 | Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond |  |
COUSIN MAUDE;
OR,
THE MILKMAN'S HEIRESS.
1. CHAPTER I.
DR. KENNEDY.
“If you please, marm, the man from York State is
comin' afoot. Too stingy to ride, I'll warrant,” and Janet,
the housekeeper, disappeared from the parlor, just as the
sound of the gate was heard, and an unusually fine-looking
middle-aged man was seen coming up the box-lined
walk which led to the cottage door.
The person thus addressed was a lady, whose face,
though young and handsome, wore a look which told of
early sorrow. Matilda Remington had been a happy, loving
wife, but the old church-yard in Vernon contained a
grass-grown grave, where rested the noble heart which
had won her girlish love. And she was a widow now, a
fair-haired, blue-eyed widow, and the stranger who had
so excited Janet's wrath by walking from the depot, a
distance of three miles, would claim her as his bride ere
the morrow's sun was midway in the heavens. How the
it had, and she was pledged to leave the vine-wreathed
cottage which Harry had built for her, and go
with one of whom she knew comparatively little.
Six months before our story opens, she had spent a few
days with him at the house of a mutual friend in an adjoining
state, and since that time they had written to each
other regularly, the correspondence resulting at last in an
engagement, which he had now come to fulfil. He had
never visited her before in her own home, consequently
she was wholly unacquainted with his disposition or peculiarities.
He was intelligent and refined, commanding in
appearance, and agreeable in manner, whenever he chose
to be, and when he wrote to her of his home, which he
said would be a second Paradise were she its mistress,
when he spoke of the little curly-headed girl who so much
needed a mother's care, and when, more than all, he hinted
that his was no beggar's fortune, she yielded; for Matilda
Remington did not dislike the luxuries which money alone
can purchase. Her own fortune was small, and as there
was now no hand save her own to provide, she often found
it necessary to economize more than she wished to do.
But Dr. Kennedy was rich, and if she married him she
would escape a multitude of annoyances, so she made herself
believe that she loved him; and when she heard, as
she more than once hid hear, rumors of a sad, white-faced
woman, to whom the grave was a welcome rest, she said
the story was false, and, shaking her pretty head, refused
to believe that there was aught in the doctor of evil.
“To be sure, he was not at all like Harry—she could
never find one who was—but he was so tall, so dignified,
so grand, so particular, that it seemed almost like stooping,
all the better for his condescension.”
Thus she ever reasoned, and when Janet said that he
was coming, and she, too, heard his step upon the piazza,
the bright blushes broke over her youthful face, and casting
a hurried glance at the mirror, she hastened out to meet
him.
“Matty, my dear!” he said, and his thin lips touched her
glowing cheek, but in his cold gray eye, there shone no
love,—no feeling,—no heart.
He was too supremely selfish to esteem another higher
than himself, and though it flattered him to know that the
young creature was so glad to meet him, it awoke no answering
chord, and he merely thought that with her to
minister to him he should possibly be happier than he had
been with her predecessor.
“You must be very tired,” she said, as she led the way
into the cozy parlor. Then, seating him in the easy chair
near to the open window, she continued. “How warm
you are. What made you walk this sultry afternoon?”
“It is a maxim of mine never to ride when I can walk,”
said he, “for I don't believe in humoring those omnibus
drivers by paying their exorbitant prices.”
“Two shillings surely, is not an exorbitant price,”
trembled on Mrs. Remington's lips, but she was prevented
from saying so, by his asking “if every thing were in
readiness for the morrow.”
“Yes, every thing,” she replied. “The cottage is sold,
and”—
“Ah, indeed, sold!” said he, interrupting her. “If I
mistake not you told me, when I met you in Rome, that
it was left by will to you. May I, as your to-morrow's
his dignity so far as to wind his arm around her
waist.
But the arm was involuntarily withdrawn, when, with
her usual frankness, Matty replied; “I received a thousand
dollars, but there were debts to be paid, so that I
had only five hundred left, and this I made over to my
daughter to be used for her education.”
Dr. Kennedy did not say that he was disappointed, and
as Matty was not much of a physiognomist, she did not
read it in his face, and she continued: “Janet will remain
here awhile, to arrange matters, before joining me
in my new home. She wished me to leave my little girl to
come with her, but I can't do that. I must have my
child with me. You've never seen her, have you? I'll
call her at once,” and stepping to the door she bade Janet
bring Maude into the parlor.
“Maude!” How Dr. Kennedy started at the mention
of a name, which drove all thoughts of the five hundred
dollars from his mind. There was feeling—passion—
every thing, now, in his cold gray eye, but quickly recovering
his composure, he said calmly: “Maude, Matty—
Maude, is that your child's name?”
“Why, yes,” she answered, laughingly. “Didn't you
know it before?”
“How should I,” he replied, “when in your letters you
have always called her daughter? But has she no other
name? She surely was not baptised Maude?”
Ere Mrs. Remington could speak, the sound of little
pattering feet was heard in the hall without, and in a
moment Maude Remington stood before her father-in-law,
erect, looking, as that rather fastidious gentleman thought,
mother. She was a fat, chubby creature, scarcely yet five
years old; black-eyed, black-haired, and black-faced, too,
with short, thick curls, which, damp with perspiration,
stood up all over her head, giving her a singular appearance.
She had been playing in the brook, her favorite
companion, and now, with little spatters of mud ornamenting
both face and pantalets, her sun-bonnet hanging down
her back, and her hands full of pebble-stones, she stood
furtively eying the stranger, whose mental exclamation
was: “Mercy, what a fright!”
“Maude!” exclaimed the distressed Mrs. Remington,
“where have you been? Go at once to Janet, and have
your dress changed; then come back to me.”
Nothing loth to join Janet, whose company was preferable
to that of the stranger, Maude left the room, while
Dr. Kennedy, turning to Mrs. Remington, said: “She is
not at all like you, my dear.”
“No,” answered the lady; “she is like her father in
every thing; the same eyes, the same hair, and”—
She was going on to say more, when the expression of
Dr. Kennedy's face stopped her, and she began to wonder
if she had displeased him. Dr. Kennedy could talk
for hours of “the late Mrs. Kennedy,” accompanying his
words with long-drawn sighs, and enumerating her many
virtues, all of which he expected to be improved upon by
her successor; but he could not bear to hear the name
of Harry Remington spoken by one who was to be his
wife, and he at once changed the subject of Maude's looks
to her name, which he learned was really Matilda. She
had been called Maude, Matty said, after one who was once
a very dear friend both of herself and her husband.
“Then we will call her Matilda,” said he, “as it is a
maxim of mine never to spoil children by giving them
pet-names.”
“But you call your daughter Nellie,” suggested the
little widow, and in her soft, blue eye there shone a mischievous
twinkle, as if she fancied she had beaten him
with his own argument.
But if she thought to convince that most unreasonable
man, she was mistaken. What he did was no criterion
for others, unless he chose that it should be so, and he
answered, “That is sister Kelsey's idea, and as she is very
fond of Nellie, I do not interfere. But, seriously, Mattie,
darling”—and he drew her to his side, with an uncommon
show of fondness—“I cannot call your daughter
Maude; I do not like the name, and it is a maxim of
mine, that if a person dislikes a name, 'tis an easy matter
to dislike the one who bears it.”
Had Mrs. Remington cared less for him than she did,
she might have wondered how many more disagreeable
maxims he had in store. But love is blind, or nearly so;
and when, as if to make amends for his remarks, he caressed
her with an unusual degree of tenderness, the impulsive
woman felt that she would call her daughter any
thing which suited him. Accordingly, when at last Maude
returned to the parlor, with her dress changed, her curls
arranged, and her dimpled cheeks shining with the suds
in which they had been washed, she was prepared to say
Matilda or whatever else pleased his capricious fancy.
“Little girl,” he said, extending his hand toward her,
“little girl, come here. I wish to talk with you.”
But the little girl hung back, and when her mother insisted
upon her going to the gentleman, asking if she did
him, and he shan't be my pa, either!”
“Maude, daughter!” exclaimed Mrs. Remington, while
Dr. Kennedy, turning slightly pale, thought “wretch!”
but said, “Matilda, come here, wont you?”
“I ain't Matilda,” she answered. “I wont be Matilda
—I'm Maude,” and her large black eyes flashed defiantly
upon him.
It was in vain that Dr. Kennedy coaxed and Mrs. Remington
threatened. Maude had taken a dislike to the
stranger, and as he persisted in calling her Matilda, she
persisted in refusing to answer, until at last, hearing Janet
pass through the hall, she ran out to her, sure of finding
comfort and sympathy there.
“I am afraid I have suffered Maude to have her own
way too much, and for the future I must be more strict
with her,” said Mrs. Remington, apologetically; while the
Doctor replied, “I think, myself, a little wholesome discipline
would not be amiss. 'Tis a maxim of mine, spare
the rod and spoil the child; but, of course, I shall not interfere
in the matter.”
This last he said because he saw a shadow flit over the
fair face of the widow, who, like most indulgent mothers,
did not wholly believe in Solomon. The sight of Janet in
the hall suggested a fresh subject to the doctor's mind,
and, after coughing a little, he said, “Did I understand
that your domestic was intending to join you at Laurel
Hill?”
“Yes;” returned Mrs. Remington, “Janet came to live
with my mother when I was a little girl no larger than
Maude. Since my marriage she has lived with me, and I
would not part with her for any thing.”
“But do you not think two kinds of servants are apt to
make trouble, particularly if one is black and the other
white?” and in the speaker's face there was an expression
which puzzled Mrs. Remington, who could scarce refrain
from crying at the thoughts of parting with Janet, and
who began to have a foretaste of the dreary homesickness
which was to wear her life away.
“I can't do without Janet,” she said, “she knows all
my ways, and I trust her with every thing.”
“The very reason why she should not go,” returned the
doctor. “She and old Hannah would quarrel at once. You
would take sides with Janet, I with Hannah, and that might
produce a feeling which ought never to exist between man
and wife. No, my dear, listen to me in this matter, and
let Janet remain in Vernon. Old Hannah has been in my
family a long time. She was formerly a slave, and belonged
to my uncle, who lived in Virginia, and who, at
his death, gave her to me. Of course I set her free, for I
pride myself on being a man of humanity, and since that
time she has lived with us, superintending the household
entirely since Mrs. Kennedy's death. She is very peculiar,
and would never suffer Janet to dictate, as I am sure, from
what you say, she would do. So, my dear, try and think
all is for the best. You need not tell her she is not to
come, for it is a maxim of mine to avoid all unnecessary
scenes, and you can easily write it in a letter.”
Poor Mrs. Remington! she knew intuitively that the
matter was decided, and was she not to be forgiven, if at
that moment she thought of the grass-grown grave, whose
occupant had in life been only too happy granting her
slightest wish. But Harry was gone, and the man with
whom she now had to deal was an exacting, tyrannical
This, however, she did not then understand. She knew
he was not at all like Harry, but she fancied that the difference
consisted in his being so much older, graver, and
wiser than her husband had been, and so with a sigh, she
yielded the point, thinking that Janet would be the greater
sufferer of the two.
That evening several of her acquaintance called to see
the bridegroom elect, whom, in Mrs. Remington's hearing,
they pronounced very fine-looking, and quite agreeable in
manner; compliments which tended in a measure to soothe
her irritated feelings and quiet the rapid beatings of her
heart, which for hours after she retired to rest would occasionally
whisper to her that the path she was about to
tread was far from being strewn with flowers.
“He loves me, I know,” she thought, “though his
manner of showing it is so different from Harry, but I
shall become accustomed to that after a while, and be very,
very happy,” and comforted with this assurance she fell
asleep, encircling within her arms the little Maude, whose
name had awakened bitter memories in the heart of him
who in an adjoining chamber battled with thoughts of
the dark past, which now, on the eve of his second marriage
passed in sad review before his mind.
Memories there were of a gentle, pale-faced woman,
who, when her blue eyes were dim with coming death,
had shudderingly turned away from him, as if his presence
brought her more of pain than joy. Memories, too,
there were of another—a peerlessly beautiful creature who
ere he had sought the white-faced woman for his wife,
had trampled on his affections, and spurned as a useless
gift, his offered love. He hated her now, he thought;
mother's arms, was hateful in his sight, because it bore
that woman's name. One, two, three—sounded the
clock, and then he fell asleep, dreaming that underneath
the willows which grew in the church-yard, far off on
Laurel Hill, there were two graves instead of one; that
in the house across the common there was a sound of
rioting and mirth, unusual in that silent mansion. For
she was there, the woman whom he had so madly loved,
and wherever she went, crowds gathered about her as in
the olden time.
“Maude Glendower, why are you here?” he attempted
to say, when a clear, silvery voice aroused him from his
sleep, and starting up, he listened half in anger, half in
disappointment, to the song which little Maude Remington
sang, as she sat in the open door awaiting the return of
her mother, who had gone for the last time to see the sunshine
fall on Harry's grave.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE JOURNEY.
Mrs. Kennedy looked charmingly in her traveling dress
of brown, and the happy husband likened her to a Quakeress,
as he kissed her blushing cheek, and called her his
“little wife.” He had passed through the ceremony remarkably
well, standing very erect, making the responses
very loud, and squeezing very becomingly the soft white
hand on whose third finger he placed the wedding ring—a
very small one, by the way†. It was over now, and many
of the bridal guests were gone, the minister, too, had
gone, and jogging leisurely along upon his sorrel horse,
had ascertained the size of his fee, feeling a little disappointed
that it was not larger—five dollars seemed so
small, when he fully expected twenty, from one of Dr.
Kennedy's reputed wealth.
Janet had seen that every thing was done for the comfort
of the travelers, and then out behind the smokehouse
had scolded herself soundly for crying, when she ought to
appear brave, and encourage her young mistress. Not
the slightest hint had she received that she was not to
follow them in a few weeks, and when at parting little
Maude clung to her skirts, beseeching her to go, she comforted
the child by telling her what she would bring her
in the autumn, when she came. Half a dozen dolls, as
many pounds of candy, a dancing jack and a mewing kitten,
were promised, and then the faithful creature turned
for she knew it was a long good-bye. Until
the carriage disappeared from view, did Mrs. Kennedy
look back through blinding tears to the spot where Janet
stood, wiping her eyes with a corner of her stiffly starched
white apron, and holding up one foot to keep her from soiling
her clean blue cotton stockings, for, in accordance with
a superstition peculiar to her race, she had thrown after the
travelers a shoe, by way of insuring them good luck.
For once in his life, Dr. Kennedy tried to be very kind
and attentive to his bride, who, naturally hopeful and inclined
to look upon the brighter side, dried her tears soon
after entering the cars, and began to fancy she was very
happy in her new position as the wife of Dr. Kennedy.
The seat in front of them was turned back and occupied
by Maude, who busied herself awhile in watching the
fence and the trees, which she said were “running so fast
toward Janet and home!” Then her dark eyes would
scan curiously the faces of Dr. Kennedy and her mother,
resting upon the latter with a puzzled expression, as if she
could not exactly understand it. The doctor persisted in
calling her Matilda, and as she resolutely persisted in refusing
to answer to that name, it seemed quite improbable
that they would ever talk much together. Occasionally,
it is true, he made her some advances, by playfully offering
her his hand, but she would not touch it, and after a
time, standing upon the seat and turning round, she found
more agreeable society in the company of two school-boys
who sat directly behind her.
They were evidently twelve or thirteen years of age,
and in personal appearance somewhat alike, save that the
face of the brown-haired boy was more open, ingenuous,
eyes were black as night. A jolt of the cars caused
Maude to lay her chubby hand upon the shoulder of the
elder boy, who, being very fond of children, caught it
within his own, and in this way made her acquaintance.
To him she was very communicative, and in a short time
he learned that “her name was Maude Remington, that
the pretty lady in brown was her mother, and that the
naughty man was not her father, and never would be, for
Janet said so.”
This at once awakened an interest in the boys, and for
more than an hour they petted and played with the little
girl, who, though very gracious to both, still manifested
so much preference for the brown-haired, that the other
laughingly asked her which she liked the best.
“I like you and you,” was Maude's childlike answer,
as she pointed a finger at each.
“But,” persisted her questioner, “you like my cousin
the best. Will you tell me why?”
Maude hesitated a moment, then laying a hand on
either side of the speaker's face, and looking intently
into his eyes, she answered, “You don't look as if you
meant for certain, and he does!”
Had Maude Remington been twenty instead of five, she
could not better have defined the difference between
those two young lads, and in after-years she had sad
cause for remembering words which seemed almost prophetic.
At Albany they parted company, for though the
boys lived in Rochester, they were to remain in the city
through the night, and Dr. Kennedy had decided to go
on. By doing so, he would reach home near the close of
the next day, beside saving a large hotel bill, and this
say so to his wife; neither did he tell her that he had left
orders for his carriage to be in Canandaigua on the arrival
of the noon train, but he said “he was in haste to
show her to his daughter—that 'twas a maxim of his to
save as much time as possible, and that unless she were
very anxious to sleep, he would rather travel all night.”
So the poor, weary woman, whose head was aching terribly,
smiled faintly upon him as she said, “Go on, of
course,” and nibbled at the hard seed-cakes and harder
crackers which he brought her, there not being time for
supper in Albany.
It was a long, tedious ride, and though a strong arm
was thrown around her, and her head was pillowed upon
the bosom of her husband, who really tried to make her
as comfortable as possible, Mrs. Kennedy could scarcely
refrain from tears as she thought how different was this
bridal tour from what she had anticipated. She had fully
expected to pass by daylight through the Empire State,
and she had thought with how much delight her eye
would rest upon the grassy meadows, the fertile plains, the
winding Mohawk, the drone-like boats on the canal, the
beautiful Cayuga, and the silvery water so famed in song;
but, in contrast to all this, she was shut up in a dingy car,
whose one dim lamp sent forth a sickly ray and sicklier
smell, while without, all was gloomy, dark, and drear. No
wonder, then, that when toward morning Maude, who
missed her soft, nice bed, began to cry for Janet and for
home, the mother too burst forth in tears and choking sobs,
which could not be controlled.
“Hush, Matty—don't,” and the disturbed doctor shook
her very gently; “it will soon be daylight, and 'tis a max”
and, in a most unenviable frame of mind, he frowned
at the crying Maude, and tried to soothe his weeping wife,
until at last, as the face of the latter was covered, and the
former grew more noisy and unmanageable, he administered
a fatherly rebuke in the shape of a boxed ear, which had
no other effect than the eliciting from the child the outcry,
“Let me be, old doctor, you!” if, indeed, we except
the long scratch made upon his hand by the little sharp
nail of his step-daughter.
At that moment Matty lifted up her head, but as Maude
was no tale-bearer, and the doctor hardly dared to tell her
that he had thus early taken upon himself the government
of her child, she never knew exactly what it was which
made Maude's ear so red or her liege lord's face so dark.
It was nearly noon when they arrived at Canandaigua,
where the first object which caught Mrs. Kennedy's eye
was an old-fashioned carry-all, which her husband honored
with the appellation of carriage, said carriage being drawn
by two farm-horses, which looked as if oats and corn were
to them luxuries unknown.
“I must have a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Kennedy, as she
saw the black man, John, arranging the baggage upon the
rack of the carry-all, and heard her husband bid him
hurry, as there was no time to lose. “I must have a cup
of tea, my head is aching dreadfully,” and her white lips
quivered, while the tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Certainly, certainly,” answered the doctor, who was
in unusually good spirits, having just heard from an acquaintance
whom he chanced to meet, that a law-suit,
which had long been pending, was decided it his favor,
and that the house and lot of a widow would probably
like; I should have proposed it myself only I knew old
Hannah would have dinner in readiness for us, and 'tis a
maxim of mine, that fasting provokes an appetite.”
“Hang dis nigger, if he aint a maxin' her so quick!”
muttered the darkey, showing his teeth from ear to ear,
and coaxing Maude away from her mother, he took her to
a restaurant, where he literally crammed her with gingerbread,
raisins, and candy, bidding her eat all she wanted
at once, for it would be a long time maybe ere she'd have
another chance!
“If you please, sar,” he said, when at last he had returned
to his master, “if you please, Miss Nellie, say how
you must fotch her somethin', and the old woman spec's
a present in honor of de 'casion.”
Dr. Kennedy thought of the law-suit, and so far opened
both heart and purse as to buy for Nellie a paper of peanuts,
and for Hannah a ten-cent calico apron, after which,
he pronounced himself in readiness to go, and in a few
moments Mrs. Kennedy was on her way to her new
home.
The road led over rocky hills, reminding her so much of
Vernon and its surrounding country, that a feeling of rest
stole over her and she fell into a quiet sleep, from which
she did not awaken until the carriage stopped suddenly
and her husband whispered in her ear, “Wake, Matty,
wake, we are home at last.”
3. CHAPTER III.
THE NEW HOME.
It was a large, square, wooden building, built in the
olden time, with a wide hall in the centre, a tiny portico
in front and a long piazza in the rear. In all the town,
there was not so delightful a location, for it commanded
a view of the country for many miles around, while, from
the chamber windows, was plainly discernible, the sparkling
Honeoye, whose waters slept so calmly 'mid the hills
which lay to the southward. On the grassy lawn in front,
tall forest trees were growing, almost concealing the
house from view, while their long branches so met together
as to form a beautiful arch over the gravelled walk
which lead to the front door. It was, indeed, a pleasant
spot, and Matty, as she passed through the iron gate,
could not account for the feeling of desolation settling
down upon her.
“Maybe it's because there are no flowers here—no
roses,” she thought, as she looked around in vain for her
favorites, thinking the while how her first work should be
to train a honey-suckle over the door, and plant a rose
bush underneath the window.
Poor Matty. Dr. Kennedy had no love for flowers, and
the only rose bush he ever noticed was the one which
John had planted at his mistress' grave, and even this
would, perchance, have been unseen, if he had not scratched
his hand unmercifully upon it, as he one day shook the
paid the man for putting it there! It was a maxim of
the Dr.'s never to have any thing not strictly for use, consequently
his house, both outside and in, was destitute of
every kind of ornament, and the bride, as she followed
him through the empty hall into the silent parlor, whose
bare walls, faded carpet, and uncurtained windows seemed
so uninviting, felt a chill creeping over her spirits, and
sinking into the first hard chair she came to, she might,
perhaps, have cried, had not John who followed close
behind with her satchel on his arm, whispered encouragingly
in her ear, “Never you mind, missus, your chamber
is a heap sight brighter than this, 'case I tended to that
myself.”
Mrs. Kennedy smiled gratefully upon him, feeling sure
that beneath his black exterior there beat a kind and sympathizing
heart, and that in him she had an ally and a
friend.
“Where is Nellie?” said the Doctor. “Call Nellie,
John, and tell your mother we are here.”
John left the room, and a moment after a little tiny
creature came tripping to the door, where she stopped
suddenly, and throwing back her curls, gazed curiously,
first at Mrs. Kennedy, and then at Maude, whose large
black eyes fastened themselves upon her with a gaze
quite as curious and eager as her own. She was more
than a year older than Maude, but much smaller in size,
and her face seemed to have been fashioned after a beautiful
waxen doll, so brilliant was her complexion, and so
regular her features. She was naturally affectionate and
amiable, too, when suffered to have her own way. Neither
was she at all inclined to be timid, and when her father,
she went unhesitatingly to the lady, and climbing into her
lap, sat there very quietly so long as Mrs. Kennedy permitted
her to play with her rings, pull her collar, and take
out her side-combs, for she had laid aside her bonnet; but
when at last her little sharp eyes ferreted out a watch,
which she insisted upon having “all to herself,” a liberty
which Mrs. Kennedy refused to grant, she began to pout,
and, sliding from her new mother's lap, walked up to
Maude, whose acquaintance she made by asking if she had
a pink silk dress?
“No, but I guess Janet will bring me one,” answered
Maude, whose eyes never for an instant left the face of her
step-sister.
She was an enthusiastic admirer of beauty, and Nellie
had made an impression upon her at once; so, when the
latter said, “What makes you look at me so funny?” she
answered, “Because you are so pretty.”
This made a place for her at once in the heart of the
vain little Nellie, who asked her to go up stairs and see
the pink silk dress which “Aunt Kelsey had given her.”
As they left the room, Mrs. Kennedy said to her husband,
“Your daughter is very beautiful.”
Dr. Kennedy liked to have people say that of his child,
for he knew she was much like himself, and he stroked
his brown beard complacently, as he replied: “Yes, Nellie
is rather pretty, and, considering all things, is as well-behaved
a child as one often finds. She seldom gets into
a passion, or does anything rude,” and he glanced at the
long scratch upon his hand; but as his wife knew nothing
of said scratch, the rebuke was wholly lost, and he
continued: “I was anxious that she should be a boy, for
ought to be a son, and so I said, repeatedly, to the late
Mrs. Kennedy, who, though a most excellent woman in
most matters, was, in others, unaccountably set in her
way. I suppose I said some harsh things when I heard
it was a daughter, but it can't be helped now,” and with
a slightly injured air the husband of “the late Mrs. Kennedy”
began to pace up and down the room, while the
present Mrs. Kennedy puzzled her rather weak brain to
know “what in the world he meant.”
Meantime, between John and his mother there was a
hurried conversation, the former inquiring naturally after
the looks of her new mistress.
“Pretty as a pink,” answered John, “and neat as a
fiddle, with the sweetest little baby ways, but I tell you
what 'tis,” and John's voice fell to a whisper, “He'll
maxim her into heaven a heap sight quicker'n he did
t'other one; case you see she hain't so much—what you
call him—so much go off to her as Miss Katy had, and she
can't bar his grinding ways. They'll scrush her to onct
—see if they don't. But I knows one thing, this yer
nigger 'tends to do his duty, and hold up them little
cheese-curd hands of her'n, jest as some of them scripter'
folks held up Moses with the bulrushes.”
