CHAPTER XIV.MADDY AND LUCY.Supper was over, and Guy was back again in his library. He had not stopped as he usually did, to romp with Jessie or talk to Maddy Clyde, until it was so dark that he could not see her sparkling face, but had come directly back, dropping the heavy curtains and piling fresh coal upon the fire. Mrs. Noah had lighted the lamps and then gone after Maddy, explaining to Jessie how she must stay with her while Maddy went to Mr. Guy, who wanted to talk with her.“Is he angry with me, Mrs. Noah?” and remembering his moody looks when she went in quest of the book, Maddy felt her heart misgive her as to what might be the result of an interview with Guy.Mrs. Noah, however, reassured her, and Maddy stole for a moment to her own room to see how she was looking. The crimson dress, with its soft edge of lace about the slender throat, became her well, and smoothing the folds of her black silk apron, whose jaunty shoulder pieces gave her a very girlish appearance, she went down to where Guy was waiting for her. He heard her coming, and involuntarily drew nearer to him the chair where he intended she should sit. But Maddy took instead a stool, and leaning her elbow on the chair, turned her face fully toward him, waiting for him to speak.“Maddy,” he began, “are you happy here at Aikenside?”“Oh, yes, very, very happy,” and Maddy’s soft eyes shone with the happiness she tried to express.It was at least a minute before he spoke again, and when he did, it came out how he had concluded it best to send her and Jessie to school, for a year or two at least; not that he was tired of teaching her, but it would be better for her, he thought, to mingle with other girls and learn the ways of the world. Aikenside would still be her home, still the place where her vacations would be spent with Jessie if she chose, and then he spoke of New York as the place he had in view, and asked her what she thought of it.Maddy was too much stunned to think of anything at first. That the good she had coveted most should be placed within her grasp, and by Guy Remington too, was almost too much to credit. She was happy at Aikenside, but she had never expected her life there to continue very long, and had often wished that when it ended she might devise some means of entering a seminary as other young ladies did. But she had never dreamed of being sent to school by Guy, nor could she conceive of his motive. He hardly knew himself, only he liked her, and wished to do something for her. This was his reply to her tearful question:“Oh, Mr. Remington, you are so good to me; what makes you?”He liked her, and all over Maddy’s face there spread a beautiful flush as the words rang in her ears. And then she told Guy how much she wished to be a teacher, and so take care of her grandparents and her poor Uncle Joseph. It seemed almost cruel for that young creature to be burdened with the care of those three half-helpless people, and Guy shuddered just as he usually did when he associated Maddy with them, but when he listened while she told him of all the castles she had built, and in every one of which there was a place for “our folks,” as she termed them, it was more in the form of a blessing than a caress that his hand rested on her shining hair.“You are a good girl, Maddy,” he said, “and I am glad now that I have concluded to send you where you can be better fitted for the office you mean to fill than you could be here, but I shall miss you sadly. I like little girls, and though you can hardly be classed there now, you seem to me much like Jessie, and I take pleasure in doing for you as I would for her. Maddy—-”Guy stopped, uncertain what to say next, while Maddy’s eyes again looked up inquiringly.He was going now to tell “the little girl much like Jessie” of Lucy Atherstone, and the words would not come at first.“Maddy,” he said, again blushing guiltily, “I have said I liked you, and so I hope will some one else. I have written of you to her.”Up to this point Maddy had a vague idea that he meant the doctor, but the “her” dispelled that thought, and a most inexplicable feeling of numbness crept over her as she asked faintly:“Written to whom?”Guy did not look at Maddy. He only knew that her head moved out from beneath his hand as he replied:“To Miss Atherstone—Miss Lucy Atherstone. Have you never heard of her?”No, Maddy never had, and with that same numbness she could not understand, she listened while Guy told her who Lucy Atherstone was, and why she was not at that moment the mistress of Aikenside. There was no reason why Guy should be excited, but he was, and he talked very rapidly, never once glancing at Maddy until he had finished speaking. She was looking at him intently, wondering if he could hear as she did the beatings of her heart. Had her life depended upon it, she could not at first have spoken, for the numbness which, like bands of steel, seemed to press all the feeling out of it. She did not know why it was that hearing of Lucy Atherstone should affect her so. Surely she ought to be glad for Guy that he possessed the love of so sweet a creature as he described her to be. He was glad, she knew, he talked so energetically—so much as if it were a pleasure to talk; and she was glad, too, only it had taken her so by surprise to know that Mr. Guy, whom she had rather considered as exclusively her own and Jessie’s was engaged, and that some time, before long it might be, Aikenside would really have a mistress. She did not quite understand Guy’s last words, although she was looking at him, and he asked her twice if she would like to see Lucy’s picture ere she comprehended what he meant.“Yes,” came faintly from the parted lips, about which there was a slight quiver as she put up her hand to take the case Guy drew from his bosom.Turning it to the light she gazed silently upon the sweet young face, which seemed to return her gaze with a look as earnest and lifelike as her own.“What do you think of her—of my Lucy? Is she not pretty?” Guy asked, bending down so that his dark hair swept against Maddy’s, while his warm breath touched her burning cheeks.