University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
HAMPTON.

Six happy weeks Maude had been a teacher, and though
she knew J. C. did not approve her plan, she was more
than repaid for his displeasure by the words of encouragement
which James always had in store for her. Many
times had she been to the handsome home of the De
Vere's, and the lady-mother, whom she at first so much
dreaded to meet, had more than once stroked her silken
curls, calling her “my child,” as tenderly as if she did
indeed bear that relation to her. James De Vere was
one of the trustees, and in that capacity he visited the
school so often, that the wise villagers shook their heads
significantly, saying, “if he were any other man they
should think the rights of J. C. were in danger.”

The young school-mistress's engagement with the fashionable
Jedediah was generally known, and thus were the
public blinded to the true state of affairs. Gradually,
James De Vere had learned how dear to him was the
dark-eyed girl he called his “Cousin Maude.” There was
no light like that which shone in her truthful eyes—no
music so sweet as the sound of her gentle voice—no presence
which brought him so much joy as her's—no being
in the world he loved so well. But she belonged to
another—the time had passed when she might have been
won. She could never be his, he said; and with his love
he waged a mighty battle—a battle which lasted days and

nights, wringing from him more than one bitter moan, as,
with his face bowed in his hands, he murmured sadly, the
mournful words, “It might have been.”

Yes, it might have been; it could be still; but this he
did not know. He knew J. C. was fickle in most matters,
but he did not deem it possible that, having loved
Maude Remington once, he could cease from loving her;
neither did he understand why her eyes drooped so oft
beneath his gaze, or why the color always deepened on
her cheek when he was near. Maude, too, was waking
up, and the school-house witnessed more than one fierce
struggle between her duty and her inclinations; for, with
woman's tact, she knew that she was not indifferent to
James De Vere; but she was plighted to another, and if
he bade her keep her word, she would do so, e'en though
it broke her heart.

Matters were in this condition when J. C. came one
day to Hampton, accompanied by some city friends,
among whom were a few young ladies of the Kelsey
order. Maude saw them as they passed the school-house
in the village omnibus; saw, too, how resolutely J. C's
head was turned away, as if afraid their eyes would meet.

“He wishes to show his resentment, but of course he'll
visit me ere he returns,” she thought. And many times
that day she cast her eyes in the direction of Hampton
Park, as the DeVere residence was often called.

But she looked in vain, and with a feeling of disappointment
she dismissed her school, and glad to be alone, laid
her head upon the desk, falling ere long asleep, for the
day was warm, and she was very tired. So quietly she
slept, that she did not hear the roll of wheels, nor the
sound of merry voices, as the party from the city rode by

on their way to the depot. Neither half an hour later,
did she hear the hasty footstep which crossed the threshold
of the door; but when a hand was laid upon her
shoulder, and a well-known voice bade her awake, she
started up, and saw before her James DeVere. He had
been to her boarding-place, he said, and not finding her
there, had sought her in the school-house.

“I have two letters for you,” he continued, “one from
your brother, and one from J. C.”

“From J. C.!” she repeated. “Has he gone back?
Why didn't he call on me?”

“He's a villain,” thought James DeVere, but he answered
simply, “he had not time, and so wrote you
instead,” and sitting down beside her, he regarded her
with a look in which pity, admiration, and love were all
blended—the former predominating at that moment, and
causing him to lay his hand caressingly on her forehead,
saying, as he did so, “Your head aches, don't it, Maude?”

Maude's heart was already full, and at this little act of
sympathy, she burst into tears, while James, drawing her
to his side, and resting her head upon his bosom, soothed
her as he would have done had she been his only sister.
He fancied that he knew the cause of her grief, and his
heart swelled with indignation toward J. C., who had that
day shown himself unworthy of a girl like Maude. He
had come to Hampton without any definite idea as to
whether he should see her or not ere his return, but when,
as the omnibus drew near the schoolhouse, and Maude
was plainly visible through the open window, one of the
ladies made some slighting remark concerning school-teachers
generally, he determined not to hazard an interview,
and quieted his conscience by thinking he would

come out in a few days and make the matter right. How
then was he chagrined when in the presence of his companions,
his cousin said: “Shall I send for Miss Remington?
She can dismiss her school earlier than usual, and
come up to tea.”

“Dismiss her school!” cried one of the young ladies,
while the other, the proud Miss Thayer, whose grandfather
was a pedlar and whose great-uncle had been hung,
exclaimed, “Miss Remington! Pray who is she? That
schoolmistress we saw in passing? Really Mr. De Vere,
you have been careful not to tell us of this new acquaintance.
Where did you pick her up?” and the diamonds
on her fingers shone brightly in the sunshine as she playfully
pulled a lock of J. C.'s hair.

The disconcerted J. C. was about stammering out some
reply, when James, astonished both at the apparent ignorance
of his guests, and the strangeness of his cousin's
manner, answered for him, “Miss Remington is our
teacher, and a splendid girl. J. C. became acquainted
with her last summer at Laurel Hill. She is a step-sister
of Miss Kennedy, whom you probably know.”