“And what of the young one?” asked Hannah, who
had been quite indignant at the thoughts of another child
in the family, “what of the young one?”
“Bright as a dollar!” answered John. “Knows more'n
a dozen of Nellie, and well she might, for she ain't half as
white, and as Master Kennedy says, it's a maxim of mine,
the blacker the hide, the better the sense!”
By this time, Hannah had washed the dough from her
donned a clean check apron, and started to see the stranger
for herself. Although a tolerable good woman, Hannah's
face was not very prepossessing, and Mrs. Kennedy
intuitively felt that 'twould be long before her former
domestic's place was made good by the indolent African.
It is true her obeisance was very low, and her greeting
kindly enough, but there was about her an inquisitive,
and at the same time, rather patronizing air, which Mrs.
Kennedy did not like, and she was glad when she at last
left the parlor, telling them, as she did so, that “dinner
was done ready.”
Notwithstanding that the house itself was so large, the
dining-room was a small, dark, cheerless apartment, and
though she was beginning to feel the want of food, Mrs.
Kennedy could scarcely force down a mouthful, for the
homesick feeling at her heart; a feeling which whispered
to her that the home to which she had come, was not like
that which she had left. Dinner being over, she asked
permission to retire to her chamber, saying she needed
rest, and should feel better after she had slept. Nellie
volunteered to lead the way, and as they left the dining-room,
old Hannah, who was notoriously lazy, muttered
aloud: “A puny, sickly thing. Great help she'll be to
me; but I shan't stay to wait on more'n forty more.”
Dr. Kennedy had his own private reason for wishing to
conciliate Hannah. When he set her free, he made her
believe it was her duty to work for him for nothing, and
though she soon learned better and often threatened to
leave, he had always managed to keep her, for, on the
whole, she liked her place, and did not care to change it
for one where her task would be much harder. But if the
and so she fretted, as we have seen, while the doctor comforted
her with the assurance that Mrs. Kennedy was only
tired—that she was naturally well and strong, and would
undoubtedly be of great assistance when the novelty of
her position had worn away.
While this conversation was taking place, Mrs. Kennedy
was examining her chamber and thinking many pleasant
things of John, whose handiwork was here so plainly
visible. All the smaller and more fanciful pieces of furniture
which the house afforded had been brought to this
room, whose windows looked out upon the lake and the
blue hills beyond. A clean white towel concealed the
marred condition of the washstand, while the bed, which
was made up high and round, especially in the middle,
looked very inviting with its snowy spread. A large
stuffed rocking chair, more comfortable than handsome,
occupied the centre of the room, while better far than all,
the table, the mantel and the windows were filled with
flowers, which John had begged from the neighboring
gardens, and which seemed to smile a welcome upon the
weary woman, who, with a cry of delight, bent down and
kissed them through her tears.
“Did these come from your garden,” she asked of
Nellie, who, child-like, answered, “We hain't any flowers.
Pa won't let John plant any. He told Aunt Kelsey the
land had better be used for potatoes, and Aunt Kelsey
said he was too stingy to live.”
“Who is Aunt Kelsey?” asked Mrs. Kennedy, a painful
suspicion fastening itself upon her, that the lady's
opinion might be correct.
“She is pa's sister Charlotte,” answered Nellie, “and
things; but she don't come here often, it's so heathenish,
she says.”
Here spying John, who was going with the oxen to the
meadow, she ran away, followed by Maude, between
whom and herself there was for the present a most amicable
understanding. Thus left alone, Mrs. Kennedy had
time for thought, which crowded upon her so fast that, at
last throwing herself upon the bed, she wept bitterly,
half wishing she had never come to Laurel Hill, but was
still at home in her own pleasant cottage. Then hope
whispered to her of a brighter day, when things would
not seem to her as they now did. She would fix up the
desolate old house, she thought—the bare windows which
now so stared her in the face, should be shaded with
pretty muslin curtains, and she would loop them back
with ribbons. The carpet, too, on the parlor floor should
be exchanged for a better one, and when her piano and
marble table came, the only articles of furniture she had
not sold, it would not seem so cheerless and so cold.
Comforted with these thoughts, she fell asleep, resting
quietly until, just as the sun had set and it was growing
dark within the room, Maude came rushing in, her dress
all wet, her face flushed, and her eyes red with tears. She
and Nellie had quarreled—nay, actually fought; Nellie
telling Maude she was blacker than a nigger, and pushing
her into the brook, while Maude, in return, had pulled out
a handful of the young lady's hair, for which her step-father
had shaken her soundly, and sent her to her mother,
whom she begged “to go home, and not stay in that old
house where the folks were ugly, and the rooms not a bit
pretty.”
Mrs. Kennedy's heart was already full, and drawing
Maude to her side, the two homesick children mingled
their tears together, until a heavy footstep upon the stairs
announced the approach of Dr. Kennedy. Not a word
did he say of his late adventure with Maude, and his manner
was very kind toward his weary wife, who, with his
hand upon her aching forehead, and his voice in her ear,
telling her how sorry he was that she was sick, forgot that
she had been unhappy.
“Whatever else he may do,” she thought, “he certainly
loves me,” and after a fashion he did perhaps love her.
She was a pretty little creature, and her playful, coquettish
ways had pleased him at first sight. He needed a
wife, and when their mutual friend, who knew nothing of
him save that he was a man of integrity and wealth, suggested
Matty Remington, he too thought favorably of the
matter, and yielding to the fascination of her soft blue
eyes, he had won her for his wife, pitying her, it may be,
as he sat by her in the gathering twilight, and half guessed
that she was homesick. And when he saw how confidingly
she clung to him, he was conscious of a half-formed
resolution to be to her what a husband ought to be. But
Dr. Kennedy's resolves were like the morning dew, and as
the days wore on, his peculiarities, one after another, were
discovered by his wife, who, womanlike, tried to think
that he was right and she was wrong.
In due time most of the villagers called upon her, and
though they were both intelligent and refined, she did not
feel altogether at ease in their presence, for the fancy she
had that they regarded her as one who for some reason
was entitled to their pity. And in this she was correct.
They did pity her, for they remembered another gentle
blue eyes had waxed dim beneath the withering influence
of him she called her husband. She was dead, and when
they saw the young, light-hearted Matty, they did not
understand how she could ever have been induced to take
that woman's place and wed a man of thirty-eight, and
they blamed her somewhat, until they reflected that she
knew nothing of him, and that her fancy was probably
captivated by his dignified bearing, his manly figure, and
handsome face. But these alone they knew could not
make her happy, and ere she had been six weeks a wife,
they were not surprised that her face began to wear a
weary look, as if the burden of life were hard to bear.
As far as she could, she beautified her home, purchasing
with her own means several little articles which the Doctor
called useless, though he never failed to appropriate
to himself the easy chair which she had bought for the
sitting-room, and which when she was tired rested her so
much. On the subject of curtains, he was particularly
obstinate. “There were blinds,” he said, “and 'twas a
maxim of his never to spend his money for any thing
unnecessary.”
Still, when Matty bought them herself for the parlor,
when her piano was unboxed and occupied a corner which
had long been destitute of furniture, and when her marble
table stood between the windows, with a fresh bouquet of
flowers which John had brought, he exclaimed involuntarily,
“How nice this is!” adding the next moment, lest
his wife should be too much pleased, “but vastly foolish!”
In accordance with her husband's suggestion, Mrs.
Kennedy wrote to Janet, breaking to her as gently as
possible the fact that she was not to come, but saying
happiness as a second wife. Several weeks went by, and
then an answer came.
“If you had of wanted me,” wrote Janet, “I should of
come, but bein' you didn't, I've went to live with Mr.
Blodgett, who peddles milk, and raises butter and cheese,
and who they say is worth a deal of money, and well he
may be, for he's saved this forty years.”
Then followed a detailed account of her household matters,
occupying in all three pages of foolscap, to which
was pinned a bit of paper, containing the following:
“Joel looked over my writing and said I'd left out the
very thing I wanted to tell the most. We are married,
me and Joel, and I only hope you are as happy with that
Doctor as I am with my old man.”
This announcement crushed at once the faint hope which
Mrs. Kennedy had secretly entertained, of eventually having
Janet to supply the place of Hannah, who was notoriously
lazy, and never, under any circumstances, did anything
she possibly could avoid. Dr. Kennedy did not tell
his wife that he expected her to make it easy for Hannah,
so she would not leave them; but he told her how industrious
the late Mrs. Kennedy had been, and hinted that a
true woman was not above kitchen work. The consequence
of this was, that Matty, who really wished to
please him, became, in time, a very drudge, doing things
which she once thought she could not do, and then, without
a murmur, ministering to her exacting husband when
he came home from visiting a patient, and declared himself
“tired to death.” Very still he sat, while her weary
little feet ran for the cool drink—the daily paper—or the
morning mail; and very happy he looked when her snowy
and if, perchance, she sighed amid her labor of love, his
ear was deaf, and he did not hear, neither did he see how
white and thin she grew, as day by day went by.
Her piano was now seldom touched, for the doctor did
not care for music; still he was glad that she could play,
for “Sister Kelsey,” who was to him a kind of terror,
would insist that Nellie should take music lessons, and,
as his wife was wholly competent to give them, he would
be spared a very great expense. “Save, save, save,”
seemed to be his motto, and when at church the plate was
passed to him, he gave his dime a loving pinch ere parting
company with it; and yet none read the service louder,
or defended his favorite liturgy more zealously than himself.
In some things he was a pattern man, and when
once his servant John announced his intention of withdrawing
from the Episcopalians and joining himself to
the Methodists, who held their meetings in the school-house,
he was greatly shocked, and labored long with the
degenerate son of Ethiopia, who would render to him no
reason for his most unaccountable taste, though he did to
Matty, when she questioned him of his choice.
“You see, missus,” said he, “I wasn't allus a herrytic,
but was as good a 'piscopal as St. George ever had. That's
when I lived in Virginny, and was hired out to Marster
Morton, who had a school for boys, and who larnt me
how to read a little. After I'd arn't a heap of money for
Marster Kennedy, he wanted to go to the Legislatur', and
some on 'em wouldn't vote for him while he owned a nigger,
he set me free, and sent for me to come home. 'Twas
hard partin' wid dem boys and Marster Morton, I tell you,
but I kinder wanted to see mother, who had been here a
workin' for nothin'.”
“For nothing!” exclaimed Mrs. Kennedy, a suspicion
of the reason why Janet was refused, crossing her mind.
“Yes, marm, for nothin',” answered John, “but I ain't
green enough for that, and 'fused outright. Then Marster,
who got beat 'lection day, threatened to send me back,
but I knew he couldn't do it, and so he agreed to pay
eight dollars a month. I could get more some whar else,
but I'd rather stay with mother, and so I staid.”
“But that has nothing to do with the church,” suggested
Mrs. Kennedy, and John replied:
“I'm comin' to the p'int now. I lived with Marster
Kennedy, and went with him to church, and when I see
how he carried on week days, and how peart like he read up
Sabba' days, sayin' the Lord's prar and 'Postle's Creed, I
began to think thar's somethin' rotten in Denmark, as the
boys use to say in Virginny, so when mother, who allus
was a roarin' Methodis' asked me to go wid her to meetin',
I went, and was never so mortified in my life, for arter
the elder had 'xorted a spell at the top of his voice, he sot
down and said there was room for others. I couldn't see
how that was, bein' he took up the whole chair, and while
I was wonderin' what he meant, as I'm a livin' nigger, up
got marm and spoke a piece right in meetin'! I never
was so shamed, and I kep pullin' at her gownd to make
her set down, but the harder I pulled, the louder she
hollored, till at last she blowed her breath all away, and
down she sot.”
“And did any of the rest speak pieces?” asked Mrs.
Kennedy, convulsed with laughter, at John's vivid description.
“Bless your heart,” he answered with a knowing look,
“'twan't a piece she was speaking—she was tellin' her
'sperience, but it sounded so like the boys at school that I
was deceived, for I'd never seen such work before. But
I've got so I like it now, and I believe thar's more 'sistency
down in that school house, than thar is in—I won't say
the 'Piscapal church, 'case thar's heaps of shinin' lights
thar, but if you won't be mad, I'll say more than thar is in
Marster Kennedy, who has hisself to thank for my bein' a
Methodis'.”
Whatever Mrs. Kennedy might have thought, she
could not help laughing heartily at John, who was now a
decided Methodist, and adorned his profession far more
than his selfish, hard-hearted master. His promise of holding
up his mistress' hands had been most faithfully kept,
and, without any disparagement to Janet, Mrs. Kennedy felt
that the loss of her former servant was in a great measure
made up to her in the kind negro, who, as the months went
by and her face grew thinner each day, purchased with
his own money many a little delicacy, which he hoped
would tempt her capricious appetite. Maude, too, was a
favorite with John, both on account of her color, which he
greatly admired, and because, poor, ignorant creature
though he was, he saw in her the germ of the noble girl,
who, in the coming years, was to bear uncomplainingly
a burden of care from which the selfish Nellie would unhesitatingly
turn away.
Toward Maude the doctor had ever manifested a feeling
of aversion, both because of her name, and because she
had compelled him to yield when his mind was fully made
up to do otherwise. She had resolutely refused to be
called Matilda, and as it was necessary for him sometimes
and finally arrived at “Maude,” speaking it always spitefully,
as if provoked that he had once in his life been conquered.
With the management of her he seldom interfered,
for that scratch had given him a timely lesson, and as he
did not like to be unnecessarily troubled, he left both
Maude and Nellie to his wife, who suffered the latter to
do nearly as she pleased, and thus escaped many of the
annoyances to which step-mothers are usually subject.
Although exceedingly selfish, Nellie was affectionate in
her disposition, and when Maude did not cross her path
the two were on the best of terms. Disturbances there
were, however—quarrels and fights, in the latter of which,
Maude, being the stronger of the two, always came off
victor; but these did not last long, and had her husband
been to her what he ought, Mrs. Kennedy's life would not
have been as dreary as it was. He meant well enough,
perhaps, but he did not understand a woman, much less
know how to treat her, and as the winter months went by,
Matty's heart would have fainted within her, but for a
hope which whispered to her, “He will love me better
when next summer comes.”
4. CHAPTER IV.
LITTLE LOUIS.
It is just one year since the summer morning when
Matty Kennedy took upon herself a second time the duties
of a wife, and now she lies in a darkened room, her face
white as the winter snow, and her breath scarcely perceptible
to the touch, as it comes faintly from her parted lips.
In dignified silence the doctor sits by, counting her feeble
pulse, while an expression of pride, and almost perfect
happiness breaks over his face as he glances toward the
cradle, which Hannah has brought from the garret, and
where now slept the child born to him that day. His oft
repeated maxim that if the first were not a boy the second
ought to be, had prevailed at last, and Dombey had a son.
It was a puny thing, but the father said it looked as Nellie
did when she first rested there, and Nellie, holding back
her breath and pushing aside her curls, bent down to see
the red-faced infant.
“I was never as ugly as that, and I don't love him a
bit!” she exclaimed, turning away in disgust; while Maude
approached on tip-toe, and kneeling by the cradle side,
kissed the unconscious sleeper, whispering as she did so,
“I love you, poor little brother.”
Darling Maude—blessed Maude—in all your after life,
you proved the truth of those low spoken words, “I love
you, poor little brother.”
For many days did Mrs. Kennedy hover between life
and death, never asking for her baby, and seldom noticing
her husband, who, while declaring there was no danger,
still deemed it necessary, in case any thing should happen,
to send for his sister, Mrs. Kelsey, who had not visited
him since his last marriage. She was a proud, fashionable
woman, who saw nothing attractive in the desolate old
house, and who had conceived an idea that her brother's
second wife was a sort of nobody, whom he had picked up
among the New England hills. But the news of her illness
softened her feelings in a measure, and she started
for Laurel Hill, thinking that if Mattie died, she hoped
a certain dashing, brilliant woman, called Maude Glendower,
might go there and govern the tyrannical doctor,
even as he had governed others.
It was late in the afternoon when she reached her brother's
house, from which Nellie came running out to meet
her, accompanied by Maude. From the latter the lady
at first turned disdainfully away, but ere long stole another
look at the brown faced girl, about whom there was something
very attractive.
“Curtains, as I live!” she exclaimed, as she entered the
parlor. “A piano, and marble table, too. Where did
these come from?”
“They are ma's, and she's got a baby up-stairs,” answered
Maude, and the lady's hand rested for an instant
on the little curly head, for strange as it may seem, she
esteemed more highly a woman who owned a piano and
handsome table, than she did one whose worldly possessions
were more limited.
After making some changes in her dress, she went up
to the sick-room, and as Mattie was asleep, she had ample
which showed in some one a refined and delicate taste.
“She must be more of a lady than I supposed,” she
thought, and when at last, her sister-in-law awoke, she
greeted her kindly, and during her visit, which lasted
nearly two weeks, she exerted herself to be agreeable,
succeeding so far that Mattie parted from her at last with
genuine regret.
“Poor thing—she'll never see another winter,” was
Mrs. Kelsey's mental comment, as she bade the invalid
good-bye, but in this she was mistaken, for with the falling
of the leaf Mattie began to improve, and though she never
fully regained her health, she was able again to be about
the house, doing far more than she ought to have done,
but never uttering a word of complaint, however heavy
was the burden imposed upon her.
With Maude and her baby, who bore the name of
Louis, she found her greatest comfort. He was a sweet,
playful child, and sure never before was father so foolishly
proud of his son, as was Dr. Kennedy of his. For hours
would he sit watching him while he slept, and building
castles of the future, when “Louis Kennedy, only son of
Dr. Kennedy,” should be honored among men. Toward
the mother, too, who had borne him such a prodigy, he
became a little more indulgent, occasionally suffering her
wishes to prevail over his maxims, and on three several
occasions giving her a dollar to spend as she pleased.
Surely such generosity did not deserve so severe a punishment
as was in store for the proud father.
Louis had a most beautiful face, and in his soft, brown
eyes there was a “look like the angels,” as Maude once
said to her mother, who seldom spoke of him without a
Although mentally as forward as other children, Louis's
body did not keep pace with the growth of his intellect,
and when he was two years of age, he could not bear his
weight upon his feet, but in creeping dragged his limbs
slowly, as if in them there was no life—no strength.
“Ma, why don't Louis walk?” asked Maude, one evening
when she saw how long it took him to cross the room.
“Loui' tant walk,” answered the child, who talked with
perfect ease.
The tears came instantly to Mrs. Kennedy's eyes, for,
availing herself of her husband's absence, she had that
morning consulted another physician, who, after carefully
examining Louis's body, had whispered in the poor woman's
ear that which made every nerve quiver with pain,
while at the same time it made dearer a thousand-fold her
baby-boy; for a mother's pity increases a mother's love.
“Say, ma, what is it?” persisted Maude. “Will Louis
ever walk?”
“Loui'll never walk,” answered the little fellow, shaking
his brown curls, and tearing in twain a picture-book
which his father had bought him the day before.
“Maude,” said Mrs. Kennedy, drawing her daughter to
her side, “I must tell somebody or my heart will burst,”
and laying her head upon the table, she wept aloud.
“Don't try ma, Loui' good,” lisped the infant on the
floor, while Mrs. Kennedy, drying at last her tears, told
to the wondering Maude that Louis was not like other
children—that he would probably never have the use of
his feet—that a bunch was growing on his back—and he
in time would be”—she could not say deformed, and so
she said at last, “he'll be forever lame.”
Poor little Maude! How all her childish dreams were
blasted! She had anticipated so much pleasure in guiding
her brother's tottering footsteps, in leading him to
school, to church, and every where, and she could not have
him lame.
“Oh, Louis, Louis!” she cried, winding her arms around
his neck, as if she would thus avert the dreaded evil.
Very wonderfully the child looked up into her eyes, and
raising his waxen hand, he wiped her tears away, saying,
as he did so, “Loui' love Maude.”
With a choking sob Maude kissed her baby brother,
then going back to her mother, whose head still lay upon
the table, she whispered, “We will love poor Louis all
the more, you and I.”
Blessed Maude, we say again, for these were no idle
words, and the clinging, tender love with which she cherished
her unfortunate brother, ought to have shamed the
heartless man, who, when he heard of his affliction, refused
to be comforted, and almost cursed the day when his only
son was born. He had been absent for a week or more,
and with the exception of the time when he first knew he
had a son, he did not remember of having experienced a
moment of greater happiness than that in which he reached
his home, where dwelt his boy—his pride—his idol. Louis
was not in the room, and on the mother's face there was
an expression of sadness, which at once awakened the father's
fears lest something had befallen his child.
“Where is Louis?” he asked. “Has any thing happened
to him that you look so pale?”
“Louis is well,” answered Matty, and then unable
longer to control her feelings, she burst into tears, while
the doctor looked on in amazement, wondering if all women
his fortune to marry.
“Oh, husband,” she cried, feeling sure of his sympathy,
and thinking it better to tell the truth at once; “has
it never occurred to you that Louis was not like other
children?”
“Of course it has,” he answered quickly. “He is a thousand
times brighter than any child I have ever known.”
“'Tisn't that, 'tisn't that, said Matty. “He'll never
walk—he's lame—deformed!”
“What do you mean?” thundered the doctor, reeling
for an instant like a drunken man, then recovering his
composure, he listened while Mattie told him what she
meant.
At that moment, Maude drew Louis into the room and
taking the child in his arms, the doctor examined him for
himself, wondering he had never observed before how
small and seemingly destitute of life were his lower limbs.
The bunch upon the back, though slight as yet, was really
there, and Mattie, when questioned, said it had been there
for weeks, but she did not tell of it, for she hoped it would
go away.
“It will stay until his dying day,” he muttered, as he
ordered Maude to take the child away. “Louis deformed!”
“Louis a cripple! What have I done that I should be
thns sorely punished?” he exclaimed, when he was alone
with his wife, and then, as he dared not blame the Almighty,
he charged it to her until at last his thoughts took
another channel—“Maude had dropped him—he knew she
had, and Mattie was to blame for letting her handle him
so much, when she knew 'twas a maxim of his that children
should not take care of children.”
He had forgotten the time when his worn out wife had
asked him to hire a nurse girl for Louis, and he had answered
that “Maude was large enough for that.” On
some points his memory was treacherous, and for days he
continued to repine at his hard fate, wishing once in Mattie's
presence that Louis had never been born.
“Oh, husband,” she cried, “how can you say that! Do
you hate our poor boy because he is a cripple?”
“A cripple!” roared the doctor. “Never use that
word again in my presence. My son a cripple! I can't
have it so! I wont have it so! for 'tis a max—”
Here he stopped, being for a second time in his life at a
loss what to say.
“Sarve 'em right, sarve 'em right,” muttered John,
whose quick eye saw every thing. “Ole Sam payin' him
off good. He think he'll be in the seventh heaven when
he got a boy, and he mighty nigh torment that little
gal's life out with his mexens and things—but now he got
a boy, he feel a heap like the bad place.”
Still much as John rejoiced that his master was so
punished, his heart went out in pity toward the helpless
child whom he almost worshipped, carrying him often to
the fields, where, seeking out the shadiest spot and the
softest grass for a throne, he would place the child upon
it, and then pay him obeisance by bobbing up and down
his wooly head in a manner quite as satisfactory to Louis
as if he indeed had been a king and John his loyal subject.
Old Hannah, too, was greatly softened, and many
a little cake and pie she baked in secret for the child,
while even Nellie gave up to him her favorite playthings
and her blue eyes wore a pitying look whenever they
rested on the poor unfortunate. All loved him seemingly
and years rolled on, seemed to acquire a positive dislike
to the little boy, seldom noticing him in any way, except
to frown if he were brought into his sight. And Louis,
with the quick instinct of childhood, learned to expect
nothing from his father, whose attention he never tried to
attract.
As if to make amends for his physical deformity, he
possessed an uncommon mind, and when he was nearly
six years of age accident revealed to him the reason of his
father's continued coldness, and wrung from him the first
tears he had ever shed for his misfortune. He heard one
day his mother praying that God would soften her husband's
heart toward his poor hunchback boy, who was
not to blame for his misfortune—and laying his head upon
the broad arm of the chair which had been made for him,
he wept bitterly, for he knew now why he was not loved.
That night, as in his crib he lay, watching the stars which
shone upon him through the window, and wondering if in
heaven there were hunchback boys like him, he overheard
his father talking to his mother, and the words that father
said were never forgetten to his dying day. They were,
“Don't ask me to be reconciled to a cripple! What good
can he do me? He will never earn his own living, lame
as he is, and will only be in the way.”
“Oh, father, father,” the cripple essayed to say, but he
could not speak, so full of pain was his little, bursting
heart, and that night he lay awake, praying that he might
die and so be out of the way.
The next morning he asked Maude to draw him to the
church-yard where “his other mother,” as he called her,
was buried. Maude complied, and when they were there,
himself out at his full length, he said: “Look, Maude,
won't mine be a little grave?” then, ere she could answer,
the strange question, he continued, “I want to die so bad;
and if you leave me lying here in the long grass maybe
God's angel will take me up to Heaven. Will I be
lame, there, think?”
“Oh, Louis, Louis, what do you mean?” cried Maude,
and as well as he could, for the tears he shed, Louis told
her what he meant.
“Father don't love me because I'm lame, and he called
me a cripple, too. What is a cripple, Maude? Is it any
thing very bad? and his beautiful brown eyes turned
anxiously toward his sister.
