sort,” and unconscious of the twinge her
last words had inflicted Hannah carried the coffee-urn to
the dining-room, followed by Maude, who was greeted
with dark faces and frowning looks.

Scarcely a word was spoken during breakfast, and
when after it was over, Maude offered to assist Nellie in
packing her trunks, the latter answered decisively, “You've
done enough, I think.”

A few moments afterward, J. C.'s voice was heard upon
the stairs. He had come over to see the “lioness and
her cub,” as he styled Mrs. Kelsey and her niece, whose
coolness was amply atoned for by the bright, joyous glance
of Maude, to whom he whispered softly, “Won't we
have glorious times when they are gone!”

Their projected departure pleased him greatly, and he
was so very polite and attentive that Nellie relented
a little, and asked how long he intended remaining at
Laurel Hill, while even Mrs. Kelsey gave him her hand
at parting, and said, “Whenever you recover from your
unaccountable fancy, I shall be glad to see you.”

“You'll wait some time, if you wait for that,” muttered
J. C., as he returned to the house in quest of Maude, with
whom he had a long and most delightful interview, for
old Hannah, in unusually good spirits, expressed her willingness
to see to every thing, saying to her young mistress,
“You go along now, and court a spell. I reckon
I hain't done forgot how I and Crockett sot on the fence
in old Virginny and heard the bobolinks a singin'.”

Old Hannah was waxing sentimental, and with a heightened
bloom upon her cheeks, Maude left her to her memories
of Crockett and the bobolinks, while she went back
to her lover. J. C. was well skilled in the little, delicate
acts which tend to win and keep a woman's heart, and in
listening to his protestations of love, Maude forgot all
else, and abandoned herself to the belief that she was perfectly
happy. Only once did her pulses quicken as they
would not have done had her chosen husband been all that
she could wish, and that was when he said to her, “I
wrote to James last night, telling him of my engagement.
He will congratulate me, I know, for he was greatly
pleased with you.”

Much did Maude wonder what James would say, and
it was not long ere her curiosity was gratified; for scarcely
four days were passed, when J. C. brought to her an
unsealed note, directed to “Cousin Maude.”

“I have heard from Jim,” he said, “and he is the best
fellow in the world. Hear what he says of you,” and
from his own letter he read, “I do congratulate you upon
your choice. Maude Remington is a noble creature—so
beautiful, so refined, and withal so pure and good. Cherish
her, my cousin, as she ought to be cherished, and
bring her sometime to my home, which will never boast
so fair a mistress.”

“I'm so glad he's pleased,” said J. C. “I would rather
have his approval than that of the whole world. But
what! Crying, I do believe!” and turning Maude's face
to the light, he continued, “Yes, there are tears on your
eyelashes. What is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing,” answered Maude, “only I am so
glad your relatives like me.”

J. C. was easily deceived, so was Maude—and mutually
believing that nothing was the matter, J. C. drummed on
the piano, while Maude tore open the note which James
had written to her. It seemed so strange to think he
wrote it, and Maude trembled violently, while the little
red spots came out all over her neck and face, as she
glanced at the words, “My dear Cousin Maude.”

It was a kind, affectionate note, and told how the writer
would welcome and love her as his cousin, while, at the
same time, it chided her for not having answered the letter
sent some weeks before. “Perhaps you did not deem
it worthy of an answer,” he wrote, “but I was sadly disappointed
in receiving none, and now that you are really
to be my cousin, I shall expect you to do better, and treat
me as if I had an existence. J. C. must not monopolize
you wholly, for I shall claim a share of you for myself.”

Poor, poor Maude! She did not feel the summer air
upon her brow—did not hear the discordant notes which
J. C. made upon the piano, for her whole soul was centered
on the words, “sadly disappointed,” “love you as
my cousin,” and “claim a share of you for myself.”

Only for a moment though, and then recovering her
composure, she said aloud, “What does he mean? I
never received a note.”

“I know it, I know it,” hastily spoke J. C., and coming
to her side, he handed her the soiled missive saying, “It
came a long time ago, and was mislaid among my papers,
until this letter recalled it to my mind. There is nothing
in it of any consequence, I dare say, and had it not been
sealed, I might, perhaps, have read it, for as the doctor
says, “it's a maxim of mine, that a wife should have no
secrets from her husband,” Hey, Maude?” and he caressed

her burning cheek, as she read the note, which, had it
been earlier received, might have changed her whole after
life.

And still it was not one half as affectionate in its tone
as was the last, for it began with, “Cousin Maude” and
ended with “Yours respectfully,” but she knew he had
been true to his promise, and without a suspicion that J.
C., had deceived her, she placed the letters in her pocket,
to be read again when she was alone, and could measure
every word and sentiment.

That afternoon when she went to her chamber to make
some changes in her dress, she found herself standing before
the mirror much longer than usual, examining minutely
the face which James De Vere had called beautiful.

“He thought so, or he would not have said it, but it is
false,” she whispered, “even J. C., never called me handsome;”
and taking out the note that day received, she
read it again, wondering why the name “Cousin Maude”
did not sound as pleasantly as when it first was breathed
into her ear.