“Nellie Kennedy's step-sister. I never knew there was
such a being,” said Miss Thayer, while young Robinson,
a lisping, insipid dandy, drawled out, “A sthool marm,
J. Thee? I'th really romantic! Thend for her of courth.
A little dithipline wont hurt any of uth.”

J. C. made a faint effort to rally, but they joked him so
hard that he remained silent, while James regarded him
with a look of cool contempt sufficiently indicative of his
opinion.

At last when Miss Thayer asked, “if the bridal day
were fixed,” he roused himself, and thinking if he told the

truth, he should effectually deceive them, he answered,
“Yes, next Christmas is the time appointed. We were
to have been married in June, but the lady lost her fortune,
and the marriage was deferred.

“Oh, teaching to purchase her bridal trousseau. I'm
dying to see it,” laughingly replied Miss Thayer, while
another rejoined, “Lost her fortune. Was she then an
heiress?”

“Yes, a milkman's heiress,” said J. C., with a slightly
scornful emphasis on the name which he himself had given
to Maude, at a time when a milkman's money seemed as
valuable to him as that of any other man.

There was a dark, stern look on the face of James De
Vere, and as Miss Thayer, the ruling spirit of the party,
had an eye on him and his broad lands, she deemed it
wise to change the conversation from the “Milkman's
Heiress” to a topic less displeasing to their handsome
host. In the course of the afternoon the cousins were
alone for a few moments, when the elder demanded of
the other: “Do you pretend to love Maude Remington,
and still make light both of her and your engagement
with her.”

“I pretend to nothing which is not real,” was J. C.'s
haughty answer; “but I do dislike having my matters
canvassed by every silly tongue, and have consequently
kept my relation to Miss Remington a secret. I cannot
see her to-day, but with your permission I will pen a few
lines by way of explanation,” and, glad to escape from the
rebuking glance he knew he so much deserved, he stepped
into his cousin's library, where he wrote the note James
gave to Maude.

Under some circumstances it would have been a very

unsatisfactory message, but with her changed feelings
toward the writer, and James De Vere sitting at her side,
she scarcely noticed how cold it was, and throwing it
down, tore open Louis's letter which had come in the
evening mail. It was very brief, and hastily perusing its
contents, Maude cast it from her with a cry of horror and
disgust—then catching it up, she moaned, “Oh, must I
go!—I can't! I can't!”

“What is it?” asked Mr. De Vere, and pointing to
the lines, Maude bade him read.

He did read, and as he read, his own cheek blanched,
and he wound his arm closely round the maiden's waist as
if to keep her there, and thus save her from danger. Dr.
Kennedy had the smallpox, so Louis wrote, and Nellie,
who had been home for a few days, had fled in fear back
to the city. Hannah, too, had gone, and there was no one
left to care for the sick man, save John and the almost
helpless Louis.

“Father is so sick,” he wrote, “and he says, tell Maude
for humanity's sake to come.”

If there was one disease more than another of which
Maude stood in mortal fear, it was the smallpox, and her
first impulse was, “I will not go.” But when she reflected
that Louis, too, might take it, and need her care, her
resolution changed, and moving away from her companion,
she said firmly, “I must go, for if any thing befall my
brother, how can I answer to our mother for having betrayed
my trust. Dr. Kennedy, too, was her husband, and
he must not be left to die alone.”

Mr. DeVere was about to expostulate, but she prevented
him by saying, “Do not urge me to stay, but rather
help me to go, for I must leave Hampton to-morrow. You

will get some one to take my place, as I, of course, shall
not return, and if I have it—”

Here she paused, while the trembling of her body
showed how terrible to her was the dread of the disease.

“Maude Remington,” said Mr. DeVere, struck with
admiration by her noble, self-sacrificing spirit, “I will
not bid you stay, for I know it would be useless, but if
that which you so much fear comes upon you, if the face
now so fair to look upon be marred and disfigured until
not a lineament is left of the once beautiful girl, come back
to me. I will love you all the same.”

As he spoke, he stretched his arms involuntarily toward
her, and scarce knowing what she did, she went forward
to the embrace. Very lovingly he folded her for a moment
to his bosom, then turning her face to the fading
sunlight which streamed through the dingy window, he
looked at it wistfully and long, as if he would remember
every feature. Pushing back the silken curls which clustered
around her forehead, he kissed her twice, and then
releasing her, said; “Forgive me, Maude, if I have taken
more than a cousin's liberty with you, I could not
help it.”

Bewildered at his words and manner, Maude raised her
eyes wonderingly to his, and looking into the shining orbs,
he thought how soft, how beautiful they were, but little,
little did he dream their light would e'er be quenched in
midnight darkness. Awhile longer they talked together,
Mr. De Vere promising to send a servant to take her home
in the morning. Then, as the sun had set, and the night
shadows were deepening in the room, they bade each
other good-bye, and ere the next day's sun was very high
in the heavens, Maude was far on her way to Laurel Hill.