He had never heard that word before, and to him it had
a fearful significance, even worse than lameness. In an
instant Maude knelt by his side—his head was pillowed
on her bosom, and in the silent graveyard, with the quiet
dead around them, she spoke blessed words of comfort to
her brother, telling him what a cripple was, and that because
he bore that name he was dearer far to her.
“Your father will love you, too,” she said, “when he
learns how good you are. He loves Nellie, and—”
Ere she could say more, she was interrupted by Louis,
on whose mind another truth had dawned, and who now
said, “but he don't love you as he does Nellie. Why
not? Are you a cripple, too?”
Folding him still closer in her arms, and kissing his fair,
white brow, Maude answered: “Your father, Louis, is
not mine—for mine is dead, and his grave is far away. I
came here to live when I was a little girl, not quite as old
darling brother.”
“And do you love father?” asked Louis, his eyes still
fixed upon her face as if he would read the truth.
Every feeling of Maude Remington's heart answered,
“No,” to that question, but she could not say so to the
boy, and she replied, “Not as I could love my own father
—neither does he love me, for I am not his child.”
This explanation was not then wholly clear to Louis,
but he understood that there was a barrier between his
father and Maude, and this of itself was sufficient to draw
him more closely to the latter, who, after that day, cherished
him, if possible, more tenderly than she had done
before, keeping him out of his father's way, and cushioning
his little crutches so they could not be heard, for she
rightly guessed that the sound of them was hateful to the
harsh man's ears.
Maude was far older than her years, and during the
period of time over which we have passed so briefly, she
had matured both in mind and body, until now at the age
of twelve, she was a self-reliant little woman on whom her
mother wholly depended for comfort and counsel. Very
rapidly was Mrs. Kennedy passing from the world, and
as she felt the approach of death, she leaned more and
more upon her daughter, talking to her often of the future
and commending Louis to her care, when with her
he would be motherless. Maude's position was now a
trying one, for, when her mother became too ill to leave
her room, and the doctor refused to hire extra help, saying,
“two great girls were help enough,” it was necessary
for her to go into the kitchen, where she vainly tried to
conciliate old Hannah, who “wouldn't mind a chit of a
half done.”
From the first Nellie resolutely refused to work—“it
would black her hands,” she said, and as her father never
remonstrated, she spent her time in reading, admiring her
pretty face, and drumming upon the piano, which Maude,
who was fonder even than Nellie of music, seldom found
time to touch. One there was, however, who gave to
Maude every possible assistance, and this was John.
“Having tried his hand,” as he said, “at every thing in
Marster Norton's school,” he proved of invaluable service
—sweeping, dusting, washing dishes, cleaning knives, and
once ironing Dr. Kennedy's shirts, when old Hannah was
in what he called her “tantrums.” But alas for John—
the entire print of the iron upon the bosom of one, to say
nothing of the piles of starch upon another, and more
than all, the tremendous scolding which he received from
the owner of said shirt, warned him never to turn laundress
again, and in disgust he gave up his new vocation,
devoting his leisure moments to the cultivation of flowers,
which he carried to his mistress, who smiled gratefully
upon him, saying they were the sweetest she had ever
smelt. And so each morning a fresh bouquet was laid
upon her pillow, and as she inhaled their perfume, she
thought of her New England home, which she would
never see again—thought, too, of Janet, whose cheering
words and motherly acts would be so grateful to her now
when she so much needed care.
“'Tis a long time since I've heard from her,” she said
one day to Maude. “Suppose you write to-morrow, and
tell her I am sick—tell her, too, that the sight of her
would almost make me well, and maybe she will come,”
as she thought how pleasant it would be to see once
more one who had breathed the air of her native hills—
had looked upon her Harry's grave—nay, had known
her Harry when in life, and wept over him in death.
Poor, lonesome, homesick woman! Janet shall surely
come in answer to your call, and ere you deem it possible
her shadow shall fall across your threshold—her step be
heard upon the stairs—her hand be clasped in yours!
5. CHAPTER V.
MRS. JANET BLODGETT.
It was a chilly, rainy afternoon toward the latter part
of August. John was gone, the doctor was cross, and
Hannah was cross. Nellie, too, was unusually irritable,
and venting her spite upon Hannah because there was
nothing for dinner fit to eat, and upon Maude because the
house was so desolate and dark, she crept away up stairs,
and wrapping a shawl round her, sat down to a novel,
pausing occasionally to frown at the rain which beat at
the windows, or the wind as it roared dismally through
the trees. While thus employed, she heard the sound of
wheels, and looking up, saw standing before their gate a
muddy wagon, from which a little, dumpy figure in black
was alighting, carefully holding up her alpaca dress, and
carrying in one hand a small box which seemed to be full
of flowers.
“She must have come to stay a long time,” thought
Nellie, as she saw the piles of baggage which the driver
was depositing upon the stoop. “Who can it be?” she
continued, as she recalled all her aunts and cousins, and
found that none of them answered the description of this
woman, who knocked loudly at the door, and then walked
in to shelter herself from the storm.
“Forlornity!” Nellie heard her exclaim, as she left the
chamber in answer to the summons. “Forlornity! No
table, no hat-stand, no nothin', and the digiest old ile-cloth!
added, dropping a curtesy to Nellie, who now stood on
the stairs, with her finger between the pages of her book,
so as not to lose the place. “I guess I've made a mistake,”
said the woman; “is this Dr. Canady's?”
“It is,” answered Nellie, and the stranger continued,
“Dr. Canady who married the widder Remington?”
“The same,” returned Nellie, thinking how unmercifully
she would tease Maude should this prove to be any of her
relations.
“And who be you?” asked the stranger, feeling a little
piqued at the coldness of her reception.
“I am Miss Helen—Dr. Kennedy's daughter,” answered
the young lady, assuming an air of dignity, which
was not at all diminished by the very expressive “Mortal!”
which dropped from the woman's lips.
“Can I do any thing for you?” asked Nellie, and the
stranger answered: “Yes, go and call Maude, but don't
tell her who I am.”
She forgot that Nellie did not herself know who she
was, and sitting down upon her trunk, she waited while
Nellie hurried to the kitchen, where, over a smoky fire,
Maude was trying in vain to make a bit of nicely browned
toast for her mother, who had expressed a wish for some
thing good to eat.
“Here, Maude,” called out Nellie, “your grandmother
or aunt has come, I guess, and wants to see you in the
hall.”
“It's Janet,—it's Janet, I know,” screamed Maude, and
leaving her slice of bread to burn and blacken before the
fire, she hurried away, while Nellie who had heard nothing
of the letter sent the week before, wondered much
could be.”
With a cry of delight, Maude wound her arms around
the neck of her old nurse, whom she knew in a moment,
though Janet had more difficulty in recognizing the little
girl of other years, in the womanly looking maiden before
her.
“It beats all, how you've changed,” she said, “though
your eyes and hair are the same,” and she passed her
hand caressingly over the short glossy curls. Then looking
intently in Maude's face she continued. “You've
grown handsome, child.”
“No, no, not handsome, Janet; Nellie is the beauty of
the house,” and Maude shook her head mournfully, for on
the subject of beauty, she was a little sensitive, her sister
always pronouncing her “a fright,” and manifesting a
most unamiable spirit if any one complimented her in the
least.
“What, that yaller haired, white face chit, who went
for you?” rejoined Janet. “No such thing; but tell me
now of your marm. How sick is she, and what of the
little boy? Is he much deformed?”
“Come in here,” said Maude, leading the way into the
parlor, and drawing a chair close to Janet, she told all she
deemed it necessary to tell.
But the quick-witted Janet knew there was something
more, and casting a scornful glance around the room, she
said: “You are a good girl, Maude; but you can't deceive
an old girl like me. I knew, by the tremblin' way
you writ, that somethin' was wrong, and started the first
blessed morning after gettin' your letter. I was calculating
to come pretty soon, any way, and had all my arrangements
mebby—for I 'm a widder now,” and she heaved a few
sighs to the memory of Mr. Joel Blodgett, who, she said,
“had been dead a year,” adding, in a whisper, “but there's
one consolation—he willed me all his property,” and she
drew from her belt a huge silver time-piece, which she was
in the habit of consulting quite often, by way of showing
that “she could carry a watch as well as the next one.”
After a little her mind came back from her lamented
husband, and she gave Maude a most minute account of
her tedious ride in a lumber-wagon from Canandaigua to
Laurel Hill, for the stage had left when she reached the
depot, and she was in too great a hurry to remain at the
hotel until the next morning.
“But what of that doctor—do you like him?” she said
at last, and Maude answered: “Never mind him now;
let us see mother first, or rather let me see to her dinner,”
and she arose to leave the room.
“You don't like him,” continued Janet, “and I knew
you wouldn't; but your poor mother, I pity her. Didn't
you say you was gettin' her something to eat? She's had
a good time waitin', but I'll make amends by seein' to her
dinner, myself,” and spite of Maude's endeavors to keep
her back, she followed on into the disorderly kitchen,
from which Nellie had disappeared, and where old Hannah
sat smoking her pipe as leisurely as if on the table there
were not piles of unwashed dishes, to say nothing of the
unswept floor and dirty hearth.
“What a hole!” was Janet's involuntary exclamation,
to which Hannah responded a most contemptuous “umph,”
and thus was the war-cry raised on either side. “What
was you goin' to git for your mother?” asked Janet, without
in dignified silence.
“Toast and tea,” answered Maude, and casting a deprecating
glance at the fire, Janet continued: “You can't
make any toast fit for a heathen to eat by that fire. Aint
there any dry wood—kindlin' nor nothin'?” and she walked
into the wood-shed, where, spying a pine board, she seized
the axe, and was about to commence operations, when
Hannah called out: “Ole Marster'll be in yer har, if you
tache that.”
“I aint afraid of your old marster,” answered Janet,
and in a moment, the board which Dr. Kennedy would
not suffer John to use, because he might want it for something,
was crackling on the fire.
The hearth was swept, the tea-kettle hung in the blaze,
and then, with a look of perfect delight, Janet sat down
to make the toast, fixing it just as she knew Matty liked
it best.
“Biled eggs will be good for her digester, and if I only
had one dropped in water,” she said, and quick as thought
Maude brought her one, while Hannah growled again,
“Ole marster'll raise de ruff, case he put 'em away to sell.”
“Ole marster be hanged!” muttered Janet, breaking
not one but three into the water, for her own stomach began
to clamor for food.
Every thing was ready at last; a clean towel covered
the server, the fragrant black tea was made, the boiled
egg was laid upon the toast, and then Janet said, “She
ought to have a rellish—preserves, jelly, baked-apple, or
somethin',” and she opened a cupboard door, while Hannah,
springing to her feet, exclaimed, “Quit dat; thar
aint no sich truck in dis house.”
But Janet's sharp eye had discovered behind a pile of
papers, rags, and dried herbs, a tumbler of currant jelly,
which Hannah had secretly made and hidden away for her
own private eating. Hannah's first impulse was to snatch
the jelly from Janet's hand, but feeling intuitively that in
the resolute Scotchwoman she had a mistress, and fearing
lest Maude should betray her to the doctor, she exclaimed,
“If that aint the very stuff Miss Ruggles sent in for Miss
Matty! I forgot it till this blessed minit!” and shutting
the cupboard door, she stood with her back against
it lest Janet should discover sundry other delicacies hidden
away for a like purpose.
“Mother has not had a feast like this—and she'll enjoy
it so much,” said Maude, as she started up the stairs followed
by Janet, who, ere they reached the chamber, suddenly
stopped, saying, “I tell you what 'tis, if she knows
I'm here she won't eat a mou'ful, so you say nothin', and
when she's through I'll come.”
This seemed reasonable to Maude, who, leaving Janet
to look through a crevice in the door, entered alone into
her mother's presence. Mrs. Kennedy had waited long
for Maude, and at last, weary with listening to the rain,
which made her feel so desolate and sad, she fell asleep,
as little Louis at her side had done before her; but
Maude's cheering voice awoke her.
“Look, mother,” she cried, “see the nice dinner!” and
her own eyes fairly danced as she placed the tray upon
the table before her mother, who, scarcely less pleased,
exclaimed, “A boiled egg—and jelly, too!—I've wanted
them both so much. How did it happen?”
“Eat first, and then I'll tell you,” answered Maude, propping
her up with pillows, and setting the server in her lap.
“It tastes like old times—like Janet,” said the invalid,
and from the room without, where Janet watched, there
came a faint, choking sound, which Matty thought was
the wind, and which Maude knew was Janet.
Through the door she had caught sight of her mistress,
whose white, wasted face wrung from her that cry. Stuffing
her handkerchief into her mouth, she waited until toast,
tea, egg, and all had disappeared, then, with the exclamation,
“She's et 'em all up slick and clean,” she walked
into the room.
It would be impossible to describe that meeting, when
the poor sick woman bowed her weary head upon the
motherly bosom of her faithful domestic, weeping most
piteously while Janet folded her lovingly in her arms,
saying to her soothingly, “Nay, now, Mattie darling—
nay, my bonnie bird—take it easy like—take it easy, and
you'll feel all the better.”
“You wont leave me, will you?” sobbed Mattie, feeling
that it would not be hard to die with Janet standing
near.
“No, honey, no,” answered Janet, “I'll stay till one or
t'other of us is carried down the walk and across the common,
where them gravestones is standin', which I noticed
when I drove up.”
“It will be me, Janet. It will be me,” said Mattie.
“They will bury me beneath the willows, for the other
one is lying there, oh, so peacefully.”
Louis was by this time awake, and taking him upon
her lap, Janet laughed and cried alternately, mentally
resolving that so long as she should live, she would befriend
the little helpless boy, whose face, she said, “was
far winsomer than any she had ever seen.”
Then followed many mutual inquiries, during which
Mattie learned that Janet was a widow, and had really
come to stay if necessary.
“I'm able now to live as I please, for I've got property,”
said Janet, again consulting the silver watch, as she
usually did when speaking of her husband's will.
Many questions, too, did Mattie ask concerning her
former home—her friends—her flowers—and Harry's
grave; “was it well kept now, or was it overrun with
weeds?”
To this last question Janet did not reply directly, but
making some excuse for leaving the room, she soon returned,
bearing in one hand a box in which a small rose-bush
was growing. In the other hand she held a beautiful
bouquet, which having been kept moist, looked almost
as fresh as when it was first gathered. This she gave to
Mattie, saying, “They grew on Harry's grave. I picked
'em myself yesterday morning before I left; and this,”
pointing to the rose-bush, “is a root I took from there
last spring on purpose for you, for I meant to visit you
this fall.”
Need we say those flowers were dearer to Mattie than
the wealth of the Indies would have been! They had
blossomed on Harry's grave—his dust had added to them
life, and as if they were indeed a part of him, she hugged
them to her heart—kissing them through her tears and
blessing Janet for the priceless gift.
“Don't tell him, though,” she whispered, and a deep
flush mounted to her cheek, as on the stairs she heard a
heavy footstep, and knew that Dr. Kennedy was coming!
He had been in the kitchen, demanding of Hannah,
“Whose is all that baggage in the hall?” and Hannah,
“Some low lived truck or other that they called `Janet,'
and a body'd s'pose she owned the house, the way she
went on, splittin' up yer board for kindlin', makin' Missus'
toast swim in butter, and a bilin' three of them eggs you
laid away to sell. If she stays here, this nigger wont—
that's my 'pinion,” and feeling greatly injured she left the
kitchen, while Dr. Kennedy, with a dark, moody look
upon his face, started for the sick room.
He knew very well who his visitor was, and when his
wife said, “Husband, this is my faithful Janet, or rather
Mrs. Blodgett now. Wasn't it kind in her to come so far
to see me?” he merely nodded coolly to Mrs. Blodgett,
who nodded as coolly in return, then turning to his wife,
he said, “You seem excited, my dear, and this ought not
to be. 'Tis a maxim of mine that company is injurious to
sick people. What do you think, Mrs. Blodgett?”
Mrs. Blodgett didn't think any thing save that he was
a most disagreeable man, and as she could not say this in
his presence, she made no particular answer. Glancing
toward the empty plate which stood upon the table, he
continued, “Hannah tells me, my dear, that you have
eaten three boiled eggs. I wonder at your want of discretion,
when you know how indigestible they are,” and
his eye rested reprovingly on Janet, who now found her
tongue, and starting up, exclaimed, “One biled egg wont
hurt any body's digester, if it's ever so much out of kilter
—but the jade lied. Two of them eggs I cooked for myself,
and I'll warrant she's guzzled 'em down before this
Any way, I'll go and see,” and she arose to leave the
room.
Just as she reached the door, the doctor called after
in the lower hall, which I presume are yours. Will you
have them left there, or shall I bring them up to your
chamber? You will stay all night with us, of course!”
For an instant Janet's face was crimson, but forcing
down her wrath for Mattie's sake, she answered, “I shall
probably stay as long as that,” and slamming together
the door she went down stairs, while Mattie said, sadly,
“Oh, husband, how could you thus insult her when you
knew she had come to stay awhile at least, and that her
presence would do me so much good?”
“How should I know she had come to stay, when I've
heard nothing about it,” was the doctor's reply; and then
in no mild terms he gave his opinion of the lady—said
opinion being based on what old Hannah had told him.
There were tears in Mattie's eyes, and they dropped
from her long eye-lashes, as, taking the doctor's hand, she
said: “Husband, you know that I'm going to die—that
ere the snow is falling you will be a second time alone.
And you surely will not refuse me when I ask that Janet
shall stay until the last. When I am gone you will, perhaps,
be happier in the remembrance that you granted me
one request.”
There was something in the tone of her voice far more
convincing than her words, and when she added, “She
does not expect wages, for she has money of her own,”
Dr. Kennedy yielded the point, prophesying the while that
there would be trouble with Hannah.
Meantime, Mrs. Blodgett had wended her way to the
kitchen, meeting in the way with Nellie, around whose
mouth there was a substance greatly resembling the yolk
of an egg! Thus prepared for the worst, Janet was not
been disposed of by both the young lady and Hannah,
the latter of whom was too busy with her dishes to turn
her head, or in any way acknowledge the presence of a
second person.
“Joel Blodgett's widow ought to be above havin' words
with a nigger,” was Janet's mental comment as she contented
herself with a slice of bread and a cup of tea,
which, by this time, was of quite a reddish hue.
Her hunger being satisfied, she began to feel more
amiably disposed toward the old negress, whose dishes
she offered to wipe. This kindness was duly appreciated
by Hannah, and that night, in speaking of Janet to her
son, she pronounced her “not quite so onery a white
woman as she at first took her to be.”
As the days wore on, Janet's presence in the family was
felt in various ways. To Mattie, it brought a greater degree
of happiness than she had experienced since she left
her New England home, while even the doctor acknowledged
an increased degree of comfort in his household,
though not willing at first to attribute it to its proper
source. He did not like Janet; her ideas were too extravagant
for him, and on several different occasions he
hinted quite strongly that she was not wanted there; but
Janet was perfectly invincible to hints, and when, at one
time, he embodied them in language that could not be
misunderstood, telling her, “'twas a maxim of his, that if
a person had a home of their own they had better stay
there;” she promptly replied, that “'twas a maxim of
hers to stay where she pleased, particularly as she was a
woman of property,” and so, as she pleased to stay there,
she staid!
It took but a short time for her to understand the Doctor,
and to say that she disliked him, would but feebly
express the feeling of aversion with which she regarded
him. Not a word, however, would Mattie admit, of past
or present unkindness—neither was it necessary that she
should, for Janet saw it all—saw how “old maxim,” as she
called him, had worried her life away, and while cherishing
for him a sentiment of hatred, she strove to comfort
her young mistress, who grew weaker and weaker every
day, until at last the husband himself, aroused to a sense
of her danger, strove by little acts of kindness unusual in
him to make amends for years of wrong. Experience is
a thorough teacher, and he shrunk from the bitter memories
which spring from the grave of a neglected wife, and
he would rather that Mattie, when she died, should not
turn away from him, shuddering at his touch, and asking
him to take his hand from off her brow, just as one brown-haired
woman had done. This feeling of his was appreciated
by Janet, who in proportion as he became tender
toward Mattie, was respectful to him, until at last there
came to be a tolerably good understanding between them,
and she was suffered in most matters, to have her own
way.
With John she was a special favorite, and through his
instrumentality open hostilities were prevented between
herself and his mother, until the latter missed another
cup of jelly from its new hiding-place. Then, indeed, the
indignant African announced her intention of going at
once to “Miss Ruggles's,” who had offered her “twelve
shillings a week, and a heap of leisure.”
“Let her go,” said John, who knew Mrs. Ruggles to
be a fashionable woman, the mother of nine children,
be glad to come back,” and the sequel proved he was
right, for just as it was beginning to grow light on the
second day of her absence, some one rapped at his window,
and a half-crying voice whispered, “Let me in, John; I've
been out to sarvice enough.”
John complied with the request, and when Janet came
down to the kitchen, how was she surprised at finding
Hannah there, leisurely grinding her coffee, with an innocent
look upon her sable face as if nothing had ever happened.
John's raillery, however, loosened her tongue at
last, and very minutely she detailed her grievances. “She
had done a two week's washing, besides all the work, and
the whole of them young ones under her feet into the bargain.
Then at night, when she hoped for a little rest,
Mrs. Ruggles had gone off to a party and staid till midnight,
leaving her with that squallin' brat; but never you
mind,” said she, “I poured a little paregol down its
throat, or my name ain't Hannah,” and with a sigh of
relief at her escape from “Miss Ruggles,” she finished
her story and resumed her accustomed duties, which for
many weeks she faithfully performed, finding but little
fault with the frequent suggestions of Mrs. Janet Blodgett,
whose rule in the household was for the time being,
firmly established.
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE MOTHER.
From the tall trees which shade the desolate old house
the leaves have fallen one by one, and the November rain
makes mournful music, as in the stillness of the night it
drops upon the withered foliage, softly, slowly, as if weeping
for the sorrow which has come upon the household.
Mattie Kennedy is dead; and in the husband's heart there
is a gnawing pain, such as he never felt before; not even
when Katy died; for Katy, though pure and good, was
not so wholly unselfish as Mattie had been, and in thinking
of her, he could occasionally recall an impatient word;
but from Mattie, none. Gentle, loving and beautiful, she
had been to him in life, and now, beautiful in death, she
lay in the silent parlor, on the marble table she had
brought from home, while he,—oh, who shall tell what
thoughts were busy at his heart, as he sat there alone,
that dismal, rainy night.
In one respect his wishes had been gratified; Mattie
had not turned from him in death. She had died within
his arms; but so long as the light of reason shone in her
blue eyes,—so long had they rested on the rose-bush
within the window,—the rose-bush brought from Harry's
grave! Nestled among its leaves was a half-opened bud,
and when none could hear, she whispered softly to Janet,
“Place it in my bosom just as you placed one years ago,
when I was Harry's bride.”
To Nellie and to Maude she had spoken blessed words
of comfort, commending to the latter as to a second
mother the little Louis, who, trembling with fear, had
hidden beneath the bedclothes, so that he could not see
the white look upon her face. Then to her husband she
had turned, pleading with all a mother's tenderness for
her youngest born—her unfortunate one.
“Oh, husband,” she said, “you will care for him when
I am gone. You will love my poor, crippled boy! Promise
me this, and death will not be hard to meet. Promise
me, wont you?” and the voice was very, very faint.
He could not refuse, and bending low, he said, “Matty,
I will, I will.”
“Bless you, my husband, bless you for that,” were Mattie's
dying words, for she never spoke again.
It was morning then,—early morning, and a long,
dreary day had intervened, until at last it was midnight,
and silence reigned throughout the house. Maude, Nellie,
Janet and John, had wept themselves sick, while in little
Louis's bosom there was a sense of desolation which kept
him wakeful, even after Maude had cried herself to sleep.
Many a time that day had he stolen into the parlor, and
climbing into a chair, as best he could, had laid his baby
cheek against the cold, white face; and smoothing with
his dimpled hand, the shining hair, had whispered, “Poor,
sick mother, wont you speak to Louis any more?”
He knew better than most children of his age what was
meant by death, and as he lay awake, thinking how dreadful
it was to have no mother, his thoughts turned toward
his father, who had that day been too much absorbed in
his own grief to notice him.
“May be he'll love me some now ma is dead,” he thought,
the motherless, he crept out of bed, and groping his way
with his noiseless crutches to his father's door, he knocked
softly for admittance.
“Who's there?” demanded Dr. Kennedy, every nerve
thrilling to the answer.
“It's me, father; won't you let me in, for its dark out
here, and lonesome, with her lying in the parlor. Oh,
father, won't you love me a little, now mother's dead? I
can't help it because I'm lame, and, when I'm a man, I
will earn my own living. I won't be in the way. Say,
pa, will you love me?”
He remembered the charges his father had preferred
against him, and the father remembered them too. She
to whom the cruel words were spoken was gone from him
now and her child, their child was at the door, pleading
for his love. Could he refuse? No, by every kindly
feeling, by every parental tie, we answer no, he could not,
and opening the door he took the little fellow in his arms,
hugging him to his bosom, while tears, the first he had
shed for many a year, fell like rain upon the face of his
crippled boy. Like some mighty water, which breaking
through its prison walls, seeks again its natural channel,
so did his love go out toward the child so long neglected,
the child who was not now to him a cripple. He did not
think of the deformity, he did not even see it. He saw
only the beautiful face, the soft brown eyes, and silken
hair of the little one, who ere long fell asleep, murmuring
in his dreams, “He loves me, ma, he does.”