“Yes, she’s beautiful, oh! so beautiful, and happy, too. I wish I had been like her. I wish—” and Maddy burst into a most uncontrollable fit of weeping, her tears dropping like rain upon the inanimate features of Lucy Atherstone.Guy looked at her amazed, his own heart throbbing with a keen pang of something undefinable as he listened to her stormy weeping. What did ail her? he wondered. Could it be that the evil against which he was providing had really come upon her? Was Maddy more interested in him than he supposed? He hoped not, though with a man’s vanity he felt a slight thrill of satisfaction in thinking that it might be so. Guy knew this feeling was not worthy of him, and he struggled to cast it off, while he asked Maddy why she cried.Child as she was, the real cause of her tears never entered her brain, and she answered:“I can’t tell why, unless I was thinking how different Miss Atherstone is from me. She’s rich and handsome. I am poor and homely, and—”“No, Maddy, you are not;” and Guy interrupted her.Gently lifting up her head, he smoothed back her hair, and keeping a hand on each side of her face, said, pleasantly:“You are not homely. I think you quite as pretty as Lucy; I do, really,” he continued, as her eyes kindled at the compliment. “I am going to write to her to-night, and shall tell her more about you. I want you to like each other very much when she comes, so that you may live with us. Aikenside would not be Aikenside without you, Maddy.”In all his wooings of Lucy Atherstone, Guy’s voice had never been tenderer in its tone than when he said this to Maddy, whose lip quivered again, and who involuntarily laid her head now upon his knee as she cried a second time, not noisily, but quietly, softly, as if this crying did her good. For several minutes they sat there thus, the nature of their thoughts known only to each other, for neither spoke, until Maddy, half ashamed of her emotions, lifted up her head, and said:“I do not know what made me cry, only I’d been so happy here that I guess I’d come to think that you only liked Jessie and me. Of course I knew that some time you would see and think all the world of somebody else, but I did not expect it so soon. I am afraid Miss Atherstone will not fancy me, and I know most I shall not feel as free here, after she comes, as I do now. Then your being so good, sending me to school, helped me to cry more, and so I was very foolish. Don’t tell Miss Atherstone that I cried. Tell her, though, how beautiful she is, and how glad I am that she loves you, and is going to be your wife.”Maddy’s voice was very steady in its tone. She evidently meant what she said, but Guy, the bad man, did not feel as graciously as he ought to have felt in knowing that Maddy Clyde was glad “Lucy loved him, and was to be his wife.”Guy was rather uncomfortable, and as Maddy was in some way associated with his discomfort, he did not oppose her when she arose to leave him.Had Maddy been more a woman, or less a child, she would have seen that it was well for her to know of Lucy Atherstone before her feelings for Guy Remington had assumed a definite form. As it was, she never dreamed how near she was to loving Aikenside’s young heir; and while talking with Jessie of the grand times they should have at school, she marveled at that little round spot of pain which was burning at her heart, or why she should wish that Guy would not speak of her in his letter to Lucy Atherstone.But Guy did speak of her, frankly confessing the interest he felt in her, telling just how people were beginning to talk, and asking Lucy if she cared, declaring that if she did, he would not see Maddy Clyde any more than was necessary. In a little less than four weeks there came an answer from Lucy, who, with health somewhat improved, had returned to England, and wrote to Guy from Brighton, where she expected to spend the summer, half hoping Guy might join her there, though she could not urge it, as mamma still insisted that she was not able to take upon herself the duties of a wife. Then she spoke of Maddy Clyde, saying “She was not one bit jealous of her dear Guy, Of course ignorant, meddling people, of whom she feared there were a great many in America, would gossip, but he was not to mind them.” Then she said that if Maddy were willing, she would so much like her picture, as she had a curiosity to know just how she looked, and if Maddy pleased, “would she write a few lines, so as not to seem so much a stranger?”Lucy Atherstone had been educated to think a great deal of birth, and blood, and family, and Guy never did a wiser thing than when he told her that according to English views, Maddy was a lady. It went far toward reconciling Lucy to his interest in one whom her haughtier and more sanguine mother called a rival, advising her mother to ignore her altogether. But Lucy’s was a different nature, and though it cost her pride a pang, she asked for a line from Maddy, partly to mortify that pride, and partly to prove to Guy how free she was from jealousy.“Darling little Lucy, I do love her very dearly,” was Guy’s comment, as he finished reading her letter, feeling somewhat as if her mother were a kind of cruel ogress, bent on preventing him from being happy. Then, as he remembered Lucy’s hope that he might join her, and thought how much easier of access New York was than Brighton, he said, half petulantly:“I’ve been to England for nothing times enough. When that mother of hers says I may have Lucy, I’ll go again, but not before. It don’t pay.”And crushing the letter into his pocket, he went out upon the piazza where were assembled Maddy, Jessie and Mrs. Agnes, the latter of whom had come to Aikenside the day before.At first she had objected to the boarding-school arrangement, saying Jessie was too young, but Guy as usual had overruled her objections, as he had those of Grandpa Markham, and it was now a settled thing that Maddy and Jessie both should go to New York, Mrs. Agnes to accompany them if she chose, and having a general supervision of her child. This was Guy’s plan, the one which had prevailed with the fashionable woman, who, tired of Boston, was well pleased with the prospect of a life in New York. Guy’s interest in Maddy was wholly inexplicable to her, unless she explained it on the principal that in the Remington nature there was a fondness for governesses, as had been exemplified in her own history. That Guy would ever marry Maddy she doubted, but the mere possibility of it made her set her teeth firmly together as she thought how embarrassing it would be to acknowledge as the mistress of Aikenside the little girl whom she had sought to banish from her table. Since her return she had had no opportunity of judging for herself how matters stood, and was consequently much relieved when, as Guy joined them, he began at once to speak of Lucy, telling of the letter, and her request for Maddy’s picture.