University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
A SECOND BRIDAL.

After the night of which we have written, the tie of
affection between Mrs. Kennedy and the blind girl was
stronger than before, and when the former said to her
husband, “Maude must have an outfit worthy of a rich
man's step-daughter,” he knew by the tone of her voice
that remonstrance was useless, and answered meekly, “I
will do what is right, but don't be too extravagant, for
Nellie's clothes almost ruined me, and I had to pay for
that piano yesterday. Will fifty dollars do?”

“Fifty dollars!” repeated the lady. “Are you crazy?”
Then, touched perhaps by the submissive expression of
his face, she added, “As Maude is blind, she will not
need as much as if she were going at once into society.
I'll try and make two hundred dollars answer, though
that will purchase but a meagre trousseau.”

Mrs. Kennedy's pronunciation of French was not always
correct, and John, who chanced to be within hearing,
caught eagerly at the last word, exclaiming, “Ki!
dem trouses must cost a heap sight mor'n mine! What
dis nigger spec' 'em can be?” and he glanced ruefully at
his own glazed pants of corduroy, which had done him
service for two or three years.

Maude was a great favorite with John, and when he
heard that she was going away forever, he went up to

the woodshed chamber where no one could see him, and
seating himself upon a pile of old shingles, which had
been put there for kindling, he cried like a child.

“It'll be mighty lonesome, knowin' she's gone for
good,” he said, “for, though she'll come back agin, she'll
be married, and when a gal is married, that's the last on
'em. I wish I could give her somethin', to show her my
feelin's.”

He examined his hands, they were hard, rough, and
black. He drew from his pocket a bit of looking-glass,
and examined his face—that was blacker yet; and shaking
his head, he whispered: “It might do for a mulatto
gal, but not for her.” Then, as a new idea crossed his
mind, he brightened up, exclaiming, “My heart is white,
and if I have a tip-top case, mebby she won't 'spise a poor
old nigger's picter!”

In short, John contemplated having his daguerreotype
taken as a bridal present for Maude. Accordingly, that
very afternoon, he arrayed himself in his best, and, entering
the yellow car of a traveling artist, who had recently
come to the village, he was soon in possession of a
splendid case, and a picture which he pronounced “oncommon
good lookin' for him.”

This he laid carefully away, until the wedding-day,
which was fixed for the 15th of April. When Mr. De
Vere heard of John's generosity to Maude in giving her
the golden eagles, he promptly paid them back, adding
five more as interest, and at the same time asking him
if he would not like to accompany them to Europe.

“You can be of great assistance to us,” he said, “and
I will gladly take you.”

This was a strong temptation, and for a moment the

negro hesitated, but when his eye fell upon his master,
who was just then entering the gate, his decision was
taken, and he answered, “No, I'm 'bleeged to you. I'd
rather stay and see the fun.”

“What fun?” asked Mr. De Vere; and John replied,
“The fun of seein' him cotch it;” and he pointed to the
doctor coming slowly up the walk, his hands behind him
and his head bent forward in a musing attitude.

Dr. Kennedy was at that moment, in an unenviable
frame of mind, for he was trying to decide whether he
could part for a year or more with his crippled boy, who
grew each day more dear to him.

“It will do him good, I know,” he said, “and I might,
perhaps, consent, if I could spare the money, but I can't,
for I haven't got it. That woman keeps me penniless, and
will wheedle me out of two hundred dollars more. Oh,
Mat”—

He did not finish the sentence, for by this time he had
reached the hall, where he met Mr. De Vere, who asked
if Louis was to go.

“He can't,” answered the doctor. “I have not the
means. Mrs. Kennedy says Maude's wardrobe will cost
two hundred dollars.”

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Mr. De Vere. “I shall
attend to Maude's wants myself, and if you are not able
to bear Louis's expenses, I will willingly do it for the sake
of having him with his sister. They ought not to be separated,
and who knows but Louis's deformity may be in
a measure relieved?”