Surely the father can not be blamed, if when he looked
again upon the calm face of the dead, he fancied that it
wore a happier look, as if the whispered words of Louis
Mattie in her coffin—for thirty years had but slightly
marred her youthful face, and the doctor, as he gazed
upon her, thought within himself, “she was almost as fair
as Maude Glendower.”
“Then, as his eye fell upon the rosebud which Janet
had laid upon her bosom, he said, “'Twas kind in Mrs.
Blodgett to place it there, for Mattie was fond of flowers;”
but he did not dream how closely was that rosebud connected
with a grave made many years before.
Thoughts of Maude Glendower and mementos of Harry
Remington meeting together at Mattie's coffin! Alas,
that such should be our life!
Underneath the willows, and by the side of Katy, was
Mattie laid to rest, and then the desolate old house seemed
doubly desolate—Maude mourning truly for her mother,
while the impulsive Nellie, too, wept bitterly, for one
whom she had really loved. To the doctor, however, a new
feeling had been born, and in the society of his son, he
found a balm for his sorrow, becoming ere long, to all outward
appearance, the same exacting, overbearing man he
had been before. The blows are hard and oft repeated
which break the solid rock, and there will come a time
when that selfish nature shall be subdued and broken
down; but 'tis not yet—not yet.
And now, leaving him a while to himself, we will pass
on to a period when Maude herself shall become in reality
the heroine of our story.
7. CHAPTER VII.
PAST AND PRESENT.
Four years and a half have passed away since the dark
November night when Matty Kennedy died, and in her
home all things are not as they were then. Janet, the
presiding genius of the household, is gone—married a
second time, and by this means escaped, as she verily believes,
the embarrassment of refusing outright to be Mrs.
Dr. Kennedy, No. 3! Not that Dr. Kennedy ever entertained
the slightest idea of making her his wife, but knowing
how highly he valued money, and being herself “a
woman of property,” Janet came at last to fancy that he
had serious thoughts of offering himself to her. He, on
the contrary, was only intent upon the best means of removing
her from his house, for, though he was not insensible
to the comfort which her presence brought, it was a
comfort for which he paid too dearly. Still he endured
it for nearly three years, but at the end of that time he
determined that she should go away, and as he dreaded a
scene, he did not tell her plainly what he meant, but
hinted, and with each hint the widow groaned afresh over
her lamented Joel.
At last, emboldened by some fresh extravagance, he
said to her one day: “Mrs. Blodgett, ah—ahem,” here he
stopped, while Mrs. Blodgett, thinking her time had come,
drew out Joel's picture, which latterly she carried in her
pocket, so as to be ready for any emergency.
“Mrs. Blodgett, are you paying attention?” asked the
doctor, observing how intently she was regarding the
picture of the deceased.
“Yes, yes,” she answered, and he continued: “Mrs.
Blodgett, I hardly know what to say, but I've been thinking
for some time past”—
“I know you've been thinking,” interrupted the widow,
“but it won't do an atom of good, for my mind was
made up long ago, and I shan't do it, and if you've any
kind of feelings for Matty, which you hain't, nor never
had, you wouldn't think of such a thing, and I know, as
well as I want to know, that it's my property, and nothin'
else, which has put such an idee into your head!”
Here, overcome with her burst of indignation, she began
to cry, while the doctor, wholly misunderstanding her,
attempted to smooth the matter somewhat by saying: “I
had no intention of distressing you, Mrs. Blodgett, but I
thought I might as well free my mind. Were you a poor
woman, I should feel differently, but knowing you have
money”—
“Wretch!” fairly screamed the insulted Janet. “So
you confess my property is at the bottom of it, but I'll
fix it. I'll put an end to it,” and in a state of great excitement
she rushed from the room.
Just across the way, a newly-fledged lawyer had hung
out his sign, and thither, that very afternoon, the wrathful
widow wended her way, nor left the dingy office until one-half
of her property, which was far greater than any one
supposed it to be, was transferred by deed of gift to
Maude Remington, who was to come in possession of it
on her eighteenth birthday, and was to inherit the remainder
by will at the death of the donor.
“That fixes him,” she muttered, as she returned to the
house, “that fixes old maxim good; to think of his insultin'
me, by ownin' right up that 'twas my property he
was after, the rascal! I wouldn't have him if there warn't
another man in the world!” and entering the room where
Maude was sewing, she astonished the young girl by telling
her what she had done. “I have made you my heir,”
said she, tossing the deed of gift and the will into Maude's
lap. “I've made you my heir; and the day you're
eighteen you'll be worth five thousand dollars, besides
havin' the interest to use between this time and that.
Then, if I ever die, you'll have five thousand more. Joel
Blodgett didn't keep thirty cows and peddle milk for
nothin'.”
Maude was at first too much astonished to comprehend
the meaning of what she heard, but she understood it at
last, and then, with many tears, thanked the eccentric
woman for what she had done, and asked the reason for
this unexpected generosity.
“'Cause I like you!” answered Janet, determined not
to injure Maude's feelings by letting her know how soon
her mother had been forgotten. “'Cause I like you, and
always meant to give it to you. But don't tell any one
how much 'tis, for if the old fool widowers round here
know I am still worth five thousand dollars, they'll like
enough be botherin' me with offers, hopin' I'll change
my will, but I shan't. I'll teach 'em a trick or two, the
good-for-nothin' old maxim.”
The latter part of this speech was made as Janet was
leaving the room, consequently Maude did not hear it,
neither would she have understood if she had. She knew
her nurse was very peculiar, but she never dreamed it possible
her his wife, and she was greatly puzzled to know why
she had been so generous to her. But Janet knew; and
when a few days afterward, Dr. Kennedy, determining
upon a fresh attempt to remove her from his house, came
to her side, as she was sitting alone in the twilight, she
felt glad that one half her property at least was beyond
her control.
“Mrs. Blodgett,” he said, clearing his throat, and looking
considerably embarrassed, “Mrs. Blodgett.”
“Well, what do you want of Mrs. Blodgett?” was the
widow's testy answer, and the doctor replied, “I did not
finish what I wished to say to you the other day, and it's
a maxim of mine, if a person has any thing on his mind,
he had better tell it at once.”
“Certainly, ease yourself off, do,” and Janet's little gray
eyes twinkled with delight, as she thought how crestfallen
he would look when she told him her property was
gone.
“I was going, Mrs. Blodgett,” he continued, “I was
going to propose to you”—
He never finished the sentence, for the widow sprang
to her feet, exclaiming, “It's of no kind of use! I've
gin my property all to Maude; half of it the day she's
eighteen, and the rest on't is willed to her when I die, so
you may as well let me alone,” and feeling greatly flurried
with what she verily believed to have been an offer, she
walked away, leaving the doctor to think her the most
inexplicable woman he ever saw.
The next day Janet received an invitation to visit her
husband's sister who lived in Canada. The invitation was
accepted, and to his great delight, the doctor saw her
interview. In Canada, Janet formed the acquaintance of
a man full ten years her junior. He had been a distant
relative of her husband, and knowing of her property,
asked her to be his wife. For several days Janet studied
her face to see what was in it, “which made every man
in Christendom want her!” and concluding at last, that
“handsome is that handsome does,” said “Yes,” and made
Peter Hopkins the happiest of men.
There was a bridal trip to Laurel Hill, where the new
husband ascertained that the half of that for which he
had married, was beyond his reach; but being naturally
of a hopeful nature, he did not despair of eventually
changing the will, so he swallowed his disappointment,
and redoubled his attentions to his mother-wife, now Mrs.
Janet Blodgett Hopkins.
Meantime, the story that Maude was an heiress, circulated
rapidly, and, as the lawyer kept his own counsel,
and Maude, in accordance with Janet's request, never told
how much had been given her, the amount was doubled,
nay, in some cases trebled, and she suddenly found herself
a person of considerable importance, particularly in
the estimation of Dr. Kennedy, who, aside from setting a
high value upon money, fancied he saw a way by which
he himself could reap some benefit from his step-daughter's
fortune. If Maude had money, she certainly ought to
pay for her board, and so he said to her one day, prefacing
his remarks with his stereotyped phrase, that “'twas a
maxim of his, that one person should not live upon another
if they could help it.”
Since Janet's last marriage, Maude had taken the entire
management of affairs, and without her, there would have
servant was old and lazy, and whose eldest daughter was
far too proud to work. This Maude knew, and with a
flush of indignation upon her cheek, she replied to her
step-father: “Very well, sir, I can pay for my board, if
you like; but boarders, you know, never trouble themselves
with the affairs of the kitchen.”
The doctor was confounded. He knew he could not
well dispense with Maude's services, and it had not before
occurred to him that a housekeeper and boarder were two
different persons.
“Ah—yes—just so,” said he, “I see I'm laboring under
a mistake; you prefer working for your board—all right,”
and feeling a good deal more disconcerted than he ever
supposed it possible for him to feel, he gave up the contest.
Maude was at this time nearly sixteen years of age,
and during the next year she was to all intents and purposes
the housekeeper, discharging faithfully every duty
and still finding time to pursue her own studies and superintend
the education of little Louis, to whom she was
indeed a second mother. She was very fond of books,
and while Janet was with them, she had with Nellie
attended the seminary at Laurel Hill, where she stood
high in all her classes, for learning was with her a delight,
and when at last it seemed necessary for her to remain at
home, she still devoted a portion of each day to her studies,
reciting to a teacher who came regularly to the house,
and whom she paid with her own money. By this means
she was at the age of seventeen a far better scholar than
Nellie, who left every care to her step-sister, saying she
was just suited to the kitchen work, and the tiresome old
chamber to which Nellie referred, was Maude's particular
province. Here she reigned joint sovereign with Louis,
who thus early evinced a degree of intellectuality wonderful
in one so young, and who in some things excelled even
Maude herself.
Drawing and painting seemed to be his ruling taste,
and as Dr. Kennedy still cherished for his crippled boy a
love almost idolatrous, he spared neither money nor pains
to procure for him every thing necessary for his favorite
pursuit. Almost the entire day did Louis pass in what he
termed Maude's library, where, poring over books, or
busy with his pencil, he whiled the hours away without a
sigh for the green fields and shadowy woods, through
which he could never hope to ramble. And Maude was
very proud of her artist brother—proud of the beautiful
boy whose face seemed not to be of earth, so calm, so
angel-like was its expression. All the softer, gentler virtues
of the mother, and all the intellectual qualities of the
father were blended together in the child, who presented
a combination of goodness, talent, beauty, and deformity,
such as is seldom seen. For his sister Maude, Louis possessed
a deep, undying love, which neither time nor misfortune
could in any way abate. She was part and portion
of himself—his life—his light—his all in all—and to his
childlike imagination a purer, nobler being had never been
created than his darling sister Maude. And well might
Louis Kennedy love the self-sacrificing girl who devoted
herself so wholly to him, and who well fulfilled her mother's
charge. “Care for my little boy.”
Nellie, too, was well beloved, but he soon grew weary
of her company, for she seldom talked of any thing save
youthful beauty. And Nellie, at the age of eighteen, was
beautiful, if that can be called beauty which is void of
heart or soul or intellect. She was very small, and the
profusion of golden curls which fell about her neck and
shoulders, gave her the appearance of being younger than
she really was. Her features were almost painfully regular,
her complexion dazzlingly brilliant, while her large
blue eyes had in them a dreamy, languid expression exceedingly
attractive to those who looked for nothing beyond—no
inner chamber where dwell the graces which
make a woman what she ought to be. Louis' artist eye,
undeveloped though it was, acknowledged the rare loveliness
of Nellie's face. She would make a beautiful picture,
he thought—but for the noble, the good, the pure,
he turned to the dark eyed Maude, who was as wholly
unlike her step-sister as it was possible for her to be. The
one was a delicate blonde, the other a decided brunette,
with hair and eyes of deepest black. Her complexion,
too, was dark, but tinged with a beautiful red, which
Nellie would gladly have transferred to her own paler
cheek. It was around the mouth, however, the exquisitely
shaped mouth, and white even teeth, that Maude's principal
beauty lay, and the bright smile which lit up her features
when at all animated in conversation would have
made a plain face handsome. Some there were who gave
her the preference, saying there was far more of beauty
in her clear, beautiful eyes and sunny smile, than in the
dollish face of Nellie, who treated such remarks with the
utmost scorn. She knew that she was beautiful. She
had known it all her life—for had she not been told so by
her mirror, her father, her school-mates, her aunt Kelsey,
man whom she had met in Rochester, where she had spent
the winter preceding the summer of which we now are
writing, and which was four and one half years after Mattie's
death.
Greatly had the young lady murmured on her return
against the dreary old house and lonely life at Laurel Hill,
which did indeed present a striking contrast to the city
gaieties in which she had been mingling. Even the cosy
little chamber which the kind-hearted Maude had fitted
up for her with her own means, was pronounced heathenish
and old-fashioned, while Maude herself was constantly
taunted with being countryfied and odd.
“I wish J. C. De Vere could see you now,” she said
one morning to her sister, who had donned her working
dress, and with sleeves rolled up, and wide checked apron
tied around her waist, was deep in the mysteries of bread
making.
“I wish he could see her, too,” said Louis, who had
rolled his chair into the kitchen so that he could be with
Maude. “He would say he never saw a handsomer color
than the red upon her cheeks.”
“Pshaw!” returned Nellie. “I guess he knows the
difference between rose-tint and sun-burn. Why, he's the
most fastidious man I ever saw. He can't endure the
smell of cooking, and says he would never look twice at
a lady whose hands were not as soft and white as—well,
as mine,” and she glanced admiringly at the little snowy
fingers, which were beating a tune upon the window-sill.
“I wants no better proof that he's a fool,” muttered old
Hannah, who looked upon Nellie as being what she really
was, a vain, silly thing.
“A fool, Hannah,” retorted Nellie; “I'd like to have
Aunt Kelsey hear you say that. Why, he's the very best
match in Rochester. All the girls are dying for him, but
he don't care a straw for one of them. He's out of health
now, and is coming here this summer with Aunt Kelsey,
and then you'll see how perfectly refined he is. By the
way, Maude, if I had as much money at my command as
you have, I'd fix up the parlor a little. You know father
won't, and that carpet, I'll venture to say, was in the ark.
I almost dread to have J. C. come, he's so particular, but
then he knows we are rich, and beside that, Aunt Kelsey
has told him just how stingy father is, so I don't care so
much. Did I tell you J. C. has a cousin James, who may
possibly come too. I never saw him, but Aunt Kelsey
says he's the queerest man that ever lived. He never
was known to pay the slightest attention to a woman
unless she was married or engaged. He has a most delightful
house at Hampton, where he lives with his
mother, but he'll never marry, unless it is some hired girl
who knows how to work. Why, he was once heard to
say he would sooner marry a good-natured Irish girl than
a fashionable city lady, who knew nothing but to dress,
and flirt, and play the piano—the wretch!”
“Oh! I know I should like him,” exclaimed Louis, who
had been an attentive listener.
“I dare say you would, and Maude, too,” returned Nellie,
adding, after a moment: “And I shouldn't wonder if
Maude just suited him, particularly if he finds her up to
her elbows in dough. So, Maude, it is for your interest
to improve the old castle a little. Won't you buy a new
carpet?” and she drew nearer to Maude, who made no
direct reply.
The three hundred and fifty dollars interest money
which she had received the year before, had but little of
it been expended on herself, though it had purchased many
a comfort for the household, for Maude was generous, and
freely gave what was her own to give. The parlor carpet
troubled even her, but she would not pledge herself to buy
another, until she had first tried her powers of persuasion
upon the doctor, who, as she expected, refused outright.
“He knew the carpet was faded,” he said, “but 'twas
hardly worn at all, and 'twas a maxim of his to make
things last as long as possible.”
It was in vain that Nellie, who was present, quoted
Aunt Kelsey, and J. C. DeVere, the old doctor didn't care
a straw for either, unless indeed, J. C. should some time
take Nellie off his hands, and pay her bills, which were
altogether too large for one of his maxims. That this
would probably be the result of the young man's expected
visit, had been strongly hinted by Mrs. Kelsey, and thus
was he more willing to have him come. But on the subject
of the carpet he was inexorable, and with tears of
anger in her large blue eyes, Nellie gave up the contest,
while Maude very quietly walked over to the store, and
gave orders that a handsome three-ply carpet which she
had heard her sister admire, should be sent home as soon
as possible.
“You are a dear good girl after all, and I hope James
DeVere will fall in love with you,” was Nellie's exclamation
as she saw a large roll deposited at their door, but
not a stitch in the making of the carpet, did she volunteer
to take. “She should prick her fingers, or callous her
hand,” she said, “and Mr. DeVere thought so much of a
pretty hand.”
“Nonsense!” said John, who was still a member of the
family, “nonsense, Miss Nellie. I'd give a heap more for
one of Miss Maude's little fingers, red and rough as they
be, than I would for both them soft, sickish feeling hands
of yourn;” and John hastily disappeared from the room
to escape the angry words, which he knew would follow
his bold remark.
Nellie was not a favorite at home, and no one humored
her as much as Maude, who, on this occasion, almost out-did
herself in her endeavors to please the exacting girl,
and make the house as presentable as possible to the fashionable
Mrs. Kelsey, and the still more fashionable J. C.
DeVere. The new carpet was nicely fitted to the floor,
new curtains hung before the windows, the old sofa was
re-covered, the piano was tuned, a hat-stand purchased for
the hall, the spare chamber cleaned, and then very impatiently
Nellie waited for the day when her guests were
expected to arrive.
The time came at last, a clear June afternoon, and immediately
after dinner, Nellie repaired to her chamber, so
as to have ample time to try the effect of her different
dresses, ere deciding upon any one. Maude, too, was a
good deal excited, for one of her even temperament. She
rather dreaded Mrs. Kelsey, whom she had seen but
twice in her life, but for some reason, wholly inexplicable
to herself, she felt a strange interest in the wonderful J. C.,
of whom she had heard so much. Not that he would
notice her in the least, but a man who could turn the heads
of all the girls in Rochester, must be somewhat above the
common order of mortals; and when at last her work
was done, and she, too, went up to dress, it was with an
what she should wear that would be becoming.
“Wear what you please, but don't bother me,” answered
Nellie, smoothing down the folds of her light blue
muslin, which harmonized admirably with her clear complexion.
“Maude,” called Louis, from the adjoining room, “wear
white. You always look pretty in white.”
“So does every black person!” answered Nellie, feeling
provoked that she had not advised the wearing of
some color not as becoming to Maude as she knew white
to be.
Maude had the utmost confidence in Louis' taste, and
when fifteen minutes later, she stood before the mirror,
her short, glossy curls clustering about her head, a bright
bloom on her cheek, and a brighter smile upon her lip, she
thought it was the dress which made her look so well, for
it had never entered her mind that she was handsome.
“Wear your coral ear-rings,” said Louis, who had
wheeled himself into the room, and was watching her with
all a fond brother's pride.
The ear-rings were a decided improvement, and the
jealous Nellie, when she saw how neat and tasteful was
her sister's dress, began to cry, saying, “she herself looked
a fright, that she'd nothing fit to wear, and if her father
did not buy her something she'd run away.”
This last was her usual threat when at all indignant,
and as after giving vent to it she generally felt better, she
soon dried her tears, saying, “she was glad anyway that
she had blue eyes, for J. C. could not endure black ones.”
“Maybe James can,” was the quick rejoinder of Louis,
who always defended Maude from Nellie's envious attacks.
By this time the clock was striking five. Half an hour
more and they would be there, and going through the
rooms below, Nellie looked to see if every thing was in
order, then returning to her chamber above, she waited
impatiently until the sound of wheels was heard in the distance.
A cloud of dust was visible next, and soon a large
traveling-carriage stopped at the gate laden with trunks
and boxes, as if its occupants had come to spend the remainder
of the summer. A straight, slender, dandified-looking
young man sprang out, followed by another far
different in style, though equally as fine looking. The
lady next alighted, and scarcely were her feet upon the
ground when she was caught around the neck by a little
fairy figure in blue, which had tripped gracefully down
the walk, seemingly unconscious, but really very conscious
of every step she took, for the black-moustached young
man, who touched his hat to her so politely, was particular
about a woman's gait.
A little apart from the rest stood the stranger, casually
eyeing the diminutive creature, of whose beauty and perfections
he had heard so much, both from her partial aunt
and his half-smitten cousin. There was a momentary
thrill—a feeling such as one experiences in gazing upon a
rare piece of sculpture—and then the heart of James
De Vere resumed its accustomed beat, for he knew the
inner chamber of the mind was empty, and henceforth
Nellie's beauty would have no attraction for him. Very
prettily she led the way to the house, and after ushering
her guests into the parlor, ran up stairs to Maude, bidding
her to order supper at once, and telling her as a piece of
important news, which she did not already know, that
“Aunt Kelsey, James, and J. C. had come.”
8. CHAPTER VIII.
JAMES AND J. C.
James and J. C. DeVere were cousins, and also cousins
of Mrs. Kelsey's husband; and hence the intimacy between
that lady and themselves, or rather between that
lady and J. C., who was undeniably the favorite, partly
because he was much like herself, and partly because of
his name, which she thought so exclusive—so different
from any one's else. His romantic young mother, who
liked any thing savoring at all of Waverly, had inflicted
upon him the cognomen of Jedediah Cleishbotham, and
repenting of her act when too late, had dubbed him “J.
C.,” by which name he was now generally known. The
ladies called him “a love of a man,” and so he was, if a
faultless form, a wicked black eye, a superb set of teeth,
an unexceptionable moustache, a tiny foot, the finest of
broadcloth, reported wealth, and perfect good humor
constitute the ingredients which make up “a love of a
man.” Added to this, he really did possess a good share
of common sense, and with the right kind of influence,
would have made a far different man from what he was.
Self-love was the bane of his life, and as he liked dearly
to be flattered, so he in turn became a most consummate
flatterer; always, however, adapting his remarks to the
nature of the person with whom he was conversing. Thus
to Nellie Kennedy, he said a thousand foolish things, just
because he knew he gratified her vanity by doing so. Although
was far from being one, and his great object was to secure
a wife, who, while not distasteful to him, still had money
enough to cover many faults, and such an one he fancied
Nelly Kennedy to be. From Mrs. Kelsey he had received
the impression that the Doctor was very rich, and as
Nellie was the only daughter, her fortune would necessarily
be large. To be sure, he would rather she had been
a little more sensible, but as she was not, he resolved to
make the best of it, and although claiming to be something
of an invalid in quest of health, it was really with
the view of asking her to be his wife that he had come to
Laurel Hill. He had first objected to his cousin accompanying
him—not for fear of rivalry, but because he disliked
what he might say of Nellie, for if there was a person in
the world whose opinion he respected, and whose judgment
he honored, it was his cousin James.
Wholly unlike J. C., was James, and yet he was quite
as popular, for one word from him was more highly prized
by scheming mothers and artful young girls, than the
most complimentary speech that J. C. ever made. He
meant what he said; and to the kindest, noblest of hearts,
he added a fine commanding person, a finished education,
and a quiet, gentlemanly manner, to say nothing of his
unbounded wealth, and musical voice, whose low, deep
tones had stirred the heart-strings of more than one fair
maiden in her teens, but stirred them in vain, for James
De Vere had never seen the woman he wished to call his
wife; and now, at the age of twenty-six, he was looked
upon as a confirmed old bachelor, whom almost any one
would marry, but whom no one ever could. He had
come to Laurel Hill because Mrs. Kelsey had asked him
spend a few weeks in that part of the country.
Of Maude's existence he knew nothing, and when at
last supper was announced, and he followed his cousin to
the dining-room, he started in surprise, as his eye fell on
the dark-eyed girl, who, with a heightened bloom upon
her cheek, presided at the table with so much grace and
dignity. Whether intentionally or not, we cannot say,
but Nellie failed to introduce her step-sister, and as Mrs.
Kelsey was too much absorbed in looking at her pretty
niece, and in talking to her brother, to notice the omission,
Maude's position would have been peculiarly embarrassing,
but for the gentlemanly demeanor of James, who,
always courteous, particularly to those whom he thought
neglected, bowed politely, and made to her several remarks
concerning the fineness of the day, and the delightful
view which Laurel Hill commanded of the surrounding
country. She was no menial, he knew, and looking in her
bright, black eyes, he saw that she had far more mind
than the dollish Nellie, who, as usual, was provoking
J. C. to say all manner of foolish things.
As they were returning to the parlor, J. C. said to
Nellie: “By the way, Nell, who is that young girl in
white, and what is she doing here?”
“Why, that's Maude Remington, my step-sister,” answered
Nellie. “I'm sure you've heard me speak of her.”
J. C. was sure he hadn't; but he did not contradict the
little lady, whose manner plainly indicated that any attention
paid by him to the said Maude, would be resented as
an insult to herself. Just then, Mrs. Kelsey went up-stairs,
taking her niece with her; and, as Dr. Kennedy
had a patient to visit, he, too, asked to be excused, and
sauntering out beneath the trees, they sat down upon a
rustic seat, which commanded a view of the dining-room,
the doors and windows of which were open, disclosing to
view all that was transpiring within.
“In the name of wonder, what's that?” exclaimed J. C.,
as he saw a curiously shaped chair wheeling itself, as it
were, into the room.
“It must be Dr. Kennedy's crippled boy,” answered
James, as Louis skipped across the floor on crutches, and
climbed into the chair which Maude carefully held for
him.
Louis did not wish to eat with the strangers until
somewhat acquainted, consequently he waited until they
were gone, and then came to the table, where Maude
stood by his side, carefully ministering to his wants, and
assisting him into his chair when he was through. Then,
pushing back her curls, and donning the check apron
which Nellie so much abhorred, she removed the dishes
herself, for old Hannah she knew was very tired, having
done an unusual amount of work that day.
