University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
HOME AGAIN.

Little more than two years have passed away since
the September afternoon when the deep-toned bell rang
out the merry tidings, “Maude can see—Maude can see,”
and again upon the billow another vessel rides. But this
time to the westward; and the beautiful lady, whose soft,
dark eyes look eagerly over the wave, says to her companion,
“It is very pleasant going home.”

They had tarried for a long time in Italy, both for
Louis's sake, and because, after the recovery of her sight,
Maude's health had been delicate, and her husband would
stay until it was fully re-established. She was better now;
—roses were blooming on her cheek—joy was sparkling
in her eye—while her bounding step, her ringing laugh,
and finely rounded form, told of youthful vigor and perfect
health. And they were going home at last—James,
Louis, and Maude—going to Hampton, where Mrs. De
Vere waited so anxiously their coming. She did not,
however, expect them so soon, for they had left England
earlier than they anticipated, and they surprised her one
day, as she sat by her pleasant window, gazing out upon
the western sky, and wondering how many more suns
would set ere her children would be with her. It was a
happy meeting: and after the first joy of it was over,
Maude inquired after the people at Laurel Hill.

“It is more than four months since we heard from
them,” she said, “and then Mrs. Kennedy's letter was
very unsatisfactory. The doctor, she hinted, had lost his
senses, but she made no explanation. What did she
mean?”

“Why,” returned Mrs. De Vere, “he had a paralytic
shock more than six months ago.”

“Oh, poor father,” cried Louis, while Mrs. De Vere
continued, “It was not a severe attack, but it has impaired
his health somewhat. You knew, of course, that
his house and farm were to be sold in a few days.”

“Our house—our old home—it shall not be;” and the
tears glittered in Louis's eyes, while, turning to Mrs. De
Vere, Maude whispered softly, “His wife has ruined him,
but don't let us talk of it before Louis.”

The lady nodded, and when at last they were alone,
told all she knew of the affair. Maude Glendower had
persisted in her folly, until her husband's property was reduced
to a mere pittance. There was a heavy mortgage
upon the farm, and even a chattel-mortgage upon the furniture,
and as the man who held them was stern and unrelenting,
he had foreclosed, and the house was to be sold
at auction.

“Why has mother kept it from us?” said Maude, and
Mrs. De Vere replied, “Pride and a dread of what you
might say, prevented her writing it, I think. I was there
myself a few weeks since, and she said it could do no good
to trouble you. The doctor is completely broken down,
and seems like an old man. He cannot endure the handsome
rooms below, but stays all day in that small garret
chamber, which is furnished with your carpet, your mother's
chair, and the high-post bedstead which his first

wife owned. It made me cry when he pointed them out
to me, saying so mournfully, `This is Maude's, this was
Matty's, and that was Katy's once.”'

Maude's sympathies were roused, and, fatigued as she
was, she started the next morning with her husband and
brother for Laurel Hill. Louis seemed very sad, and not
even the familiar waymarks, as he drew near his home,
had power to dissipate that sadness. He could not endure
the thought that the house where he was born and
where his mother had died, should pass into the hands of
strangers. He had been fortunate with his paintings, and
of his own money had nearly two thousand dollars; but
this could do but little toward canceling the mortgage,
and he continued in the same dejected mood until the tall
poplars of Laurel Hill appeared in view. Then, indeed,
he brightened up, for there is something in the sight of
home which brings joy to every human heart.

It was a hazy October day. The leaves were dropping
one by one, and lay in little hillocks upon the faded grass.
The blue hills which embosomed the lake were encircled
with a misty veil, while the sunshine seemed to fall with
a sombre light upon the fields of yellow corn. Every
thing, even the gossamer thistle-top which floated upon
the autumnal air, conspired to make the day one of those
indescribable days, when all hearts are pervaded with a
feeling of pleasurable sadness—a sense of beauty mingled
with decay.

“Is this home?” cried Maude, as they stopped before
the gate. “I should hardly have recognized it.”

It was indeed greatly changed, for Maude Glendower
had perfect taste, and if she had expended thousands upon
the place, she had greatly increased its value.

“Beautiful home, beautiful home—it must not be sold,”
was Louis's exclamation as he gazed upon it.

“No, it must not be sold,” returned Maude, while
her husband smiled quietly upon them both, and said
nothing.

Maude Glendower had gone to an adjoining town, but
Hannah and John greeted the strangers with noisy demonstrations,
the latter making frequent use of his coat
skirts to wipe away his tears.

“Can you see, marm—see me as true as you live?” he
said, bowing with great humility to Maude, of whom he
stood a little in awe, so polished were her manners, and
so elegant her appearance.