This last decided the matter. Louis should go, even
though his father mortgaged his farm to pay the bill, and
during the few weeks which elapsed before the 15th,

the house presented an air of bustle and confusion, equal
to that which preceded Nellie's bridal. Mr. De Vere remained
firm in his intention to defray all Maude's expenses,
and he delegated to Mrs. Kennedy the privilege of purchasing
whatever she thought was needful. Her selections
were usually in good taste, and in listening to her enthusiastic
praises, Maude enjoyed her new dresses almost as
much as if she had really seen them. A handsome plain
silk of blue and brown was decided upon for a traveling
dress, and very sweetly the blind girl looked when, arrayed
in her simple attire, she stood before the man of God,
whose words were to make her a happy bride. She could
not see the sunlight of Spring streaming into the room,
neither could she see the sunlight of love shining over the
face of James De Vere, nor yet the earnest gaze of those
who thought her so beautiful in her helplessness, but she
could feel it all, and the long eyelashes resting on her
cheek were wet with tears, when a warm kiss was pressed
upon her lips, and a voice murmured in her ear, “My
wife—my darling Maude.”

There were bitter tears shed at that parting; Maude
Glendower weeping passionately over the child of Harry
Remington, and Doctor Kennedy hugging to his bosom
the little hunchback boy, Matty's boy and his. They
might never meet again, and the father's heart clung
fondly to his only son. He could not even summon to his
aid a maxim with which to season his farewell, and bidding
a kind good-by to Maude, he sought the privacy of his
chamber, where he could weep alone in his desolation.

Hannah and John grieved to part with the travelers,
but the latter was somewhat consoled by the gracious
manner with which Maude had accepted his gift.

“I cannot see it,” she said, “but when I open the casing,
I shall know your kind, honest face is there, and it will
bring me many pleasant memories of you.”

“Heaven bless you, Miss Maude,” answered John,
struggling hard to keep back the tears he deemed it unmanly
to shed. “Heaven bless you, but if you keep
talking so book-like and good, I'll bust out a cryin', I
know, for I'm nothin' but an old fool anyhow,” and
wringing her hand, he hurried off into the woodshed
chamber, where he could give free vent to his grief.

Through the harbor, down the bay, and out upon the
sea, a noble vessel rides; and as the evening wind comes
dancing o'er the wave, it sweeps across the deck, kissing
the cheek of a brown-eyed boy, and lifting the curls from
the brow of one, whose face, upturned to the tall man at
her side, seems almost angelic, so calm, so peaceful is its
expression of perfect bliss. Many have gazed curiously
upon that group, and the voices were very low which
said, “The little boy is deformed,” while there was a
world of sadness in the whisper, which told to the wondering
passengers that “the beautiful bride was blind.”

They knew it by the constant drooping of her eyelids, by
the graceful motion of her hand as it groped in the air,
and more than all, by the untiring watchfulness of the
husband and brother who constantly hovered near. It
seemed terrible that so fair a creature should be blind;
and like the throb of one great heart did the sympathy
of that vessel's crew go out toward the gentle Maude,
who, in her new-born happiness, forgot almost the darkness
of the world without, of if she thought of it, looked
forward to a time when hope said that she should see

again. So, leaving her upon the sea, speeding away to
sunny France, we glance backward for a moment to the
lonely house where Maude Glendower mourns for Harry's
child, and where the father thinks often of his boy, listening
in vain for the sound which once was hateful to his
ear, the sound of Louis's crutches.

Neither does John forget the absent ones, but in the
garden, in the barn, in the fields, and the wood-shed chamber,
he prays in his mongrel dialect, that He who holds
the wind in the hollow of His hand, will give to the
treacherous deep charge concerning the precious freight
it bears. He does not say it in those words, but his untutored
language, coming from a pure heart, is heard by
the Most High. And so the breeze blows gently o'er the
bark thus followed by black John's prayers—the skies
look brightly down upon it—the blue waves ripple at its
side, until at last it sails into its destined port; and when
the apple-blossoms are dropping from the trees, and old
Hannah lays upon the grass to bleach the fanciful whitespread
which her own hands have knit for Maude, there
comes a letter to the lonely household, telling them that
the feet of those they love, have reached the shores of
the old world.