“I tell you what, Jim, I wouldn't wonder if that's the
very one for you,” said J. C., puffing leisurely at his cigar,
and still keeping his eyes fixed upon the figure in white,
as if to one of his fastidious taste there was nothing very
revolting in seeing Maude Remington wash the supper
dishes, even though her hands were brown and her arms
a little red.
James did not answer immediately, and when he did,
he said: “Do you remember a little girl we met in the
cars between Springfield and Albany several years ago
when we were returning from school? She was a funny
her remarks.”
“I wouldn't wonder if I remembered her,” returned J.
C., “for didn't she say I looked as if I didn't mean for
certain? I tell you what it is, Jim, I've thought of the
speech more than a thousand times when I've been saying
things I did not mean to foolish girls and their mammas.
But what reminded you of her?”
“If I mistake not, that child and the young lady yonder
are one and the same. You know she told us her
name was Maude Remington, and that the naughty man
behind us wasn't her father, and she didn't like him a bit,
or something like that.”
“And I honor her judgment both in his case and mine,”
interrupted J. C., continuing, after a moment; “The old
fellow looks as that man did. I guess you are right. I
mean to question Cuffee on the subject,” and he beckoned
to John, who was passing at no great distance.
“Sambo,” said he, as the negro approached, “who is
that young lady using the broom-handle so vigorously?”
and he pointed to Maude, who was finishing her domestic
duties, by brushing the crumbs from the carpet.
“If you please, sar, my name is John,” answered the
African, assuming a dignity of manner which even J. C.
respected.
“Be it John, then,” returned the young man, “but tell
us how long has she lived here, and where did she come
from?”
Nothing pleased John better than a chance to talk of
Maude, and he replied: “She came here twelve years ago
this very month with that little blue-eyed mother of hern,
who is lyin' under them willers in the grave-yard. We
thar is about the lonesome old place. Why, she does
everything, from takin' care of her crippled half-brother to
mendin' t'other ones gownd.”
“And who is t'other one?” asked J. C., beginning to
feel greatly interested in the negro's remarks.
“T'other one,” said John, “is Miss Nellie, who wont
work for fear of silin' her hands, which some fool of a city
chap has made her b'lieve are so white and handsome,”
and a row of ivory was just visible, as, leaning against a
tree, John watched the effect of his words upon “the
fool of a city chap.”
J. C. was exceedingly good natured, and tossing his
cigar into the grass, he replied, “You don't mean me, of
course; but tell us more of this Maude, who mops the
floor and mends Nellie's dresses.”
“She don't mop the floor,” muttered John. “This
nigger wouldn't let her do that—but she does mend Nellie's
gownds, which I wouldn't do, if I's worth as much
money as she is!”
If J. C. had been interested before, he was doubly interested
now, and coming nearer to John, he said: “Money,
my good fellow! is Maude an heiress?”
“She ain't nothin' else,” returned John, who proceeded
to speak of Janet and her generous gift, the amount of
which he greatly exaggerated. “Nobody knows how
much 'tis,” said he; “but every body s'poses that will
and all it must be thirty or forty thousand,” and as the
Doctor was just then seen riding into the yard, John
walked away to attend to his master's horse.
“Those butter and cheese men do accumulate money
fast,” said J. C., more to himself than to his companion,
make this Maude my cousin instead of Nellie. Let me
see—cousin Nellie—cousin Maude. I like the sound of the
latter the best, though I am inclined to think she is altogether
too good for a mercenary dog like you.”
“Pshaw!” returned J. C., pulling at the maple leaves
which grew above his head, “I hope you don't think I'd
marry a rude country girl for her money. No, give me
la charmant Nellie, even though she cannot mend her
dress, and you are welcome to cousin Maude, the milkman's
heiress.”
At that moment Mrs. Kelsey and Nellie appeared upon
the stoop, and as Maude was no longer visible, the young
gentlemen returned to the parlor, where J. C. asked Nellie
to favor him with some music. Nellie liked to play, for
it showed her white hands to advantage, and seating herself
at the piano, she said: “I have learned a new song
since I saw you, but Maude must sing the other part—
maybe, though, I can get along without her.”
This last was said because she did not care to have
Maude in the parlor, and she had inadvertently spoken of
her singing. The young men, however, were not as willing
to excuse her, and Maude was accordingly sent for.
She came readily, and performed her part without the
least embarassment, although she more than once half
paused to listen to the rich, full tones of James's voice, for
he was an unusually fine singer; Maude had never heard
any thing like it before, and when the song was ended, the
bright, sparkling eyes which she turned upon him told of
her delight quite as eloquently as words could have done.
“You play, I am sure, Miss Remington,” he said, as
Nellie arose from the stool.
Maude glanced at her red hands, which J. C. would be
sure to notice, then feeling ashamed to hesitate for a reason
like this, she answered, “Yes, sometimes,” and taking her
seat, she played several pieces, keeping admirable time,
and giving to the music a grace and finish which Nellie
had often tried in vain to imitate.
“Mr. De Vere did not expect you to play all night,”
called out the envious girl, who, not satisfied with having
enticed J. C. from the piano, wished James to join her
also.
“She is merely playing at my request,” said Mr. De
Vere, “but if it is distasteful to Miss Kennedy we will
of course desist,” and bending low he said a few words
of commendation to Maude, whose heart thrilled to the
gentle tones of his voice just as many another maiden's
had done before.
Mr. De Vere was exceedingly agreeable, and so Maude
found him to be, for feeling intuitively that she was somewhat
slighted by the overbearing Nellie, he devoted himself
to her entirely, talking first of books, then of music,
and lastly of his home, which, without any apparent boasting,
he described as a most beautiful spot.
For a long time that night did Louis wait for his sister
in his little bed, and when at last she came to give him
her accustomed kiss, he pushed the thick curls from off
her face and said, “I never saw you look so happy, Maude.
Do you like that Mr. De Vere?”
“Which one,” asked Maude. “There are two, you
know.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Louis, “but I mean the one
with the voice. Forgive me, Maude, but I sat ever so
long at the head of the stairs, listening as he talked. He
looks?”
Maude could not well describe him. She only knew
that he was taller than J. C., and as she thought much
finer looking, with deep blue eyes, dark brown hair, and
a mouth just fitted to his voice. Farther than this, she
could not tell. “But you will see him in the morning,”
she said. “I have told him how gifted, how good you
are, and to-morrow, he says he shall visit you in your
den.”
“Don't let the other one come,” said Louis hastily, “for
if he can't endure red hands, he'd laugh at my withered
feet, and the bunch upon my back; but the other one
wont, I know.”
Maude knew so too, and somewhat impatiently she
waited for the morrow, when she could introduce her
brother to her friend. The morrow came, but, as was
frequently the case, Louis was suffering from a severe pain
in his back, which kept him confined to his room, so that
Mr. DeVere neither saw him at all nor Maude as much as
he wished to do. He had been greatly interested in her, and
when at dinner he heard that she would not be down, he
was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. She was
not present at supper either, but after it was over she
joined him in the parlor, and, together with J. C. and
Nellie, accompanied him to the grave-yard, where, seating
herself upon her mother's grave, she told him of that
mother, and the desolation which crept into her heart
when first she knew she was an orphan. From talking or
her mother it was an easy matter to speak of her Vernon
home, which she had never seen since she left it twelve
years before, and then Mr. DeVere asked if she had
Maude could not recall them, and when at last she did so,
her recollections were so vague that Mr. DeVere felt another
pang of disappointment, though wherefore he could
not tell, unless indeed, he thought there would be something
pleasant in being remembered twelve long years by
a girl like Maude Remington. He reminded her of
her remark made to his cousin, and in speaking of him
casually, alluded to his evident liking for Nellie, saying
playfully, “Who knows, Miss Remington, but you may
sometime be related to me—not my cousin exactly, though
Cousin Maude sounds well. I like that name.”
“I like it too,” she said impulsively, “much better than
Miss Remington, which seems so stiff.”
“Then let me call you so. I have no girl cousin in the
world,” and leaning forward, he put back from her forehead
one of her short, glossy curls, which had been displaced
by the evening breeze.
This was a good deal for him to do. Never beforehad he
touched a maiden's tresses, and he had no idea that it would
make his fingers tingle as it did. Still, on the whole, he
liked it, and half-wished the wind would blow those curls
over the upturned face again, but it did not, and he was
about to make some casual remark, when J. C., who was
not far distant, called out, “Making love, I do believe!”
The speech was sudden and grated harshly on James'
ear. Not because the idea of making love to Maude was
utterly distasteful, but because he fancied she might
be annoyed, and over his features there came a shadow,
which Maude did not fail to observe.
“He does not wish to be teased about me,” she thought,
and around the warm spot which the name of “Cousin
chill—a fear that she had been degraded in his eyes. “I
must go back to Louis,” she said at last, and rising from her
mother's grave, she returned to the house, accompanied
by Mr. DeVere, who walked by her side in silence, wondering
if she really cared for J. C.'s untimely joke.
“James De Vere did not understand the female heart,
and wishing to relieve Maude from all embarrassment in
her future intercourse with himself, he said to her as they
reached the door: “My Cousin Maude must not mind
what J. C. said, for she knows it is not so.”
“Certainly not,” was Maude's answer, as she ran up
stairs, hardly knowing whether she wished it were, or
were not so.
One thing, however, she knew. She liked to have him
call her Cousin Maude; and when Louis asked what Mr.
De Vere had said beneath the willows, she told him of
her new name, and asked if he did not like it.
“Yes,” he answered, “but I'd rather you were his sister,
for then maybe he'd call me brother, even if I am a
cripple. How I wish I could see him, and perhaps I shall
to-morrow.
But on the morrow Louis was so much worse, that, in
attending to him, Maude found but little time to spend
with Mr. De Vere, who was to leave them that evening.
When, however, the carriage which was to take him
away, stood at the gate, she went down to bid him good-bye,
and ask him to visit them again.
“I shall be happy to do so,” he said; and then, as they
were standing alone together, he continued: “Though I
have not seen as much of you as I wished, I shall remember
my visit at Laurel Hill with pleasure. In Hampton,
care, and I have often wished that I had some
female friend with whom I could correspond, and thus
while away some of my leisure moments. Will my Cousin
Maude answer me if I should sometime chance to
write her, mere friendly, cousinly letters, of course?”
This last he said because he mistook the deep flush on
Maude's cheek for an unwillingness to do any thing which
looked at all like “making love.”
“I will write,” was all Maude had a chance to say ere
Nellie joined them, accompanied by J. C., who had not
yet terminated his visit at Laurel Hill, and as soon as his
cousin left, he intended removing to the hotel, where
he would be independent of Dr. Kennedy, and at the
same time, devote himself to the daughter or step-daughter,
just as he should feel inclined.
Some such idea might have intruded itself upon the
mind of James, for when, at parting, he took his cousin's
hand, he said, “You have my good wishes for your success
with Nellie, but—”
“But not with t'other one, hey?” laughingly rejoined
J. C., adding that James need have no fears, for there was
not the slightest possibility of his addressing the Milkman's
Heiress!
Alas for J. C.'s honesty! Even while he spoke, there
was treachery in his saucy eyes, for the milkman's heiress,
as he called her, was not to him an object of dislike, and
when, after the carriage drove away, he saw the shadows
on her face, and suspected their cause, he felt a strong
desire that his departure might affect her in a similar manner.
That evening, too, when Nellie sang to him his favorite
song, he kept one ear turned toward the chamber
sang her suffering brother to sleep.
The next morning he removed to the hotel, saying he
should probably remain there during the summer, as the
air of Laurel Hill was highly conducive to his rather delicate
health; but whether he meant the invigorating breeze,
which blew from the surrounding hills, or an heir of a
more substantial kind, time and our story will show.
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
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
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
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
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,
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
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
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,
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
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
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
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.
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
11. CHAPTER XI.
MAUDE GLENDOWER.
She was a most magnificent looking woman, as she sat
within her richly furnished room, on that warm September
night, now gazing idly down the street, and again bending
her head to catch the first sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Personal preservation had been the great study of her life,
and forty years had not dimmed the lustre of her soft,
black eyes, or woven one thread of silver among the luxuriant
curls which clustered in such profusion around her
face and neck. Gray hairs and Maude Glendower had
nothing in common, and the fair, round cheek, the pearly
teeth, the youthful bloom, and white, uncovered shoulders,
seemed to indicate that time had made an exception in
her favor, and dropped her from its wheel.
With a portion of her history the reader is already acquainted.
Early orphaned, she was thrown upon the care
of an old aunt, who proud of her wondrous beauty, spared
no pains to make her what nature seemed to will that she
should be, a coquette, and a belle. At seventeen, we find
her a school-girl in New Haven, where she turned the
heads of all the college-boys, and then murmured because
one, a dark-eyed youth of twenty, withheld from her the
homage she claimed as her just due. In a fit of pique she
besieged a staid, handsome young M. D., of twenty-seven,
who had just commenced to practice in the city, and who,
proudly keeping himself aloof from the college-students,
intoxicated with her beauty, he offered her his
hand, and was repulsed. Overwhelmed with disappointment
and chagrin, he then left the city, and located himself
at Laurel Hill, where now we find him the selfish,
overbearing Dr. Kennedy.
But in after years Maude Glendower was punished for
that act. The dark-haired student she so much loved was
wedded to another, and with a festering wound within
her heart, she plunged at once into the giddy world of
fashion, slaying her victims by scores, and exulting as
each new trophy of her power was laid at her feet. She
had no heart, the people said, and with a mocking laugh
she thought of the quiet grave 'mid the New England
hills, where, one moonlight night, two weeks after that
grave was made, she had wept such tears as were never
wept by her again. Maude Glendower had loved, but
loved in vain; and now, at the age of forty, she was unmarried
and alone in the wide world. The aunt, who had
been to her a mother, had died a few months before, and
as her annuity ceased with her death, Maude was almost
wholly destitute. The limited means she possessed would
only suffice to pay her board for a short time, and in this
dilemma she thought of her old lover, and wondered if he
could again be won. He was rich, she had always heard,
and as his wife, she could still enjoy the luxuries to which
she had been accustomed. She knew his sister—they had
met in the saloons of Saratoga, and though it hurt her
pride to do it, she at last signified her willingness to be
again addressed.
It was many weeks ere Dr. Kennedy conquered wholly
his olden grudge, but conquered it he had, and she sat
to our readers. He had arrived in Troy on the western
train, and written her a note announcing his intention to
visit her that evening. For this visit Maude Glendower
had arrayed herself with care, wearing a rich silk dress
of crimson and black—colors well adapted to her complexion.
“He saw me at twenty-five. He shall not think me
greatly changed since then,” she said, as over her bare
neck and arms she threw an exquisitely wrought mantilla
of lace.
The Glendower family had once been very wealthy, and
the last daughter of the haughty race glittered with diamonds
which had come to her from her great-grandmother,
and had been but recently reset. And there she
sat, beautiful Maude Glendower—the votary of fashion—
the woman of the world—sat waiting for the cold, hard,
overbearing man, who thought to make her his wife. A
ring at the door, a heavy tread upon the winding stairs,
and the lady rests her head upon her hand, so that her
glossy curls fall over, but do not conceal her white, rounded
arm, where the diamonds are shining.
“I could easily mistake him for my father,” she thought,
as a gray-haired man stepped into the room, where he
paused an instant, bewildered with the glare of light and
the display of pictures, mirrors, tapestry, rosewood and
marble, which met his view.
“Mrs. Berkley, Maude Glendower's aunt, had stinted
herself to gratify her nieces whims, and their surroundings
had always been of the most expensive kind, so it
was not strange that Dr. Kennedy, accustomed only to
ingrain carpet, and muslin curtains, was dazzled by so
to her feet, and going to his side offered him her hand, saying:
“You are Dr. Kennedy, I am sure. I should have
known you any where, for you are but little changed.”
She meant to flatter his self-love, though thanks to
Maude Remington for having insisted upon the broad
cloth suit, he looked remarkably well.
“She had not changed at all,” he said, and the admiring
gaze he fixed upon her, argued well for her success.
It becomes us not to tell how that strange wooing sped.
Suffice it to say, that at the expiration of an hour, Maude
Glendower had promised to be the wife of Dr. Kennedy,
when another spring should come. She had humbled herself
to say that she regretted her girlish freak, and he had
so far unbent his dignity as to say that he could not understand
why she should be willing to leave the luxuries
which surrounded her and go with him, a plain old fashioned
man. Maude Glendower scorned to make him
think that it was love which actuated her, and she replied,
“Now that my aunt is dead, I have no natural protector.
I am alone and want a home.”
“But mine is so different,” he said: “There are no
silk curtains there, no carpets such as this”—
“Is Maude Remington there?” the lady asked, and in
her large black eyes there was a dewy tenderness, as she
pronounced that name.
“Maude Remington!—yes,” the doctor answered.
“Where did you hear of her? My sister told you, I suppose.
Yes, Maude is there. She has lived with me ever
since her mother died. You would have liked Mattie, I
think,” and the doctor felt a glow of satisfaction in having
thus paid a tribute to the memory of his wife.
“Is Maude like her mother?” the lady asked; a deeper
glow upon her cheek, and the expression of her face
evincing the interest she felt in the answer.
“Not at all,” returned the doctor. “Mattie was blue-eyed
and fair, while Maude is dark, and resembles her
father, they say.”
The white jeweled hands were clasped together for a
moment, and then Maude Glendower questioned him of
the other one, Matty's child and his. Very tenderly the
doctor talked of his unfortunate boy, telling of his soft
brown hair, his angel face and dreamy eyes.
“He is like Matty,” the lady said, more to herself than
her companion, who proceeded to speak of Nellie, as a
paragon of loveliness and virtue. “I shan't like her, I
know,” the lady thought, “but the other two,” how her
heart bounded at the thoughts of folding them to her
bosom.
Louis Kennedy, weeping that his mother was forgotten,
had nothing to fear from Maude Glendower, for a child of
Matty Remington was a sacred trust to her, and when as
the doctor bade her good night, he said again, “You will
find a great contrast between your home and mine,” she
answered, “I shall be contented if Maude and Louis are
there.”
“And Nellie, too,” the doctor added, unwilling that
she should be overlooked.
“Yes, Nellie too,” the lady answered, the expression
of her mouth indicating that Nellie too, was an object of
indifference to her.
The doctor is gone, his object is accomplished, and at
the Mansion House near by, he sleeps quietly and well.
But the lady, Maude Glendower, oh, who shall tell what
bitter tears she wept, or how in her inmost soul she
shrank from the man she had chosen. And yet there was
nothing repulsive in him, she knew. He was fine-looking,
—he stood well in the world,—he was rich while she was
poor. But not for this alone, had she promised to be his
wife. To hold Maude Remington within her arms, to
look into her eyes, to call his daughter child, this was the
strongest reason of them all. And was it strange that
when at last she slept, she was a girl again, looking across
the college green to catch a glimpse of one whose indifference
had made her what she was, a selfish, scheming,
cold-hearted woman.
There was another interview next morning, and then
the doctor left her, but not until with her soft hand in his,
and her shining eyes upon his face, she said to him, “You
think your home is not a desirable one for me. Can't you
fix it up a little? Are there two parlors, and do the windows
come to the floor? I hope your carriage horses are
in good condition, for I am very fond of driving. Have
you a flower garden? I anticipate much pleasure in
working among the plants. Oh, it will be so cool and
nice in the country. You have an ice-house of course.”
Poor doctor! Double parlors—low windows—ice-house,
and flower-garden—he had none—while the old carry-all
had long since ceased to do its duty, and its place was
supplied by an open buggy, drawn by a sorrel nag. But
Maude Glendower could do with him what Katy and
Matty could not have done, and after his return to Laurel
Hill, he was more than once closeted with Maude, to
whom he confided his plan of improving the place, asking
her if she thought the profits of next year's crop of wheat
at random that it would, and, as money in prospect seems
not quite so valuable as money in hand, the doctor finally
concluded to follow out Maude Glendower's suggestions,
and greatly to the surprise of the neighbors, the repairing
process commenced.
12. CHAPTER XII.
HOW THE ENGAGEMENTS PROSPERED.
The October sun had painted the forest trees with the
gorgeous tints of autumn, and the November winds had
changed them to a more sober hue, ere J. C. De Vere
came again to Laurel Hill. Very regularly he wrote to
Maude—kind, loving letters, which helped to cheer her
solitary life. Nellie still remained with Mrs. Kelsey, and
though she had so far forgiven her step-sister as to write
to her occasionally, she still cherished toward her a feeling
of animosity for having stolen away her lover.
On his return to Rochester, J. C. De Vere had fully expected
that his engagement would be the theme of every
tongue, and he had prepared himself for the attack. How,
then, was he surprised to find that no one had the least
suspicion of it, though many joked him for having quarreled
with Nellie, as they were sure he had done, by his
not returning when she did.
Mrs. Kelsey had changed her mind, and resolved to say
nothing of an affair which she was sure would never prove
to be serious, and the result showed the wisdom of her
proceeding. No one spoke of Maude to J. C., for no one
knew of her existence, and both Mrs. Kelsey and Nellie,
whom he frequently met, scrupulously refrained from
mentioning her name. At first he felt annoyed, and more
than once was tempted to tell of his engagement, but as
time wore on, and he became more and more interested
Maude, who, with fewer sources of amusement, was
each day thinking more and more of him. Still, he was
sure he loved her, and one morning near the middle of
November, when he received a letter from her saying, “I
am sometimes very lonely, and wish that you were here,”
he started up with his usual impetuosity, and ere he was
fully aware of his own intentions, he found himself ticketed
for Canandaigua, and the next morning Louis Kennedy,
looking from his window, and watching the daily stage as
it came slowly up the hill, screamed out, “He's come—
he's come.”
A few moments more, and Maude was clasped in J. C.'s
arms. Kissing her forehead, her cheek, and her lips, he
held her off and looked to see if she had changed. She
had, and he knew it. Happiness and contentment are
more certain beautifiers than the most powerful cosmetics,
and under the combined effects of both, Maude was
greatly improved. She was happy in her engagement,
happy in the increased respect it brought her from her
friends, and happy, too, in the unusual kindness of her
step-father. All this was manifest in her face, and for the
first time in his life, J. C. told her she was beautiful.
“If you only had more manner, and your clothes were
fashionably made, you would far excel the city-girls,” he
said, a compliment which to Maude seemed rather equivocal.
When he was there before, he had not presumed to
criticize her style of dress, but he did so now, quoting the
city belles, until, half in earnest, half in jest, Maude said
to him, “If you think so much of fashion, you ought not
to marry a country girl.”
“Pshaw!” returned J. C. “I like you all the better
for dressing as you please, and still I wish you could acquire
a little city polish, for I don't care to have my wife
the subject of remark. If Maude Glendower comes in
the spring, you can learn a great deal of her before the
twentieth of June.”
Maude colored deeply, thinking for the first time in her
life that possibly J. C. might be ashamed of her, but his
affectionate caresses soon drove all unpleasant impressions
from her mind, and the three days that he staid with her
passed rapidly away. He did not mention the will, but
he questioned her of the five thousand which was to be
hers on her eighteenth birthday, and vaguely hinted that
he might need it to set himself up in business. He had
made no arrangements for the future, he said, there was
time enough in the spring, and promising to be with her
again during the holidays, he left her quite uncertain as
to whether she were glad he had visited her or not.
The next day she was greatly comforted by a long letter
from James, who wrote occasionally, evincing so much
interest in “Cousin Maude,” that he always succeeded in
making her cry, though why she could not tell, for his
letters gave her more real satisfaction than did those of J.
C., fraught as the latter were with protestations of constancy
and love. Slowly dragged the weeks, and the
holidays were at hand, when she received a message from
J. C., saying he could not possibly come as he had promised.
No reason was given for this change in his plan,
and with a sigh of disappointment, Maude turned to a
letter from Nellie, received by the same mail. After dwelling
at length upon the delightful time she was having in
the city, Nellie spoke of a fancy ball, to be given by her
Ivanhoe, she said, and she to be Rowena.
“You don't know,” she wrote, “how interested J. C. is
in the party. He really begins to appear more as he used
to do. He has not forgotten you, though, for he said the
other day you would make a splendid Rebecca. It takes
a dark person for that, I believe!”
Maude knew the reason now why J. C. could not possibly
come, and the week she had anticipated so much,
seemed dreary enough, notwithstanding it was enlivened
by a box of oranges and figs from her betrothed, and a
long, affectionate letter from James De Vere, who spoke
of the next Christmas, saying he meant she should spend
it at Hampton.
“You will really be my cousin then,” he wrote, “and
I intend inviting yourself and husband to pass the holidays
with us. I want my mother to know you, Maude.
She will like you, I am sure, for she always thinks as I
do.”
This letter was far more pleasing to Maude's taste than
were the oranges and figs, and Louis was suffered to monopolize
the latter—a privilege which he appreciated as
children usually do.
After the holidays, J. C. paid a flying visit to Laurel
Hill, where his presence caused quite as much pain as
pleasure, so anxious he seemed to return. Rochester
could not well exist without him, one would suppose, from
hearing him talk of the rides he planned, the surprise
parties he managed, and the private theatricals of which
he was the leader.
“Do they pay you well for your services?” Louis asked
him once, when wearying of the same old story.