Maude assured him that she could, and then observing
how impatient Louis appeared, she asked for Dr. Kennedy.
Assuming a mysterious air, old Hannah whispered, “He's
up in de ruff, at de top of de house, in dat little charmber,
where he stays mostly, to get shet of de music and dancin'
and raisin' ob cain generally. He's mighty broke down,
but the sight of you will peart him up right smart. You'd
better go up alone—he'll bar it better one at a time.”

“Yes, go, sister,” said Louis, who heard the last part
of Hannah's remarks, and felt that he could not take his
father by surprise.

So, leaving her husband and brother below, Maude
glided noiselessly up stairs to the low attic room, where,
by an open window, gazing sorrowfully out upon the
broad harvest-fields, soon to be no longer his, a seemingly
old man sat. And Dr. Kennedy was old, not in years,
perhaps, but in appearance. His hair had bleached as
white as snow, his form was bent, his face was furrowed
with many a line of care, while the tremulous motion of

his head told of the palsy's blighting power. And he sat
there alone, that hazy autumnal day, shrinking from the
future, and musing sadly of the past. From his arm-chair
the top of a willow-tree was just discernable, and as he
thought of the two graves beneath that tree, he moaned,
“Oh, Katy, Matty, darlings. You would pity me, I know,
could you see me now so lonesome. My only boy is over
the sea—my only daughter is selfish and cold, and all the
day I'm listening in vain for some one to call me father.”

“Father!” The name dropped involuntarily from the
lips of Maude De Vere, standing without the door.

But he did not hear it, and she could not say it again,
for he was not her father; but her heart was moved with
sympathy, and going to his side, she laid her hands upon
his snowy hair, and looked into his face.

“Maude—Matty's Maude—my Maude!” And the poor
head shook with a palsied tremor, as he wound his arms
around her, and asked her when she came.

Her sudden coming unmanned him wholly, and bending
over her he wept like a little child. It would seem that
her presence inspired in him a sense of protection, a longing
to detail his grievances, and with quivering lips he
said, “I am broken in body and mind. I've nothing to
call my own, nothing but a lock of Matty's hair and
Louis's little crutches—the crutches that you cushioned
so that I should not hear their sound. I was a hard-hearted
monster then. I ain't much better now, but I
love my child. What of Louis, Maude? Tell me of my
boy,” and over the wrinkled face of the old man broke
beautifully the father-love, giving place to the father-pride,
as Maude told of Louis's success, of the fame he won, and
the money he had earned.

“Money!” Dr. Kennedy started quickly at that word,
but ere he could repeat it, his ear caught a coming sound,
and his eyes flashed eagerly as, grasping the arm of Maude,
he whispered, “It's music, Maude—it's music—don't
you hear it? Louis's crutches on the stairs. He comes;
he comes! Matty's boy and mine! Thank heaven, I
have something left in which that woman has no part.”

In his excitement he had risen, and, with lips apart,
and eyes bent on the open door, he waited for his crippled
boy, nor waited long ere Louis came in sight, when,
with a wild, glad cry, which made the very rafters ring,
he caught him to his bosom. Silently Maude stole from
the room, leaving them thus together, the father and his
son. Nor is it for us to intrude upon the sanctity of that
interview, which lasted more than an hour, and was finally
terminated by the arrival of Maude Glendower. She had
returned sooner than was anticipated, and, after joyfully
greeting Maude, started in quest of Louis.

“Don't let her in here,” whispered the doctor, as he
heard her on the stairs. Don't let her in here; she'd be
seized with a fit of repairs. Go to her; she loves you,
at least.”

Louis obeyed, and in a moment was in the arms of his
stepmother. She had changed since last they met. Much
of her soft, voluptuous beauty was gone, and in its place
was a look of desperation, as if she did not care for what
she had done, and meant to brave it through. Still, when
alone with Mr. De Vere and Maude, she conversed freely
of their misfortunes, and ere the day was over, they thoroughly
understood the matter. The doctor was ruined;
and when his wife was questioned of the future, she professed
to have formed no plan, unless, indeed, her husband

lived with Nellie, who was now house-keeping, while she
went whither she could find a place. To this arrangement
Mr. De Vere made no comment. He did not seem
disposed to talk, but when the day of sale came, he acted;
and it was soon understood that the house together with
fifty acres of land would pass into his hands. Louis, too,
was busy. Singling out every article of furniture which
had been his mother's, he bought it with his own money,
while John, determining that “t'other one,” as he called
Katy, should not be entirely overlooked, bid off the high-post
bedstead and chest of drawers, which once were
hers. Many of the more elegant pieces of furniture were
sold, but Mr. De Vere kept enough to furnish the house
handsomely; and when the sale was over and the family
once more reassembled in the pleasant parlor, Dr. Kennedy
wept like a child as he blessed the noble young man
who had kept for him his home. Maude Glendower, too,
was softened; and going up to Mr. De Vere, she said,
“If I know how to spend lavishly, I know also how to
economize, and henceforth none shall accuse me of extravagance.”