That night as she sat with Louis in her room, she
showed the letters to him, at the same time explaining
the reason why one of them was not received before.

“Oh, I am so glad,” said Louis, as he finished reading
them, “for now I know that James De Vere don't like
you.”

“Don't like me, Louis!” and in Maude's voice there
was a world of sadness.

“I mean,” returned Louis, “that he don't love you for
any thing but a cousin. I like J. C., very, very much,
and I am glad you are to be his wife; but I've sometimes

thought that if you had waited, the other one would have
spoken, for I was almost sure he loved you, but he don't
I know; he couldn't be so pleased with your engagement,
nor write you so affectionately if he really cared.

Maude hardly knew whether she were pleased or not
with Louis' reasoning. It was true though, she said, and
inasmuch as James did not care for her, and she did not
care for James, she was very glad she was engaged to J.
C.! And with reassured confidence in herself, she sat
down and wrote an answer to that note, a frank impulsive,
Maude like answer, which, nevertheless, would convey to
James De Vere no idea how large a share of that young
girl's thoughts were given to himself.

The next day there came to Maude a letter bearing the
Canada post mark, together with the unmistakable hand-writing
of Janet Hopkins. Maude had not heard of her
for some time, and very eagerly she read the letter, laughing
immoderately, and giving vent to sudden exclamations
of astonishment at its surprising intelligence. Janet was
a mother!—“a livin' mother to a child born out of due
season,” so the delighted creature wrote, “and what was
better than all, it was a girl, and the Sunday before was
baptised as Maude Matilda Remington Blodgett Hopkins,
there being no reason,” she said, “why she shouldn't
give her child as many names as the Queen of England
hitched on to hers, beside that it was not at all likely that
she would ever have another, and so she had improved
this opportunity, and named her daughter in honor of
Maude, Matty, Harry and her first husband Joel. But,”
she wrote, “I don't know what you'll say when I tell you
that my old man and some others have made me believe
that seein' I've an heir of my own flesh and blood, I ought

to change that will of mine, so I've made another, and if
Maude Matilda dies you'll have it yet. T'other five
thousand is yours, any way, and if I didn't love the little
wudget as I do, I wouldn't have changed my will; but
natur is natur.”

Scarcely had Maude finished reading this letter when
J. C. came in, and she handed it to him. He did not
seem surprised, for he had always regarded the will as a
doubtful matter; but in reality he was a little chagrined,
for five thousand was only half as much as ten. Still
his love for Maude was, as yet, stronger than his love
for money, and he only laughed heartily at the string of
names which Janet had given to her offspring, saying, “it
was a pity it hadn't been a boy, so she could have called
him Jedediah Cleishbotham.”

“He does not care for my money,” Maude thought,
and her heart went out toward him more lovingly than it
had ever done before, and her dark eyes filled with tears,
when he told her, as he ere long did, that he must leave
the next day and return to Rochester.

“The little property left me by my mother needs attention,
so my agent writes me,” he said, “and now the will
has gone up, and we are poorer than we were before by
five thousand dollars, it is necessary that I should bestir
myself, you know.”

Maude could not tell why it was, that his words affected
her unpleasantly, for she knew he was not rich, and she
felt that she should respect him more if he really did bestir
himself, but still she did not like his manner when
speaking of the will, and her heart was heavy all the day.
He, on the contrary, was in unusually good spirits. He
was not tired of Maude, but he was tired of the monotonous

life at Laurel Hill, and when his agent's snmmons
came it found him ready to go. That for which he had
visited Laurel Hill, had in reality been accomplished.
He had secured a wife, not Nellie, but Maude, and determining
to do do every thing honorably, he, on the morning
of his departure, went to the doctor, to whom he
talked of Maude, expressing his wish to marry her.

Very coldly the doctor answered that “Maude could
marry whom she pleased. It was a maxim of his never
to interfere with matches,” and then, as if the subject
were suggestive, he questioned the young man to know
if in his travels he had ever met the lady Maude Glendower.
J. C. had met her once at Saratoga, at Newport
once, and twice at the White Mountains.

“She was a splendid creature,” he said, and he asked if
the doctor knew her.

“I saw her as a child of seventeen, and again as a
woman of twenty-five. She is forty now,” was the doctor's
answer, as he walked away, wondering if the Maude
Glendower of to-day were greatly changed from the
Maude of fifteen years ago.

To J. C.'s active mind, a new idea was presented, and
seeking out the other Maude—his Maude—he told her
of his suspicion. There was a momentary pang, a
thought of the willow-shaded grave where Kate and
Matty slept, and then Maude Remington calmly questioned
J. C. of Maude Glendower—who she was, and
where did she live?

J. C. knew but little of the lady, but what little he
knew, he told. She was of both English and Spanish
descent. Her friends, he believed, were nearly all dead,
and she was alone in the world. Though forty years of

age, she was well preserved, and called a wondrous
beauty. She was a belle—a flirt—a spinster, and was living
at present in Troy, at a fashionable boarding-house on
Second street, and this was all he knew.