“Me? Mine? You cannot mean that?” Maddy exclaimed, her eyes opening wide with wonder, but Guy did mean it, and began to plan a drive on the morrow to Devonshire, where there was at that time a tolerably fair artist.Accordingly the next day the four went down to Devonshire, calling first upon the doctor, whose face brightened when he heard why they had come. During the weeks that had passed, the doctor had not been blind to at that was passing at Aikenside, and the fear that Guy was more interested in Maddy than he ought to be, had grown almost to a certainty. Now, however, he was not so sure. Indeed, the fact that Guy had told her of Lucy Atherstone would indicate that his suspicions were groundless, and he entered heartily into the picture plan, saying laughingly that if he supposed Miss Lucy would like his face he’d sit himself, and bidding Guy be sure to ask her. The doctor’s gay spirits helped raise those of Maddy, and as that little burning spot in her heart was fast wearing away, she was in just the mood for a most admirable likeness. Indeed, the artist’s delight at his achievement was unbounded, as he declared it the very best picture he had ever taken. It was beautiful, even Agnes acknowledged to herself, while Jessie wait into raptures, and Maddy blushed to hear her own praises. Guy said nothing, except to ask that Maddy should sit again; this was good, but a second might be better. So Maddy sat again, succeeding quite as well as at first, but as the artist’s preference was for the former, it was left to be finished up, with the understanding that Guy would call for it. As the ladies passed down the stairs, Guy lingered behind, and when sure they were out of hearing, said in a low voice:“You may as well finish both; they are too good to be lost.”The artist bowed, and Guy, with a half guilty blush, hurried down into the street, where Agues was waiting for him. Two hours later, Guy, in Mrs. Conner’s parlor, was exhibiting the finished picture, which in its handsome casing, was more beautiful than ever, and more natural, if possible.“I think I might have one of Maddy’s,” Jessie said, half poutingly; then, as she remembered the second sitting, she begged of Guy to get it for her, “that was a dear brother.”But the “dear brother” did not seem inclined to comply with her request, putting her off, until, despairing of success, Jessie, when alone with the doctor, tried her powers of persuasion on him, coaxing until in self-defense he crossed the street, and entering the daguerrean gallery asked for the remaining picture of Miss Clyde, saying that he wished it for little Miss Remington.“Mr. Remington took them both,” the artist replied, commencing a dissertation on the style and beauty of the young girl, all of which was lost upon the doctor, who, in a kind of maze, quitted the room, and returning to Jessie, said to her carelessly: “He hasn’t it. You know they rub out those they do not use. So you’ll have to do without; and, Jessie, I wouldn’t tell Guy I tried to get it for you.”Jessie wondered why she must not tell Guy, but the fact that the doctor requested her not was sufficient. Consequently Guy little guessed that the doctor knew what it was he carried so carefully in his coat pocket, looking at it earnestly when at home and alone in his own room, admiring its soft, girlish beauty, half shrinking from the lifelike expression of the large, bright eyes, and trying to convince himself that his sole object in getting it was to give it to the doctor after Maddy was gone! It would be such a surprise, and the doctor would be so glad, that Guy finally made himself believe that he had done a most generous thing!“I am going to send Lucy your picture to-day, and as she asked that you should write her a few lines, suppose you do it now,” Guy said to Maddy next morning, as they were leaving the breakfast table.It was a sore trial to Maddy to write to Lucy Atherstone, but she offered no remonstrance, and so accompanying the picture was a little note, filled mostly with praises of Mr. Guy, and which would be very gratifying to the unsuspecting Lucy.Now that it was fully decided for Jessie to go with Maddy, her lessons were suspended, and Aikenside for the time being was turned into a vast dressmaking and millinery establishment. With his usual generosity, Guy had given Agnes permission to draw upon his purse for whatever was needed, either for herself or Jessie, with the definite understanding that Maddy should have an equal share of dress and attention.“It will not be necessary,” he said, “for you to enlighten the citizens of New York with regard to Maddy’s position. She goes there as Jessie’s equal, and as such her wardrobe must be suitable.”No one could live long with Maddy Clyde without becoming interested in her, and in spite of herself Agnes’ dislike was wearing away, particularly as of late she had seen no signs of special attention on the doctor’s part. He had gotten over his weakness, she thought, and so was very gracious toward Maddy, who, naturally forgiving, began to like her better than she had ever dreamed it possible for her to like so proud and haughty a woman. Down at the cottage in Honedale there were many consultations held and many fears expressed by the aged couple as to what would be the result of all Guy was doing for their child. Womanlike, Grandma Markham felt a flutter of pride in thinking that Maddy was going to school in a big city like New York. It gave her something to talk about with her less fortunate neighbors, who wondered, and gossiped, and envied, but could not bring themselves to feel unkindly toward the girl Maddy, who had grown up in their midst, and who as yet was wholly unchanged by prosperity. Grandpa Markham, on the contrary, though pleased that Maddy should have every opportunity for acquiring the education she so much desired, was fearful of the result—fearful that there might come a time when his darling would shrink from the relations to whom she was as sunshine to the flowers. He knew that the difference between Aikenside and the cottage must strike her unpleasantly every time she came home, and he did not blame her for her always apparent readiness to go back. That was natural, he thought, but a life in New York, that great city which to the simple-hearted old man seemed a very Babylon of iniquity, was different, and for a time he demurred to sending her there. But Guy persuaded him, and when he heard that Agnes was going, too, he consented, for he had faith in Agnes as a protector. Maddy had never told him of the scene which followed that lady’s return from Saratoga. Indeed, Maddy never told anything but good of Aikenside or its inmates, and so Mrs. Agnes came in for a share of the old people’s gratitude, while even Uncle Joseph, hearing daily a prayer for the “young madam,” as grandpa termed her, learned to pray for her himself, coupling her name with that of Sarah, and asking in his crazy way that God would “forgive Sarah” first, and then “bless the madam—the madam—the madam.”A few days before Maddy’s departure, grandpa went up to see “the madam;” anxious to know something more than hearsay about a person to whose care his child was to be partially intrusted. Agnes was in her room when told who wanted to see her. Starting quickly, she turned so deadly white that Maddy, who brought the message, flew to her side, asking in much alarm, what was the matter.