These were no idle words, for, as well as she could, she
kept her promise; and though she often committed errors,
she usually tried to do the thing which her children would
approve. After a day or two, Mr. De Vere and Maude
returned to Hampton, leaving Louis with his father, who,
in his society, grew better and happier each day. Hannah,
who was growing old, went, from choice, to live with
Maude, but John would not forsake his master. Nobody
knew the kinks of the old place like himself, he said, and
he accordingly staid, superintending the whole, and coming
ere long to speak of it all as his. It was his farm,

his oxen, his horses, his every thing, except the pump,
which Hannah, in her letter to Maude, had designated as
an injin. Upon this he looked a little askance.

“'Twas a mighty good thing in its place,” he said,
“and at a fire it couldn't be beat, but he'd be hanged if he
didn't b'lieve a nigger was made for somethin' harder and
more sweaty-like than turnin' that crank to make b'lieve
rain when it didn't. He reckoned the Lord knew what
he was about, and if He was a mind to dry up the grass
and the arbs, it wasn't for Cary nor nary other chap to
take the matter into their own hands, and invent a patent
thunder-shower.

John reasoned clearly upon some subjects, and though
his reasoning was not always correct, he proved a most
invaluable servant. Old Hannah's place was filled by
another colored woman, Sylvia, and though John greatly
admired her complexion, as being one which would not
fade, he lamented her inefficiency, and often expressed a
wish that the services of Janet Hopkins could be again
secured.

But Janet was otherwise engaged; and here, near the
close of our story, it may not be amiss to glance for a
moment at one who in the commencement of the narrative
occupied a conspicuous place. About the time of
Maude's blindness, she had removed to a town in the
southern part of New York, and though she wrote apprising
her young mistress of the change, she forgot entirely
to say where she was going, consequently the family
were ignorant of her place of residence, until accident
revealed it to J. C. De Vere. It was but a few weeks
preceding Maude's return from Europe that he found himself
compelled to spend a Sabbath in the quiet town of

Fayette. Not far from his hotel, an Episcopal church
reared its slender tower, and thither, at the usual hour
for service, he wended his way. There was to be a baptism
that morning, and many a smile flitted over the face
of matron and maid, as a meek-looking man came slowly
up the aisle, followed by a short, thick, resolute Scotchwoman,
in whom we recognize our old friend Janet Hopkins.
Notwithstanding her firm conviction that Maude
Matilda Remington Blodgett was her last and only one,
she was now the mother of a sturdy boy, which the meek
man carried in his arms. Hot disputes there had been
between the twain concerning a name, Mr. Hopkins advocating
simply John, as having been borne by his sire,
while Janet, a little proud of the notoriety which her
daughter's cognomen had brought to her, determined to
honor her boy with a name which should astonish every
one.

At the time of Maude's engagement with J. C. De
Vere, she had written to know what J. C. was for, and
Jedediah Cleishbotham pleased her fancy as being unusual
and odd. Indirectly she had heard that Maude was
married to Mr. De Vere, and gone to Europe, and supposing
it was of course J. C. she, on this occasion, startled
her better half by declaring that her son should be baptized
“John Joel Jedediah Cleishbotham” or nothing!
It was in vain that he remonstrated. Janet was firm, and
hunting up Maude's letter, written more than three years
before, she bade him write down the name, so as not to
make a blunder. But this he refused to do, “He guessed
he could remember that horrid name; there was not
another like it in Christendom,” he said, and on the Sunday
morning of which we write, he took his baby in his

arms, and in a state of great nervous irritability, started
for church, repeating to himself the names, particularly
the last, which troubled him the most. Many a change he
rang upon it, and by the time he stood before the altar,
the perspiration was starting from every pore, so anxious
was he to acquit himself creditably, and thus avoid the
Caudle lecture which was sure to follow a mistake, “But
he should not make a mistake, he knew exactly what the
name was, he'd said it over a hundred times,” and when
the minister, taking the baby in his arms, said, “Name
this child,” he spoke up loud and promptly, jerking out
the last word with a vengeance, as if relieved to have it
off his mind, “John Joel Jedediah Leusebottom.”

“That's for me,” was J. C.'s involuntary exclamation,
which however, was lost amid the general titter and half
suppressed laugh which ran through the house.