“She'll never marry the doctor,” said Maude, laughing,
as she thought of an elegant woman leaving the world of
fashion, to be mistress of that house.

Still the idea followed her, and when at last J. C. had
bidden her adieu, and gone to his city home, she frequently
found herself thinking of the beautiful Maude
Glendower, whose name, it seemed to her, she had heard
before, though when or where she could not tell. A
strange interest was awakened in her bosom for the unknown
lady, and she often wondered if they would ever
meet. The doctor thought of her, too,—thought of her
often, and thought of her long, and as his feelings toward
her changed, so did his manner soften toward the dark-haired
girl who bore her name, and who he began at last
to fancy resembled her in more points than one. Maude
was ceasing to be an object of perfect indifference to
him. She was an engaged young lady, and as such, entitled
to more respect than he was wont to pay her, and
as the days wore on, he began to have serious thoughts
of making her his confidant and counsellor in a matter
which he would never have entrusted to Nellie.

Accordingly, one afternoon, when he found her sitting
upon the piazza, he said, first casting an anxious glance
around, to make sure no one heard him: “Maude, I wish
to see you alone for a few minutes.”

Wonderingly Maude followed him into the parlor,
where her astonishment was in no wise diminished by his
shutting the blinds, dropping the curtains, and locking

the door! Maude began to tremble, and when he drew
his chair close to her side, she started up, asking to what
this was a preliminary.

“Sit down—sit down,” he whispered; “I want to tell
you something, which you must never mention in the
world. You certainly have some sense, or I should not
trust you. Maude, I am going—that is, I have every reason
to believe—or rather, I should say perhaps—well, anyway,
there is a prospect of my being married,” and by
the time this crisis was reached, the perspiration was
dropping fast from his forehead and chin.

“Married!—to whom?” asked Maude.

“You are certain you'll never tell, and that there's no
one in the hall,” said the doctor, going on tip-toe to the
door, and assuring himself there was no one there. Then
returning to his seat, he told her a strange story of a
marvellously beautiful young girl, with Spanish fire in her
lustrous eyes, and a satin gloss on her blue-black curls.
Her name was Maude Glendower, and years ago she won
his love, leading him on and on until at last he paid her
the highest honor a man can pay a woman—he offered
her his heart, his hand, his name. But she refused him—
scornfully, contemptuously refused him, and he learned
afterward that she had encouraged him for the sake of
bringing another man to terms!—and that man, whose
name the doctor never knew, was a college-student not
yet twenty-one.

“I hated her then,” said he, “hated this Maude Glendower,
for her deception; but I could not forget her,
and after Katy died, I sought her again. She was the
star of Saratoga, and no match for me. This I had sense
enough to see, so I left her in her glory, and three years

after married your departed mother. Maude Glendower
has never married, and at the age of forty has come to her
senses, and signified her willingness to become my wife,
—or that is to say, I have been informed by my sister,
that she probably would not refuse me a second time.
Now, Maude Remington, I have told you this, because I
must talk with some one, and as I before remarked, you
are a girl of sense, and will keep the secret. It is a maxim
of mine when any thing is to be done, to do it, so I
shall visit Miss Glendower immediately, and if I like her
well enough shall marry her at once. Not while I am
gone, of course, but very soon. I shall start for Troy one
week from to-day, and I wish you would attend a little to
my wardrobe; it's in a most lamentable condition. My
shirts are all worn out, my coat is rusty, and last Sunday
I discovered a hole in my pantaloons”—

“Dr. Kennedy,” exclaimed Maude, interrupting him,
“You surely do not intend to present yourself before the
fastidious Miss Glendower, with those old shabby clothes.
She would say No, sooner than she did before. You must
have an entire new suit. You can afford it, too, for you
have not had one since mother died.”

Dr. Kennedy was never in a condition to be so easily
coaxed as now. Maude Glendower had a place in his
heart, which no other woman had ever held, and that very
afternoon, the village merchant was astonished at the
penurious doctor's inquiring the prices of the finest broadcloth
in his store. It seemed a great deal of money to
pay, but Maude Remington at his elbow, and Maude Glendower
in his mind, conquered at last, and the new suit
was bought, including vest, hat, boots and all. There is
something in handsome clothes very satisfactory to most

people, and the doctor, when arrayed in his, was conscious
of a feeling of pride quite unusual to him. On one point,
however, he was obstinate, “he would not spoil them by
wearing them on the road, when he could just as well
dress at the hotel.”

So Maude, between whom and himself there was for
the time being quite an amicable understanding, packed
them nicely in his trunk, while Hannah and Louis looked
on wondering what it could mean.

“The Millennial is comin', or else he's goin' a courtin',”
said Hannah, and satisfied that she was right, she went
back to the kitchen, while Louis, catching at once at
her idea, began to cry, and laying his head on his sister's
lap, begged of her to tell him if what Hannah had said
were true.

To him, it seemed like trampling on the little grave beneath
the willows, and it required all Maude's powers of
persuasion to dry his tears, and soothe the pain which
every child must feel, when first they know that the lost
mother, whose memory they so fondly cherish, is to be
succeeded by another.