“Only a little faint. It will soon pass off,” Agnes said, and then, dismissing Maddy, she tried to compose herself sufficiently to pass the ordeal she so much dreaded, and from which there was no possible escape.Thirteen years! Had they changed her past recognition? She hoped, she believed so, and yet, never in her life had Agnes Remington’s heart beaten with so much terror and apprehension as when she entered the reception room where Guy sat talking with the infirm old man she remembered so well. He had grown older, thinner, poorer looking, than when she saw him last, but in his wrinkled face there was the same benignant, heavenly expression which, when she was better than she was now, used to remind her of the angels. His snowy hair was parted just the same as ever, but the mild blue eye was dimmer, and it rested on her with no suspicious glance as, partially reassured, she glided across the threshold, and bowed civilly when Guy presented her.A little anxious as to how her grandfather would acquit herself, Maddy sat by, wondering why Agnes appeared so ill at ease, and why her grandsire started sometimes at the sound of her voice, and looked earnestly at her.“We’ve never met before to my knowledge, young woman,” he said once to Agnes, “but you are mighty like somebody, and your voice when you talk low keeps makin’ me jump as if I’d heard it summers or other.”After that Agnes spoke in elevated tones, as if she thought him deaf, and the mystified look of wonder did not return to his face. Numerous were the charges he gave to Agnes concerning Maddy, bidding her be watchful of his child, and see that she did not “get too much drinked in with the wicked things on Broadway!” then, as he arose to go, he laid his trembling hand on her head and said solemnly: “You are young yet, lady, and there may be a long life before you. God bless you, then, and prosper you in proportion as you are kind to Maddy. I’ve nothing to give you nor Mr. Guy for your goodness only my prayers, and them you have every day. We all pray for you, lady, Joseph and all, though I doubt me he knows much the meaning of what he says.” “Who, sir? What did you say?” and Agnes’ face was scarlet, as grandpa replied: “Joseph, our unfortunate boy; Maddy must have told you, the one who’s taken such a shine to Jessie. He’s crazy-like, and from the corner where he sits so much, I can hear him whispering by the hour, sometimes of folks he used to know, and then of you, who we call madam. He says for ten minutes on the stretch: “God bless the madam—the madam—the madam!” You’re sick, lady; talkin’ about crazy folks makes you faint,” grandpa added, hastily, as Agnes turned white, like the dress she wore. “No—oh, no, I’m better now,” Agnes gasped, bowing him to the door with a feeling that she could not breathe a moment longer in his presence. He did not hear her faint cry of bitter, bitter remorse, as he walked through the hall, nor know she watched him as he went slowly down the walk, stopping often to admire the fair blossoms which Maddy did not feel at liberty to pick. “He loved flowers,” Agnes whispered, as her better nature prevailed over every other feeling, and, starting eagerly forward, she ran after the old man, who, surprised at her evident haste, waited a little anxiously for her to speak. It was rather difficult to do so with Maddy’s inquiring eyes upon her, but Agnes managed at last to say: “Does that crazy man like flowers—the one who prays for the madam?” “Yes, he used to years ago,” grandpa replied; and, bending down, Agnes began to pick and arrange into a most tasteful bouquet the blossoms and buds of May, growing so profusely within the borders.“Take them to him, will you?” and her hand shook as she passed to Grandpa Markham the gift which would thrill poor crazy Joseph with a strange delight, making him hold converse a while with the unseen presence which he called “she,” and then whisper blessings on the madam’s head. Three days after this, a party of four left Aikenside, which presented a most forlorn and cheerless appearance to the passers-by, who were glad almost as the servants when, at the expiration of a week, Guy came back and took up his olden life of solitude and loneliness, with nothing in particular to interest him, except his books the letters he wrote to Lucy; unless, indeed, it were those he was going to write to Maddy, who, with Jessie, had promised to become his correspondents. Nothing but these and the picture—the doctor’s picture—the one designed expressly for him, and which troubled him greatly. Believing that he had fully intended it for the doctor, Guy felt as if it were, in a measure, stolen property, and this made him prize it all the more.Now that Maddy was away, Guy missed her terribly, wondering how he had ever lived without her, and sometimes working himself into a violent passion against the meddlesome neighbors who would not let her remain with him in peace, and who, now that she was gone, did not stop their talking one whit. Of this last, however, he was ignorant, as there was no one to tell him how people marveled more than ever, feeling confident now that he was educating his own wife, and making sundry hateful remarks as to what he intended doing with her relations. Guy only knew that he was very lonely, that Lucy’s letters seemed insipid, that even the doctor failed to interest him, as of old, and that his greatest comfort was in looking at the bright young face which seemed to smile so trustfully upon him from the tiny casing, just as Maddy had smiled upon him when, in Madam ——’s parlor, he bade her good-by. The doctor could not have that picture, he finally decided. Hal ought to be satisfied with getting Maddy, as of course he would, for wasn’t he educating her for that very purpose? Certainly he was, and, as a kind of atonement for what he deemed treachery to his friend, he talked with him often of her, always taking it for granted that when she was old enough, the doctor would woo and win the little girl who had come to him in his capacity of inspector, as candidate number one.At first, the doctor suspected him of acting a part in order to cover up some design of his own with regard to Maddy, and affected an indifference he did not feel; but, as time passed on, Guy, who really believed himself sincere, managed to make the doctor believe so, too. Consequently, the latter abandoned his suspicions, and gave himself up to blissful dreams of what might possibly be when Maddy should have become the brilliant woman she was sure one day to be. Alas! for the doctor’s dreams.