In an agony of anxiety Janet strove to rectify the mistake,
while her elbow sought the ribs of her conjugal
lord; but the minister paid no heed, and when the
screaming infant was given back to its frightened father's
arms, it bore the name of “John Joel,” and nothing
more.

To this catastrophe, Janet was in a measure reconciled,
when after church J. C. sought her out, and introducing
himself, informed her of the true state of affairs.

“Then you ain't married to Maude after all,” said the
astonished Janet, as she proceeded to question him of the
doctor's family. “It beats all, I never heard on't, but no
wonder, livin' as we do in this out o' the way place,—no
cars,—no stage,—no post office but twice a week—no
nothin'.”

This was indeed the reason why Janet had remained so

long in ignorance of the people with whom she formerly
lived. Fayette, as she said, was an out of the way place,
and after hearing from a man who met them in New
York, that Maude and Louis were both gone to Europe,
she gave Laurel Hill no further thought, and settled
quietly down among the hills until her monotonous life
was broken by the birth of a son, the John Joel, who, as
she talked with J. C., slept calmly in his crib.

“So you aint merried to her,” she kept repeating, her
anger at her husband's treacherous memory fast decreasing.
“I kinder thought her losin' my money might make
a difference, but you're jest as happy with Nellie, aint
you?”

The question was abrupt, and J. C. colored crimson, as
he tried to stammer out an answer.

“Never you mind,” returned Janet, noticing his embarrassment.
“Married life is just like a checker-board, and
all on us has as much as we can do to swaller it at times,
but you would of been happy with Maude, I know.”

J. C. knew so, too, and long after he parted with Janet
her last words were ringing in his ears, while mingled with
them was the bitter memory, “It might perhaps have
been.”

But there was no hope now, and with an increased air
of dejection, he went back to his cheerless home. They
were housekeeping, Nellie and himself, for Mrs. Kelsey
had married again, and as the new husband did not fancy
the young people, they had set up an establishment of
their own, and J. C. was fast learning how utterly valueless
are soft, white hands, when their owner knows not
how to use them. Though keeping up an outside show,
he was really very poor, and when he heard of the doctor's

misfortune, he went to his chamber and wept as few
men ever weep. As Hannah well expressed it, “he was
shiftless,” and did not know how to take care of himself.
This James De Vere understood, and after the sale at
Laurel Hill, he turned his attention to his unfortunate
cousin, and succeeded at last in securing for him the
situation of book-keeper in a larger establishment in New
York, with which he was himself remotely connected.
Thither, about Christmas, J. C. and Nellie went, and from
her small back-room in the fifth story of a New York
boarding-house, Nellie writes to Louis glowing descriptions
of high life in the city, and Louis, glancing at his
crutches and withered feet, smiles as he thinks how weary
he should be climbing the four flights of stairs which lead
to that high life.

And now, with one more glance at Maude, we bring
our story to a close. It is Easter, and over the earth the
April sun shines brightly, just as it shone on the Judean
hills eighteen hundred years ago. The Sabbath bells are
ringing, and the merry peal which comes from the Methodist
tower bespeaks in John a frame of mind unsuited to
the occasion. Since forsaking the Episcopalians, he had
seldom attended their service, but this morning, after his
task is done, he will steal quietly across the common to
the old stone church, where James De Vere and Maude
sing together the glorious Easter Anthem. Maude formerly
sang the alto, but in the old world her voice was
trained to the higher notes, and to-day it will be heard in
the choir where it has so long been missed.

The bells have ceased to toll, and a family group come
slowly up the aisle. Dr. Kennedy slightly bent, his white
hair shading a brow from which much of his former sterness

has gone, and his hand shaking but slightly as he
opens the pew door and then steps back for the lady to
enter, the lady Maude Glendower, who walks not as
proudly as of old. She, too, has been made better by adversity,
and though she will never love the palsied man,
her husband, she will be to him a faithful wife, and a devoted
mother to his boy, who in the square, old fashioned
pew, sits where his eye can rest upon his beautiful sister,
as her snowy fingers sweep once more the organ keys,
which tremble joyfully as it were to the familiar touch.
Low, deep-toned and heavy is the prelude to the song, and
they who listen feel the floor tremble beneath their feet.
Then a strain of richest melody echoes through the house,
and the congregation held their breath, as Maude De
Vere sings to them of the Passover once sacrificed for us.

The Anthem is finished. There is a heightened bloom
upon Maude's cheek, a softer lustre in her eye, while
throughout the church there is a solemn hush, which the
man of God seems loth to break. And now, shall we
not leave them thus with the holy Eastern light streaming
up the narrow aisles, and the sweet music of the Easter
song dying on the air.