J. C. understood the hit, and during the remainder of
his stay was far less egotistical than he would otherwise
have been. After his departure, there ensued an interval
of quiet, which, as spring approached, was broken by the
doctor's resuming the work of repairs, which had been
suspended during the coldest weather. The partition between
the parlor and the large square bed-room was removed;
folding-doors were made between; the windows
were cut down; a carpet was bought to match the one
which Maude had purchased the summer before; and then,
when all was done, the doctor was seized with a fit of the
blues, because it had cost so much. But he could afford
to be extravagant for a wife like Maude Glendower, and
trusting much to the wheat-crop and the wool, he started
for Troy, about the middle of March, fully expecting to
receive from the lady a decisive answer as to when she
would make them both perfectly happy!
With a most winning smile upon her lip and a bewitching
glance in her black eyes, Maude Glendower took his
hand in hers, and begged for a little longer freedom.
“Wait till next fall,” she said; “I must go to Saratoga
one more summer. I shall never be happy if I don't, and
you, I dare say, wouldn't enjoy it a bit.”
The doctor was not so sure of that. Her eyes, her
voice, and the soft touch of her hand, made him feel very
queer, and he was almost willing to go to Saratoga himself,
if by these means he could secure her.
“How much do they charge?” he asked; and, with a
flash of her bright eyes, the lady answered, “I presume
both of us can get along with thirty or forty dollars a
week, including every thing; but that isn't much, as I
don't care to stay more than two months!”
This decided the doctor. He had not three hundred
dollars to throw away, and so he tried to persuade his
companion to give up Saratoga and go with him to Laurel
Hill, telling her, as an inducement, of the improvements
he had made.
“There were two parlors now,” he said, “and with her
handsome furniture they would look remarkably well.”
She did not tell him that her handsome furniture was
mortgaged for board and borrowed money—neither did
she say that her object in going to Saratoga was, to try
her powers upon a rich old Southern bachelor, who had
returned from Europe, and who she knew was to pass
the coming summer at the Springs. If she could secure
him, Dr. Kennedy might console himself as best he could,
and she begged so hard to defer their marriage until the
autumn, that the doctor gave up the contest, and, with a
heavy heart, prepared to turn his face homeward.
You need not make any more repairs until I come, I'd
rather see to them myself, Miss Glendower said at parting;
and wondering what further improvements she could
possibly suggest, now that the parlor windows were all
right, the doctor bade her adieu, and started for home.
Hitherto, Maude had been his confidant, keeping her
trust so well that no one at Laurel Hill knew exactly
what his intentions were, and, as was very natural, immediately
after his return, he went to her for sympathy in
his disappointment. He found her weeping bitterly, and
ere he could lay before her his own grievances, she appealed
to him for sympathy and aid. The man to whom
her money was intrusted, had speculated largely, loaning
some of it out West, at twenty per cent.—investing some
in doubtful railroad stocks, and experimenting with the
worse than all, had nothing of his own with which to
make amends. In short, Maude was penniless, and J. C.
De Vere in despair. She had written to him immediately,
and he had come, suggesting nothing, offering no advice,
and saying nothing at first, except that “the man
was mighty mean, and he had never liked his looks.”
After a little, however, he rallied somewhat, and offered
the consolatory remark, that “they were in a mighty bad
fix. I'll be honest,” said he, “and confess that I depended
upon that money to set me up in business. I was going
to shave notes, and in order to do so, I must have
some ready capital. It cramps me,” he continued, “for,
as a married man, my expenses will necessarily be more
than they now are.”
“We can defer our marriage,” sobbed Maude, whose
heart throbbed painfully with every word he uttered.
“We can defer our marriage awhile, and possibly a part
of my fortune may be regained—or, if you wish it, I will
release you at once. You need not wed a penniless bride,”
and Maude hid her face in her hands, while she awaited
the answer to her suggestion. J. C. De Vere did love
Maude Remington better than any one he had ever seen,
and though he caught eagerly at the marriage deferred,
he was not then willing to give her up, and, with one of
his impetuous bursts; he exclaimed, “I will not be released,
though it may be wise to postpone our bridal day
for a time, say until Christmas next, when I hope to be
established in business,” and, touched by the suffering expression
of her white face, he kissed her tears away, and
told her how gladly he would work for her, painting “love
in a cottage,” with nothing else there, until he really made
Maude, provided she gave him the lion's share!
J. C.'s great faults were selfishness, indolence, and love
of money, and Maude's loss affected him deeply; still,
there was no redress, and playfully bidding her “not to
cry for the milkman's spilled milk,” he left her on the very
day when Dr. Kennedy returned. Maude knew J. C.
was keenly disappointed; that he was hardly aware what
he was saying, and she wept for him rather than for the
money.
Dr. Kennedy could offer no advice—no comfort. It
had always been a maxim of his not to make that man her
guardian; but women would do every thing wrong, and
then, as if his own trials were paramount to hers, he
bored her with the story of his troubles, to which she
simply answered, “I am sorry;” and this was all the sympathy
either gained from the other!
In the course of a few days, Maude received a long letter
from James De Vere. He had heard from J. C. of
his misfortune, and very tenderly he strove to comfort
her, touching at once upon the subject which he naturally
supposed lay heaviest upon her heart. The marriage need
not be postponed, he said: “There was room in his house
and a place in his own and his mother's affections for their
“Cousin Maude.” She could live there as well as not.
Hampton was only half an hour's ride from Rochester
and J. C., who had been admitted at the bar, could open
an office in the city, until something better presented.
“Perhaps I may set him up in business myself,” he
wrote. “At all events, dear Maude, you need not dim
the brightness of your eyes by tears, for all will yet be
well. Next June shall see you a bride, unless your intended
something better.”
“Noble man,” was Maude's exclamation, as she finished
reading the letter, and if at that moment the two cousins
rose up in contrast before her mind, who can blame her
for awarding the preference to him who had penned those
lines, and who thus kindly strove to remove from her
pathway every obstacle to her happiness.
James De Vere was indeed a noble-hearted man. Generous,
kind and self-denying, he found his chief pleasure
in doing others good, and he had written both to Maude
and J. C. just as the great kindness of his heart had
prompted him to write. He did not then know that he
loved Maude Remington, for he had never fully analyzed
the nature of his feelings toward her. He knew he admired
her very much, and when he wrote the note J. C.
withheld, he said to himself, “If she answers this, I shall
write again—and again, and maybe”—he did not exactly
know what lay beyond the maybe, so he added, “we
shall be very good friends.”
But the note was not answered, and when his cousin's
letter came, telling him of the engagement, a sharp, quick
pang shot through his heart, eliciting from him a faint
outcry, which caused his mother, who was present, to ask
what was the matter.
“Only a sudden pain,” he answered, laying his hand
upon his side.
“Pleurisy, perhaps,” the practical mother rejoined, and
supposing she was right, he placed the letter in his pocket,
and went out into the open air. It had grown uncomfortably
warm, he thought, while the noise of the falling
fountain in the garden made his head ache as it had never
pleasant library. But not a volume in all those crowded
shelves had power to interest him then, and with a strange
disquiet, he wandered from room to room, until at last as
the sun went down, he laid his throbbing temples upon his
pillow, and in his feverish dreams, saw again the dark-eyed
Maude sitting on her mother's grave, her face upturned to
him, and on her lip the smile that formed her greatest
beauty.
The next morning the headache was gone, and with a
steady hand he wrote to his cousin and Maude, congratulations
which he believed sincere. That J. C. was not
worthy of the maiden he greatly feared, and he resolved
to have a care of the young man, and try to make him
what Maude's husband ought to be, and when he heard
of her misfortune, he stepped forward with his generous
offer, which J. C. instantly refused.
“He never would take his wife to live upon his relatives,
he had too much pride for that, and the marriage
must be deferred. A few months would make no difference.
Christmas was not far from June, and by that time
he could do something for himself.”
Thus he wrote to James, who mused long upon the
words, “A few months will make no difference,” thinking
within himself, “If I were like other men, and was about
to marry Maude, a few months would make a good deal
of difference, but every one to their mind.”
Four weeks after this he went one day to Canandaigua
on business, and having an hour's leisure ere the arrival
of the train which would take him home, he sauntered into
the public parlor of the hotel. Near the window, at the
farther extremity of the room, a young girl was looking
dress attracted his attention, and he was approaching the
spot where she stood, when the sound of his footsteps
caught her ear, and turning round she disclosed to view
the features of Maude Remington.
“Maude!” he exclaimed, “this is indeed a surprise. I
must even claim a cousin's right to kiss you,” and taking
both her hands in his, he kissed her blushing cheek—coyly
—timidly—for James DeVere was unused to such things,
and not quite certain, whether under the circumstances it
were perfectly proper for him to do so or not.
Leading her to the sofa, he soon learned that she had
come to the village to trade, and having finished her
shopping was waiting for her stepfather, who had accompanied
her.
“And what of J. C.?” he asked after a moment's silence.
“Has he been to visit you more than once since the crisis,
as he calls it?”
Maude's eyes filled with tears, for J. C.'s conduct was
not wholly satisfactory to her. She remembered his loud
protestations of utter disregard for her money, and she
could not help thinking how little his theory and practice
accorded. He had not been to see her since his flying
visit in March, and though he had written several times,
his letters had contained little else save complaints against
their “confounded luck.” She could not tell this to James
DeVere, and she replied, “He is very busy now, I believe,
in trying to make some business arrangement with the
lawyer in whose office he formerly studied.”
“I am glad he has roused himself at last,” answered
James, “he would not accept my offer, for which I am
sorry, as I was anticipating much happiness in having my
remain at home, I suppose.”
“No,” said Maude, hesitatingly, “or that is I have
serious thoughts of teaching school, as I do not like to be
dependent on Dr. Kennedy.
James De Vere had once taught school for a few weeks,
by way of experiment, and now as he recalled the heated
room, the stiffling atmosphere, the constant care, and more
than all, the noisy shout of triumph which greeted his ear
on that memorable morning, when he found himself fastened
out, and knew his rule was at an end, he shuddered
at the thought of Maude's being exposed to similar indignities,
and used all his powers of eloquence to dissuade
her from her plan. Maude was frank, open-hearted and
impulsive, and emboldened by James' kind, brotherly
manner, she gave in a most childlike way, her reason for
wishing to teach.
“If I am married next winter,” she said, “my wardrobe
will need replenishing, for J. C., would surely be
ashamed to take me as I am, and I have now no means of
my own for purchasing any thing.”
In an instant James De Vere's hand was on his purse,
but ere he drew it forth, he reflected that to offer money
then might possibly be out of place, so he said, “I have
no sister, no ggirl-cousin, no wife, and more money than I
can use, and when the right time comes nothing can please
me more than to give you your bridal outfit. May I,
Maude? And if you do not like to stay with Dr. Kennedy,
come to Hampton this summer and live with us,
will you, Maude? I want you there so much,” and in
the musical tones of his voice there was a deep pathos
which brought the tears in torrents from Maude's eyes,
accept.
Just then Dr. Kennedy appeared, he was ready to go,
he said, and bidding Mr. De Vere good bye, Maude was
soon on her way home, her spirits lighter and her heart
happier for that chance meeting at the Hotel. One week
later Mr. De Vere wrote to her, saying that if she still
wished to teach, she could have the school at Hampton.
He had seen the trustees, had agreed upon the price, and
had even selected her a boarding place near by.
“I regret,” said he, “that we live so far from the school
house as to render it impossible for you to board with us.
You might ride, I suppose, and I would cheerfully carry
you every day; but, on the whole, I think you had better
stop with Mrs. Johnson.”
This letter Maude took at once to her brother, from
whom she had hitherto withheld her intention to teach, as
she did not wish to pain him unnecessarily with the dread
of a separation, which might never be. Deeply had he
sympathized with her in her misfortune, whispering to her
that two-thirds of his own inheritance should be hers.
“I can coax almost any thing from father,” he said,
“and when I am twenty-one, I'll ask him to give me my
portion, and then I'll take you to Europe. You won't be
old, Maude, only twenty-seven, and I shall be proud when
the people say that beautiful woman with eyes like stars is
the crippled artist's sister!”
In all his plans he made no mention of J. C., whose
conduct he despised, and whose character he began to read
aright.
“Maude will never marry him, I hope,” he thought,
and when she brought to him the letter from James De
and with a hopeful heart as to the result of that summer's
teaching, he bade her go. So it was all arranged, and the
next letter which went from Maude to J. C. carried the
intelligence that his betrothed was going “to turn country
school-ma'am, and teach the Hampton brats their A B
C's,” so at last he said to Mrs. Kelsey and her niece, between
whom and himself there was a perfectly good understanding,
and to whom he talked of his future prospects
without reserve. Mrs. Kelsey was secretly delighted, for
matters were shaping themselves much as she would wish.
Her brother evinced no particular desire to have his
daughter at home, and she determined to keep her as long
as there was the slightest chance of winning J. C. De
Vere. He was now a regular visitor at her house, and,
lest he should suspect her design, she spoke often and respectfully
of Maude, whose cause she seemed to have
espoused, and when he came to her with the news of her
teaching, she sympathized with him at once.
“It would be very mortifying,” she said, “to marry a
district school-mistress, though there was some comfort in
knowing that his friends were as yet ignorant of the engagement.”
“Let them remain so a while longer,” was the hasty
answer of J. C., who, as time passed on, became more
and more unwilling that the gay world should know of his
engagement with one who was not an heiress after all.
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
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
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
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
“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
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
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.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE DARK HOUR.
Dr. Kennedy had been to Buffalo, and taken the smallpox,
so his attending physician said, and the news spread
rapidly, frightening nervous people as they never were
frightened before. Nellie had been home for a week or
two, but at the first alarm she fled, rushing headlong
through the hall and down the stairs, unmindful of the
tremulous voice, which cried imploringly, “Don't leave
me, daughter, to die alone!”
Hannah followed next, holding the camphor bottle to
her nose, and saying to John when he expostulated with
her, “I reckon I'se not gwine to spile what little beauty
I've got with that fetched complaint.”
“But, mother,” persisted John, “may be its nothin'
but vary-o-lord after all, and that don't mark folks, you
know.”
“You needn't talk to me about your very-o-lord,” returned
Hannah. “I know it's the very-o-devil himself,
and I wont have them pock-ed marks on me for all the
niggers in Virginny.”
“Then go,” said John, “hold tight to the camphire,
and run for your life, or it may cotch you before you git
out of the house.”
Hannah needed no second bidding to run, and half an
hour later she was domesticated with a colored family,
who lived not far from the Hill. Thus left to themselves,
they could for the sick man, who at last proposed sending
for Mande, feeling intuitively that she would not desert
him as his own child had done. Silent, desolate and forsaken
the old house looked as Maude approached it, and
she involuntarily held her breath as she stepped into the
hall, whose close air seemed laden with infection. She
experienced no difficulty in finding the sick room, where
Louis' cry of delight, John's expression of joy, and the
sick man's whispered words, “God bless you, Maude,”
more than recompensed her for the risk she had incurred.
Gradually her fear subsided, particularly when she learned
that it was in fact the varioloid. Had it been possible to
remove her brother from danger, she would have done so,
but it was too late now, and she suffered him to share her
vigils, watching carefully for the first symptoms of the
disease in him.
In this manner nearly two weeks passed away, and the
panic stricken villagers were beginning to breathe more
freely, when it was told them one day that Maude and
Louis were both smitten with the disease. Then indeed
the more humane said to themselves, “Shall they be left
to suffer alone?” and still no one was found who dared to
breathe the air of the sick room. Dr. Kennedy was by
this time so much better, that Louis was taken to his
apartment, where he ministered to him himself, while the
heroic Maude was left to the care of John. Every thing
he could do for her he did, but his heart sunk within him
when he saw how fast her fever came on, and heard her,
in her sleep, mourn for her mother, to hold her aching
head.
“She mustn't die,” he said, and over his dark skin the
cried imploringly, “Will the good Father send some one
to help?”
The prayer of the weak African was heard; and, ere
the sun went down, a man of noble mien and noble heart
stood at the maiden's bedside, bathing her swollen face,
pushing back her silken curls, counting her rapid pulses,
and once, when she slept, kissing her parched lips, e'en
though he knew that with that kiss, he inhaled, perhaps,
his death! James De Vere had never, for a day, lost
sight of Maude. Immediately after her return he had
written to the physician, requesting a daily report, and
when, at last, he learned that she was ill, and all alone, he
came unhesitatingly, presenting a striking contrast to the
timid J. C., who had heard of her illness, and, at first,
dared not open the letter which his cousin wrote, apprising
him of Maude's affliction But when he reflected that he
could be re-vaccinated, and thus avert the dreaded evil,
he broke the seal, and read, commenting as follows; “Jim
is a splendid fellow, though I can't see why he takes so
much interest in her. Don't I have confounded luck
though? That will first, the five thousand dollars next,
and now the small pox, too. Of course she'll be marked,
and look like a fright. Poor girl! I'd help her if I could,”
and, as the better nature of J. C. came over him, he added,
mournfully: “What if she should die?”
But Maude did not die; and at the expiration of ten
days, she was so far out of danger, that James De Vere
yielded to the importunity of his mother, who, in an
agony of terror, besought him to return. When first he
came to her bedside, Maude had begged of him to leave
her, and not risk his life in her behalf; but he silenced her
would not listen to her protestations of gratitude.
“I would do even more for you if I could,” he said.
“I am not afraid of the varioloid, and henceforth I shall
think gratefully of it for having dealt so lightly with
you.”
So saying, he turned away, feeling happier than he
could well express, that Maude had not only escaped from
death, but that there would be no marks left to tell how
near the ravager had been. Scarcely had the door closed
on him, when, emboldened by his last words to ask a
question she greatly wished, yet dreaded to ask, Maude
turned to John and said, “Am I much pitted?”
Rolling up his eyes, and wholly mistaking her meaning,
John replied, “I ain't no great of a physiognomer, but
when a thing is as plain as day, I can discern it as well as
the next one, and if that ar' chap hain't pitied you, and
done a heap more'n that, I'm mistaken.”
“But,” continued Maude, smiling at his simplicity, “I
mean shall I probably be scarred?”
“Oh, bless you, not a scar,” answered John, “for don't
you mind how he kep' the iled silk and wet rags on yer
face, and how that night when you was sickest, he held
yer hands so you couldn't tache that little feller between
yer eyes. That was the spunkiest varmint of 'em all, and
may leave a mark like the one under yer ear, but it won't
spile yer looks an atom.”
“And Louis?” said Maude, “is he disfigured?”
“Not a disfigurement,” returned John, “but the ole
governor, he's a right smart sprinklin' of 'em, one squar'
on the tip of his nose, and five or six more on his face.”
Thus relieved of her immediate fears, Maude asked
not been very sick.
“You can see him afore long I reckon,” said John, and
in a few days she was able to join him in the sitting room
below.
After a little Hannah returned to her post of duty, her
beauty unimpaired and herself thoroughly ashamed of
having thus heartlessly deserted her master's family in
their affliction. As if to make amends for this she exerted
herself to cleanse the house from every thing which could
possibly inspire fear on the villagers, and by the last of
August, there was scarce a trace left of the recent scourge,
save the deep scar on the end of the doctor's nose, one or
two marks on Louis's face, and a weakness of Maude's
eyes, which became at last a cause of serious alarm.
It was in vain that Louis implored his father to seek
medical aid in Rochester, where the physicians were supposed
to have more experience in such matters. The doctor
refused, saying, “'twas a maxim of his not to counsel
with any one, and he guessed he knew how to manage
sore eyes.”
But Maude's eyes were not sore—they were merely
weak, while the pain in the eyeball was sometimes so intense
as to wring from her a cry of suffering. Gradually
there crept into her heart a horrid fear that her sight was
growing dim, and often in the darkness of the night
she wept most bitterly, praying that she might not be
blind.
“Oh, Louis,” she said to her brother one day, “I would
so much rather die than to be blind, and never see you
any more—never see the beautiful world I love so much.
Oh, must it be? Is there no help?”
“James De Vere could help us if he were here, answered
Louis, his own tears mingling with his sister's.
But James De Vere had left Hampton for New Orleans,
where he would probably remain until the winter, and
there could be no aid expected from him. The doctor
too, was wholly absorbed in thoughts of his approaching
nuptials, for Maude Glendower, failing to secure the
wealthy bachelor, and overhearing several times the remark
that she was really getting old, had consented to
name the 20th of October for their marriage. And so the
other Maude was left to battle with the terrible fear which
was strengthened every day.
At length J. C. roused not so much by the touching
letter which she wrote him, as by the uncertain hand-writing,
came himself, bringing with him a physician, who
carefully examined the soft black eyes, which could not
now endure the light, then shaking his head, he said
gravely, “There is still some hope, but she must go to the
city, where I can see her every day.”
J. C. looked at Dr. Kennedy, and Dr. Kennedy looked
at J. C., and then both their hands sought their pockets,
but came out again—empty! J. C. really had not the
ready means with which to meet the expense, while Dr.
Kennedy had not the inclination. But one there was,
the faithful John, who could not stand by unmoved, and
darting from the room, he mounted the woodshed stairs,
and from beneath the rafters drew out an old leathern
wallet, where, from time to time, he had deposited money
for “the wet day.” That wet day had come at last—
not to him, but to another—and without a moment's hesitation,
he counted out the ten golden eagles which his
purse contained, and, going back to Maude, placed them
saved 'em for you, for I wouldn't have the light squenched
in them shinin' eyes for all the land in old Virginny.”
It was a noble act, and it shamed the paler faces who
witnessed it, but they offered no remonstrance, though
Maude did, refusing to accept it, until Louis said: “Take
it, sister—take it, and when I'm twenty-one I'll give to
him ten times ten golden eagles.”
The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and
ere a week was passed, Maude found herself in Rochester,
and an inmate of Mrs. Kelsey's family; for, touched with
pity, that lady had offered to receive her, and during her
brief stay, treated her with every possible attention.
Nellie, too, was very kind, ministering carefully to the
comfort of her step-sister, who had ceased to be a rival,
for well she knew J. C. De Vere would never wed a penniless
bride and blind!
15. CHAPTER XV.
THE NEW MISTRESS AT LAUREL HILL.
The 20th of October came, and with a firm hand Maude
Glendower arrayed herself for the bridal, which was to
take place at an early hour. The scar on the end of the
doctor's nose had shaken her purpose for an instant, but
when she thought again of the unpaid bills lying in her
private drawer, and when, more than all, the doctor said,
“We greatly fear Maude Remington will be blind,” her
resolution was fixed, and with a steady voice she took
upon herself the marriage vows. They were to go to
Laurel Hill that day, and when the doctor saw that the
handsome furniture of her rooms was still untouched, he
ventured to ask “if she had left orders to have it sent.”
“Oh, I didn't tell you, did I, that my furniture was all
mortgaged to Mrs. Raymond for board and borrowed
money, too; but of course you don't care; you did not
marry my furniture,” and the little soft, white hands were
laid upon those of the bridegroom, while the lustrous eyes
sought his face, to witness the effect of her words.
The dent on the nose grew red a moment, and then the
doctor, perfectly intoxicated with the beauty of his bride,
answered, “No, Maude, I married you.”
A rap at the door, and a note from Messrs. Barnabas
Muggins and Brown, “hoped Miss Glendower would not
forget to settle her bill.”
“It's really quite provoking to trouble you with my
of yours that we should have no secrets from each other,
and so I may as well show you these at once,” and she
turned into his lap a handful of bills, amounting in all to
four hundred dollars, due to the different tradesmen of
Troy.
The spot on the nose was decidedly purple, and had
Katy or Mattie been there, they would surely have recognized
the voice which began, “Really, Mrs. Kennedy, I
did not expect this, and 'tis a max—”
“Never mind the maxim,” and the mouth of the speaker
was covered by a dimpled hand, as Maude Glendower
continued, “It's mean, I know, but as true as I live, I
don't owe another cent. Four hundred dollars is not
much, after all, and you ought to be willing to pay even
more for me, don't you think so, dearest?”
“Ye-es,” faintly answered the Doctor, who, knowing
there was no alternative, gave a check for the whole
amount on a Rochester bank, where he had funds deposited.
Maude Glendower was a charming traveling companion,
and in listening to her lively sallies, and noticing
the admiration she received, the Doctor forgot his lost
four hundred dollars, and by the time they reached Canandaigua,
he believed himself supremely happy in having
such a wife. John was waiting for them, just as
thirteen years before he had waited for blue-eyed Mattie,
and the moment her eye fell upon the carriage he had
borrowed from a neighbor, the new wife exclaimed “Oh,
I hope that lumbering old thing is not ours. It would
give me the rickets to ride in it long.”
“It's borrowed,” the Doctor said, and she continued,
in those matters.”
John rolled his intelligent eyes toward his master,
whose face wore a submissive look, never seen there before.
“Henpecked!” was the negro's mental comment, as he
prepared to start.
When about three miles from the village, the lady
started up, saying, “she had left her shawl, and must go
back immediately.”
“There is not time,” said the Doctor, “for the sun is
already nearly set. It will be perfectly safe until we send
for it.”
“But it's my India shawl. I must have it,” and the
lady's hand was laid upon the reins to turn the horses'
heads.
Of course they went back, finding the shawl, not at the
hotel, but under the carriage cushions, where the lady
herself had placed it.
“It's a maxim of mine to know what I'm about,” the
Doctor ventured to say, while a silvery voice returned,
“So do I ordinarily, but it is not strange that I forget myself
on my wedding day.”
This was well timed, and wrapping the garment carefully
round her to shelter her from the night air, the doctor
bade the highly amused John drive on. They were
more than half way home when some luscious oranges, in
a small grocery window, caught the bride's eye, and “she
must have some, she always kept them in her room,” she
said, and to the grocer's inquiry, “How many, madam?”
she answered, “Two dozen, at least, and a box of fresh
figs, if you have them. I dote on figs.”