Supper was over, and Guy was back again in his library. He had not stopped as he usually did, to romp with Jessie or talk to Maddy Clyde, until it was so dark that he could not see her sparkling face, but had come directly back, dropping the heavy curtains and piling fresh coal upon the fire. Mrs. Noah had lighted the lamps and then gone after Maddy, explaining to Jessie how she must stay with her while Maddy went to Mr. Guy, who wanted to talk with her.
“Is he angry with me, Mrs. Noah?” and remembering his moody looks when she went in quest of the book, Maddy felt her heart misgive her as to what might be the result of an interview with Guy.
Mrs. Noah, however, reassured her, and Maddy stole for a moment to her own room to see how she was looking. The crimson dress, with its soft edge of lace about the slender throat, became her well, and smoothing the folds of her black silk apron, whose jaunty shoulder pieces gave her a very girlish appearance, she went down to where Guy was waiting for her. He heard her coming, and involuntarily drew nearer to him the chair where he intended she should sit. But Maddy took instead a stool, and leaning her elbow on the chair, turned her face fully toward him, waiting for him to speak.
“Maddy,” he began, “are you happy here at Aikenside?”
“Oh, yes, very, very happy,” and Maddy’s soft eyes shone with the happiness she tried to express.
It was at least a minute before he spoke again, and when he did, it came out how he had concluded it best to send her and Jessie to school, for a year or two at least; not that he was tired of teaching her, but it would be better for her, he thought, to mingle with other girls and learn the ways of the world. Aikenside would still be her home, still the place where her vacations would be spent with Jessie if she chose, and then he spoke of New York as the place he had in view, and asked her what she thought of it.
Maddy was too much stunned to think of anything at first. That the good she had coveted most should be placed within her grasp, and by Guy Remington too, was almost too much to credit. She was happy at Aikenside, but she had never expected her life there to continue very long, and had often wished that when it ended she might devise some means of entering a seminary as other young ladies did. But she had never dreamed of being sent to school by Guy, nor could she conceive of his motive. He hardly knew himself, only he liked her, and wished to do something for her. This was his reply to her tearful question:
“Oh, Mr. Remington, you are so good to me; what makes you?”
He liked her, and all over Maddy’s face there spread a beautiful flush as the words rang in her ears. And then she told Guy how much she wished to be a teacher, and so take care of her grandparents and her poor Uncle Joseph. It seemed almost cruel for that young creature to be burdened with the care of those three half-helpless people, and Guy shuddered just as he usually did when he associated Maddy with them, but when he listened while she told him of all the castles she had built, and in every one of which there was a place for “our folks,” as she termed them, it was more in the form of a blessing than a caress that his hand rested on her shining hair.
“You are a good girl, Maddy,” he said, “and I am glad now that I have concluded to send you where you can be better fitted for the office you mean to fill than you could be here, but I shall miss you sadly. I like little girls, and though you can hardly be classed there now, you seem to me much like Jessie, and I take pleasure in doing for you as I would for her. Maddy—-”
Guy stopped, uncertain what to say next, while Maddy’s eyes again looked up inquiringly.
He was going now to tell “the little girl much like Jessie” of Lucy Atherstone, and the words would not come at first.
“Maddy,” he said, again blushing guiltily, “I have said I liked you, and so I hope will some one else. I have written of you to her.”
Up to this point Maddy had a vague idea that he meant the doctor, but the “her” dispelled that thought, and a most inexplicable feeling of numbness crept over her as she asked faintly:
“Written to whom?”
Guy did not look at Maddy. He only knew that her head moved out from beneath his hand as he replied:
“To Miss Atherstone—Miss Lucy Atherstone. Have you never heard of her?”
No, Maddy never had, and with that same numbness she could not understand, she listened while Guy told her who Lucy Atherstone was, and why she was not at that moment the mistress of Aikenside. There was no reason why Guy should be excited, but he was, and he talked very rapidly, never once glancing at Maddy until he had finished speaking. She was looking at him intently, wondering if he could hear as she did the beatings of her heart. Had her life depended upon it, she could not at first have spoken, for the numbness which, like bands of steel, seemed to press all the feeling out of it. She did not know why it was that hearing of Lucy Atherstone should affect her so. Surely she ought to be glad for Guy that he possessed the love of so sweet a creature as he described her to be. He was glad, she knew, he talked so energetically—so much as if it were a pleasure to talk; and she was glad, too, only it had taken her so by surprise to know that Mr. Guy, whom she had rather considered as exclusively her own and Jessie’s was engaged, and that some time, before long it might be, Aikenside would really have a mistress. She did not quite understand Guy’s last words, although she was looking at him, and he asked her twice if she would like to see Lucy’s picture ere she comprehended what he meant.
“Yes,” came faintly from the parted lips, about which there was a slight quiver as she put up her hand to take the case Guy drew from his bosom.
Turning it to the light she gazed silently upon the sweet young face, which seemed to return her gaze with a look as earnest and lifelike as her own.
“What do you think of her—of my Lucy? Is she not pretty?” Guy asked, bending down so that his dark hair swept against Maddy’s, while his warm breath touched her burning cheeks.
“Yes, she’s beautiful, oh! so beautiful, and happy, too. I wish I had been like her. I wish—” and Maddy burst into a most uncontrollable fit of weeping, her tears dropping like rain upon the inanimate features of Lucy Atherstone.
Guy looked at her amazed, his own heart throbbing with a keen pang of something undefinable as he listened to her stormy weeping. What did ail her? he wondered. Could it be that the evil against which he was providing had really come upon her? Was Maddy more interested in him than he supposed? He hoped not, though with a man’s vanity he felt a slight thrill of satisfaction in thinking that it might be so. Guy knew this feeling was not worthy of him, and he struggled to cast it off, while he asked Maddy why she cried.
Child as she was, the real cause of her tears never entered her brain, and she answered:
“I can’t tell why, unless I was thinking how different Miss Atherstone is from me. She’s rich and handsome. I am poor and homely, and—”
“No, Maddy, you are not;” and Guy interrupted her.
Gently lifting up her head, he smoothed back her hair, and keeping a hand on each side of her face, said, pleasantly:
“You are not homely. I think you quite as pretty as Lucy; I do, really,” he continued, as her eyes kindled at the compliment. “I am going to write to her to-night, and shall tell her more about you. I want you to like each other very much when she comes, so that you may live with us. Aikenside would not be Aikenside without you, Maddy.”
In all his wooings of Lucy Atherstone, Guy’s voice had never been tenderer in its tone than when he said this to Maddy, whose lip quivered again, and who involuntarily laid her head now upon his knee as she cried a second time, not noisily, but quietly, softly, as if this crying did her good. For several minutes they sat there thus, the nature of their thoughts known only to each other, for neither spoke, until Maddy, half ashamed of her emotions, lifted up her head, and said:
“I do not know what made me cry, only I’d been so happy here that I guess I’d come to think that you only liked Jessie and me. Of course I knew that some time you would see and think all the world of somebody else, but I did not expect it so soon. I am afraid Miss Atherstone will not fancy me, and I know most I shall not feel as free here, after she comes, as I do now. Then your being so good, sending me to school, helped me to cry more, and so I was very foolish. Don’t tell Miss Atherstone that I cried. Tell her, though, how beautiful she is, and how glad I am that she loves you, and is going to be your wife.”
Maddy’s voice was very steady in its tone. She evidently meant what she said, but Guy, the bad man, did not feel as graciously as he ought to have felt in knowing that Maddy Clyde was glad “Lucy loved him, and was to be his wife.”
Guy was rather uncomfortable, and as Maddy was in some way associated with his discomfort, he did not oppose her when she arose to leave him.
Had Maddy been more a woman, or less a child, she would have seen that it was well for her to know of Lucy Atherstone before her feelings for Guy Remington had assumed a definite form. As it was, she never dreamed how near she was to loving Aikenside’s young heir; and while talking with Jessie of the grand times they should have at school, she marveled at that little round spot of pain which was burning at her heart, or why she should wish that Guy would not speak of her in his letter to Lucy Atherstone.
But Guy did speak of her, frankly confessing the interest he felt in her, telling just how people were beginning to talk, and asking Lucy if she cared, declaring that if she did, he would not see Maddy Clyde any more than was necessary. In a little less than four weeks there came an answer from Lucy, who, with health somewhat improved, had returned to England, and wrote to Guy from Brighton, where she expected to spend the summer, half hoping Guy might join her there, though she could not urge it, as mamma still insisted that she was not able to take upon herself the duties of a wife. Then she spoke of Maddy Clyde, saying “She was not one bit jealous of her dear Guy, Of course ignorant, meddling people, of whom she feared there were a great many in America, would gossip, but he was not to mind them.” Then she said that if Maddy were willing, she would so much like her picture, as she had a curiosity to know just how she looked, and if Maddy pleased, “would she write a few lines, so as not to seem so much a stranger?”
Lucy Atherstone had been educated to think a great deal of birth, and blood, and family, and Guy never did a wiser thing than when he told her that according to English views, Maddy was a lady. It went far toward reconciling Lucy to his interest in one whom her haughtier and more sanguine mother called a rival, advising her mother to ignore her altogether. But Lucy’s was a different nature, and though it cost her pride a pang, she asked for a line from Maddy, partly to mortify that pride, and partly to prove to Guy how free she was from jealousy.
“Darling little Lucy, I do love her very dearly,” was Guy’s comment, as he finished reading her letter, feeling somewhat as if her mother were a kind of cruel ogress, bent on preventing him from being happy. Then, as he remembered Lucy’s hope that he might join her, and thought how much easier of access New York was than Brighton, he said, half petulantly:
“I’ve been to England for nothing times enough. When that mother of hers says I may have Lucy, I’ll go again, but not before. It don’t pay.”
And crushing the letter into his pocket, he went out upon the piazza where were assembled Maddy, Jessie and Mrs. Agnes, the latter of whom had come to Aikenside the day before.
At first she had objected to the boarding-school arrangement, saying Jessie was too young, but Guy as usual had overruled her objections, as he had those of Grandpa Markham, and it was now a settled thing that Maddy and Jessie both should go to New York, Mrs. Agnes to accompany them if she chose, and having a general supervision of her child. This was Guy’s plan, the one which had prevailed with the fashionable woman, who, tired of Boston, was well pleased with the prospect of a life in New York. Guy’s interest in Maddy was wholly inexplicable to her, unless she explained it on the principal that in the Remington nature there was a fondness for governesses, as had been exemplified in her own history. That Guy would ever marry Maddy she doubted, but the mere possibility of it made her set her teeth firmly together as she thought how embarrassing it would be to acknowledge as the mistress of Aikenside the little girl whom she had sought to banish from her table. Since her return she had had no opportunity of judging for herself how matters stood, and was consequently much relieved when, as Guy joined them, he began at once to speak of Lucy, telling of the letter, and her request for Maddy’s picture.
“Me? Mine? You cannot mean that?” Maddy exclaimed, her eyes opening wide with wonder, but Guy did mean it, and began to plan a drive on the morrow to Devonshire, where there was at that time a tolerably fair artist.
Accordingly the next day the four went down to Devonshire, calling first upon the doctor, whose face brightened when he heard why they had come. During the weeks that had passed, the doctor had not been blind to at that was passing at Aikenside, and the fear that Guy was more interested in Maddy than he ought to be, had grown almost to a certainty. Now, however, he was not so sure. Indeed, the fact that Guy had told her of Lucy Atherstone would indicate that his suspicions were groundless, and he entered heartily into the picture plan, saying laughingly that if he supposed Miss Lucy would like his face he’d sit himself, and bidding Guy be sure to ask her. The doctor’s gay spirits helped raise those of Maddy, and as that little burning spot in her heart was fast wearing away, she was in just the mood for a most admirable likeness. Indeed, the artist’s delight at his achievement was unbounded, as he declared it the very best picture he had ever taken. It was beautiful, even Agnes acknowledged to herself, while Jessie wait into raptures, and Maddy blushed to hear her own praises. Guy said nothing, except to ask that Maddy should sit again; this was good, but a second might be better. So Maddy sat again, succeeding quite as well as at first, but as the artist’s preference was for the former, it was left to be finished up, with the understanding that Guy would call for it. As the ladies passed down the stairs, Guy lingered behind, and when sure they were out of hearing, said in a low voice:
“You may as well finish both; they are too good to be lost.”
The artist bowed, and Guy, with a half guilty blush, hurried down into the street, where Agues was waiting for him. Two hours later, Guy, in Mrs. Conner’s parlor, was exhibiting the finished picture, which in its handsome casing, was more beautiful than ever, and more natural, if possible.
“I think I might have one of Maddy’s,” Jessie said, half poutingly; then, as she remembered the second sitting, she begged of Guy to get it for her, “that was a dear brother.”
But the “dear brother” did not seem inclined to comply with her request, putting her off, until, despairing of success, Jessie, when alone with the doctor, tried her powers of persuasion on him, coaxing until in self-defense he crossed the street, and entering the daguerrean gallery asked for the remaining picture of Miss Clyde, saying that he wished it for little Miss Remington.
“Mr. Remington took them both,” the artist replied, commencing a dissertation on the style and beauty of the young girl, all of which was lost upon the doctor, who, in a kind of maze, quitted the room, and returning to Jessie, said to her carelessly: “He hasn’t it. You know they rub out those they do not use. So you’ll have to do without; and, Jessie, I wouldn’t tell Guy I tried to get it for you.”
Jessie wondered why she must not tell Guy, but the fact that the doctor requested her not was sufficient. Consequently Guy little guessed that the doctor knew what it was he carried so carefully in his coat pocket, looking at it earnestly when at home and alone in his own room, admiring its soft, girlish beauty, half shrinking from the lifelike expression of the large, bright eyes, and trying to convince himself that his sole object in getting it was to give it to the doctor after Maddy was gone! It would be such a surprise, and the doctor would be so glad, that Guy finally made himself believe that he had done a most generous thing!
“I am going to send Lucy your picture to-day, and as she asked that you should write her a few lines, suppose you do it now,” Guy said to Maddy next morning, as they were leaving the breakfast table.
It was a sore trial to Maddy to write to Lucy Atherstone, but she offered no remonstrance, and so accompanying the picture was a little note, filled mostly with praises of Mr. Guy, and which would be very gratifying to the unsuspecting Lucy.
Now that it was fully decided for Jessie to go with Maddy, her lessons were suspended, and Aikenside for the time being was turned into a vast dressmaking and millinery establishment. With his usual generosity, Guy had given Agnes permission to draw upon his purse for whatever was needed, either for herself or Jessie, with the definite understanding that Maddy should have an equal share of dress and attention.
“It will not be necessary,” he said, “for you to enlighten the citizens of New York with regard to Maddy’s position. She goes there as Jessie’s equal, and as such her wardrobe must be suitable.”
No one could live long with Maddy Clyde without becoming interested in her, and in spite of herself Agnes’ dislike was wearing away, particularly as of late she had seen no signs of special attention on the doctor’s part. He had gotten over his weakness, she thought, and so was very gracious toward Maddy, who, naturally forgiving, began to like her better than she had ever dreamed it possible for her to like so proud and haughty a woman. Down at the cottage in Honedale there were many consultations held and many fears expressed by the aged couple as to what would be the result of all Guy was doing for their child. Womanlike, Grandma Markham felt a flutter of pride in thinking that Maddy was going to school in a big city like New York. It gave her something to talk about with her less fortunate neighbors, who wondered, and gossiped, and envied, but could not bring themselves to feel unkindly toward the girl Maddy, who had grown up in their midst, and who as yet was wholly unchanged by prosperity. Grandpa Markham, on the contrary, though pleased that Maddy should have every opportunity for acquiring the education she so much desired, was fearful of the result—fearful that there might come a time when his darling would shrink from the relations to whom she was as sunshine to the flowers. He knew that the difference between Aikenside and the cottage must strike her unpleasantly every time she came home, and he did not blame her for her always apparent readiness to go back. That was natural, he thought, but a life in New York, that great city which to the simple-hearted old man seemed a very Babylon of iniquity, was different, and for a time he demurred to sending her there. But Guy persuaded him, and when he heard that Agnes was going, too, he consented, for he had faith in Agnes as a protector. Maddy had never told him of the scene which followed that lady’s return from Saratoga. Indeed, Maddy never told anything but good of Aikenside or its inmates, and so Mrs. Agnes came in for a share of the old people’s gratitude, while even Uncle Joseph, hearing daily a prayer for the “young madam,” as grandpa termed her, learned to pray for her himself, coupling her name with that of Sarah, and asking in his crazy way that God would “forgive Sarah” first, and then “bless the madam—the madam—the madam.”
A few days before Maddy’s departure, grandpa went up to see “the madam;” anxious to know something more than hearsay about a person to whose care his child was to be partially intrusted. Agnes was in her room when told who wanted to see her. Starting quickly, she turned so deadly white that Maddy, who brought the message, flew to her side, asking in much alarm, what was the matter.
“Only a little faint. It will soon pass off,” Agnes said, and then, dismissing Maddy, she tried to compose herself sufficiently to pass the ordeal she so much dreaded, and from which there was no possible escape.
Thirteen years! Had they changed her past recognition? She hoped, she believed so, and yet, never in her life had Agnes Remington’s heart beaten with so much terror and apprehension as when she entered the reception room where Guy sat talking with the infirm old man she remembered so well. He had grown older, thinner, poorer looking, than when she saw him last, but in his wrinkled face there was the same benignant, heavenly expression which, when she was better than she was now, used to remind her of the angels. His snowy hair was parted just the same as ever, but the mild blue eye was dimmer, and it rested on her with no suspicious glance as, partially reassured, she glided across the threshold, and bowed civilly when Guy presented her.
A little anxious as to how her grandfather would acquit herself, Maddy sat by, wondering why Agnes appeared so ill at ease, and why her grandsire started sometimes at the sound of her voice, and looked earnestly at her.
“We’ve never met before to my knowledge, young woman,” he said once to Agnes, “but you are mighty like somebody, and your voice when you talk low keeps makin’ me jump as if I’d heard it summers or other.”
After that Agnes spoke in elevated tones, as if she thought him deaf, and the mystified look of wonder did not return to his face. Numerous were the charges he gave to Agnes concerning Maddy, bidding her be watchful of his child, and see that she did not “get too much drinked in with the wicked things on Broadway!” then, as he arose to go, he laid his trembling hand on her head and said solemnly: “You are young yet, lady, and there may be a long life before you. God bless you, then, and prosper you in proportion as you are kind to Maddy. I’ve nothing to give you nor Mr. Guy for your goodness only my prayers, and them you have every day. We all pray for you, lady, Joseph and all, though I doubt me he knows much the meaning of what he says.” “Who, sir? What did you say?” and Agnes’ face was scarlet, as grandpa replied: “Joseph, our unfortunate boy; Maddy must have told you, the one who’s taken such a shine to Jessie. He’s crazy-like, and from the corner where he sits so much, I can hear him whispering by the hour, sometimes of folks he used to know, and then of you, who we call madam. He says for ten minutes on the stretch: “God bless the madam—the madam—the madam!” You’re sick, lady; talkin’ about crazy folks makes you faint,” grandpa added, hastily, as Agnes turned white, like the dress she wore. “No—oh, no, I’m better now,” Agnes gasped, bowing him to the door with a feeling that she could not breathe a moment longer in his presence. He did not hear her faint cry of bitter, bitter remorse, as he walked through the hall, nor know she watched him as he went slowly down the walk, stopping often to admire the fair blossoms which Maddy did not feel at liberty to pick. “He loved flowers,” Agnes whispered, as her better nature prevailed over every other feeling, and, starting eagerly forward, she ran after the old man, who, surprised at her evident haste, waited a little anxiously for her to speak. It was rather difficult to do so with Maddy’s inquiring eyes upon her, but Agnes managed at last to say: “Does that crazy man like flowers—the one who prays for the madam?” “Yes, he used to years ago,” grandpa replied; and, bending down, Agnes began to pick and arrange into a most tasteful bouquet the blossoms and buds of May, growing so profusely within the borders.
“Take them to him, will you?” and her hand shook as she passed to Grandpa Markham the gift which would thrill poor crazy Joseph with a strange delight, making him hold converse a while with the unseen presence which he called “she,” and then whisper blessings on the madam’s head. Three days after this, a party of four left Aikenside, which presented a most forlorn and cheerless appearance to the passers-by, who were glad almost as the servants when, at the expiration of a week, Guy came back and took up his olden life of solitude and loneliness, with nothing in particular to interest him, except his books the letters he wrote to Lucy; unless, indeed, it were those he was going to write to Maddy, who, with Jessie, had promised to become his correspondents. Nothing but these and the picture—the doctor’s picture—the one designed expressly for him, and which troubled him greatly. Believing that he had fully intended it for the doctor, Guy felt as if it were, in a measure, stolen property, and this made him prize it all the more.
Now that Maddy was away, Guy missed her terribly, wondering how he had ever lived without her, and sometimes working himself into a violent passion against the meddlesome neighbors who would not let her remain with him in peace, and who, now that she was gone, did not stop their talking one whit. Of this last, however, he was ignorant, as there was no one to tell him how people marveled more than ever, feeling confident now that he was educating his own wife, and making sundry hateful remarks as to what he intended doing with her relations. Guy only knew that he was very lonely, that Lucy’s letters seemed insipid, that even the doctor failed to interest him, as of old, and that his greatest comfort was in looking at the bright young face which seemed to smile so trustfully upon him from the tiny casing, just as Maddy had smiled upon him when, in Madam ——’s parlor, he bade her good-by. The doctor could not have that picture, he finally decided. Hal ought to be satisfied with getting Maddy, as of course he would, for wasn’t he educating her for that very purpose? Certainly he was, and, as a kind of atonement for what he deemed treachery to his friend, he talked with him often of her, always taking it for granted that when she was old enough, the doctor would woo and win the little girl who had come to him in his capacity of inspector, as candidate number one.
At first, the doctor suspected him of acting a part in order to cover up some design of his own with regard to Maddy, and affected an indifference he did not feel; but, as time passed on, Guy, who really believed himself sincere, managed to make the doctor believe so, too. Consequently, the latter abandoned his suspicions, and gave himself up to blissful dreams of what might possibly be when Maddy should have become the brilliant woman she was sure one day to be. Alas! for the doctor’s dreams.