It was the doctor's wedding day. He could not say no,
and with a mental groan he parted company with another
bill, while John, on the platform without, danced the
“double shuffle” in token of his delight. There was a
second grocery to be passed, but by taking a more circuitous
route it could be avoided, and the discomfited
bridegroom bade John “go through the Hollow.”
“Yes, sar,” answered the knowing negro, turning the
heads of the unwilling horses in a direction which would
not bring them home so soon, by one whole hour.
But the grocery was shunned, and so the doctor did
not care even if the clock did strike nine just as they
stopped at their own gate. The night was dark and the
bride could not distinguish the exterior of the house,
neither was the interior plainly discernible, lighted as it
was with an oil lamp and a single tallow candle. But she
scarcely thought of this, so intent was she upon the beautiful
face of the crippled boy, who sat in his arm chair,
eagerly awaiting her arrival.
“This is Louis,” the father said, and the scornful eyes
which with one rapid glance had scanned the whole
apartment, filled with tears as they turned toward the
boy.
Dropping on one knee before him, the lady parted the
silken hair from his forehead, saying very gently, “You
must be like your mother, save that your eyes are brown,
and hers were blue. May I be your mother, Louis? Will
you call me so?”
Very wonderingly the child gazed into her face. It
was radiantly beautiful, while the dreamy eyes rested
upon him with such a yearning look that his heart went
out toward her at once, and winding his arms around her
mother.”
For a moment Maude Glendower held him to her bosom,
while her thoughts went back to the long ago when
another face much like his had rested there, and another
voice had whispered in her ear, “I love you, Maude Glendower.”
That voice was hushed in death, but through
the child it spoke to her again, and with a throbbing heart
she vowed to be to the crippled boy what Mattie herself
would well approve, could she speak from her low bed
beneath the willows.
“What of your sister?” the lady said at last, rising to
her feet. “Is she recovering her sight?”
“Nellie writes there is hope,” said Louis, “though she
did not receive attention soon enough, the physician says.”
There was reproach, contempt, and anger in the large
black eyes which sought the doctor's face, but the tallow
candle burned but dim, and so he did not see it.
“It will be a great misfortune to her, and very hard on
me if she is blind, for of course I must take care of her,”
he said at last, while his wife indignantly replied, “Take
care of her! Yes, I'd sell my diamonds rather than see
her suffer!”
Supper was now announced, and in examining the arrangement
of the table, and inspecting the furniture of
the dining-room, the bride forgot every thing save the
novelty of her situation. Mentally styling the house “an
old rookery,” she forced back the bitter feelings which
would rise up when she thought how unlike was all this
to what she had been accustomed. It needed but one
glance of her keen eyes to read the whole, and ere the
close of the next day, she understood her position perfectly,
to make the most of every thing. She knew the
doctor had money, aye, and she knew, too, how to get it
from him, but she was too wary to undertake it in any of
the ordinary ways. She did not tell him how desolate
the old house seemed, or that she was home-sick because
of its desolation; but after she had been there a few days,
she sat down by his side, and told him that with a few improvements
it could be made the most delightful spot in
all the country, and she was glad she had come there to
help him to fix it up. She knew he had exquisite taste,
and, as he was now at leisure, they would contrive together
how their parlors could be improved. She didn't
quite like them as they were, the window lights were
too small, and they must have the large panes of glass.
Then satin paper on the walls would look so much better,
and the carpets, though really very nice, were hardly
good enough for a man of Dr. Kennedy's standing in
society.
“But,” gasped the doctor, “the one in the back parlor
is bran new—has scarcely been used at all, and it is a
maxim of mine”—
“Your maxim is good, undoubtedly,” interrupted the
lady, “but the chambers all need recarpeting, and this
will exactly fit Maude's room, which I intend fixing beautifully
before she returns.”
The doctor looked aghast, and his wife continued: “The
season is so far advanced that it is hardly worth while to
make any changes now, but next spring I shall coax you
into all manner of repairs. I do wonder what makes that
spot on your nose so red at times. You are really very
fine looking when it is not there. It is gone,” she continued,
she said, “We won't talk of the future now, but seriously,
we must have some new Brussels carpets, and a furnace
to warm the whole house.”
Here she shivered and coughed quite naturally, after
which she returned to the charge, saying, “her family
were consumptive, and she could not endure the cold.”
“But, my dear,” said the doctor, “it will cost a great
deal of money to carry out your plans.”
“Oh, no, not much,” she answered, “give me five hundred
dollars and I will do every thing that is necessary
to make us comfortable through the winter.”
“Five hundred dollars, Mrs. Kennedy!” and the doctors
gray eyes looked as they used to look when Katy and
Mattie asked him for five. “Five hundred dollars! Preposterous!
Why, during the seven years I lived with
your predecessor, she did not cost me that!”
From old Hannah, Mrs. Kennedy had learned how her
predecessor had been stinted by the doctor, and could he
that moment have looked into her heart, he would have
seen there a fierce determination to avenge the wrongs so
meekly borne. But she did not embody her thoughts in
words, neither did she deem it advisable to press the subject
further at that time, so she waited for nearly a week,
and then resumed the attack with redoubled zeal.
“We must have another servant,” she said. “Old
Hannah is wholly inefficient, and so I have engaged a colored
woman from the hotel; and did I tell you, I have
spoken to a man about the furnace we are going to have,
and I also told Mr. Jenks to buy me one hundred yards of
Brussels carpeting, in New York. He's gone for goods,
you know.”
“Really, Mrs. Kennedy, this exceeds all. My former
companions saw fit to consult me always. Really, one
hundred yards of carpeting, and a black cook! Astonishing,
Mrs.Kennedy—astonishing!”
The doctor was quite too much confounded to think of
a single maxim, for his wife's effrontery took him wholly
by surprise. She was a most energetic woman, and her
proceedings were already the theme of many a tea-table
gossip, in which the delighted villagers exulted that Dr.
Kennedy had at last found his match. Yes, he had found
his match, and when next day the black cook, Rose, came,
and Mr. Brown asked when he would have the furnace
put in his cellar, there was that in the eye of his better
half, which prompted a meek submission. When the bill
for the new carpets was handed him he again rebelled but
all to no purpose. He paid the requisite amount, and
tried to swallow his wrath with his wife's consolatory remark,
that “they were the handsomest couple in town,
and ought to have the handsomest carpets!”
One day he found her giving directions to two or three
men who were papering, painting, and whitewashing
Maude's room, and then, as John remarked, he seemed
more like himself than he had done before since his last
marriage.
“If Maude is going to be blind,” he said, “it can make
no difference with her how her chamber looks, and 'tis a
maxim of mine to let well enough alone.”
“I wish you would cure yourself of those disagreeable
maxims,” was the lady's cool reply, as, stepping to the
head of the stairs, she bade John “bring up the carpet, if
it were whipped enough.”
“Allow me to ask what you are going to do with it?”
parlor carpet swinging on the line.
“Why, I told you I was going to fit up Maude's room.
She is coming home in a week, you know, and I am preparing
a surprise. I have ordered a few pieces of light
furniture from the cabinet-maker's, and I think her chamber
would look nicely if the walls were only a little higher.
They can't be raised, I suppose?”
She was perfectly collected, and no queen on her throne
ever issued her orders with greater confidence in their
being obeyed; and when, that night, she said to her
husband, “These men must have their pay,” he had no
alternative but to open his purse and give her what she
asked. Thus it was with every thing. Hers was the
ruling spirit, and struggle as he would, the doctor was
always compelled to submit.
“Ki, aint him cotchin' it good?” was John's mental
comment, as he daily watched the proceedings, and while
Hannah pronounced him “the hen-peck-ed-est man she
had ever seen,” the amused villagers knew that will had
met will, and been conquered!
16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE BLIND GIRL.
Maude's chamber was ready at last, and very inviting
it looked with its coat of fresh paint, its cheerful paper,
bright carpet, handsome bedstead, marble washstand, and
mahogany bureau, on which were arranged various little
articles for the toilet. The few pieces of furniture which
Mrs. Kennedy had ordered from the cabinet-maker's had
amounted, in all, to nearly one hundred dollars, but the
bill was not yet sent in, and, in blissful ignorance of the
surprise awaiting him, the doctor rubbed his hands and
tried to seem pleased, when his wife, passing her arm in
his, led him to the room, which she compelled him to admire.
“It was all very nice,” he said, “but wholly unnecessary
for a blind girl. What was the price of this?” he
asked, laying his hand upon the bedstead.
“Only twenty-five dollars. Wasn't it cheap?” and the
wicked black eyes danced with merriment at the loud
groan which succeeded the answer.
“Twenty-five dollars!” he exclaimed. “Why, the bedstead
Mattie and I slept on for seven years only cost three,
and it is now as good as new.”
“But times have changed,” said the lady. “Every
body has nicer things; besides, do you know people used
to talk dreadfully about a man of your standing being so
stingy. But I have done considerable toward correcting
give me fifty cents to buy cologne for this.” And she
took up a beautiful bottle which stood upon the bureau.
The doctor had not fifty cents in change, but a dollar
bill would suit her exactly as well, she said, and secretly
exulting in her mastery over the self-willed tyrant, she
suffered him to depart, saying to himself, as he decended
the stair, “Twenty-five dollars for one bedstead. I won't
stand it! I'll do something!”
“What are you saying, dear?” a melodious voice called
after him, and so accelerated his movements that the
extremity of his coat disappeared from view, just as the
lady Maude reached the head of the stairs.
“Oh!” was the involuntary exclamation of Louis, who
had been a spectator of the scene, and who felt intuitively
that his father had found his mistress.
During her few weeks residence at Laurel Hill, Maude
Glendower had bound the crippled boy to herself by many
a deed of love, and whatever she did was sure of meeting
his approval. With him she had consulted concerning his
sister's room, yielding often to his artist taste in the arrangement
of the furniture, and now that the chamber
was ready, they both awaited impatiently the arrival of
its occupant. Nellie's last letter had been rather encouraging,
and Maude herself had appended her name at its
close. The writing was tremulous and uncertain, but it
brought hope to the heart of the brother, who had never
really believed it possible for his sister to be blind. Very
restless he seemed on the day when she was expected, and
when, just as the sun was setting, the carriage drove to
the gate, a faint sickness crept over him, and wheeling his
chair to the window of her room, he looked anxiously at
“If she walks alone, I shall know she is not very blind,”
he said, and with clasped hands he watched her intently
as she came slowly toward the house with Nellie a little
in advance.
Nearer and nearer she came—closer and closer the burning
forehead was pressed against the window-pane, and
hope beat high in Louis's heart, when suddenly she turned
aside—her foot rested on the withered violets which grew
outside the walk, and her hand groped in the empty air.
“She's blind—she's blind,” said Louis, and with a moaning
cry, he laid his head upon the broad arm of his chair,
sobbing most bitterly.
Meantime below there was a strange interview between
the new mother and her children, Maude Glendower
clasping her namesake in her arms, and weeping over her
as she had never wept before but once, and that when the
moonlight shone upon her sitting by a distant grave.
Pushing back the clustering curls, she kissed the open
brow and looked into the soft black eyes with a burning
gaze, which penetrated the shadowy darkness and brought
a flush to the cheek of the young girl.
“Maude Remington! Maude Remington!” she said,
dwelling long upon the latter name, “the sight of you
affects me painfully, you are so like one I have lost. I
shall love you, Maude Remington, for the sake of the
dead, and you, too, must love me, and call me mother—
will you?” and her lips again touched those of the astonished
maiden.
Though fading fast, the light was not yet quenched in
Maude's eyes, and very wistfully she scanned the face of
feature, as she said, “I will love you, beautiful lady,
though you can never be to me what my gentle mother
was.”
At the sound of that voice, Maude Glendower started
suddenly, and turning aside, so her words could not be
heard, she murmured sadly, “Both father and child prefer
her to me,”—then recollecting herself, she offered her
hand to the wondering Nellie, saying, “Your sister's misfortune
must be my excuse for devoting so much time to
her, when you, as my eldest daughter, were entitled to
my first attention.”
Her step-mother's evident preference for Maude had
greatly offended the selfish Nellie, who coldly answered,
“Don't trouble yourself, madam. It's not of the least
consequence. But where is my father? He will welcome
me, I am sure.”
The feeling too often existing between step-mothers and
step-daughters had sprung into life, and henceforth the
intercourse of Maude Glendower and Nellie Kennedy
would be marked with studied politeness, and nothing
more. But the former did not care. So long as her eye
could feast itself upon the face and form of Maude Remington,
she was content, and as Nellie left the room, she
wound her arm around the comparatively helpless girl,
saying, “Let me take you to your brother.”
Although unwilling, usually, to be led, Maude yielded
now, and suffered herself to be conducted to the chamber
where Louis watched for her coming. She could see
enough to know there was a change, and clasping her companion's
hand, she said, “I am surely indebted to you for
this surprise.”
“Maude, Maude!” and the tones of Louis' voice trembled
with joy, as stretching his arms toward her, he cried,
“You can see.”
Guided more by the sound than by actual vision, Maude
flew like lightning to his side, and kneeling before him,
hid her face in his lap, while he bent fondly over her, beseeching
her to say if she could see. It was a most
touching sight, and drawing near, Maude Glendower
mingled her tears with those of the unfortunate children,
on whom affliction had laid her heavy hand.
Maude Remington was naturally of a hopeful nature,
and though she had passed through many an hour of anguish,
and had rebelled against the fearful doom which
seemed to be approaching, she did not yet despair. She
still saw a little—could discern colors and forms, and could
tell one person from another.
“I shall be better by and by,” she said, when assured
by the sound of retreating footsteps that they were alone.
“I am following implicitly the doctor's directions, and I
hope to see by Christmas—but if I do not”—
Here she broke down entirely, and wringing her hands
she cried, “Oh, brother,—brother, must I be blind? I
can't—I can't, for who will care for poor, blind, helpless
Maude?”
“I, sister, I,” and hushing his own great sorrow, the
crippled boy comforted the weeping girl just as she had
once comforted him, when in the quiet grave-yard he had
lain him down in the long, rank grass, and wished that he
might die. “Pa's new wife will care for you, too,” he
said. “She's a beautiful woman, Maude, and a good one,
I am sure, for she cried so hard over mother's grave, and
her voice was so gentle when, just as though she had
kind to your children.”
“Ah, that I will—I will,” came faintly from the hall
without, where Maude Glendower stood, her eyes riveted
upon the upturned face of Maude, and her whole body
swelling with emotion.
A sad heritage had been bequeathed to her—a crippled
boy and a weak, blind girl—but in some respects she was
a noble woman, and as she gazed upon the two, she resolved
that so long as she should live, so long should
the helpless children of Matty Remington have a stead-fast
friend. Hearing her husband's voice below, she
glided down the stairs, leaving Louis and Maude really
alone.
“Sister,” said Louis, after a moment, “what of Mr. De
Vere? Is he true to the last?”
“I have released him,” answered Maude. “I am nothing
to him now,” and very calmly she proceeded to tell
him of the night when she had said to Mr. De Vere,
“My money is gone—my sight is going too, and I give
you back your troth, making you free to marry another,
Nellie, if you choose. She is better suited to you than
I have ever been.”
Though secretly pleased at her offering to give him up,
J. C. made a show of resistance, but she had prevailed at
last, and with the assurance that he should always esteem
her highly, he consented to the breaking of the engagement,
and the very next afternoon, rode out with Nellie
Kennedy.
“He will marry her, I think,” Maude said, as she finished
narrating the circumstances, and looking into her
calm, unruffled face, Louis felt sure that she had outlived
De Vere.
“And what of James?” he asked. “Is he still in New
Orleans.”
“He is,” answered Maude. “He has a large wholesale
establishment there, and as one of the partners is sick, he
has taken his place for the winter. He wrote to his cousin
often, bidding him spare no expense for me, and offering
to pay the bills if J. C. was not able.”
Awhile longer they conversed, and then they were
summoned to supper, Mrs. Kennedy coming herself for
Maude, who did not refuse to be assisted by her.
“The wind hurt my eyes—they will be better to-morrow,”
she said, and, with her old sunny smile, she greeted
her step-father, and then turned to Hannah and John, who
had come in to see her.
But alas for the delusion! The morrow brought no improvement,
neither the next day, nor the next, and as the
world grew dim, there crept into her heart a sense of utter
desolation, which neither the tender love of Maude
Glendower, nor yet the untiring devotion of Louis, could
in any degree dispel. All day would she sit opposite the
window, her eyes fixed on the light with a longing, eager
gaze, as if she feared that the next moment it might
leave her forever. Whatever he could do for her Louis
did, going to her room each morning, and arranging her
dress and hair just as he knew she used to wear it. She
would not suffer any one else to do this for her, and in
performing these little offices, Louis felt that he was only
repaying her in part for all she had done for him.
Christmas eve came at last, and if she thought of what
was once to have been on the morrow, she gave no outward
family good night. The next morning Louis went often
to her door, and, hearing no sound within, fancied she was
sleeping, until at last, as the clock struck nine, he ventured
to go in. Maude was awake, and advancing to her side, he
bade her a “Merry Christmas,” playfully chiding her the
while for having slept so late. A wild, started expression
flashed over her face, as she said: “Late, Louis! Is it
morning, then? I've watched so long to see the light?”
Louis did not understand her, and he answered, “Morning,
yes. The sunshine is streaming into the room. Don't
you see it?”
“Sunshine!” and Maude's lips quivered with fear, as
springing from her pillow, she whispered faintly, “Lead
me to the window.”
He complied with her request, watching her curiously,
as she laid both hands in the warm sunshine, which bathed
her fair, round arms, and shone upon her raven hair. She
felt what she could not see, and Louis Kennedy ne'er forgot
the agonized expression of the white, beautiful face,
which turned toward him, as the wretched Maude moaned
piteously, “Yes, brother, 'tis morning to you, but dark,
dark night to me. “I'm blind! oh, I'm blind!”
She did not faint, she did not shriek, but she stood
there rigid and immovable, her countenance giving fearful
token of the terrible storm within. She was battling
fiercely with her fate, and until twice repeated, she did
not hear the childish voice which said to her pleadingly,
“Don't look so, sister. You frighten me, and there may
be some hope yet.”
“Hope,” she repeated bitterly, turning her sightless
eyes toward him, “There is no hope but death.”
“Maude,” and Louis's voice was like a plaintive harp,
so mournful was its tone, “Maude, once in the very spot
where mother is lying now, you said, because I was a
cripple, you would love me all the more. You have kept
that promise well, my sister. You have been all the
world to me, and now that you are blind, I, too, will love
you more. I will be your light—your eyes, and when
James De Vere comes back”—
“No, no, no,” moaned Maude, sinking upon the floor.
“Nobody will care for me. Nobody will love a blind
girl; oh, is it wicked to wish that I could die, lying here
in the sunshine, which I shall never see again?”
There was a movement at the door, and Mrs. Kennedy
appeared, starting back as her eye fell upon the face of
the prostrate girl, who recognized her step, and murmured
sadly, “Mother, I'm blind, wholly blind.”
Louis's grief had been too great for tears, but Maude
Glendower's flowed at once, and bending over the white-faced
girl, she strove to comfort her, telling her how she
would always love her, that every wish should be grat
ified.
“Then give me back my sight, oh, give me back my
sight,” and Maude clasped her mother's hands imploringly.
Ere long she grew more calm, and suffered herself to
be dressed as usual, but she would not admit any one to
her room, neither on that day nor for many succeeding
days. At length, however, this feeling wore away, and
in the heartfelt sympathy of her family and friends, she
found a slight balm for her grief. Even the Doctor was
softened, and when Messrs. Beebe & Co. sent in a bill of
ninety-five dollars for various articles of furniture, the
“It was for Maude, you know, poor Maude!”
“Poor Maude!” seemed to be the sentiment of the
whole household, and Nellie herself said it many a time,
as with unwonted tenderness she caressed the unfortunate
girl, fearing the while lest she had done her a wrong, for
she did not then understand the nature of Maude's feelings
for J. C. DeVere, to whom Nellie was now engaged.
Urged on by Mrs. Kelsey, and a fast diminishing income,
J. C. had written to Nellie soon after her return to Laurel
Hill, asking her to be his wife. He did not disguise his
former love for Maude, neither did he pretend to have
outlived it, but he said he could not wed a blind girl.
And Nellie, forgetting her assertion that she would never
marry one who had first proposed to Maude, was only too
much pleased to answer Yes. And when J. C. insisted
upon an early day, she named the fifth of March, her
twentieth birthday. She was to be married at home, and
as the preparations for the wedding would cause a great
amount of bustle and confusion in the house, it seemed
necessary that Maude should know the cause, and with a
beating heart Nellie went to her one day to tell the news.
Very composedly Maude listened to the story, and then as
composedly replied, “I am truly glad, and trust you will
be happy.”
“So I should be,” answered Nellie, “if I were sure you
did not care.”
“Care! for whom?” returned Maude. “For J. C. De
Vere? Every particle of love for him has died out, and
I am now inclined to think I never entertained for him
more than a girlish fancy, while he certainly did not truly
care for me.”
This answer was very quieting to Nellies conscience,
and in unusually good spirits she abandoned herself to the
excitement which usually precedes a wedding. Mrs. Kennedy,
too, entered heart and soul into the matter, and
arming herself with the plea, that “it was his only daughter,
who would probably never be married again,” she
coaxed her husband into all manner of extravagances, and
by the first of March, few would have recognized the interior
of the house, so changed was it by furniture and
repairs. Handsome damask curtains shaded the parlor
windows, which were further improved by large heavy
panes of glass. Mattie's piano had been removed to
Maude's chamber, and its place supplied by a new and
costly instrument, which the crafty woman made her husband
believe was intended by Mrs. Kelsey who selected it
as a bridal present for her niece. The furnace was in splendid
order, keeping the whole house, as Hannah said,
“hotter than an oven,” while the disturbed doctor lamented
daily over the amount of fuel it consumed, and nightly
counted the contents of his purse, or reckoned up how
much he was probably worth. But neither his remonstrances
nor yet his frequent groans, had any effect upon his wife.
Although she had no love for Nellie, she was determined
upon a splendid wedding, one which would make folks
talk for months, and when her liege lord complained of
the confusion, she suggested to him a furnished room in
the garret, where it would be very quiet for him to reckon
up the bills, which from time to time she brought him.
“Might as well gin in at oncet,” John said to him one
day, when he borrowed ten dollars for the payment of an
oyster bill. “I tell you she's got more besom in her than
both them t' other ones.”
The doctor probably thought so too, for he became
comparatively submissive, though he visited often the
sunken graves, where he found a mournful solace in reading
“Katy, wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged twenty-nine,”—
“Matty, second wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged thirty,” and
once he was absolutely guilty of wondering how the
words “Maude, third wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged 41,”
would look. But he repented him of the wicked thought,
and when on his return from his “grave-yard musings,”
Maude, aged 41 asked him for the twenty dollars which
she saw a man pay to him that morning, he gave it to her
without a word.
Meanwhile the fickle J. C. in Rochester, was one moment
regretting the step he was about to take, and the
next wishing the day would hasten, so he could “have it
over with.” Maude Remington had secured a place in
his affections which Nellie could not fill, and though he
had no wish to marry her now, he tried to make himself
believe that but for her misfortune, she should still have
become his wife.
“Jim would marry her, I dare say, even if she were
blind as a bat,” he said, “but then he is able to support
her,” and reminded by this of an unanswered letter from
his cousin, who was still in New Orleans, he sat down and
wrote, telling him of Maude's total blindness, and then,
almost in the next sentence saying that his wedding was
fixed for the fifth of March. “There he exclaimed, as he
read over the letter, “I believe I must be crazy, for I
never told him that the bride was Nellie, but no matter,
I'd like to have him think me magnanimous for a while,
and I want to hear what he says.”
Two weeks or more went by, and then there came an
commendation for J. C., who “had shown himself a
man.”
Accompanying the letter was a box containing a most
exquisite set of pearls for the bride, together with a diamond
ring, on which was inscribed, “Cousin Maude.”
“Ain't I in a deuced scrape,” said J. C., as he examined
the beautiful ornaments, “Nellie would be delighted with
them, but she shan't have them, they are not hers. I'll
write to Jim at once, and tell him the mistake,” and seizing
his pen, he dashed off a few lines, little guessing how
much happiness they would carry to the far off city, where
daily and nightly James De Vere fought manfully with
the love that clung with a deathlike grasp to the girl J.
C. had forsaken, the poor, blind, helpless Maude.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
NELLIE'S BRIDAL NIGHT.
The blind girl sat alone in her chamber, listening to
the sound of merry voices in the hall without, or the patter
of feet, as the fast arriving guests tripped up and
down the stairs. She had heard the voice of J. C. De
Vere as he passed her door, but it awoke within her bosom
no lingering regret, and when an hour later, Nellie
stood before her, arrayed in her bridal robes, she passed
her hand caressingly over the flowing curls, the fair, round
face, the satin dress, and streaming veil, saying as she did
so, “I know you are beautiful, my sister, and if a blind
girl's blessing can be of any avail, you have it most cordially.”
Both Mrs. Kennedy and Nellie had urged Maude to be
present at the ceremony, but she shrank from the gaze of
strangers, and preferred remaining in her room, an arrangement
quite satisfactory to J. C., who did not care to
meet her then. It seemed probable that some of the
guests would go up to see her, and knowing this, Mrs.
Kennedy had arranged her curls and dress with unusual
care, saying to her as she kissed her pale cheek, “You are
far more beautiful than the bride.”
And Maude was beautiful. Recent suffering and nonexposure
to the open air had imparted a delicacy to her
expression of her face, and the idea of touching helplessness
which her presence inspired. Her long, fringed
eyelashes rested upon her cheek, and her short, glossy
curls were never more becomingly arranged than now,
when stepping backward a pace or two, Mrs. Kennedy
stopped a moment to admire her again, ere going below
where her presence was already needed.
The din of voices grew louder in the hall, there was a
tread of many feet upon the stairs, succeeded by a solemn
hush, and Maude, listening to every sound, knew that the
man to whom she had been plighted, was giving to another
his marriage vow. She had no love for J. C. De Vere,
but as she sat there alone in her desolation, and thoughts
of her sister's happiness rose up in contrast to her own
dark, hopeless lot, who shall blame her if she covered
her face with her hands, and wept most bitterly. Poor
Maude! It was dark, dark night within, and dark, dark
night without; and her dim eye could not penetrate the
gloom, nor see the star which hung o'er the brow of the
distant hill, where a way-worn man was toiling on. Days
and nights had he traveled, unmindful of fatigue, while
his throbbing heart outstript the steam-god by many a
mile.
The letter had fulfilled its mission, and with one wild
burst of joy when he read that she was free, he started
for the north. He was not expected at the wedding, but
it would be a glad surprise, he knew, and he pressed untiringly
on, thinking but one thought, and that, how he
would comfort the poor, blind Maude. He did not know
that even then her love belonged to him, but he could win
wonderful cure had been wrought, and might be wrought
again.
The bridal was over, and the congratulations nearly so,
when a stranger was announced, an uninvited guest, and
from his arm chair in the corner, Louis saw that it was
the same kind face which had bent so fearlessly over his
pillow little more than six months before. James De
Vere—the name was echoed from lip to lip, but did
not penetrate the silent chamber where Maude sat weeping
yet.
A rapid glance through the rooms assured the young
man that she was not there: and when the summons to
supper was given, he went to Louis and asked him for
his sister.
“She is up-stairs,” said Louis, adding impulsively, “She
will be glad you have come, for she has talked of you so
much.”
“Talked of me!” and the eyes of James De Vere looked
earnestly into Louis's face. “And does she talk of me
still?”
“Yes,” said Louis, “I heard her once when she was
asleep, though I ought not to have mentioned it,” he continued,
suddenly recollecting himself, “for when I told
her, she blushed so red, and bade me not to tell.”
“Take me to her, will you?” said Mr. De Vere, and
following his guide, he was soon opposite the door of
Maude's room.
“Wait a moment,” he exclaimed, passing his fingers
through his hair, and trying in vain to brush from his
coat the dust which had settled there.
“It don't matter, for she can't see,” said Louis, who
comprehended at once the feelings of his companion.
By this time they stood within the chamber, but so absorbed
was Maude in her own grief, that she did not hear
her brother, until he bent over her and whispered in her
ear, “Wake, sister, if you're sleeping. He's come. He's
here!”
She had no need to ask of him who had come. She knew
intuitively, and starting up, her unclosed eyes flashed eagerly
around the room, turning at last toward the door
where she felt that he was standing. James De Vere
remained motionless, watching intently the fair, troubled
face, which had never seemed so fair to him before.
“Brother, have you deceived me? Where is he?”
she said at last, as her listening ear caught no new sound.
“Here, Maude, here,” and gliding to her side, Mr. De
Vere wound his arm around her, and kissing her lips,
called her by the name to which she was getting accustomed,
and which never sounded so soothingly as when
breathed by his melodious voice. “My poor, blind
Maude,” was all he said, but by the clasp of his warm
hand, by the tear she felt upon her cheek, and by his very
silence she knew how deeply he sympathized with her.
Knowing that they would rather be alone, Louis went
below, where many inquiries were making for the guest
who had so suddenly disappeared. The interview between
the two was short, for some of Maude's acquaintance came up
to see her, but it sufficed for Mr. De Vere to learn all that he
cared particularly to know then. Maude did not love J. C.,
whose marriage with another caused her no regret, and
this knowledge made the future seem hopeful and bright.
It was not the time to speak of that future to her, but he
be closed until every possible means had been used for the
restoration of her sight. What wonder then, if she
dreamed that night that she could see again, and that the
good angel by whose agency this blessing had been restored
to her, was none other than James De Vere.
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
COUSIN MAUDE.
Three days had passed since the bridal, and James
still lingered at Laurel Hill, while not very many miles
away his mother waited and wondered why he did not
come. J. C. and Nellie were gone, but ere they had left,
the former sought an interview with Maude, whose placid
brow he kissed tenderly, as he whispered in her ear:
“Fate decreed that you should not be my wife, but I
have made you my sister, and, if I mistake not, another
wishes to make you my cousin.”
To James he had given back the ornaments intended
for another bride than Nellie, saying, as he did so, “Maude
De Vere may wear them yet.”
“What do you mean?” asked James, and J. C. replied:
“I mean that I and not you will have a Cousin
Maude.
“Who might have been your wife?” queried James.
“No,” J. C. answered mournfully, “not my wife, even
if she were not blind. I never satisfied her, and she did
not love me as I know she can love you, who are far
more worthy of her. God bless you both,” and with a
sigh to the memory of what he once hoped would be, J.
C. went from his cousin to his bride, who petulantly
chided him for having staid so long away.
Two days had elapsed since then, and it was night
again—but to the blind girl, drinking in the words of
and the sky undimmed by a single cloud.
“I once called you my cousin, Maude,” the deep-toned
voice said, “and I thought it the sweetest name I had
ever heard, but there is a nearer, dearer name which I
would give to you, even my wife—Maude—shall it be?”
and he looked into her sightless eyes to read her answer.
She had listened eagerly to the story of his love born
so long ago—had held her breath lest she should lose a
single word when he told her how he had battled with
that love, and how his heart had thrilled with joy when
he heard that she was free—but when he asked her to be
his wife, the bright vision faded, and she answered mournfully,
“You know not what you say. You would not
take a blind girl in her helplessness.”
“A thousand-fold dearer to me for that very helplessness,”
he said, and then he told her of the land beyond
the sea, where the physicians were well skilled in everything
pertaining to the eye. “Hither they would go,”
he said, “when the April winds were blowing, and should
the experiment not succeed, he would love and cherish her
all the more.”
Maude knew he was in earnest, and was about to answer
him, when along the hall there came the sound of
little crutches, and over her face there flitted a shadow of
pain. It was the sister-love warring with the love of self,
but James De Vere understood it all, and he hastened to
say, “Louis will go, too, my darling. I have never had
a thought of separating you. In Europe he will have a
rare opportunity for developing his taste. Shall it not
be so?”
“Let him decide,” was Maude's answer, as the crutches
struck the soft carpet of the room.
“Louis,” said Mr. De Vere, “shall Maude go with me
to Europe as my wife?”
“Yes, yes—yes, yes,” was Louis' hasty answer, his
brown eyes filling with tears of joy, when he heard that
he, too, was to accompany them.
Maude could no longer refuse, and she half fancied she
saw the flashing of the diamonds, when James placed upon
her finger the ring, which bore the inscription of “Cousin
Maude.” Before coming there that night, Mr. De Vere
had consulted a New York paper, and found that a steamship
would sail for Liverpool on the 20th of April, about
six weeks from that day.
“We will go in it,” he said, “my blind bird, Louis and
I,” and he parted lovingly the silken tresses of her to
whom this new appellation was given.
There was much in the future to anticipate, and much
in the past which he wished to talk over; so he stayed
with her late that night, and on passing through the lower
hall was greatly surprised to see Mrs. Kennedy still sitting
in the parlor. She had divined the object and result of
his visit, and the moment he was gone, she glided up the
stairs to the room where Maude was quietly weeping for
very joy. The story of the engagement was soon told,
and winding her arm around Maude's neck, Mrs. Kennedy
said, “I rejoice with you, daughter, in your happiness,
but I shall be left so desolate when you and Louis are both
gone.”
Just then her eye caught the ring upon Maude's finger,
and taking it in her hand, she admired its chaste beauty,
and was calculating its probable cost, when glancing at
Maude”—that is my name—the one by which he always
called me. Has it been given to you, too?” and as the
throng of memories that name awakened came rushing
over her, the impulsive woman folded the blind girl to her
bosom, saying to her, “My child, my child, you should
have been!”
“I do not understand you,” said Maude, and Mrs. Kennedy
replied, “It is not meet that we should part ere I
tell you who and what I am. Is the name of Maude
Glendower strange to you? Did you never hear it in
your Vernon home?”
“It seemed familiar to me when J. C. De Vere first
told me of you,” answered Maude, but I cannot recall any
particular time when I heard it spoken. Did you know
my mother?”
“Yes, father and mother both, and loved them, too.
Listen to me, Maude, while I tell you of the past. Though
it seems so long ago, I was a school-girl once, and nightly
in my arms there slept a fair-haired, blue-eyed maiden,
four years my junior, over whom I exercised an elder sister's
care. She loved me—this little blue-eyed girl—and
when your brother first spoke to me, I seemed again to
hear her voice whispering in my ear, `I love you, beautiful
Maude.”'
“It was mother—it was mother!” and Maude Remington
drew nearer to the excited woman, who answered,
“Yes, it was your mother, then little Mattie Reed; we
were at school together in New Haven, and she was my
roommate. We were not at all alike, for I was wholly
selfish, while she found her greatest pleasure in ministering
and then I thought I hated her.”
“Not my mother, lady. You could not hate my mother;”
and the blind eyes flashed as if they would tear away
the veil of darkness in which they were enshrouded, and
gaze upon a woman who could hate sweet Mattie Remington.
“Hush, child, don't look so fiercely at me,” said Maude
Glendower. “Upon your mother's grave I have wept
that sin away, and I know I am forgiven as well as if her
own soft voice had told me so. I loved your father, Maude,
and this was my great error. He was a distant relative
of your mother, whom he always called his cousin. He
visited her often, for he was a college student, and ere I
was aware of it, I loved him, oh, so madly, vainly fancying
my affection was returned. He was bashful, I thought,
for he was not then twenty-one, and by way of rousing
him to action, I trifled with another—with Dr. Kennedy,'
and she uttered the name spitefully, as if it were even now
hateful to her.
“I know it—I know it,” returned Maude, “he told me
that when he first talked with me of you, but I did not suppose
the dark-eyed student was my father.”
“It was none other,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “and you can
form some conception of my love for him, when I tell you
that it has never died away, but is as fresh within my
heart this night, as when I walked with him upon the College
Green, and he called me `Cousin Maude,' for he gave
me that name because of my fondness for Mattie, and he
sealed it with a kiss. Mattie was present at that time,
and had I not been blind, I should have seen how his whole
soul was bound up in her, even while kissing me. I regarded
love children, you know. When she was fifteen, she left
New Haven. I, too, had ceased to be a school-girl, but I
still remained in the city and wrote to her regularly, until
at last, your father came to me, and with the light of a
great joy shining all over his face, told me she was to be
his bride on her sixteenth birthday. She would have
written it herself, he said, only she was a bashful little
creature, and would rather he should tell me. I know not
what I did for the blow was sudden, and took my senses
away. He had been so kind to me of late—had visited
me so often that my heart was full of hope. But it was
all gone now. Mattie Reed was preferred to me, and while
my Spanish blood boiled at the fancied indignity, I said
many a harsh thing of her—I called her designing, deceitful,
and false; and then in my frenzy quitted the room. I
never saw Harry again, for he left the city next morning;
but to my dying hour, I shall not forget the expression of
his face, when I talked to him of Mattie. Turn away,
Maude, turn away! for there is the same look now upon
your face. But I have repented of that act, though not
till years after. I tore up Mattie's letters. I said I would
burn the soft brown tress—”
“Oh, woman, woman! you did not burn my mother's
hair!” and with a shudder Maude unwound the arm
which so closely encircled her.
“No, Maude, no. I couldn't. It wonld not leave my
fingers, but coiled around them with a loving grasp. I
have it now, and esteem it my choicest treasure. When
I heard that you were born, my heart softened toward the
young girl. Mother and I wrote, asking that Harry's
child might be called for me. I did not disguise my love
that his daughter bore my name. My letter did not reach
them until you had been baptized Matilda, which was the
name of your mother and grandmother, but, to prove their
goodness, they ever after called you Maude.”
“Then I was named for you;” and Maude Remington
came back to the embrace of Maude Glendower, who,
kissing her white brow, continued: “Two years afterward
I found myself in Vernon, stopping for a night at the hotel.
“I will see them in the morning,” I said—“Harry,
Mattie, and the little child;” and I asked the landlord
where you lived. I was standing upon the stairs, and in
the partial darkness he could not see my anguish, when
he replied, “Bless you, miss. Harry Remington died a
fortnight ago.”
“How I reached my room I never knew, but reach it I
did, and half an hour later I knelt by his grave, where I
wept away every womanly feeling of my heart, and then
went back to the giddy world, the gayest of the gay. I
did not seek an interview with your mother, though I
have often regretted it since. Did she never speak of me?
Think. Did you never hear my name?”
“In Vernon, I am sure I did,” answered Maude, “but
I was then too young to receive a very vivid impression,
and after we came here, mother, I fear, was too unhappy
to talk much of the past.”
“I understand it,” answered Maude Glendower, and
over her fine features there stole a hard, dark look, as she
continued, “I can see how one of her gentle nature would
wither and die in this atmosphere, and forgive me, Maude,
she never loved your father as I loved him, for had he
called me wife, I should never have been here.
“What made you come?” asked Maude; and the lady
answered, “For Louis's sake and yours I came. I never
lost sight of your mother. I knew she married the man
I rejected, and from my inmost soul I pitied her. But I
am redressing her wrongs and those of that other woman,
who wore her life away within these gloomy walls. Money
is his idol, and when you touch his purse you touch his
tenderest point. But I have opened it, and, struggle as
he may, it shall not be closed again.”
She spoke bitterly, and Maude knew that Dr. Kennedy
had more than met his equal in that woman of iron will.
“I should have made a splendid carpenter,” the lady
continued, “for nothing pleases me more than the sound
of the hammer and saw, and when you are gone, I shall
solace myself with fixing the entire house. I must have
excitement, or die as the others did.”
“Maude—Mrs. Kennedy, do you know what time it
is?” came from the foot of the stairs, and Mrs. Kennedy
answered, “It is one o'clock, I believe.”
“Then why are you sitting up so late, and why is that
lamp left burning in the parlor, with four tubes going off
at once? It's a maxim of mine”—
“Spare your maxims, do. I'm coming directly,” and
kissing the blind girl affectionately, Mrs. Kennedy went
down to her liege lord, whom she found extinguishing
the light, and gently shaking the lamp to see how much
fluid had been uselessly wasted.
He might have made some conjugal remark, but the
expression of her face forbade anything like reproof, and
he soon found use for his powers of speech in the invectives
he heaped upon the long rocker of the chair over
which he stumbled as he groped his way back to the bedroom,
lamentations which he made over his “bruised shin.”
The story she had been telling, had awakened many bitter
memories in Maude Glendower's bosom, and for hours
she turned uneasily from side to side, trying in vain to
sleep. Maude Remington, too, was wakeful, thinking
over the strange tale she had heard, and marveling that
her life should be so closely interwoven with that of the
woman whom she called her mother.
“I love her all the more,” she said, “I shall pity her
so, staying here alone, when I am gone.”
Then her thoughts turned upon the future, when she
would be the wife of James De Vere, and while wondering
if she should really ever see again, she fell asleep just
as the morning was dimly breaking in the east.
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
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
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,
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
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.
20. CHAPTER XX.
THE SEXTON.
The Methodist Society of Laurel Hill had built them
a new church upon the corner of the common, and as a
mark of respect, had made black John their sexton. Perfectly
delighted with the office, he discharged his duties
faithfully, particularly the ringing of the bell, in which
accomplishment he greatly excelled his Episcopal rival,
who tried to imitate his peculiar style in vain. No one
could make such music as the negro, or ring so many
changes. In short, it was conceded that on great occasions,
he actually made the old bell talk; and one day,
toward the last of September, and five months after the
events of the preceding chapter, an opportunity was presented
for a display of his skill.
The afternoon was warm and sultry, and, overcome by
the heat, the village loungers had disposed of themselves,
some on the long piazza of the hotel, and others in front
of the principal store, where, with elevated heels and busy
jackknives, they whittled out shapeless things, or made
remarks concerning any luckless female who chanced to
pass. While thus engaged, they were startled by a loud,
sharp ring from the belfry of the Methodist church, succeeded
by a merry peal, which seemed to proclaim some
joyful event. It was a musical, rollicking ring, consisting
of three rapid strokes, the last prolonged a little, as if to
give it emphasis.
“What's up now?” the loungers said to each other,
as the three strokes were repeated in rapid succession.
“What's got into John?” and those who were fortunate
enough to own houses in the village, went into the street
to assure themselves there was no fire.
“It can't be a toll,” they said. “It's too much like a
dancing tune for that,” and as the sound continued, they
walked rapidly to the church, where they found the
African bending himself with might and main to his task,
the perspiration dripping from his sable face, which was
all aglow with happiness.
It was no common occasion which had thus affected
John, and to the eager questioning of his audience, he
replied, “Can't you hear the ding—dong—de-el. Don't
you know what it says? Listen now,” and the bell again
rang forth the three short sounds. But the crowd still
professed their ignorance, and, pausing a moment, John
said, with a deprecating manner: “I'll tell you the first
word, and you'll surely guess the rest: it's `Maude.'
Now try 'em,” and wiping the sweat from his brow, he
turned again to his labor of love, nodding his head with
every stroke.
“No ear at all for music,” he muttered, as he saw they
were as mystified as ever, and in a loud, clear voice, he
sang, “Maude can-see-e! Maude can-see-e!!”
It was enough. Most of that group had known and
respected the blind girl, and joining at once in the negro's
enthusiasm, they sent up a deafening shout for “Maude
De Vere, restored to sight.”
John's face at that moment was a curiosity, so divided
was it between smiles and tears, the latter of which won
the mastery, as with the last hurrah the bell gave one
saying to those who gathered round, “Will 'em hear that,
think, in France?”
“How do you know it is true?” asked one, and John
replied, “she writ her own self to tell it, and sent her
love to me; think of dat—sent her love to an old nigger!”
and John glanced at the bell, as if he intended a repetition
of the rejoicings.
Surely Maude De Vere, across the sea, never received a
greater tribute of respect than was paid to her that day
by the warm-hearted John, who, the moment he heard the
glad news, sped away to proclaim it from the church-tower.
The letter had come that afternoon, and, as John
said, was written by Maude herself. The experiment had
been performed weeks before, but she would wait until
assurance was doubly sure, ere she sent home the joyful
tidings. It was a wonderful cure, for the chance of success
was small, but the efforts used in her behalf had
succeeded, and she could see again.
“But what of Louis?” asked Dr. Kennedy, who was
listening while his wife read to him the letter. “What of
Louis? Have they done any thing for him?”
“They had tried, but his deformity could not be helped,”
and with a pang of disappointment the father was turning
away, when something caught his ear, which caused
him to listen again.
“You don't know,” Maude wrote, “how great a lion
Louis is getting to be. He painted a picture of me just
as I looked that dreadful morning when I stood in the
sunshine and felt that I was blind. It is a strange, wild
thing, but its wildness is relieved by the angel-faced boy
who looks up at me so pityingly. Louis is perfect, but
expression of fierce despair. Strange as it may seem, this
picture took the fancy of the excitable French, and ere
Louis was aware of it, he found himself famous. They
come to our rooms daily to see le petit artist, and many
ask for pictures or sketches, for which they pay an exorbitant
price. One wealthy American gentleman brought
him a daguerreotype of his dead child, with the request
that he would paint from it a life-sized portrait, and if he
succeed in getting a natural face, he is to receive five hundred
dollars. Think of little Louis Kennedy earning five
hundred dollars, for he will succeed. The daguerreotype
is much like Nellie, which will make it easier for Louis.”
This was very gratifying to Dr. Kennedy, who that day
more than once repeated to himself, “Five hundred dollars:
it's a great deal of money for him to earn; maybe
he'll soon be able to help me, and mercy knows I shall
soon need it if that woman continues her unheard-of extravagances.
More city company to-morrow, and I heard
her this morning tell that Jezebel in the kitchen to put
the whites of sixteen eggs into one loaf of cake. What am
I coming to?” and Dr. Kennedy groaned in spirit as he
walked through the handsome apartments, seeking in vain
for a place where he could sit and have it seem as it used
to do, when the rocking-chair which Matty had brought
stood invitingly in the middle of the room, where now a
centre-table was standing, covered with books and ornaments
of the most expensive kind.
Since last we looked in upon her Maude Glendower had
ruled with a high hand. She could not live without excitement,
and rallying from her grief at parting with her
child, she plunged at once into repairs, tearing down and
When they were about it, she said, they might as well
have all the modern improvements, and water, both hot
and cold, was accordingly carried to all the sleeping apartments,
the fountain-head being a large spring, distant from
the house nearly half a mile. Gas she could not have,
though the doctor would hardly have been surprised had
she ordered the laying of pipes from Rochester to Laurel
Hill, so utterly reckless did she seem. She was fond of
company, and as she had visited every body, so every
body in return must visit her, she said, and toward the
last of summer she filled the house with city people, who
vastly enjoyed the good cheer with which her table was
always spread.
John's desire to see the fun was more than satisfied,
as was also Hannah's, and after the receipt of Maude's
letter, the latter determined to write herself, “and let Miss
De Vere know just how things was managed.” In order
to do this, it was necessary to employ an amanuensis, and
she enlisted the services of the gardener, who wrote her
exact language, a mixture of negro, Southern, and Yankee.
A portion of this letter we give to the reader.
After expressing her pleasure that Maude could see,
and saying that she believed the new Miss to be a good
woman, but a mighty queer one, she continued:—
“The doin's here is wonderful, and you'd hardly know
the old place. Thar's a big dining-room run out to the
South, with an expansion-table mighty nigh a rod long,
and what's more, it's allus full, too, of city stuck-ups—
and the way they do eat! I haint churned nary pound
of butter since you went away. Why, bless yer soul, we
has to buy. Do you mind that patch of land what the
grows there now, and t'other garden raises nothin' but
flowers and strabries, and thar's a man hired on purpose
to tend 'em. He's writin' this for me. Thar's a tower
run up in the North-east eend, and when it's complete,
she's goin' to have a what you call 'em—somethin' that
blows up the water—oh, a fountain. Thar's one in the
yard, and, if you'll believe it, she's got one of Cary's
rotary pumpin' things, that folks are runnin' crazy about,
and every hot day she keeps John a turnin' the injin' to
squirt the water all over the yard, and make it seem like
a thunder-shower! Thar's a bath-room, and when them
city folks is here some on 'em is a washin' in thar all the
time. I don't do nothin' now but wash and iron, and if
I have fifty towels I have one! But what pesters me
most is the wide skirts I has to do up; Miss Canady wears
a hoop bigger than an amberell. They say Miss Empress,
who makes these things, lives in Paris, and I wish you'd
put yourself out a little to see her, and ask her, for me, to
quit sendin' over them fetched hoops. Thar aint no sense
in it! We've got jiggers in every chamber where the
water spirts out. Besides turnin' the injin, John drives
the horses in the new carriage. Dr. Canady looks poorly,
and yet madam purrs round him like a kitten, but I knows
the claws is thar. She's about broke him of usin' them
maxims of his, and your poor marm would enjoy it a
spell seein' him paid off, but she'd pity him after a while.
I do, and if things continners to grow wus, I shall just ask
pra'rs for him in my meetin'. Elder Blossom is powerful
at that. My health is considerable good, but I find I grow
old.
none the happiest. They live with Miss Kelsey yet, but
thar's a story round that she's a gwine to marry again, and
the man don't like De Vere, and won't have him thar, so
if the doctor should run out, as I'm afraid he will, what'll
them lazy critters do? Nellie's got to be kinder sozzlin'
in her dress, and he has took to chawin' tobacker by the
pound. They was here a spell ago, and deaf as I be, I
hearn 'em have one right smart quarrel. He said she was
slatterly, or somethin' like that, and she called him a fool,
and said she 'most knew he wished he'd took you, blind
as you was, and he said, kinder sorry-like, “Maude would
never of called me a fool, nor wore such holes in the heels
of her stockin's.” I couldn't hear no more, but I knew by
her voice that she was cryin', and when I went below and
seen the doctor out behind the wood-shed a figgerin' up,
says I to myself, “ef I was a Univarselar, I should b'lieve
they was all on 'em a gittin thar pay,” but bein' I'm a
Methodis', I don't believe nothin'.”
This letter, which conveyed to Maude a tolerably correct
idea of matters at home, will also show to the reader
the state of feeling existing between J. C. and Nellie.
They were not suited to each other, and though married
but seven months, there had been many a quarrel besides
the one which Hannah overheard. Nellie demanded of
her husband more love than he had to bestow, and the
consequence was, a feeling of bitter jealousy on her part
and an increasing coldness on his. They were an ill-assorted
couple, utterly incapable of taking care of themselves,
and when they heard from Mrs. Kelsey that she
really contemplated a second marriage, they looked forward
to the future with a kind of hopeless apathy, wholly
Maude, and the noble James De Vere.
Their love for each other had increased each day, and
their happiness seemed almost greater than they could
bear on that memorable morn when the husband bent
fondly over his young girl-wife, who laid a hand on each
side of his face, and while the great tears rolled down her
cheeks, whispered joyfully, “I can see you, darling; I can
see!”
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
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
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
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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.
| Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond | |